Everyone except Mama Rat and Sister Moon dashed back into the house. Sheba shut the back door behind her, then turned to peer through the keyhole.
There came a weak tapping at the gate, before it swung open to reveal once more the cowering forms of Till’s parents. They looked more than ever like two lumps of mud that had somehow grown legs. Between them stood another mudlark, this one literally caked in drying clay and stinking like an open sewer. For a moment Sheba’s heart leapt, thinking it might be Till, but on closer inspection she could see it was a boy. He clutched the splintered end of a long pole in one hand.
‘Begging your gentlefolk’s pardon, but we ’as some information which we fink might be of use,’ said the man, bobbing his head like a very humble woodpecker. ‘You did say we was to call on you if that should be the case . . .’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Mama Rat. ‘Come in, please.’
The three of them shuffled into the yard and shut the gate behind them. When they were safely inside, and with no means of immediate escape, Mama Rat beckoned to the other Peculiars in the house.
‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I’d like my colleagues to hear this. They do look slightly unusual, but please don’t be alarmed.’
The mudlarks stared as Sheba, Monkeyboy and Gigantus came out of the kitchen and into the yard.
‘We is . . . er . . . very honoured to make your acquaintance,’ said the father mudlark at last, taking off his hat and holding it on his chest. Sheba felt a surge of grateful admiration. Many other folk would have run screaming, or at least fainted with shock.
‘Pleased to meet you, too,’ said Sheba.
The mud-caked boy goggled at her, but the lady managed a kind of smile.
‘What you have to tell us?’ asked Sister Moon. The mudlarks looked briefly startled, as they remembered why they had come to this surreal freak show in the first place.
‘If you please, your unusual-nesses, our friend Barney ’ere ’as an interesting tale to tell you. Only this very morning, ’e was nearly snaffled by a creature from under the mud.’ The man nudged Barney with his elbow, dislodging several clumps of stinking muck from the boy’s clothes. ‘Go on, son, tell the ladies and gentlemen what ’appened.’
Barney blinked a few times, then opened his mouth to speak, making little cracks in the layer of dried mud that coated his face. He told them about the crab-thing and how it had come out of the mud to try and grab him, about his escape and how he had been almost dragged to Brick Lane as soon as the other mudlarks heard his story.
There was a long silence afterwards, as everyone considered his bizarre tale.
‘This thing that tried to get you,’ asked Sheba, ‘do you think it could have been a machine?’
‘A machine, miss?’ Barney stared at her as if she was mad, as well as very hairy. ‘T’weren’t no machine. It was a monster. A giant, hissing crab, just like I told you. And there was an eye. A yellow eye, with a ’orrible face in it. It must have been some kind of demon, like what the street preachers go on about.’
‘But it had pipes and steam. Monsters aren’t driven by engines.’
‘Leave it, Sheba,’ said Monkeyboy. ‘I think he’s drunk too much river mud. It’s probably melted his brain.’
‘Be quiet, you little gremlin,’ said Gigantus, ‘or I’ll melt your brain. Pull it right out of your ears and fry it over the stove.’
‘Do you think this thing is what took our little’uns?’ asked the woman. ‘You don’t think it’s eaten them, do you? I can’t bear to think it: my little Till gobbled up by a giant crab . . .’
‘It can’t have eaten them, on account of it being a machine, you stup— erk!’ Monkeyboy was cut off in mid-insult as Gigantus’s huge hand clamped his mouth.
‘I think it may well be the thing that took the children,’ said Mama Rat. ‘And I’m sure they haven’t been eaten. We’ll continue our search and let you know as soon as we find anything. Perhaps you’d better leave before our tailed friend here says something truly offensive.’
With even more bowing and scraping, the mudlarks backed out of the yard, just as the sound of the front door slamming signalled Plumpscuttle’s return.
‘Shut the gate, shut the gate!’ hissed Mama Rat, but it was too late.
Plumpscuttle’s head appeared at the kitchen window in time to see the last mudlark disappear.
‘What’s this?’ he yelled. ‘What’s this?’
‘Here we go,’ Gigantus muttered.
They all turned sheepishly to face the house as Plumpscuttle wobbled down the kitchen steps, his face growing steadily more purple.
‘People in my yard again? Uninvited trespassers on my property? You bunch of walking monsters know that visitors are forbidden here, don’t you? If people want to gawp at you, then I expect them to pay me for the privilige!’
He must have had a pie that didn’t agree with him, thought Sheba. And now he wants to take it out on the rest of us.
‘Now, now—’ began Mama Rat, but the fat man wasn’t listening.
‘Don’t you tell me to calm down! You lot don’t know where your bread’s buttered, that’s the problem. You don’t appreciate who feeds and houses you, who pays for your comforts. Without me, you’d all be out on the streets, begging for crusts and offal. But do I get any thanks? No! All I get are shoddy performances and flagrant breaking of my rules. No respect! No respect!’
‘You’ll be respecting my fist in a minute,’ said Gigantus, under his breath. Mama Rat put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘What’s that?’ Plumpscuttle screamed, sending a cascade of spittle into the air. ‘Think I’m afraid of you, do you? You great, lumpy oaf! You might be able to crush me like a ripe tomato, but if you do I’ll have you thrown into the darkest cell in Newgate prison. And the rest of your little friends will be homeless. Don’t think I can’t find more freaks . . . and better ones too. Now get on with your chores, and do them silently. If one little sound wakes me up, you’re all out of here!’
With a final glare, he turned and stamped back into the house, making plaster crumble from the ceiling.
‘Well, that was awkward,’ said Monkeyboy, when he was sure Plumpscuttle had gone.
‘One of these days . . .’ Gigantus flexed his arms, and Sheba could hear the threads in his woollen jersey strain and pop.
‘I know, dearie,’ said Mama Rat. ‘But for now let’s just keep the peace, shall we?’
‘What about the monster crab?’ Sheba asked. ‘It sounds like it could be a machine.’
‘It still not explain why someone taking poor river children,’ said Sister Moon.
‘No, but it could be how they’re taking them. And if we could find out where the crab machine is . . .’
‘Now, now, Sheba,’ said Mama Rat. ‘Don’t get too carried away. It might be a lead, that’s true, but there’s not a lot we can do about it at the moment. I suggest we lay low here for a few hours. At least until old grumpychops has gone to sleep properly.’
With a frustrated sigh, Sheba went to fetch the shovel and muck out Flossy.
Monkeyboy waited until the others were all busy, then slipped off to his favourite perch on the roof, a peaceful little spot next to the chimney stack. There was no way he was shovelling sheep crap or shampooing rats. He’d much rather sit up here. He was always more comfortable among the tiles than down on the cobbles. And it was a brilliant position for sniping with one of his hand-rolled poo-balls, like being an archer on a castle turret. His victims usually shouted up to the windows, but never thought of checking the rooftops.
Monkeyboy gazed down at the river of humanity below him – the urchins, the hawkers and the balladeers – leisurely choosing his target. He had a selection of favourite quarry: organ grinders, with their hideous piped music and scrawny little monkeys; stilt-walkers and jugglers, just begging to be knocked over or have their balls sent spinning; and, best of all, the prancing advertising men with their sandwich boards. Monkeyboy had a strong dislike of being told wh
at to do – and what to buy. Especially when he didn’t have any money. The men with their sandwich boards and placards irritated him immensely, but the ones that drove him really wild were those idiots in the stupid papier-mâché outfits. He had seen grown men dressed as giant cheeses, colossal boots, massive top hats and even a humungous sausage. All the other pedestrians pointed at them, laughing and clapping, but Monkeyboy knew what they were really up to. They were trying to put images in your head, so you went to their stupid shops and actually bought a cheese, a boot, a top hat or a sausage. When he managed to get a poo-ball inside one of these cramped outfits, it became a super-potent stinkbomb.
A slow smile spread across his face. In the distance, just passing Booth Street, were not one, but two papier-mâché constructions.
Monkeyboy rubbed his hands in glee, then took his stash of ammunition from his pocket and carefully arranged it beside him. If he missed the first one – which looked like a bottle of cough syrup – he would have a crack at the one behind. Goodness only knew what that one was meant to be. It was round and bright orange with a number of huge waving arms, just like a giant octopus. Only its limbs were moving by themselves, powered somehow from within the suit. And from its back jutted a pair of metal pipes, both of which were trickling steam.
Beneath the grime, Monkeyboy’s face went pale. The cogs and wheels of thought clunked, slowly linking pieces of information together. Brain cells, previously only used for inventing limericks about bottoms, were applied for the first time to deduction. When he finally realised the importance of what he was looking at, he gave a startled cry and flung himself off the roof and into the street below.
Sheba was just heaving the last of Flossy’s dirty hay into the barrow, trying to avoid the little lamb (now back to his gambolling self) as he playfully butted her with both heads, when the yard gate began to rattle with a frantic beating. She dropped the shovel and spun round, just as Gigantus and Sister Moon jumped into fighting stances. Moon had half-drawn her sword when the gate burst open, and the most bizarre hybrid creature toppled in.
The sight of it made Sheba and Mama Rat shriek, and even Gigantus cried out in shock. It was a bright orange contraption with a man’s head sticking out of the top and Monkeyboy on the back, whooping like a rodeo rider.
‘Get this thing off of me!’ cried the man. His eyes were bulging in terror. ‘Help me, I’m being attacked!’ He spun and whirled, trying to dislodge Monkeyboy, and his suit’s many arms flailed about the yard. Gigantus leapt back. Sister Moon dropped and rolled out of the way. Mama Rat’s saucepan of water got kicked over, and the rat she was bathing made a dash for freedom.
Finally, Gigantus stepped forward and grabbed hold of the suit. There was a crunching sound as the papier mâché crumpled, but at last the thing was still. The man inside looked as though he was about to either wet himself or be sick, if he hadn’t in fact done them both already.
‘Monkeyboy, what do you think you’re doing?’ Mama Rat hissed. ‘You’re going to wake Plumpscuttle and get us all thrown out.’
‘But look!’ Monkeyboy shouted. He was pointing to the arms of the suit, which were now feebly clicking and twitching as broken cogs and springs popped out of the joints.
‘It’s an octopus. We get it,’ said Gigantus, looking unimpressed. He was still keeping tight hold of the man’s suit.
‘It’s not just an octopus. It’s an octopus machine. It’s got tubes with steam coming out, just like that boy said. Look! There’s writing on the front.’
Beneath the queasy-looking face of the man, words had been painted in bold black across the octopus’s chest.
‘Guiseppe Farfellini,’ Sheba read out. ‘Amazing Automata and Incredible Clockwork Creations. Bespoke designs a speciality. Workshop at St Saviour’s Dock, Bermondsey.’
‘Wasn’t St Saviour’s where Large ’Arry said the other mudlarks were snatched?’ Mama Rat said.
The Peculiars looked at each other. Maybe, just maybe, Monkeyboy had found them a clue. Ignoring the smug look on Monkeyboy’s face, Sheba took a step closer to the crab man.
‘Do you work for this Farf-el-leenee?’ she asked.
The man looked at Sheba and did a double take. He clearly thought he had gone to sleep and was now trapped in some kind of freakish nightmare. ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ he managed.
‘And what kind of . . . automata . . . does he make?’
‘What? I don’t know! Clockwork things that move. Will you let me go and get this crazy brat off of my head! He’s put things in my suit – things that stink.’
‘I’ll put a lot more than that in there if you don’t start talking,’ Monkeyboy whispered into the man’s ear. ‘I can feel a wee coming on. A really big one.’
‘Please,’ said the man. ‘Please. Just let me go. I’m only a sandwich-board man, I don’t understand what you want from me.’
‘We just want to know something,’ Sheba continued. ‘Something about your boss. These things he makes . . . have you ever seen one that’s a crab? Steam-powered, like the suit you’re wearing?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the man, whining now. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Try harder,’ said Gigantus. He gave the suit a squeeze and more cogs sprinkled out from the joints.
There were tears in the man’s eyes now. Sheba began to feel sorry for him, but still she had to know.
‘I can’t remember!’ he said. ‘There’s a workshop, but I’ve never even been in. I just put on this suit and walk around in it. Now will you please just let me go before I call for the police!’
‘I don’t think we’re going to get much more out of him,’ said Mama Rat.
‘No,’ agreed Sister Moon. ‘And he starting to cry.’
‘Let him go, Gigantus.’ Sheba stood aside as the big man dragged the octopus over to the gate and half-threw it into the street. He pulled the gate shut, just as a series of wet snorts came booming through Plumpscuttle’s bedroom window.
The Peculiars huddled together and spoke in whispers.
‘Well done, Monkeyboy,’ said Sister Moon. ‘You find something important.’
‘Yes, well spotted, dearie,’ agreed Mama Rat.
‘All in a day’s work,’ said Monkeyboy, visibly pleased with himself.
‘So, you think this Farty-feely is the one what’s been taking the children?’ Gigantus whispered.
‘Well, he’s a machine-maker with a talent for sea creatures,’ said Sheba. ‘There can’t be that many of those in London, can there?’
‘So, what we do now?’ asked Sister Moon. ‘Tell police?’
‘Not yet,’ said Mama Rat. ‘We need proper evidence. We’ll have to get a look at this Filly-funny’s workshop.’
‘Can we go now?’ Sheba asked. ‘We could be back by showtime?’
‘Too risky,’ said Gigantus. ‘It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Just as long as that whimpering idiot in the octopus suit doesn’t go and warn him we’re coming. But I think he’ll be too scared.’
The others broke from the huddle and went to start preparing the house for that night’s show. Sheba was left standing in the yard, still clutching the dirty shovel, almost tempted to rush out of the yard and off to St Saviour’s Dock. Except, of course, she had no idea where it was or how to get there. If you are there, Till, then you’ll have to wait for tomorrow. Sorry.
She just hoped that tomorrow wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter Ten
IN WHICH THE PECULIARS GET A FREE PUPPET SHOW.
Sheba sat looking out from the bedroom window at the twinkling candles of Brick Lane. The fog was especially thick tonight, making the candles seem like will-’o-the-wisps as they shimmered and flickered in little haloes all around her.
From the room behind her came the rumbling of snores. Gigantus and Mama Rat were fast asleep and, judging by the wheezy squeaking sounds coming from the big box, the seven rats were, too. Sheba couldn’t help giving a little shudder. Even Sister Moon was dead to the world, lying elegantly on
her back with her head on a funny little hard pillow.
Sheba was almost tempted to wake her up. There was no way she could sleep, what with everything running through her head, and she wanted someone to talk to. It made her think back to the long nights at Grunchgirdle’s, with the sound of the sea washing back and forth below the floorboards. How she used to slip outside and watch the moon on the waves.
She decided to go and pay Flossy a visit. Sometimes he used to look as though he was listening.
Out in the yard it was dark. She could hear distant shouts, cheers and even screams coming from the Whitechapel streets. Flossy was curled in a little woolly ball, tucked up next to Raggety in the straw. If she hadn’t known that horse was a psychopath, she might even have thought he was cuddling him.
Sheba sighed, and wiggled her cold toes on the damp earth. There would be no listening from Flossy, then. She was about to head back inside, when she heard rustling from the direction of Monkeyboy’s cage. In the dim light, she could see him sitting up at one end, staring hard at his hands. Dreading what she might see, Sheba moved a little closer.
He was moulding something with his fingers, and as she watched, he set it down on the bars before him. It was a fairly good likeness of the octopus-suited man from earlier, done in earwax and bogies. He regarded it critically for a moment, then sent it spiralling over the fence and into the street with an idle flick.
‘Squeal on me to the crushers, will you?’ he muttered under his breath.
‘The police wouldn’t believe him anyway, and Farfellini would probably get rid of him for squealing,’ said Sheba.
She winced as Monkeyboy jumped with fright and banged his head on the cage roof.
‘Sorry,’ Sheba said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Scared? Not likely.’ He folded his arms and pouted. ‘I knew you was there all along, actually.’
‘Of course you did,’ said Sheba.
‘What you doing out here, anyway?’
Sheba shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said.
‘All that snoring, is it? Keeps me awake, too, when we’re out in the caravan. Especially old Lumpy. He sounds like a steam train with asthma.’
The Peculiars Page 7
