The Peculiars

by Kieran Larwood

  Abruptly the painted stranger finished speaking, then nodded and left the tavern doorway, turning right along Ratcliff Highway.

  ‘We have to follow him,’ Sheba said. Something in her gut told her this man had something to do with the missing mudlarks. She could almost smell it.

  ‘Follow that?’ Monkeyboy goggled down the street after the stranger. ‘You must be joking. He looks like he’d pop our eyeballs out, just for a laugh.’

  ‘I not sure about this, Sheba. Not on our own—’

  But before Sister Moon could finish, Sheba was off through the crowd, following the spice-and-oil scent of the stranger like a two-legged bloodhound. Monkeyboy and Sister Moon shared a stricken glance before dashing after her.

  They happened to have forgotten all about their ratty escort. It was lucky that Mama Rat’s babbies, scuttling along the gutters and rooftops after them, had better memories.

  Chapter Twelve

  IN WHICH SHEBA HAS A CLOSE SHAVE.

  They followed the painted man along the highway, past St Katherine’s Docks and out of the East End. All the while they kept as far behind as they could without losing sight of him. Every now and then, Sister Moon would push them into a doorway or behind a hawker’s street-stall. Split seconds later, the man would turn and glare back up the road, but see nothing. It’s almost as if she knows when he’s about to look round, Sheba thought. She supposed stalking people must be part of an assassin’s training.

  They walked past the piece of old wall that marked the edge of Roman Londinium and alongside the Tower of London. Sheba shivered as she passed it, imagining swirls in the mist were the ghosts of beheaded prisoners watching them. London Bridge was crowded with hansom cabs, carts and horses and scores of people in between, hurrying to get away from the stink of the Thames.

  Once over the river, they headed down Tooley Street, holding their breath for as long as they could past the tanning yards. Once or twice they lost sight of the painted man in the crowds, but Sheba still had a hold of his scent. She followed it as if it were an invisible rope.

  He led them through a maze of streets, past docks and warehouses, and on to a wide, cobbled road. It looked as if it might once have been a grand place to live. On either side stood three-storey stone houses with high, square windows and tall chimneystacks. Most had steps up to the front doors. But the painted doors were peeling, the sagging roofs were shedding slates like autumn leaves, and the windows were cracked and filthy.

  ‘If we’re not back soon, Plumpscuttle is going to skin us alive,’ said Monkeyboy.

  ‘Quiet,’ hissed Sister Moon. ‘Man stopping.’

  The three of them ducked into a nearby doorway and watched as the painted man walked up the stone steps of one house and pulled on the bell. There was a moment’s pause before the door opened and a tiny little man stepped out. He had scrawny limbs and an oversized head. A white frizz jutted out around his ears, but there was no hair anywhere else on the bulging dome of his skull. He also wore a pair of thick, heavy glasses.

  Sheba’s heart was in her throat. She whispered to the others, ‘Remember what Farfellini said about the man who gave him the order for the crab?’

  ‘Skinny,’ said Monkeyboy.

  ‘Bald,’ said Sister Moon.

  ‘And spectacles,’ added Sheba. ‘Exactly.’

  The two men shook hands, then walked inside the house. As the slam of the door echoed down the street, Sheba and the others stepped out of their hiding place.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘We’ve found them. They must be the ones who’ve taken Till. She could even be inside that house right now.’

  ‘Number 17,’ Sister Moon said, peering down the street at the house. ‘We go back and tell Mama Rat what we find.’

  Something about the number made Sheba pause. She looked around the road for a street sign, finally spotting one screwed to the side of a building behind them. Paradise Street.

  ‘What is it, hairy?’ asked Monkeyboy. ‘You look like someone’s just stuck a rat down your knickers.’

  ‘17 Paradise Street,’ Sheba replied. When the others looked at her blankly, she drew out the pasteboard calling card from her cloak pocket.

  The house was Mrs Crowley’s.

  ‘She knows them, the sneaky witch!’ Monkeyboy’s face boggled and bulged as he slowly became more outraged. ‘She was stringing us along from the start!’

  Sheba frowned. The dilapidated house didn’t seem to fit with the fine quality of clothes Mrs Crowley wore, or her clipped accent. Somewhere, a ship’s horn sounded. The river where Mrs Crowley’s son had supposedly gone missing wasn’t far. Could her posh façade have been an act? Could her child have been a mudlark, too?

  ‘They might be helping her look for her son,’ Sheba suggested. ‘There might be an innocent explanation.’

  ‘Too much of a coincidence,’ said Monkeyboy. ‘Those two have got something to do with the missing mudlarks.’

  Sister Moon looked as puzzled as Sheba. ‘Maybe they giving her son back? Or asking her for ransom?’

  ‘Or maybe they’ve got the mudlarks tied up in the basement somewhere and they’re about to eat them for supper?’

  Beneath her hood, Sheba’s face was set in a determined scowl. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  ‘What you think?’ Sister Moon asked. ‘That we break in house?’

  Sheba nodded, and Monkeyboy let out a whimper. ‘You must be crazy,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we’re supposed to be back at Brick Lane any minute. Plumpscuttle will kill us if we’re not there for the show – unless those three do it first.’

  ‘We’ll be quick,’ said Sheba. ‘If we don’t hear anything about Till, we’ll be out again and on our way home straight away.’

  ‘But we’re bound to get caught,’ Monkeyboy whined. ‘Caught and thrown in a dungeon somewhere.’

  ‘Do what I tell you, Monkey,’ said Sister Moon. ‘I expert sneak. We go in at back.’

  The three mismatched figures scurried around behind the row of houses and found an alley. It was narrow and dark, with splintered fences close on both sides. When Sister Moon stepped into it, she seemed to disappear, the white skin of her face appearing to float in the gloom.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘No time to slither.’

  ‘Dither,’ corrected Sheba, joining her in the shadows.

  Monkeyboy stood for a moment on his own, quietly snivelling, before one of Sister Moon’s arms reached out from the alley and yanked him in.

  A few moments later, they were standing at the back door of number 17. Nobody had rushed out to seize them yet. The small garden around them was a mass of weeds and brambles, another sign of dilapidation that didn’t fit with Mrs Crowley.

  Sheba heard a church clock strike six somewhere in the distance, as she worked on the back door lock. They really would have to be quick if they were to get back in time for the show at eight. She hoped there weren’t any deadbolts besides the clunky old keyplate she was picking.

  The thought of the painted man being just behind the door made her breath catch in her throat. If they were caught, what would happen? Her hand shook, rattling the picks against the lock. She forced herself to take some deep breaths and tried again. This time, the tumbler clicked into place and the door swung silently open.

  They entered a dark and empty kitchen. The house beyond it was silent and still. There was something unnatural about being in someone else’s house uninvited. They tiptoed through the room and started up what would have been the servants’ staircase. Sister Moon led the way, with Monkeyboy clinging to her shoulders. Sheba followed, trying to put her feet exactly where Moon had. Every time the stairs made a tiny creak, her heart nearly stopped beating.

  The whole place was dark, yet somehow Sister Moon moved with confidence, as if it were broad daylight. Must be her cat’s eyes, thought Sheba, remembering how Sister Moon’s eyes had shrunk to slits that first night in the caravan. Even with her own wolfish senses, Sheba could only pick out di
m outlines of the walls and stairs, but she could smell mildew, dust and woodworm: neglect.

  When they got to the second floor, they stepped onto a wide landing in the main part of the house. It was lit only by a flickering gaslight. The paper on the walls was yellowed with age, and the floorboards were scuffed and warped. There were no grand paintings, no potted plants and ornaments. The place was bare. If it hadn’t been for the dim murmur of voices in a room somewhere, she would have thought it derelict and abandoned.

  They silently made their way down the landing to the source of the noise. And stopped by a heavy oak door, which gleamed with light at the cracks. There were voices inside – two or three people at least. Sheba looked at the others, wide-eyed. Her bravado had now completely evaporated, and she realised she was standing in a stranger’s house, a couple of metres away from the owner herself, and possibly two very nasty villains. She motioned back down the stairs, meaning: I really, really think we should go now.

  Sister Moon shook her head. She pointed to the keyhole and held her fingers to her eye in a circle. Then she pointed to Sheba.

  Why me? Sheba mouthed, but it was obvious. She had the best hearing, and she might also be able to pick up a scent through the tiny hole. Sister Moon and Monkeyboy edged back along the landing to where another door stood open. Thanks a bunch, Sheba thought, but she bent her head to the keyhole.

  Although her field of view was limited, she could see a thick, musty rug, ornate chairs and a chipped sideboard with a tea service on top. On the walls hung two large oil portraits in ornate ebony frames. One was of a beautiful woman, dressed in cascading folds of white silk. The other showed a handsome army officer, hand on sword and with a backdrop of some faraway country. Both were obscured by a thick coating of dust. Mrs Crowley’s ancestors, perhaps? Or the people that used to own this crumbling house?

  Sheba almost didn’t notice Mrs Crowley at first. The way she sat motionless in a high-backed leather armchair, covered from head to foot with layers of black cloth, made her look like a shrouded statue. The only clue that she wasn’t were the white tips of her fingers, which gently twitched on the chair arms as she observed the people standing before her.

  One was the painted man. His broad shoulders stretched out the fabric of his coat, and without his hat his locks spilled down his back like greasy rats’ tails.

  The other figure was the man with the mad, white hair. He wore an old, stained frock coat, and was clearly quite excited about something. He was waving his arms and gesticulating madly.

  She was now close enough to pick up their scents. The painted man’s spice-and-oil aroma was more like some type of incense, she thought. The other was ripe with some kind of chemical mix. Medical, perhaps. But not the good kind. There was a hint of something noxious beneath: rotten meat, dead things. Both odours set Sheba’s hackles on edge. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to turn and run back down the stairs, but somehow she fought it. She had to stay and hear what they were saying.

  ‘Are you sure you will be able to get it?’ the small man was asking. ‘They have it very well guarded.’

  ‘You just worry about your part,’ came the lisping voice of Mrs Crowley. ‘Leave the rest to me.’

  ‘Yes, but without it, I will not be able to make it work—’

  ‘Doctor.’ Mrs Crowley leant forward in her chair. She sounded as though her patience was wearing thin. ‘I have assured you that I will be able to obtain it.’

  Sheba frowned at the keyhole. So the man was a medical doctor. But what was ‘it’? What were they after?

  ‘Now, about the children . . .’

  Sheba’s heart began to beat so loudly, she thought they would be able to hear it on the other side of the door. She had to focus on calming herself so she could pay proper attention again.

  ‘One more should be sufficient,’ the doctor was saying. ‘If only that last boy hadn’t managed to escape.’

  ‘But the tides aren’t right tonight.’ The painted man’s voice rumbled like a brewing thunderstorm. He had a thick, foreign accent; it was not one Sheba could remember hearing before, but for some reason it seemed familiar.

  ‘Very well, Baba Anish. Tomorrow, then. At low tide – just as with the others. Within hours, we shall have what we most desire. And how long we have waited . . .’

  That woman, Sheba thought. And to think she had felt sorry for her. There clearly was no lost son. And Mrs Crowley was no grieving mother.

  ‘Yes, but something happened to the puppet maker,’ the Doctor said. ‘And there’s that bunch of freaks looking for one of the children—’

  Sheba caught a strong waft of Mrs Crowley’s peculiar scent as she jerked forward in her chair. ‘The puppet man owed money to some nasty people,’ she snapped. ‘Why do you think he was so keen to take our coin? They must have lost patience with him in the end. And as for those irritating snoops, they are nothing to worry about. I met them, don’t forget. And they were just as stupid as I expected. The woman was clueless, and as for that hideous little girl . . . my Indian friend here has a cure for her.’

  The painted man gave a deep chuckle that sounded more like a panther growling. It was followed by the sound of something sharp and metal being drawn from a scabbard. Sheba could suddenly smell dried blood – human blood. Without meaning to, she let out a tiny squeak of terror.

  ‘What was that?’ came Mrs Crowley’s sharp whisper.

  Heavy footsteps began to approach the door. The metal-and-blood stink drew closer and closer. Sheba wanted desperately to run, but for some reason her feet were rooted to the floor.

  The door handle began to move, she could see it from the corner of her eye, but still her legs were stuck like stone. Run, you stupid girl. Run! she shouted to herself. Where was the wolf when she really needed it?

  Just as the door began to creak open, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked round.

  It was Sister Moon.

  Life returned instantly to her limbs. Sheba scampered along the landing and into the room where Monkeyboy was hiding.

  Behind her, the door continued to open.

  Mrs Crowley called out, ‘It’s probably just a floorboard, Baba Anish. This dismal place is falling to pieces. Little wonder they left it behind to rot.’

  Sheba crouched behind the door of the dark room she had dashed into. Monkeyboy jumped into her arms and she held him in a tight squeeze. She was so scared, she almost didn’t notice the smell. Beside her, Sister Moon had dropped to a fighting crouch and was drawing her swords from their scabbards slowly and silently.

  Out in the corridor, she heard the man Mrs Crowley had called Baba Anish taking careful steps forward. She imagined his eyes sliding from shadow to shadow like a hawk’s, that bloodied weapon ready to slice whatever he found.

  She could feel the spicy scent grow stronger and stronger as he approached. We should have closed the door behind us, she thought. We might as well have put a sign outside saying ‘We’re In Here!’ As the fear and adrenalin built up inside her, Sheba could feel the fur thickening on her face. Claws started to poke from her fingertips, digging into Monkeyboy’s back where she held him. He gave a little yelp of pain.

  Immediately, the footsteps halted. Baba Anish’s breathing paused as he listened. After the longest ten seconds in the history of time, he began to move again. This time there was no doubt he was coming towards their door.

  Sister Moon had her swords out now. She gave Sheba a grim look, the slits of her pupils gleaming in the light from the hallway. Sheba’s mind raced. Would Moon be able to take Baba Anish on her own? What could she and Monkeyboy do to help?

  She was finding it hard to think, as the wolfish instincts started to take over. She couldn’t help feeling the urge to rush out and launch herself at Baba Anish, but she knew she would last less than a heartbeat. Maybe we could escape out of the window, she thought. Or Monkeyboy could climb down and get help . . .

  But before anything could happen, there was a squeaking sound at her feet
. Her first thought was that she had stepped on a wonky floorboard, but then something black and furry ran across her toes. It dashed past Sister Moon and out through the open doorway, causing Baba Anish to shout in surprise.

  One of Mama Rat’s babbies!

  Sheba felt a brief surge of relief. Until she heard the sound of something sharp swishing down.

  Thunk.

  There was a shrill squeak, then silence.

  ‘What is it?’ came Mrs Crowley’s muffled voice from the next room.

  ‘Just a rat,’ said Baba Anish. His voice was so loud; he must have been centimetres from the door where the Peculiars were hiding. ‘A very big one.’

  ‘A rat? There are no rats in my house!’

  More footsteps as Baba Anish returned to the study. Evidently he had taken the rat’s body with him, as there was a scream, which Sheba thought was Mrs Crowley.

  ‘It’s hideous!’ yelled the doctor in a high-pitched voice. ‘Take it away this instant! I can’t stand rats!’

  ‘I think we should be departing, anyway,’ said Mrs Crowley. ‘I’m sure you have final preparations to put in place, and I have some guards to bribe.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Everything will be ready for tomorrow night.’

  Footsteps could be heard leaving the room and walking down the main staircase.

  The Peculiars didn’t move a muscle until they heard the front door shut. There was silence then, but they waited another few minutes to make sure the house was empty. Only then did Sister Moon put her swords away, and Monkeyboy reluctantly peeled himself out of Sheba’s arms.

  ‘That poor rat,’ whispered Sheba. She felt her eyes begin to prickle with tears. ‘Which one was it?’

  ‘It was only a flipping rat,’ said Monkeyboy. ‘She’s got loads more of the creepy things.’

  ‘They very special rats,’ whispered Sister Moon. ‘They follow us from Penny Gaff. They take care of us. I think that one might be Matthew. He the ringmaster.’