by Jane Kerr
‘Good.’ Loosening his hold, the stranger eased upright. ‘Stay there. And keep quiet! Let me deal with this.’
The man dug a hand into the folds of his jacket and when he pulled back, Danny flinched. He was holding a gun. Neat, practical and obviously well used. Instinctively, Danny dug his heels into the soil and pushed backwards. But the stranger didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he lifted his arm, and fired straight into the air. He waited a heartbeat then did it again. And again. It was probably a full minute before he dropped his hand. The silence around them seemed to vibrate.
‘There! Whoever it was, I reckon I’ve frightened him off.’
The man tucked the pistol back inside his jacket; Danny watched carefully just to make sure. He wasn’t stupid. Guardian angels didn’t exist, and this stranger had arrived – most conveniently – at exactly the right time. And in exactly the right place.
‘It looks like someone wanted to give you a scare. Any idea who?’
Danny’s mind whirled – it was too big a question to answer. Scatcherd? Tom Dalton? Mr Snade? So instead of speaking, he shrugged and let his head slump on to his chest. In the past, he’d found it useful to pretend to be stupid as well as mute. It nearly always made people wary.
But instead of stepping back, the stranger’s gaze only sharpened. ‘Well, maybe it was one of those fancy-dressed soldiers I saw wandering around earlier. There were enough of them waving rifles about – and it only needs one idiot to show off with a gun.’
Maybe, Danny thought. Or maybe there was another explanation. It was the second strange event in only two days. And every instinct told him that neither one had been an accident.
But he didn’t have the time to think about it now. He had another, far more pressing problem: how to get away.
Slowly, Danny climbed to his feet, making his movements deliberately clumsy. This time, the stranger moved back. And over his shoulder, Danny could just see the opening to the maze. It was near enough to make escape seem possible.
Carefully, he tilted on to his toes, tipping his weight forward. He waited a heartbeat – until he was certain his balance was just right – and then he pushed off.
Behind him, he heard a shout but he didn’t stop. Instead, he ran and ran. Faster and faster.
And he didn’t look back.
Chapter Eight
Danny didn’t stop to knock before bursting into the Jamesons’ parlour. Maybe if he had, he might have wondered why the gas lamps were still blazing at such a late hour. And why an unfamiliar voice had joined the muttered conversation.
But he didn’t stop. Because he wanted to pour out the story while the panic was still fresh and the memory was still vivid. He flung open the door and the words died in his throat.
The Jamesons sat together on the sofa near the fire. Mr Jameson looked grim; the cigar in his hand was already burnt to a stub. Beside him, his wife had knotted her fingers so tightly together that the knuckles were bone-white. And sitting on the chair opposite them was a policeman.
‘Good heavens, Danny! What d’you think you’re doin’? Clatterin’ in like that?’ Mr Jameson scowled. ‘Can’t you see we’ve company?’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Danny dipped his head and slid a glance towards the visitor. No. There was no mistake. The con - stable’s high-collared tunic and heavy boots gave him away. And for a brief moment, Danny wondered whether he’d come about the shooting in the maze.
Almost immediately, he dismissed the idea. There certainly hadn’t been enough time for word to spread, especially not to the ears of the Manchester City Police.
‘I do apologize, Constable Oversby.’ Mr Jameson leant forward. The movement strained the seams of his scarlet waistcoat. ‘You were sayin’ . . . ?’
‘To be honest, sir, I think I’ve told you everything I know. Except to say, it’ll do no harm for you to keep a watch out. It’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘Couldn’t agree more! I’ll make sure we do just that.’ Mr Jameson glanced at his wife. If possible, she twisted her hands together even more tightly.
‘Yes. It was good of you to come and tell us in person, Constable. We’re very grateful.’
‘That’s quite all right, ma’am.’ The officer stood and settled his helmet back on to his head. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see myself out. Goodnight.’
He gave a brief nod before marching from the room. Silence. Uneasily, Danny shifted from foot to foot, and wondered what he’d done wrong this time. Abruptly Mr Jameson stood, crossed to the fireplace and threw his cigar stub into the flames.
‘We’ve somethin’ to tell you,’ he said. For a moment, his reflection caught in the mirror above the hearth. Unease clouded his eyes but when he turned back, all traces had been wiped clear. Danny waited, heart drumming.
‘Frank Scatcherd’s escaped.’
The sentence seemed to hang in the air, like a bird gliding on the breeze. Then the words swooped down and hit home. Danny’s stomach pitched. Fear clawed at his insides. It must be a mistake. It had to be. He sifted through the words but the meaning stayed the same.
Frank Scatcherd was free.
‘I’m sorry, Danny. There’s no mistake. Constable Oversby said they’ve had word from the city police in Edinburgh. It happened a day ago. He broke out of his prison cell and disappeared. They’ve been searchin’ ever since.’
‘Yes, the constable says . . .’ Mrs Jameson’s voice faded a little then recovered. ‘He says we should be on our guard. Just in case.’
The panic flared again. Danny could feel it, whirling through every nerve. For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the parlour clock and the effort of his breathing.
Mr Jameson tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.
‘Now I don’t want you to worry, lad. Scatcherd won’t have had time to get far. Besides, you’re as safe as houses at Belle Vue. We’ve more than two hundred staff, and every one of them will keep a watch out. And by tomorrow Scatcherd’s picture will be at all the entrances to Belle Vue. There’s no way he could slip in without us knowin’. Isn’t that right, me dove?’
‘Of course it is.’ Mrs Jameson had pinned on a smile. It wobbled only slightly. ‘Nothing to worry about at all.’
‘There, you see? But just to be sure, you stay inside Belle Vue. No going outside these walls, not without me or Mrs Jameson. Or Crimple. You’re to stay here where it’s safe.’
Danny’s mouth dried. ‘But—’
‘No arguments, Danny. I can’t take the risk. The posters for the show have already gone up. And the public are payin’ to see you and Maharajah. I told you: there’s too much at stake. So you stay where it’s safe. Understood?’
For a moment, the pressure to tell them about the shooting in the maze was overwhelming. But the impulse faded as quickly as it had come. Because Danny knew what would happen if he did.
Once Mr Jameson found out, his freedom would be taken away altogether. Not only would he be forbidden to leave Belle Vue, he’d not even be allowed outside the house. After all, Prince Dandip was the star of the show. And Mr Jameson couldn’t risk anything happening to his prize investment.
So, he nodded – and said nothing.
Besides, he was probably imagining danger when there wasn’t any. Scatcherd may have escaped but he was still hundreds of miles away. Tonight’s shooting was surely no more than an unfortunate coincidence. The stranger had almost certainly been right – it was simply one of the show soldiers showing off with his gun.
‘Good. Now off you go.’ Mr Jameson jerked his chin towards the door. ‘Get some rest. We’ve a busy few days ahead of us.’
Slowly, Danny crossed the floor; but he knew sleep was unlikely. The man who’d haunted his nightmares was somewhere out there. Loose, vengeful and as dangerous as a ticking time bomb. Behind him, the parlour door swung closed, but not quite quickly enough.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have told him.’
‘Nonsense, Ethel May. We had to. It’ll be all over t
he newspapers tomorrow.’ Danny heard a clink of glass and knew Mr Jameson must have reached for the whisky decanter that sat above the fireplace. ‘Besides, when the man who wants to kill you escapes from jail, I reckon you’ve a right to know.’
The nightmare woke Danny sometime in the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t exactly sure when, only that fingers of light were slipping through the gaps in the curtains.
It had been the usual dream. Frank Scatcherd had had the starring role, silhouetted in moonlight and playing with the knife in his hand. This time, the blade had been long and jagged. Last time, it was small and sharp-edged. It didn’t really matter. The rest of the nightmare always stayed the same.
Scatcherd held the knife to Danny’s wrist, slicing through the skin. A trickle of blood ran from the cut. And Danny’s white shirt turned red. The stain spread – much like the pain did – slowly then more and more rapidly. Until finally, his entire body seemed to throb and burn. And then came the familiar threat.
‘Remember. I warned you. The next time will be your last.’
And that was when Danny woke.
Heart thumping, he swung his legs from under the sheet, and sat at the edge of the bed. Carefully, he pushed up the sleeve of his nightshirt. The scars were still there. Just as he had known they would be. Letters carved into his skin by the man who for so long had ruled his life.
FS – for Frank Scatcherd. They were a mark of ownership. A permanent reminder of who he’d belonged to. And a punishment for failing to carry out orders.
With sudden energy, Danny pushed off the mattress, and strode to the washstand. He dipped his hands into the bowl and splashed water on to his face. The cold plunged him back into the real world.
How could the King of Cowgate have escaped from a prison cell more tightly guarded than the Queen’s palace? The news had been so unexpected, he’d forgotten to ask how it had actually happened. It should have been impossible.
But of course, nothing was beyond Scatcherd. For years, he’d controlled a complex criminal empire virtually single-handed. And even when he was being led away to prison, he’d been defiant. Two months later, Danny could still remember every word.
‘Don’t think you’re rid of me, Boy,’ he’d spat. ‘The next time we meet, your friends won’t be around to help. And I’ll finish you. For good.’
At the time, the threat had seemed more than a little ridiculous. Scatcherd had been handcuffed between two burly policemen. Barely an hour earlier, he’d been lying unconscious on the floor – cornered and caught because of his own greed. And Danny had been certain that his troubles were over.
But not now. Not any more.
Now every part of his new life seemed fractured and unsettled.
In the last few days, he’d found – and caught – a missing emu; uncovered evidence of deliberate sabotage; and humiliated Belle Vue’s chief investor. He’d been shot at, wrestled to the ground and rescued by a stranger. He’d argued with Mr Jameson, upset Mrs Jameson and made an enemy of Tom Dalton.
And now Frank Scatcherd had escaped. The man who wanted to kill him.
Danny walked to the window and pushed back the curtain. The early-morning sun was only just beginning to rise above Belle Vue. He’d have to wait a little longer to speak to the one person who would understand.
Hetty.
Chapter Nine
The path to Hetty’s house was more familiar to Danny than any other route through Belle Vue. From the Jamesons’, he headed towards the bear pit, past the new tea rooms, then a sharp right at the giraffe enclosure and finally, up the steps of Kirkmanshulme Cottage.
Danny rapped hard on the door and waited, nervously. He’d not been able to sneak away until late morning – largely because Mrs Jameson had kept him busy with jobs around the house – and now the park was teeming with visitors. Normally, he loved mixing with the crowds, watching the excited faces as they came through the gates.
But after last night, he felt uneasy. Unsettled.
Suddenly, footsteps hurried down the hallway and the door flew open. It was Hetty, but looking very different from when he’d last seen her. The bright curls had been scraped back and she was wearing her best Sunday dress – dark green with lace around the collar and a line of pearl buttons down the front. Not an inch of skin showed from her chin to her toes.
He opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to speak.
‘Danny! Oh, I’m so glad it’s you. Have you heard the news?’ Grabbing his sleeve, Hetty pulled him through the hall and into the front parlour. ‘I didn’t believe it at first. I thought Papa must have made a mistake. But it’s all over The Times. Look.’
She thrust a crumpled newspaper under his nose. Here and there, were letters he recognized from the reading lessons Hetty had given him. But none of the words helped. Scowling, he pushed her hand away. ‘I can’t! You know that.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll read it.’ With a huff of breath, Hetty smoothed out the front page, and plumped herself down on the sofa. He hesitated then sank down next to her.
‘Criminal Mastermind Escapes Jail.’ Excitement leaked into Hetty’s voice. ‘Police are hunting one of the country’s most dangerous criminals following a daring and murderous prison escape in Edinburgh. Mr Frank Scatcherd – otherwise known as the King of Cowgate – disappeared from Calton Jail this Thursday, 20th June, 1872. His current whereabouts remain unknown.’
Hetty paused and glanced up. Impatiently, Danny gestured for her to continue. Now that she’d started, he was anxious to hear every detail.
‘Many of our readers will recognize Mr Scatcherd as the leader of the Leith Brotherhood, a notorious gang responsible for numerous murders, robberies and frauds in Scotland and beyond. He was being held at Calton Jail while awaiting trial for his many crimes.
‘But two nights ago, by some foul means, he broke out of his cell and killed the officer on guard. He escaped into the prison yard, where it’s claimed he simply vanished. No trace of him has been found since.
‘Inspector Clarence Quick of the Edinburgh City Police is leading the search once again. He has assured this newspaper that the prisoner will be found but he added a stark warning. “Members of the public should not approach Mr Scatcherd. He’s a dangerous man, and I cannot predict what he might do. There is no doubt that he is capable of great evil.”’
When Hetty lowered the newspaper, her blue eyes seemed too large for her face. ‘Good Lord! There really isn’t any mistake.’
‘No.’
‘And now, he’s out there somewhere. On the loose.’
‘Yes.’ Danny rubbed the scars on his wrist then stopped when he realized what he was doing. Hastily, he tugged at his sleeve so the ugly marks were covered. Hetty was staring at him, her expression soft.
‘Don’t worry. You’re safe here. The Jamesons would never let anything happen to you. Besides, Scatcherd’s in Scotland. Miles away. There’s no need to be scared.’
‘I’m not scared!’ And to Danny’s surprise, it was true. Mostly. The first wave of panic had ebbed away and in its place was a mixture of frustration and fury. Just when he thought he’d built a new life, his past had returned to shake the foundations. Why had he ever believed it could be any different?
‘Well, even if you were, there’s no need to be. Papa says Scatcherd won’t be on the loose for long. He reckons the police are so desperate to get him back, every constable in the country will be on the lookout. By the end of next week, he’ll be in jail again. You’ll see.’
Danny remembered last night’s shooting. His terror as he fled from the unknown gunman. And the relief of stumbling across a stranger willing to help. Now every feeling was beginning to muddle together.
‘There’s something I want to tell—’ He stopped. Outside, carriage wheels were rattling loudly across the courtyard. The sound was followed by Mr Saddleworth’s shouted summons.
‘Henrietta? Henrietta! Where are you? I need you here. Now.’
Hetty’s face paled. ‘Oh, I
can’t believe I forgot the time! Aunt Augusta was due to arrive at Longsight Station this morning. Crimple went to fetch her from the train.’ She walked to the window and pulled back the lace curtain. And it seemed to Danny that her whole body slumped. ‘That’s her,’ she said.
Mr Saddleworth was already standing in the courtyard when Danny and Hetty went outside. Together, they watched the carriage pull to a standstill. Crimple climbed down from the driver’s seat and turned to lift a large trunk from the roof. He staggered under its weight.
Immediately, the carriage door cracked open, and a woman emerged at the top of the steps. Augusta Carkettle didn’t have to shout for her voice to carry.
‘My good man, that luggage was handcrafted from calfskin before you were even born. It has survived two wars, one rail accident and an ill-advised holiday in St Andrews. I have every hope that it will return unscathed from Manchester.’ She paused. ‘And if doesn’t, I will have questions. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Crimple nodded. The strain of holding the trunk was beginning to show. Danny was sure sweat was beading his brow.
‘Good. Now lower the trunk carefully. Then come and help me down. Quickly, if you please!’
Crimple did as he was told, and Danny had his first good look at Hetty’s Aunt Augusta. In reality, she wasn’t a big woman; although neither was she particularly small. And it was just possible that, a long time ago, she might have been pretty because Danny could see traces of Hetty in her face. But now all that was left were clipped lines and sharp curls.
‘Augusta.’ Mr Saddleworth stepped towards her, arms outstretched. They fell back to his sides when Miss Carkettle’s gloved hands remained folded. ‘I hope you had a pleasant journey.’
‘I suppose some people might complain, but I don’t care to. I shall simply show my displeasure by never travelling with that train company again.’ Miss Carkettle sniffed. ‘Now where’s my great-niece?’
Hetty had been standing in the front doorway, half hidden behind Danny. Reluctantly, she stepped forward then sank into a deep curtsy. ‘Aunt Augusta. H–how wonderful of you to come.’ And Danny almost turned around to check who was speaking because it didn’t sound like Hetty.
