by Jane Kerr
‘What’s the matter with you, lad? Weren’t you listenin’? I asked you to take a message. Go to the firework factory. Tell George Dalton the final load of gunpowder he wanted has arrived. The order’s ready to be picked up.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Danny hesitated. Finally, this was his chance to tell Mr Jameson about Charles Larkin. But before he could open his mouth, Mr Jameson’s scowl deepened.
‘And before you ask, this doesn’t mean I want you messin’ around at the factory and gettin’ into trouble. It’s too dangerous. I’ve just got no one left to send. So, you give Dalton that message and then you come straight back here. Understood?’
Danny took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The firework factory was nothing more than a long shed that over the years had expanded with no particular system or method. Danny had only been inside once before, during his first week at Belle Vue when Mr Jameson had given him a tour of the entire park.
He didn’t remember much about it. The factory had simply been one fascinating place among many. Everything had seemed so incredible then; from the steam-driven paddle boats on the lake, to the glass hothouses filled with lemon trees. And that was even before he’d seen the menagerie.
No one answered when Danny knocked on the factory door. So he turned the handle and gave it a slight push. The hinges creaked but the door swung open easily enough.
‘Hello!’ he shouted. Silence.
Curiously, he stepped inside. Shelves lined the main room, each stuffed with supplies. Jars of coloured powders and coils of string jostled for space alongside trays of cardboard casings and wooden pegs used for staking out the fireworks. And piled floor to ceiling, against the long wall at the far end, were barrels and barrels of what Danny knew must be gunpowder. He didn’t go any nearer.
Instead, he examined the long workbench standing in the centre. Several small brass bowls littered the surface, and a pair of leather gloves lay abandoned on a high stool. And most curiously of all, leaning at the back, was an outline of Queen Victoria’s face pinned on to a large wooden board.
Suddenly, he heard the rattle of a curtain being pulled back, and George Dalton emerged from one of the alcoves, his brows drawn into an angry line. Instinctively, Danny took a step backwards. Dalton was head of the firework factory but he was also Tom’s grandfather, and Danny had never been quite sure whether he was a friend or an enemy.
‘What you doin’ here, lad? No one’s allowed in the factory without my permission.’ Dalton’s brows lowered into an angry line.
‘I–I’ve a message, sir. From Mr Jameson. He says the rest of the gunpowder’s arrived. It’s ready to be picked up.’
‘Oh . . . well, good. That’ll be the last of the barrels for the show. You can tell him I’ll get it sorted. Soon as I can.’
Mr Dalton’s words were obviously meant as a dismissal, but Danny didn’t move. Instead, he flicked another glance around the room. And with sudden vivid clarity, he remembered the explosions. The whizz and hum and whistle of the rockets. The streaks of colour. It seemed extraordinary that all that beauty could be created in this small, dark space.
‘You interested in fireworks, boy?’ Mr Dalton was studying him carefully, no longer looking quite so annoyed.
‘Maybe.’ Danny shrugged. But the truth was he was interested in anything that would distract him from thinking about Charles Larkin. Or from making a decision about going to the Longsight Hotel. He hadn’t been able to shake either thought from his head, however much he tried.
‘Well, if I remember rightly Mr Jameson weren’t too keen on you learnin’ about pyrotechnics. Told me he reckoned it’s too dangerous.
‘But if I learn then it won’t be dangerous, will it?’
Unexpectedly, Mr Dalton let out a bark of laughter. ‘You’ve got a point there, lad.’ He rubbed a gloved hand down the grey curls of his beard and narrowed his eyes. ‘Well, I suppose I could teach you a few things. But it’d have to be just between you and me.’
Reaching up, he lifted one of the boxes from the highest shelf and opened the lid. Inside were rows of fireworks wrapped in scarlet paper. And Danny wondered if these were the new Red Fire Peony rockets that Tom had boasted about.
‘So here’s the most important lesson of all: you can’t be brave with fireworks. And you can’t be stupid. What you need is the right amount of fear.’
Danny frowned. He didn’t have any idea what Dalton meant. He might as well have spoken in Chinese for all the sense he made. But the pyrotechnist only smiled at his confusion.
‘Imagine being on a window ledge, high above the ground. One wrong step – one foolish move – and you’d go plummetin’ right the way down. But if you’re careful and if you’re clever, you could climb further up. Right up to the rooftop so all you see are stars.’ He held Danny’s gaze. ‘Well, that’s pyrotechnics.’
It was an oddly poetic choice of words, Danny thought, particularly coming from a man who dealt in the practicalities of science every day. But it was obvious that, if nothing else, George Dalton was passionate about his work.
‘So this is how it happens. And don’t imagine I’ll be repeatin’ this again. You listen and you listen well.’ Delicately, he picked one of the red rockets from the firework box and cradled it with the same care as a mother would hold her baby.
‘We light a fuse. The fuse ignites the gunpowder. The gunpowder sends the firework shell shootin’ in the air. The fuse keeps on burnin’ as the shell goes up.’ He lifted the rocket higher and trailed his fingers down the string. ‘The longer the fuse, the higher the firework goes. Then the shell explodes and the stars inside burn, makin’ all those pretty sparks that everyone loves so much.’
In his head, Danny saw the beauty of the night sky above Belle Vue once again – the glittering rainbow of flickers and flashes and flares. ‘What about the colours?’ he said.
‘That’s all to do with the mix of powders.’ Dalton pointed to the shelves. Glass bottles stood in rows, as smart as soldiers, each marked with a neat label. ‘Blue stars come from copper. Red from lithium or strontium. And sodium makes anythin’ from yellow to gold.’
‘Are they dangerous? The powders?’
‘Not if you’re careful. And you know what you’re doin’. But it’s not them you should be worried about when you’re dealin’ with fireworks. It’s gunpowder.’
He pulled off one of the leather gloves and held up his hand. Danny sucked in a breath. Scars pitted the pyrotechnist’s skin and his smallest finger was missing, right down to the second knuckle. It was difficult to look away. ‘Too much gunpowder and not enough care. That’s how I found myself like this. And there’s not a day goes by when I don’t regret it.’
‘Grandpa!’
They both turned. Tom was standing in the doorway, jaw set like stone.
‘Tommy! I’ve been wonderin’ where you’d got to.’ Carefully, Mr Dalton returned the firework to its box then closed the lid. ‘Have they caught that lioness yet? Victoria – wasn’t it?’
‘No. There’s still no sign.’ Scowling, Tom jerked his chin in Danny’s direction. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Learnin’.’ Dalton pushed the box back on to the shelf and placed the leather gloves in the space next to it. ‘The show’s only a few days away. And we’ve a lot to do. It might help to have another pair of hands.’
‘No. Not him. Not in here.’ Tom shook his head violently. ‘There’s enough gunpowder in here to blow up the whole island! If he messes up, he could cause big trouble. And he’s already done enough damage.’
‘That’s not fair! I haven’t—’
In his frustration, Danny flung his arms wide. Almost immediately, there was a loud clatter. He turned. Queen Victoria’s sihouette lay in pieces on the floor. The regal profile that had been so carefully pinned on to the wooden board, was now twisted and broken.
‘What in heaven’s name do you think you doin’, boy?’ Dalton stared down at the splintered frame. ‘That was for t
he finale of the show. Her Majesty’s face lit up against the sky in coloured rockets. Mr Jameson ordered it specially.’
‘There. Didn’t I tell you?’ Tom was almost spitting with rage. ‘He’s a clumsy halfwit. He can’t be trusted around fireworks. Around gunpowder! Around anything!’
‘It–it was an accident! I don’t know how it happened. I . . . I didn’t touch it.’
But Danny’s stuttered protest was ignored.
‘Maybe Tom’s right.’ Dalton leant forward and rested his hands on the workbench. The burnt skin puckered around his fingers. ‘Maybe this isn’t the place for you. It’s too dangerous – just like Mr Jameson said. I reckon you’re better off stayin’ at home. Forget everythin’ you saw here.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘I think we’ve found her, Gov.’
Crimple stood in the hallway. Rain had been falling for the last hour, and in his excitement, he’d forgotten to shake the damp from his clothes. Water dripped steadily on to the floor. ‘Victoria, I mean. I reckon it’s her.’
‘Thank the good Lord. Where is she?’ Mr Jameson was already pulling on an overcoat. Hastily, Danny grabbed a lantern from a hook by the door and slipped into his boots.
‘In the Frog and Bucket, Gov. Down on Cornwall Street.’
‘She’s in a public house!’
‘Yes, Gov. In the cellar . . . so the landlord reckons.’
Mr Jameson frowned. ‘How on earth did she get in there? And why in the blue blazes didn’t we find her sooner?’
Crimple looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Another raindrop fell from his nose. When he finally spoke, his words crawled out reluctantly. ‘Smarsden . . . the landlord . . . he’s always complainin’ about animals gettin’ on to his property. Normally, there’s nothin’ to it. But it looks as if he might be right this time. A couple of his customers reckon they saw her too.’
Mr Jameson scooped up his hat. He looked about as pleased as a wet cat. ‘Danny, go and fetch Mr Saddleworth. Tell him we’re off to the pub, but there won’t be any drinkin’ tonight. We have to catch ourselves a lioness.’
Danny dipped his head and turned to leave, then he stopped. He had a feeling that if he didn’t ask, the invitation was unlikely to be offered. And he didn’t want to stay in his room, stewing in his own thoughts.
He was still angry about being thrown out of the firework factory – but far more importantly, he didn’t know what to do about Larkin. Should he forget they’d even met? Or find out more? The indecision was giving him a headache. He needed a distraction, and catching a lioness seemed as good as any.
‘Can I come too, sir? I’d like to help.’
For several moments, Mr Jameson stared at him. But at last, he nodded curtly. ‘Very well. But you’re to do exactly as you’re told. And stay close!’
Alf Smarsden was a narrow, mean-shaped man who looked like he didn’t enjoy food. Or drink. Or much of anything else. He was as far away from Danny’s idea of a pub landlord as a laundry woman was from the Queen.
He greeted them at the door with a scowl before leading them through the pub’s smoky taproom. ‘I told you, the animal was round here. But no one listened. I might as well have been talkin’ to myself.’
‘Well, we’ve had to be careful, Mr Smarsden. People’s imaginations appear to have been running wild these last few days. There’s been sightings of Victoria all over the place. And I believe a week ago, you complained about an escaped panther.’ Deliberately, Mr Saddleworth paused, eyes narrowed. ‘Didn’t she turn out to be a cat?’
Smarsden flushed. ‘Yes . . . well, I’m not apologizin’ for that. It’s an easy mistake to make in the dark. But let me tell you, there’s no doubt about it tonight. Two of my regulars saw your animal get in through the back door. Headed right down the cellar stairs, quick as a wink, they said. They’re still shaking now. I’ve had to give them a free pint, just to stop their bellyachin’.’
His gaze flicked towards Mr Jameson and lingered on his silk waistcoat and gold buttons. ‘So, I’ll be expectin’ payment for that. And for anything else your animal damages while she’s here. I’m not going to be out of pocket because of your carelessness. And I reckon that five-shilling reward is mine.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay you everythin’ you’re owed,’ Mr Jameson snapped. ‘Now tell us how to get to your cellar.’
‘Through the kitchen – there’s a door on the far wall that opens on to the stairs.’ Smarsden gestured towards the back of the pub. ‘But don’t expect any more help from me. I’m busy enough tonight as it is, and now my pot boy’s disappeared. Dirty glasses all over the place and no one here to wash ’em.’ He stomped off towards the taproom without another word.
In the kitchen, Mr Saddleworth pushed open the cellar door but it moved less than a finger’s length before stopping. The gap was just big enough to release a pocket of damp air, along with a low rumbling growl. The noise sent prickles sparking along Danny’s spine.
‘That certainly sounds like Victoria.’ Mr Saddleworth shoved at the door again with his shoulder. ‘But I can’t open this any wider. Something seems to have fallen against the other side.’
‘Here, let me have a go.’
But even after several attempts, Mr Jameson could do no better. He drew back. And abruptly, a choked noise rose up from the depths of the cellar; more like a human whimper than an animal sound. ‘What on earth was that?’ Kneeling, he put his ear to the floorboards. Another muffled sob leaked from below. ‘Good Lord, I reckon someone’s down there with her!’
Mr Saddleworth nodded, his expression grim. ‘I think you’re right, James. In fact, my guess is we’ve just found Smarsden’s missing pot boy. Let’s hope for all our sakes the child’s unharmed.’
Danny’s mouth dried and he offered up a silent prayer. Victoria might be sleek and beautiful but she was also clever and unpredictable. Even her keepers dared not get too close.
‘So how in the blue blazes are we goin’ to get her out?’ Mr Jameson had found a cigar in his jacket and was puffing on it furiously.
‘Well, we can’t break open the door. There’s no telling how Victoria might react to all that noise. And I don’t want to risk her panicking – not if the boy’s down there. We’ll have to think of another way.’
A spark of an idea flickered into Danny’s head, and he wondered if for once, his past might prove useful, rather than an embarrassment. Stumbling over the words, he spoke quickly. ‘There must be a coal hole . . . going into the cellar. If we found it . . . we . . . we’d be able to see inside. See what’s happening.’
For a moment, there was silence, then Mr Saddleworth’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully
‘Good plan, Danny. It’s worth a look. And we’ve certainly no better ideas. Let’s go.’
They found the coal hole in the alley running alongside the Frog and Bucket. It was hidden by a row of beer barrels, and covered by a round, metal lid. Set into the floor, the hole was just wide enough for a coalman to tip his sack directly into the cellar. It meant tradesmen didn’t have to tread dust and dirt through the public house when making deliveries.
Carefully, Danny slid his fingers into the grooves around the lid and heaved. The cover came off with an ease that suggested it was well used. Immediately, Mr Saddleworth gestured for silence.
‘Listen! Can you hear that?’ The soft sobbing sounded louder now that the coal hole was open. ‘It has to be Smarsden’s boy.’
‘Well, I can’t see him.’ Mr Jameson had crouched on the ground and was peering into the cellar. ‘The openin’s too small. But there’s a light comin’ from somewhere. Maybe Smarsden left a lantern burnin’.’
‘I could look.’ Danny swallowed. ‘I can get through the hole . . . see–see what’s happening.’
‘Are you sure? It looks narrow, even for you.’
‘No, I can do it.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve done it before.’
It had been back when Danny was living in Edinburgh with Mr and M
rs Dilworth. He’d been much smaller then – maybe only five or six – with no memory of how he came to be in their care. One day, they’d sneaked him into the garden of a grand house. He’d been told to squeeze down the coal hole, creep through the cellar and unlock the kitchen door. The plan must have worked. Because Danny remembered how there’d been enough food and drink to live comfortably for weeks.
Above Danny’s head, the two men exchanged glances. ‘I see,’ Mr Saddleworth said at last. ‘Very well, you have a go. But be careful. Don’t drop down. Just slide inside as far as you can get, and then tell us exactly what you see. We’ll hold you up.’
Cautiously, Danny knelt on the ground directly in front of the coal hole then he rolled his shoulders inwards until his arms curled into his chest. The width of his body almost halved. He eased his head through the opening and wriggled so the upper half of his body slipped inside. It was uncomfortable but not painful.
Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dim light. From this position, he had a bird’s-eye view of the entire cellar. And now it was just possible to see Victoria’s sleek shape prowling below him. A continuous snarl rumbled from her chest but the soft pads of her paws made no sound on the floor. If she had heard Danny, she didn’t bother raising her head. She was too busy examining the small figure standing frozen in the corner.
The boy was young, probably a few years younger than Danny. Pale and terrified, he was breathing in short, chattering bursts. And mixed with the damp of the cellar was a sour, acidic scent. Danny recognized it immediately.
It was the smell of fear.
Carefully, Danny slithered backwards, keeping his shoulders hunched. Even so, it seemed more difficult to ease out than it had been to wriggle in. Suddenly, he felt hands pulling from behind, and a forceful tug on his belt finally jerked him free. Sitting at the edge of the hole, he took in a gulp of air.
‘Well?’ Mr Jameson looked anxious.
Danny tried to order his thoughts. ‘The cellar is big. And square. The steps from the kitchen go down into the far corner. And Victoria is at the bottom. Opposite her are a stack of beer barrels.’ He swallowed. His tongue felt as if he’d used it to clean a grate. ‘The boy’s in that corner. Facing Victoria. He looks . . . he looks scared. But he’s not hurt.’
