The Peculiars

by Kieran Larwood

  From where they hid they could see more patrols of guards and policemen wandering around. There were also two large police lodges between the palace and the park’s edge.

  ‘That’s an entrance, there,’ said Gigantus, pointing to a series of doors at the east end of the building, which was closest to the Peculiars. But the doors looked securely locked, and a policeman was standing sentry.

  ‘If we get to back wall, I can cut way in,’ said Sister Moon.

  ‘What we need is a diversion,’ said Sheba.

  There was a brief silence, in which all eyes turned to Monkeyboy.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Don’t even look at me. I’ve been used as bait once already. It’s someone else’s turn now.’

  ‘Maybe one of us could run down to the far end,’ said Sheba. ‘Throw a stone through the glass, draw the soldiers’ attention . . . wait a minute! What are they doing?’

  The five rats had scurried out of the bush and were dashing towards one of the police lodges.

  ‘Come back!’ Mama Rat hissed after them.

  ‘I think,’ said Sheba, ‘that they’re giving us our diversion.’

  The little cluster of black shadows disappeared into the lodge. Everyone held their breath and Sheba felt Mama Rat squeezing her arm. Moments later, there was a piercing scream and the sound of a gunshot.

  Within seconds there were soldiers and policemen from all over the park, running towards the source of the noise.

  ‘Now!’ hissed Sheba. ‘Quickly!’

  As fast as they could, the Peculiars sprinted across the grass to the rear of the Crystal Palace, just around the corner from the east entrance. Sister Moon had already drawn something from her belt. It looked like two small sticks joined by a piece of string.

  Working quickly, she slapped one of the sticks on to the wall. A ball of sticky rubber held it in place. Next, she stretched out the string, and then pressed the other stick against the glass. Using the stuck piece as an anchor, she dragged the second stick around in a wide circle, and then pulled. A perfectly round section of glass popped out from the wall with a slight grinding sound.

  ‘Diamond cutter,’ she said, smiling. ‘To save diamond. Now in, quickly!’

  Not needing to be told twice, the Peculiars clambered through, emerging into a dark, silent room. After Gigantus had squeezed his bulk in, Sister Moon rested the glass back against the wall. Hopefully no one would spot the hole.

  ‘Well, we’re in,’ said Gigantus. ‘Where’s this stupid diamond, then?’

  ‘I think,’ said Sheba, casting her mind back to the articles she had read back in that other, far more boring life, ‘that it’s in the centre. Next to the big fountain.’

  The Peculiars took a moment to look around. In the darkness, it seemed as though the room was full of hulking metal monsters with jutting spikes and blades. They were all reminded of the mechanical crab, and Gigantus looked ready to pound the nearest one into scrap – just in case it might be used for snatching children.

  ‘Farm machines,’ said Sister Moon, using her night sight to read a plaque. ‘From America.’

  They were about to head towards the door of the room when something scrabbled at the glass behind them.

  They turned as one, expecting to see a squad of soldiers with rifles levelled straight at them.

  Instead, a writhing bundle of black fur heaved its way up and through the hole they had cut. It separated into five squeaking rats.

  Mama Rat bent down to cuddle them all with a squeal of joy. ‘You naughty little ratties!’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you dare run off like that again!’

  Sheba looked at Sister Moon and rolled her eyes. There wasn’t time for reunions. She led them out of the room and into the main corridor, which stretched all the way down the east wing.

  The inside of the Great Exhibition was just as impressive as the exterior. Columns of iron stretched up, impossibly high, to the panels of the glass ceiling. Potted plants and small trees surrounded them, and there were thick carpets and drapes and banners everywhere. Exhibits lined the walkway on both sides. Sheba could see statues of tigers, horses and dragons, and people in costumes from all ages. Some even had no costumes on at all.

  ‘Phwoar, look at this!’ said Monkeyboy. He had clambered up to sit on the shoulders of a naked man and woman, their bits covered only by fig leaves.

  ‘That’s Adam and Eve, you disgusting child,’ said Gigantus. ‘Get down. We haven’t got time to mess around.’

  ‘This way to the diamond!’ Sheba said, spotting a sign in the dim light. ‘Hurry up!’

  They began a hectic dash along the corridor, zipping past exhibits in a blur. Almost at the centre, they were stopped by Monkeyboy shouting again.

  ‘Look at this! Look at this!’

  ‘If you’ve stopped us to gawk at bronze boobies again,’ began Gigantus, but quickly saw he was pointing at an object in what looked like an enormous birdcage, topped with a crown. Inside it, on a velvet cushion, was a diamond the size of a fist. The plaque beneath it read ‘The Koh-i-Noor, Mountain of Light’. In the darkness of the empty exhibition it barely gave a twinkle. It could have just been a very expensive lump of glass.

  ‘It’s the diamond!’ Sheba whispered. ‘But why hasn’t it been taken?’

  Sister Moon drew her swords and looked around the shadows of the central court. The fountains were still, the main doors locked and barred. ‘We early?’ she suggested. ‘Mrs Crowley not here yet?’

  ‘Are you sure she said it was tonight, Sheba?’ Mama Rat asked.

  ‘I’m certain,’ said Sheba.

  ‘Unless that what she want you to think,’ said Sister Moon.

  ‘You mean we’ve just broken into the most important building in England for nothing?’ Monkeyboy said. He stared around, wide-eyed, waiting for some kind of trap to be sprung. But there was nothing except the dark, the stillness and the blank stares of statues.

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Sheba could feel everyone’s eyes burning into her.

  ‘I was sure it was the diamond,’ she said, feeling helpless. ‘Although she did laugh when I said it. But what else could she be after?’

  ‘Well, we’d better do something soon, or a guard’s going to come past and catch us standing here, and then we’ll be on our way to the nearest prison,’ Monkeyboy whispered.

  Sheba nodded, miserably. She had been expecting to charge in and find Mrs Crowley, complete with all the mudlarks, in the act of stealing the diamond. As if it was ever going to be that easy.

  ‘She must be here somewhere,’ said Sister Moon, trying to be positive.

  ‘I suggest we split up,’ said Mama Rat, ‘or we’re never going to find her. And it’s only a matter of time before someone spots the hole we cut. Then we’ve had it.’

  Sister Moon scrambled up one of the columns to the first floor, and Monkeyboy copied her on the opposite side. Sheba marvelled at how they climbed: Monkeyboy as naturally as a real monkey, Sister Moon silent and graceful. She couldn’t even see the tiny hand and footholds they used. They would search the galleries, then work their way down to the ground floor. Gigantus ran towards the west wing and Mama Rat headed south, towards the main entrance. Sheba watched them go. That left the north transept for her.

  She began to step forward, then stopped suddenly.

  She had felt something, a tingle in her nostrils.

  There were many new and strange aromas inside the palace: machine oil, minerals, freshly varnished wood and foreign spices. But underneath them all was a hint of something else. Something sharp and cold.

  Mrs Crowley. She was here.

  Taking a deep breath, Sheba followed her nose.

  The scent seemed to be coming from higher up, drifting down from the galleries on the first floor. Sheba tiptoed past the fountain and up the stairs. They led to a huge set of open doors. The ornate banner above it said ‘India’.

  There was a hint of moonlight from the glass ceiling overhead. Strange silhouettes loo
med everywhere as Sheba stood in the doorway of the room, brought up short by a colossal, tusked monster, rearing up almost to the ceiling. Her hands shot to her mouth, holding back a scream, before she realised it was an elephant. A stuffed one, draped with embroidered silk and bearing a howdah big enough to house a small family. She stood still, trying to control her breathing, before padding cautiously into the room.

  All around her were fabulous objects, decorated in the intricate and ornate Indian style. In the dim light she made out thrones and a beautiful tent crammed with carpets and cushions. There were spices, rocks and plants; a sample of everything the Indian soil could produce. The result was a sensory overload, an overpowering assault on Sheba’s nose that made her head spin. And beneath that was the same nagging feeling of familiarity she’d had when she met Mrs Crowley, saw the clipper on the Thames, heard Baba Anish’s accent. She had definitely smelt one of the odours before. Nose twitching, she followed the trail to a little plant in an earthen pot. It had a powerful, unmistakable scent, coming from its small white flowers. Flowers like the carved ones on her ebony box. Could that be why they were so familiar? They were labelled as jasmine, a native Indian plant. She must have come across them sometime in her unknown past. But how? She was a furry little orphan from a tatty seaside town in the middle of nowhere. What did she know of Indian flowers?

  As if in answer she found herself remembering running through a white marble house . . . the air is hot around her, wide windows with billowing curtains fly past. She doesn’t recognise the place – it’s so grand! – but somehow she knows it. Her bare feet slap, slap, slap against the cool floor as she turns corner after corner. Now there’s a courtyard. Ornamental ponds, water trickling between them. She can smell the jasmine. A distant voice calling her name . . . ‘Sheba? Sheba? Is that you?’ A figure sits beneath the shade of a palm. Wide skirts and a parasol. Another, more beloved scent. ‘Mama . . .’

  No! Pressing her hand over her mouth, Sheba dashed out of the Indian room.

  She paused at the bottom of a flight of stairs, taking a moment to calm herself. Away from the smell of spices and jasmine, her head began to clear. She was just anxious, she told herself. The tension was making her mind play tricks. If she could find Mrs Crowley, then all this would stop. As her senses returned to normal, she smelled once more the sharp, cold scent.

  Sheba began to follow it again. She ran past a gallery full of farming implements, another dedicated to different forms of cutlery, and what looked like a room full of surgical implements. Now the scent was stronger still, and accompanied by a grinding noise from up ahead. It was a metallic sound, as if something was being cut. Her first thought was the bars of the Koh-i-Noor’s birdcage, but that was far behind her now, back in the central court.

  She took the clockwork pistol out from her cape. Sister Moon had tried to unjam it during their ride in the cab. But she hadn’t had a chance to test it.

  The room from which the noise came was titled ‘Philosophical Instruments’. The scent was now unmistakably that of Mrs Crowley. She was in the room, and Sheba could smell neither the mudlarks nor the doctor. There was a dim glow inside. A lantern? The metallic grinding was quite loud now.

  Sheba paused outside the doorway, as if an invisible barrier blocked her path. Should she go and get the others? But what if Mrs Crowley had gone by the time she got back? What if she had what she needed already and was about to leave?

  There was no time for anything but action. She gathered all her courage and stepped through the door, pistol raised.

  The room was lined with display cases, all of them holding constructions of tubes, pipes, cogs, wire, dials and handles that looked immensely complicated. They could have been machines for making tea, shaving your eyebrows or summoning leprechauns for all Sheba knew. Standing in the centre of the room, holding a shuttered lantern, was a slender figure, dressed all in black.

  Gone were the skirts, the bodice and the veil, but it was still unmistakeably Mrs Crowley. She now wore black trousers and a shirt with some kind of harness over the top. The bottom half of her face was covered by a black neckerchief, tied behind her head like a highwayman, and her eyes were hidden beneath the smoked glass lenses of a pair of goggles. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she was standing next to an exhibit which was clearly the centrepiece of the room. Unlike the others, it had been given its own cage, which Mrs Crowley was trying to break into. In her hands was some kind of automated saw, and the ground around her was littered with cut iron bars.

  She looked up as Sheba entered. The white skin of her forehead wrinkled in a frown.

  ‘You really are irritatingly persistent, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Stop what you’re doing,’ said Sheba. She couldn’t quite keep her voice from shaking. ‘Stop right now, or I’ll shoot.’

  ‘If you shoot me with your toy gun – presuming you actually hit me, that is – then you’ll never find the location of that pox-ridden girl you’re looking for.’ Sheba knew she was right. Even though she itched to pull the trigger, finding Till was more important.

  ‘Besides,’ Mrs Crowley continued. ‘There is another very good reason why you shouldn’t shoot me.’

  ‘I can’t think of one.’ She lined the pistol sight up between the woman’s eyes, just to keep her guessing whether she was going to do it.

  ‘Have you ever wondered about your parents, Sheba? Has it ever puzzled you how you ended up a strange little freak, unwanted and all alone?’

  Sheba’s hands began to shake, the pistol jittering about. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’ The woman was bluffing; lying again like she had about her stolen son.

  ‘That’s not entirely true,’ Mrs Crowley continued. ‘In fact, I know quite a bit. Would you like to hear it?’

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Sheba. The tremble had spread to her voice. ‘You’ve only met me twice before.’

  ‘That was more than enough, my dear. How many girls like you can there be in the world? A little investigation proved my suspicions correct.’

  ‘You don’t know me!’ Sheba shouted. ‘Your servant tried to kill me!’

  ‘He did, didn’t he?’ The woman raised a finger to her hidden lips as if it had been an innocent mistake. ‘I must apologise. In hindsight, that was an error of judgement. I should have killed you myself.’

  ‘You lied about your son, and you’re lying now. You’re nothing but an evil, murdering witch!’ Sheba felt her teeth gnash and her eyes blaze as the fur stood out all over her face.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember me, actually. Not my face, of course, but my voice at least. Do you remember the jasmine garden? The ornamental ponds? Or perhaps those long, white corridors you used to run up and down.’

  Suddenly the room seemed very small and airless. Sheba’s chest squeezed tight, making it hard for her to breathe. Her heart seemed to pound in her ears, and the only thing she could do was open her mouth and croak, ‘No . . .’

  ‘So you do remember. And how about your dear nanny? The poor young woman dragged from her home country, halfway across the world, to some cursed Indian hell-hole?’

  ‘You?’ Sheba managed to say. She had no memory of this woman, couldn’t even imagine her as part of her past. But she knew about the white house. And that sweet undertone of Mrs Crowley’s scent that was so familiar . . . Could there be any other explanation?

  ‘Yes, me. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But the things your family made me endure changed me in so many ways. To think I once ran around at the bidding of your stupid mother . . .’

  ‘Mama . . .’ Sheba’s lip began to tremble. All those years of dreaming about her mother, and this woman might actually know where she was.

  ‘Where is she?’ Mrs Crowley read her mind. ‘Who knows now? When you began to change . . . the shock nearly killed her. She was bed-ridden for months, and then one night she snatched you and left. The last I heard, she had boarded a clipper for England. Perhaps she blamed the foreign soil
for her misfortunes. Maybe she wanted to escape your father. God knows she had reason enough. Who knows? She must have died on the journey home, leaving you an orphan. And now an exhibit in a tawdry sideshow, of all the things. How shameful.’

  India, the ship, the memories. It all seemed to fit. What she had felt in the India room was no trick of the mind. It was a memory. A proper memory.

  ‘Father?’ Sheba managed to say, even as her legs buckled and she fell to the floor.

  ‘I shouldn’t spare a thought for him,’ said Mrs Crowley. ‘The brute wanted you locked away from the moment you started sprouting hair. After you and your mother left he became drunk, deranged. In the end I ended up caring for him like some pathetic nurse. Until I decided to pass myself off as his sister and take his fortune. After that he was useless. I’m glad I had Baba Anish slit his throat.’

  ‘They’re dead.’ Sheba felt hot tears run down her cheeks. ‘They’re both dead.’

  ‘Don’t cry about it,’ said Mrs Crowley, sounding disgusted. ‘You never even knew them. Not really. You were a disgrace to them.’

  Sheba didn’t want to believe that was true. Why would her mother run away with her if she couldn’t stand her? But part of what Mrs Crowley said was right. Crying over the loss of something you never had was stupid. Instead, she should be dealing with what she did have. This heartless criminal who had kidnapped the only normal friend Sheba had ever known. Thinking of Till stopped her tears. She still didn’t know where the mudlarks were, or what the woman intended to do with them, but somehow she had to find out.

  She watched as Mrs Crowley reached inside the display case and lifted out a box-like contraption. It had wire-coiled iron loops jutting from the top, with a series of metal discs in between. There were rods and cables poking out all over, and brass buttons and dials set into the mahogany casing.

  That thing? Sheba thought. That’s what she’s been after?

  Mrs Crowley tucked the device into a black canvas bag.

  ‘Curious, are we? Wondering why it wasn’t the diamond?’

  ‘No,’ Sheba said, a little too quickly. ‘I just need to know what’s been stolen when I scream for the police.’