As he charged, Moon let him come, opening her guard purposefully. Just as he began his deathstrike, she placed a foot in the centre of his chest and let herself fall backwards onto the floor. His momentum carried him over her head, and at exactly the right moment she kicked hard with her leg and sent him soaring through the air. The old plate window was directly behind them, and for the second time that day, Baba Anish flew straight through the glass, smashing it with his face. With a disbelieving wail, he vanished into the foggy night, on his way to the ground at unpleasantly high speed.
Sister Moon rolled to her feet, calmly returning to the seiza stance.
‘That for Matthew the rat,’ she said.
Sheba cheered, just as Gigantus broke open the door with a final blow. Weapons drawn, the Peculiars ran full pelt after Mrs Crowley.
Sheba sprinted down the crumbling corridors after the fleeing forms of the doctor and Mrs Crowley. She saw them turn, heading through an open door to her right, and moments later she skidded through it herself.
She emerged into a wide room, floorboards covered with brick dust and rubble. The doctor and Crowley were standing in the far corner, both gripping Faraday’s generator.
‘We had an agreement, you fool!’ Mrs Crowley was screaming. ‘You can have the machine after you’ve cured me!’
‘But those freaks!’ the doctor yelled back. ‘They will kill us! Look at my arm!’
‘Stop right there!’ Sheba shouted from the doorway. She had her pistol out again, and this time there was no hesitation. She fired a shot and the dart pinged across the room to hit the doctor right in the middle of his bald head. He instantly froze, clutching the generator in a rigor mortis grip.
‘Paralysis dart,’ Sheba said, as Gigantus and Mama Rat arrived behind her.
Mrs Crowley let out a throat-wrenching scream of fury. With shaking hands, she pulled out a box of lucifer matches and fumbled to strike one.
‘What’s she doing now?’ asked Monkeyboy. ‘Smoking a pipe?’
Sheba made a move across the room, just as Mrs Crowley managed to light a match. She gave Sheba a last, hate-filled glance, then threw the flaming stick onto the floor. There was a hissing sound, and a cloud of stinking, sulphurous smoke.
‘Gunpowder!’ Mama Rat shouted. ‘The building is booby-trapped!’
Sheba watched in horror as a trail of fire zipped along the side of the room. She could now see a line of black powder that must have been set out earlier, just in case the evil woman needed to make an escape. It would probably lead to a keg somewhere; enough black powder to bring the crumbling old building down around them.
She should have been filled with terror. She should have turned and run from the building. Instead she was filled with a sudden rush of anger. This woman, who had destroyed her family, hurt her friends, was about to escape into the night. There was no way she could let that happen.
She felt the fur on her face stand and thicken. Her jaw stretched, her teeth sliding into spiked points. Time seemed to slow down. She casually noticed how her hands had squeezed themselves into paws, and she felt an irresistible urge to howl. This is it, she thought, I’ve finally become a proper wolf. She was surprised to find that this time she didn’t care.
As the gunpowder ignited with a boom that shook the walls and threw the other Peculiars to the ground, Sheba fell on all fours and began to bound across the room towards Mrs Crowley.
There was fire and smoke everywhere. The explosion had come from the floor beneath, thrusting jagged floorboards up like splintered mountain ranges. It cracked the walls and sent bricks, slates and chunks of timber raining from the ceiling.
Sheba dodged all these with preternatural speed, jinking and swerving across the floor. Mrs Crowley was at a door in the room’s corner, forcing it open whilst still trying to drag the generator from the doctor’s grip. The smoke in front of her parted, and the snarling form of Sheba came flying through.
Mrs Crowley gave an uncharacteristic squeal as Sheba landed in front of her. Letting go of the generator, she aimed a kick at the little wolfgirl’s head. Sheba dodged out of the way, and sank her teeth into the woman’s ankle.
‘You vicious animal!’ Mrs Crowley screamed. She reached down and grabbed Sheba by the hair, hauling her head up. In her state of rage, all Sheba wanted to do was bite again. She was almost too frenzied to notice the glinting thing that had appeared in Mrs Crowley’s hand. The woman had a knife and was swinging it down towards her throat.
Sheba tried to pull away, but her hair was held tight. The knife drew closer, cutting through the smoke in slow motion, now centimetres away from her neck. With wide eyes, Sheba saw the triumphant grin forming on Mrs Crowley’s face; one that rapidly changed to horror as something small and betailed bounced off the nearest wall and onto her head.
‘Monkeyboy!’ Sheba shouted.
Mrs Crowley screamed as the little imp perched on her shoulders, slapping and punching at her face. Sheba was about to help him, when the floor beneath her gave a violent lurch.
She looked down. The floorboards had given way, opening up a fire-filled hole to the floor below. For one horrible moment she teetered, about to spill down into the flames, and then a hand was on her shoulder. It was Sister Moon, face smeared with soot. And then the ninja was pulling her clear, back through the smoke to safety.
They dashed back across the room, dodging holes and falling bricks, until they were back at the far door again. Mama Rat and Gigantus were waiting for them and a few seconds later, Monkeyboy appeared, coughing and spluttering.
‘She threw me off,’ he managed to say. ‘The slippery mare got away!’
Sheba didn’t care. They all crowded round, wrapping their arms about each other, filled with an inexpressible joy that they were all safe and together again.
‘The mudlarks!’ Sheba shouted, breaking free of the huddle. ‘We have to get them out!’
Everyone instantly turned to run back to the operating theatre, rushing to free the children before the fire took hold. Sheba followed, but not before sparing a backward glance through the smoke to where the hazy silhouette of the doctor stood, still paralysed, and behind him the empty doorway through which Mrs Crowley had escaped.
The Peculiars herded the gaggle of dazed mudlarks out of the burning building. Till turned to Sheba and gave her a tight, fierce hug. The other children were just as grateful. They thronged each other and the Peculiars in a tearful huddle, unable to believe their long ordeal was finally over.
Sheba felt like collapsing onto the ground and gulping in mouthfuls of the clear night air, but she knew they couldn’t stand around for long. It was only a matter of time before the police, already out in their hundreds, came to investigate the explosion.
‘We have to go,’ she said, her voice croaky with smoke. The others nodded, and keeping to the shadows, the group headed out of the hospital grounds, passing the crumpled form of Baba Anish as they went.
Part of Sheba wanted to stay and tell the police what had happened. They might be in time to rescue the doctor and the generator. They might be able to catch Mrs Crowley and bring her to justice.
But it was more likely they would laugh in their faces, all the way to the nearest cells. They were nothing but a gaggle of rag-tag sideshow freaks after all. And, at the very worst, they might even think they had stolen the generator themselves. Judging by all the police and soldiers, the theft was being treated as a matter of national security, and Sheba didn’t really fancy her head being stuck on a spike on top of Temple Bar.
No, it was better that nobody knew they were involved. They had stopped Mrs Crowley and saved the children. That was all that mattered. As the first policemen came running, blowing their whistles and shouting for help, Sheba and the others slipped through the crowds on Hyde Park corner and home, to Brick Lane, with Till clutching Sheba’s hand all the way.
Chapter Nineteen
IN WHICH SHEBA FINDS HER HOME.
The morning edition of The Times was ful
l of speculation about the events in Hyde Park. The front page showed a drawing of the Crystal Palace with flames rising from a gaping hole in its side, and beneath it the article read:
Burglary and Bombs at the Great Exhibition
At around midnight last night, Hyde Park was host to a tragic spectacle. The Crystal Palace, site of the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations, fell victim to a malicious and cowardly attack.
Persons unknown managed to gain access to the North Gallery by cutting through the glass wall. They then removed at least one of the exhibits, before placing an explosive device in the Refreshment Court. Thanks to the diligence and bravery of London’s Fire Brigades, none of the displays was lost.
Prince Albert himself is due to inspect the damage this morning, and it is expected the exhibition will remain closed for at least two days.
There was also a piece on the theft, which Sheba read eagerly:
Failed attempt to steal Faraday’s Generator
It seems that the target of last night’s raid on the Great Exhibition was the Electromagnetic Impulse Generator, designed and built by Mr Michael Faraday, one of the Exhibition judges.
A revolutionary new design, the Generator is capable of creating the strongest electrical impulses yet achieved, with its inventor claiming that one day similar machines will replace steam and water power throughout the nation.
Ultimately, however, the plot was foiled. The criminals chose one of the derelict buildings of the old St George’s Hospital as their lair, which then caught fire. The first policemen on the scene discovered the missing device, and also apprehended two criminals. One was a Doctor Everard Whitmore of Rotherhithe, the other an unknown foreigner who is thought to be a mystic.
Both men were severely injured and are now in police custody, while the generator has been returned to Mr Faraday.
Sheba folded the paper and placed it back on the kitchen table. She was glad it had all turned out all right, but couldn’t help a twinge of envy. It should have been us in the papers, she thought. Instead nobody would ever know who had really stopped Mrs Crowley.
Although that wasn’t quite true. The parlour at Brick Lane was full of little sleeping people who would remember. They filled up most of the floor space, curled around each other, gently snoring. And after all, everything the Peculiars had done hadn’t really been anything to do with foiling burglaries or catching criminals. It had been about keeping those children safe.
Sheba hopped down from the table and started to stoke up the stove, ready to put some coffee on for breakfast.
A few hours later, everyone was sitting in the front room, talking about the events of the night before. Upstairs in the bedroom, Gigantus had hauled up the tin bath and filled it with water from the street pump, warmed over the fire. The mudlarks were taking it in turns to have the first bath of their lives, and the sounds of whoops and splashes drifted down every now and then.
‘But what happened when the bomb went off?’ Sheba was asking. ‘How come none of you were hurt?’
‘Luck, I suppose,’ said Mama Rat. ‘It just happened none of us was near it at the time. If we hadn’t split up to find that woman, it might have been a different story.’
‘And how did you get out without being caught? The place was crawling with soldiers when I left.’
‘We all ran back to the east wing when we heard the blast,’ said Gigantus. He was writing in his notebook again, pen scratching across the paper, just as if the events of the past few days had never happened. ‘The guards were so busy with the fire, we managed to slip out of Sister Moon’s hole in the glass and join the crowds.’
‘And then we find this,’ said Sister Moon. She held up the chipped marble that Till had given her. ‘It must fall from your pocket. Before that, we think you stuck in Exhibition, or hurt by bomb. Then Monkeyboy spot you running down Rotten Row.’
‘That was very clever of you, Monkey,’ said Sheba, as he puffed out his chest.
‘I know,’ he said, beaming.
‘We watched you following Mrs Crowley into that old hospital,’ said Mama Rat. ‘We would have caught up to you sooner, had it not been so crowded. Thank goodness we got there in time. What you did was very brave, though, Sheba.’
Sheba blushed beneath her fur. She didn’t know what to say. She was saved from further embarrassment by the mudlarks coming down the stairs. It was strange to see them so clean and happy; they were like a completely different group of children. Sheba could see their faces properly now, without the coating of mud. There were rosy cheeks, freckles and happy smiles. They looked more like a school class on an outing than a bunch of kidnap victims, recently saved from certain death.
‘I’ll get some soup on,’ said Mama Rat. ‘Feed you lot up a bit. Won’t be long until Large ’Arry reads my little message, if Bartholomew rat gets his skates on.’
Not long after that there was a knock at the door. Sister Moon opened it to reveal a group of nervous-looking figures, clad in shapeless, muddy rags. They were bowing and scraping, and trying to peep past Sister Moon at the same time.
Sheba recognised Till’s ma and pa, along with another boy who might have been Barney Bilge (it was difficult to tell, because last time she saw him, he had been completely covered in wet mud). Behind them were even more people, all clutching their caps in their hands and chattering excitedly.
When Moon stepped aside, they all rushed though and gathered the children in such tight embraces that Sheba began to worry their stick-thin limbs might snap. The parlour was full to bursting, and the Peculiars found themselves pushed back against the stairs. But it was a heart-warming sight, and Sheba felt a lump in her throat, especially now she knew such a reunion would never be hers.
Her father was dead, her mother lost and her family fortune stolen by Mrs Crowley. She had nothing left. Not even the hope-filled daydreams of a normal life. It was like everything she had ever wanted had just been dangled before her eyes, only to be snatched away again. For ever.
She glanced up to see Gigantus blinking rapidly and pretending to look at something on the ceiling. She silently offered him her hanky, then had to wring the sodden little piece of cloth out after he gave it back.
‘Your amazing worshipfulnesses . . .’ said Till’s father, as soon as the hugging and kissing was over. ‘I ’as got no idea ’ow we is ever going to fank you. We never fought we’d see our dear little ’uns again, and now ’ere they are, all bathed and everything! I never imagined a child of mine would live to ’ave a proper barf.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Sheba, Monkeyboy and Sister Moon together. Seeing the reunion made everything they’d been through seem worthwhile.
‘I knew you’d come through for us,’ said the father mudlark. ‘We is so used to losing young ’uns to the river and the sickness and a hundred other things. It’s our way of life, and no one but us seems to care. We didn’t expect you to, neither, but I’m very glad to say we was wrong.’
Sister Moon bowed gracefully, while the rest of them just beamed. Most of the other families left with their children, after shaking the Peculiars’ hands in turn. Till’s family hung back after the rest, and accepted Mama Rat’s offer of tea. They stayed for most of the afternoon, listening with rapt fascination as the Peculiars recounted the story of the rescue. As Sheba heard it retold, she was struck by how incredible it sounded, but the mudlarks never once questioned it. They only stopped every now and then to wail in terror or sympathy, or to heap excessive praises on each of the Peculiars in turn. They even had the decency not to stare too much, although she did notice Till’s ma absent-mindedly stroking her cheeks when she looked at her, as if she was wondering what a coat of fur would feel like.
At the end of the story, they all broke into applause and Till hugged Sheba tightly again.
‘What will you do now?’ Sheba asked. She didn’t like the thought of her new friend going back to a life of dangerous scavenging, even if there were no longer strange mechanical creatu
res lurking in the mud.
‘Well, miss,’ said the father mudlark, ‘first, we is going to thank Large ’Arry for all his help. Then meself, the missus, Till and ’er brothers will be leaving the city.’
‘Leaving?’ Till and Sheba said together.
‘Yes,’ said Till’s mother. ‘I ’ave a cousin what works on a farm down in Kent. A place called Stanhope Farm. She’s always said there’s room for us there. The children can work picking hops, and Tam and me can labour on the farm.’
‘It’ll be a better life for us all,’ said the father.
Till looked at Sheba with tearful eyes. ‘I won’t ever see you again, will I?’
Sheba shook her head, too heartbroken to speak.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mama Rat.
‘Aye. We often go down that way in the summer, when the fayres are on,’ added Gigantus.
‘We find a way to make Plumpscuttle go to Kent,’ said Sister Moon.
‘Just as long as there’s something to eat besides turnips,’ Monkeyboy added. ‘My arse can’t handle all that again.’
‘Promise you’ll come see me,’ Till said, squeezing Sheba’s hands. ‘Promise!’
‘I will, I promise!’ Sheba said, laughing. Next summer was a long way away, but it was better than nothing.
With that, the mudlarks prepared to leave. Before heading out of the door, they bowed and smiled at each of the Peculiars in turn, so that Sheba began to feel as though she was some kind of royalty. As she watched them disappear down Brick Lane on the way back to the river, she held the chipped marble Till had given her when they had first met. She looked at it for a moment, squeezed it tight, then took it upstairs to place inside her ebony box.
The Peculiars Page 17
