by Gaie Sebold
“Every time he comes here, him or Bowler, there’s something bad happens. Every time.”
“Some people are like that,” Evvie said.
“But it’s children. Always the children. Now me, I ain’t got none, I caught pregnant once and it ended bad, I near died of it, but I likes the little ’uns.” For a moment her jolly face drooped mournfully and she looked old, something old and lonely left out in the sun too long and drying up. “But anyways, the Viper comes round – normally he doesn’t want his fancy self carrying our stink, so he sends Bowler, who’s as bad, or worse. But every now and then round he comes, and I swear, day later or two, something happens to one of the children. Mrs Pritchard’s boy died of a fever, the very next day, and he hadn’t even been that sick. And the Viper promised work for the Glucks’ boy but the lad never wrote nor come home, and it just about broke Gluck’s heart. He was a good, likely boy – handsome as the day, and the hope of that family, he was. There was a girl found at the foot of the stairs, with her neck broke, and another boy just faded away, like he had the consumption but he never even coughed, just faded.
“And last time, it was the Stones’ girl. Just disappeared. Lovely little thing, she was, like a little daisy, all white and gold, used to make me think of when I was a girl in the country, just looking at her. But the day after Stug’s visit, she disappeared. And Bat... he’s the sweeper boy, he told me he sworn he saw the Viper’s carriage, that night. Stone’s never been the same. I mean, he wasn’t never what you’d call a good man, but he got his head out the bottle now and again and got work, and he never used to baste that poor woman so bad. I thought maybe I should go and look, you know, around one of the bawdy-houses, but...” She looked down at her hands, shiny with sausage-grease. “I couldn’t bear it, I can’t see the little ’uns like that. ’Sides, there’s so many of ’em. I din’t know where to start. But there’s one not a mile from here.”
“Why would he take her there? S’not like he needs the money.”
“Because he’s evil, that’s why,” Peg said. “He’s the devil, and that Bowler, he’s the devil’s red right hand, he is.” She shuddered, and pulled her pink wrap tighter. “I shoulda gone,” she said, turning away. “I shoulda gone looking but I’m just a scared old whore. I’m scared of Viper and Bowler and the Peelers and I’m scared of what I’da seen, in those places.”
“You wasn’t the one took ’em,” Evvie said. If anyone did. “’Sides, if they were in one of those places, he’d take ’em further away, not close by where they could run home. You wouldn’t’a seen ’em anyway.”
“Poor little things,” Peg said, and snuffled, and picked up her porter. “Poor little things.”
Children died of fever all the time, there was nothing new in that. When Eveline was at Ma Pether’s, in the surrounding rookery a week without a death or two was a rare one, and sometimes, they went two and three in a day, from the typhoid or the whooping cough or some new thing that came in with the ships.
Children fell downstairs. Sometimes children fell downstairs because a parent had had enough, because there was too much misery and not enough money and too much gin and not enough hope.
These were the rookeries. Children died in their hundreds; or just disappeared into the chaffering crowds of mites who swarmed the rooftops and the parks and the alleys.
But there was something. Something in what Peg had said that niggled her.
She thought of Bat and his dreadful boots. She’d worn boots like that herself. Now her feet were cased in neat, laced boots – that fit, and kept her feet dry. She wondered how many people, like Stug, knew what it was like to be so grateful for a decent pair of boots... and why was she thinking of boots, and feet, and shoes... Charlotte’s little wet feet in the snow....
A child’s shoe. A slum-child’s shoe in a place where no such thing had any right to be.
Under a carved chest, in an office, miles away from here.
She felt a chill go through her despite the warm coat and thick stockings she would once have had to steal for.
Oh, Eveline, what have you stumbled into?
Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was just coincidence. Shoes got everywhere, you saw them on railway embankments and the tops of walls and who knows where – though if there were a slum-child about, they didn’t stay there long. Shoes were precious.
So such a child wouldn’t voluntarily leave a shoe behind.
She’d come meaning to check Stug out, and maybe had got more than she bargained for.
What was he up to? And did she want to know?
She’d meant – she’d thought – that perhaps she could do something, once she was safe, and established, and had money and a respectable name. That maybe she could do something for the people who had no-one else fighting their corner.
But she wasn’t safe yet. And there was Mama, and Beth – who was bright, but out here would be completely helpless. And the others she had taken on and promised to protect.
She could feel the weight of the slum all around her, a great lump of heavy, seeping, stinking darkness.
“So,” Peg’s voice broke into her reverie. “If that’s all...”
“No. Do us a favour?”
“Maybe.”
“All I want is you should tell me when either of ’em turns up next, that’s all. Get us a message. Send... I dunno, send Bat.”
Juicy Peg looked at Eveline over the rim of her mug. “Why’d I do that, then?”
“’Cos if you’re right, he’s a bad man, and if I can find out what he’s up to, maybe I can do something.”
“You? What are you, the Peelers? Even if you was, you couldn’t get Bowler. He’s snake-slippy, he is.”
“Maybe he is. And maybe I’m the snake-charmer.”
“That’s all very well but if he finds out I peached, I’ll be in an alley with a red smile round me neck soon’s winking, like them poor girls over Whitechapel.”
“I’m not going to let on, what d’you think I am?”
Peg scowled. “And what about Bat? I’m not getting that innocent in trouble with Bowler, not for any money, I’m not.”
“What makes you think Bowler’d know anything about Bat being in it? All he’s gonna be doing is running an errand for a sixpence, like as he might do any time.”
“He won’t leave his crossing, anyroad.”
“Find another, then – there’s enough little ’uns round here’d do it for a penny or two. Or someone else, not little. But it’s about the little ’uns, Peg. All of ’em. He’s up to something with ’em, I know it. But if you’re too scared to do anything, even without a ha’porth of risk to yourself, I suppose I’d better find someone as actually cares about the poor innocents, instead of just rambling on all pious, and doing nothing.”
Peg slammed her mug down and started yanking still-damp stockings from the bedrail, shaking them like a terrier with a rat, and moving them to the back of the chair, for no good reason Eveline could see.
Eveline waited her out. She’d set her crowbar, now to see whether she’d applied enough pressure to wheedle the window up.
“All right!” Peg burst out. “All right. And if Bowler strangles the pair of us and throws us in the Thames I hope you’ll be properly remorseful.”
BAT WAS NOWHERE in sight when Evvie left, scurrying away from the slum as though it might reach out long filthy fingers and grab her back.
It wasn’t until she was nearer the school, with fields in sight, that her shoulders unhunched and her pace slowed.
Now what? She’d given Peg the address to send a message, but it might lead to nothing.
She would have to talk to Liu... but what if he wasn’t there, what if she’d annoyed him so much he’d taken off?
She bit at her nails, made herself stop. Think, Evvie.
Stug had promised her the job. She’d take it, and find out more, and when she had enough information, she’d do something. What, she had no idea.
The Sparrow School
&nb
sp; “MRS SPARROW?”
It took Madeleine a moment before she turned around, with a screwdriver in her hand. “Oh, Beth dear.” She gave a sad smile. “I do forget, you know.”
“I know.” Beth smiled back. “I don’t know what I’d do if I had to change my name. I forget things enough as it is.”
“Aren’t you worried someone will come looking for you?”
Beth shrugged. “Once I was at the school my mother never cared to come looking, and my father hadn’t any interest except to keep me out of the way. I don’t know what the school will tell her, and I don’t care much – they don’t know where I am and no-one else cares who I am.”
“That sounds dreadfully lonely.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I was. At the school, and before. But not since I met Evvie.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it. Beth, did you want me for something?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, I’m sorry. There’s a gentleman. A Mr Thring? He said you had an appointment?”
Madeleine’s hands flew to her mouth. “I forgot! Oh, dear... and he’s come all this way... Beth, please, would you arrange some tea, have them bring it here, show him through. Oh, I meant to have this ready... and this...” She started to adjust the device in front of her, a beautiful creation of brass and cherry wood, with a spiral metal groove set into its upper surface. A bronze ball-bearing sat in the centre of the spiral, quivering slightly.
Beth grinned and hurried away.
OCTAVIUS THRING WAS a small, slightly rotund gentleman with a battered hat sitting at an angle on exuberant grey curls, a waistcoat brightly adorned with embroidered peacocks, a large case, a set of extremely complicated-looking goggles hanging around his neck, and a beaming smile.
“Mrs Sparrow?” He thrust out a somewhat oil-stained hand. “What a charming name. Octavius Thring. I know, I know, a ridiculous moniker but I’m used to it. Oh, there they are! I say, isn’t that one of the ones that was on display in Bristol? May I look?” He was bouncing on his toes, his curls dancing in rhythm. He seemed to have more enthusiasm than could be contained in such a comparatively small frame – he barely reached Madeleine’s shoulder and was peering around it with intense eagerness.
Madeleine had been standing, somewhat protectively, in front of her devices, and now moved aside, smiling. “Of course, that is why you’re here, Mr Thring.”
“Do call me Octavius, if you don’t feel it too forward of me. Now, am I right in believing this is the Ruminator? A wonderful idea, quite wonderful. And just the sort of thing I would find most useful myself. I have a butterfly brain, you know, forever flitting from one idea to the other. I am convinced that such a means of focussing the attention on one thing for more than a moment would be most beneficial. And not just to myself. Can you conceive of how much art, how much literature, might be produced under its influence? What wonderful things might burst into existence if the notorious digressifications – I know, I know, it is a word of my own invention, but I feel it has a place in rational discourse – of the creative mind were to be suppressed?”
“Indeed,” Madeleine said, once she was certain the torrent of enthusiasm had ceased for the moment. “But I fear I have not yet perfected it. I am attempting to induce a state of calm, focussed attention. Unfortunately it acts on some subjects as a most effective soporific, not at all the effect I intended.”
“Ah, but there is certainly also a place for a soporific device! Perhaps it may need to be adjusted to the individual subject? It might, indeed, be capable of performing both functions – focussing the mind when needed, and inducing restful slumber when that is required?”
“My dear sir! I have been wrestling with this wretched device for months, trying to force it to be just one thing, and I believe you may have presented me with the very solution I should have been attempting!”
“Oh, no, well, that is most kind, but it’s only a thought, you know. Tell me, when I saw it on display, of course it was open, but not running. I could see the workings, and I wondered – how do you counteract the noise created by the pump? Did you not find it interfered with the vibrations?”
“Oh, I had to dampen it. It required some thought, but I was quite pleased with the result. Let me open the lid for you...”
By the time Beth returned with the tea – she was far too interested to give the errand to someone else – they were deep in a discussion about regulating steam-pressure and the possibilities of Etheric science to improve the working conditions in the manufactories.
“Oh, Beth dear – Octavius, this is Beth Hastings. She is an exceptional engineer. Beth, would you care to show Octavius the Sacagawea?”
“Oh, I...”
“Another intriguing name! May I ask what the Sacagawea might be?” Octavius beamed at her.
“Well,” Beth said, “she’s sort of a steam car, only I’ve boosted the engine with... fluid. A fluid. That I made.”
“Now I am most certainly intrigued. But you seem a little reluctant, my dear. Don’t worry. I know what it’s like, one’s creations are so very much like one’s children – I haven’t been blessed with children of the flesh, alas, but my children of the mind, as it were, well, one does so hope strangers will be kind. Don’t feel you must show it to me unless you are quite ready.”
“Well, you’re not here to see me, after all,” Beth said, torn between eagerness and nerves. The case had been unpacked and a scatter of intriguing instruments lay over the bench and floor. She longed for a closer look, but Mr Thring’s kindness only made her feel more awkward. “I... um... I’d better go.”
“Another time, then? If you feel able.”
Beth made a gesture somewhere between a nod and a curtsey, and hurried off, casting longing glances over her shoulder and colliding with Ma Pether in the corridor.
“Keep your eyes in front of you, child, or you’ll run right into trouble.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“No matter,” Ma Pether said, looking at the door Beth had just come out of. “Beth.”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Don’t call me ma’am, child, how many times’ve I told you? I’m Ma Pether, to you and everyone else. Who was that talking to Eveline’s mama?”
“Mr Thring. He’s an inventor.”
“Is he. Hmm. Pretty nicely turned out for an inventor, considering most of ’em I’ve come across ain’t got two farthings to bet on a lame dog.”
“Maybe he makes money from his inventions?”
“Like Mrs Sparrow done so noticeable?” Ma Pether said, rolling one of the smelly cheroots she alternated with her even smellier pipe between yellow-stained fingers, and fixing Beth with a cynical eye.
“She will,” Beth said.
“I’d bet more money on you, meself,” Ma said. “You got a knack for fixing, and people always want stuff fixed. Sometimes they’d rather that than something new. People hold onto the old, and try and make it fit, you ever noticed that? They’ll bodge something up to keep it working, sometimes because they en’t got money for new, but sometimes just acause they like the old thing, it’s comfortable and they understand it. And they’ll keep it going long past time. Even me. Stuff I kept in Bermondsey... rats’ll have got most of it by now if the river en’t... still...” Ma in pensive mood was new to Beth and more than a little disconcerting.
She seemed to come back to herself with a shake of the head, and glared at Beth. “Well?”
“I have to get on, ma’am... Pether.” Beth scurried away, hearing what sounded like a snort of laughter behind her. Ma Pether always made her feel stupid and more than a little uneasy, though she hadn’t ever done anything bad to Beth.
She was a criminal, of course. But then so was Eveline, and Eveline was her best friend. Pretty much her only one, in fact. Mama Duchen (Sparrow, she scolded herself) was unfailingly kind but could hardly be said to count as a friend.
It wasn’t so much the criminality, that made Ma Pether uncomfortable to be around; it was that she thought most other people were
fools, and didn’t hesitate to say so.
Beth sighed. Compared to Ma Pether she was a fool, she knew, about most things other than engines. People were too complicated, and couldn’t be solved with a bit of reengineering or a drop of oil in the right place. But she couldn’t see anything wrong with Mr Thring, he seemed nice, and interested, and one day Mama Sparrow’s Etheric studies would make money, she was convinced of it.
“MYSELF, I FIND children of the mind to be somewhat less troublesome than those of the flesh,” Madeleine Sparrow confessed, as she tightened the seating of a radial arm.
“Indeed?” Octavius Thring was up to his shoulders in one of her larger devices, but popped his head out to look at her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his curls in even more disarray, his hat having been discarded on a side-table.
“I have a daughter. She is... we were separated for a long time, and her upbringing was... unorthodox. She has managed so well, but I fear... Oh, I don’t know why I’m chattering about such things! Tell me, you said you were working on something of your own, which also used vibratory principles?”
Thring regarded her for a moment, then withdrew fully from the machine, and straightened. “Yes. I have a theory, regarding cats.”
“Cats?”
“Do you keep a cat?”
“I am rather fond of them, but in recent years my situation has not permitted a pet,” Madeleine said.
“I am very fond of cats. I have three. I broke a leg, a few years back.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and the break healed with remarkable speed. I believe there may be a connection.”
“A connection?”
“With the cats. One of them, Blanc de Neige, had a habit of sitting on my leg as I lay immobilised in a cast – oh, I had so many ideas, I considered having myself immobilised for a month every year, to see if the same effect could be obtained – where was I? Oh, yes, Blanc de Neige, she purred a great deal. I suspect she was rather pleased to have me at rest and able to pay her the attention she believed she deserved. The doctor commented on the speed at which I healed, and I believe the vibrations produced by her purring may have had an effect on the knitting of the bone. I have been attempting other experiments, but finding it rather difficult. I know that the great scientists are happy to experiment on themselves but alas I could not bring myself to break another bone on purpose. I dislike the idea of breaking an animal’s bone simply to see how it heals, even alongside the application of ether, which is in any case dreadfully tricky to use, especially on the smaller beasts. Also, alas, the cats do have a tendency to eat the other experimental elements, given the chance. So... but I still think the theory has merit.”
