by Tim Hehir
Then he thought of the events of the previous night—of the strange man in the wide-brimmed hat, the creaking hansom cab, of the diary, and Emily. It was frightening but it had been exciting too, and it left the faint flavour in the air of an adventure about to begin.
‘Got home safe, then?’ said Crimper McCready, slapping Julius’s back so hard that his teeth nearly shot out of his mouth.
‘Oi! Careful,’ said Julius.
‘Sorry,’ said Crimper.
‘Halfwit,’ replied Julius. ‘Look, I’m having a sick day, Crimper. Tell Mr Crowley I won’t be in.’
‘Wot? But I hardly touched you. It was just a pat on the back.’
‘Not because of that, pea-brain. I’ve got a few things to do. I’m going to see Mr Flynn.’
‘Oh? About those bruisers last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell Mr Flynn, I’d have steamed in there if they’d started anything,’ said Crimper.
‘Yes,’ said Julius. ‘I’ll tell him.’ He turned back the way he’d come.
‘I’ll see you at the bare-knuckle bout tonight, Higgins?’ called out Crimper.
‘Yes, maybe.’
It was a long, damp walk to Mr Flynn’s lodgings in Mincing Lane, but Julius didn’t mind. He always enjoyed his time with Danny Flynn, time traveller and champion bare-knuckle boxer of all London.
‘Oh, Master ’iggins, come in, come in,’ exclaimed Mrs Mottle, Mr Flynn’s landlady, as she opened the door. ‘This is indeed h’an h’unexpected h’onour.’
‘Hello, Mrs Mottle. Is Mr Flynn in?’ said Julius.
‘Yes, ’e is. ’es up in ’is rooms h’inspecting the morning newspapers. Go on up.’
Julius bounded up the stairs.
‘Would you care for some tea and ’ot crumpets, Master ’iggins?’ Mrs Mottle shouted after him. ‘I can ’ave Kitty toast ’em up, can’t I Kitty?’
‘You can, Mrs M,’ came a reply from the scullery at the end of the hall.
‘Crumpets would be very nice, thank you,’ said Julius.
‘You ’ear that, Kitty? Crumpets and tea for h’upstairs,’ called out Mrs Mottle, as she bustled towards the scullery door.
‘Right you are, Mrs M,’ came the reply.
Julius raised his hand to knock on Mr Flynn’s door, but it opened before his knuckles struck the wood.
‘Julius? I thought I heard your voice,’ said Mr Flynn. His large frame and broad shoulders filled the doorway. He held a slice of toast in one hand and a newspaper folded under his arm. ‘Come in. Warm yourself by the fire.’
‘Thank you,’ said Julius.
Mr Flynn settled himself in his chair and stretched his stockinged feet towards the fire.
Julius took off his coat and scarf and sat opposite. ‘Mrs Mottle’s bringing up tea and crumpets,’ he said.
‘Good, good, I could do with a refill.’ Mr Flynn drained the last of the tea from the bone-china cup.
The fire crackled and the clock on the mantel ticked resoundingly in the finely furnished room. Mr Flynn flicked his newspaper back into reading shape.
Julius picked up a slice of butter-laden toast from Mr Flynn’s plate and bit into it.
‘Not at school today, Julius? Did it burn down or something?’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Er, no. I’ve taken the day off. Something interesting happened at the shop last night, Mr Flynn,’ said Julius.
Mr Flynn lowered the newspaper. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘Someone came to the shop to sell a diary. That someone left. And not five minutes later that someone was brought back to the shop by a very odd fellow and two bruisers. The odd fellow said the diary was his and he wanted it back. They threatened to cut off the thief ’s hand unless we returned it.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes, of course. Then they left with the diary.’
‘Hmm. What did these fellas look like.’
‘The odd fellow carrying the orchid was about five feet tall, he had red hair and badly fitted false teeth. The bruiser with the meat cleaver, was about five foot six, maybe, but powerfully built. The other man was as tall as you.’
‘Did you say “orchid”?’
‘Yes. They were both dressed in brown. Both with billycock hats. There was something very strange about them. It’s hard to describe, it was like…like—’
‘Rapple and Baines,’ said Mr Flynn.’
‘Who?’
‘Edward Rapple and Benjamin Baines. Merchants of skullduggery. If empty graves could get up and walk they’d look like that pair. They give everyone the collywobbles and not just because of the concealed weapons they carry.’
‘You know them, Mr Flynn?’
‘Our paths have crossed once or twice. They call themselves Resurrectionists.’
‘Resurrectionists?’
‘Yes, a fancy name for body-snatchers. Although, I believe they’ve retired from that line of work now.
‘Er, I don’t follow.’
‘Since the law changed in ’29 medical students can dissect executed criminals and deceased paupers from the workhouse, so they don’t have to pay the likes of Rapple and Baines to steal fresh corpses from graveyards.’
‘Urgh.’
‘Exactly. Now they rent themselves out for villainous purposes at reasonable rates. But they still exude the stench of the grave. I think their years of manhandling cadavers have turned their minds a little. They think of the likes of you and me as the “not yet dead”.’
A knock at the door made Julius jump. It was Mrs Mottle with a large tray of tea and crumpets.
‘’ere we are, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Will you be requiring h’anything else, Mr Flynn? Kitty could do you some peppered kippers, perhaps, or a nice cheese h’omlette?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Mottle, this will see us through to elevenses,’ said Mr Flynn.
When Mrs Mottle had gone, he continued. ‘Rapple and Baines have been dealing with death and the dead for so long that I think they feel like visitors here—in the land of the living.’
Julius bit into a crumpet. Butter slithered down his chin.
‘You mentioned an orchid?’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Yes. The odd fellow left an orchid in a pot, as a gift.’
‘Very obliging,’ said Mr Flynn. ‘Listen to this report in The Times. I was reading it when you came:
ORCHIDMANIA: THE CAUSE OF MENTAL COLLAPSE?
In the borough of Lambeth, on Wednesday evening, cries of alarm were heard from the lodgings of a gentleman by the name of Mr Charles Darwin. The landlady of the establishment found the gentleman in a state of confusion, declaring that an orchid from his collection had climbed from its pot and chased him about the room. When the gentleman could not be calmed or reasoned with, Constable Abberline from the local constabulary was sent for to take the man to nearby New Bethlem Hospital, or Bedlam as it is more commonly called.
‘Are you all right, Julius?’ said Mr Flynn. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘The name on the diary,’ said Julius. ‘It was Darwin.’
Mr Flynn raised an eyebrow. ‘And now he’s lost his mind.’
‘From what I saw in the diary, I don’t think his mind was that clear to begin with. Do you think there’s a connection, Mr Flynn?’
‘Certainly—on Thursday evening a strange fella leaves a gift of an orchid in exchange for Darwin’s diary, when only the night before, this Mr Darwin fella loses his mind and accuses one of his orchids of chasing him round his room.’
‘Could it be Watchmaker business?’ said Julius.
‘Possibly. But this Constable Abberline, he’s the one to talk to first. I know him, he’s a good man. And I’d also like to examine that orchid of yours.’
‘Ah…’
‘What do you mean, “Ah”?’
‘That might not be possible,’ said Julius.
Mr Flynn let the newspaper fall to his lap. ‘How so?’
‘The thief who pickpocketed the diary from Mr Darwin…The thing
is, I think you might know her. I promised not to tell, so—’
Mr Flynn scrunched the newspaper into a ball. ‘It was Emily, wasn’t it.’
‘I didn’t tell you, Mr Flynn. You guessed.’
Mr Flynn let out a long, anguished sigh and looked pleadingly at the ceiling.
Julius waited until he had composed himself.
‘And the orchid?’ said Mr Flynn.
‘I think I might have given it to her.’
CHAPTER 4
Friday 19th January 1838
10:37 AM
‘That girl will be the death of me,’ said Mr Flynn, as he strode across Blackfriars Bridge. A cold wind blew across their path, flapping the tails of Mr Flynn’s winter coat. He pushed his top hat low over his brow to keep it on.
‘You won’t tell Emily I told you, will you?’ said Julius, running along beside him.
Mr Flynn did not reply.
‘Grandfather gave her a good telling off,’ said Julius.
Mr Flynn still did not reply.
By the time they reached Paradise Row, Julius felt as empty as the streets they had travelled.
‘She was sorry for stealing the diary,’ said Julius. ‘She won’t do it again.’
‘She’d better not,’ said Mr Flynn. ‘We’ll wait, here. Abberline’s beat passes this way.’ He dug his hands into his pockets and sheltered in a doorway.
The minutes ticked by. Mr Flynn stared at the wall across the street. Julius shivered.
‘Here he is,’ said Julius, when he spied a figure in a police uniform, top hat and cape coming towards them. The man walked with that relaxed, swinging stride adopted by the peelers walking long beats in heavy boots.
Mr Flynn stepped out from the doorway and tipped his hat.
The constable’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Strike me down,’ he said, with a touch of a West Country accent. ‘It’s Mr Flynn.’ He tapped the rim of his top hat with his forefinger by way of salute.
‘Constable Abberline, the very man,’ said Mr Flynn. ‘You’re well, I trust?’ He extended his hand to the constable, who shook it vigorously.
‘Very well, thank you, Mr Flynn,’ said Abberline. ‘I’ve been practising those moves you showed me.’
‘Glad to hear it, Constable,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Watch out.’ The constable ducked into a boxing stance and jabbed a lightning fast punch towards Mr Flynn’s chin and then twisted at the hip to aim a punch at his solar plexus.
Mr Flynn was too quick, though. He blocked the punch with his left elbow and swung his right arm to tap the constable’s top hat just enough to dislodge it without knocking it off.
The constable laughed as he straightened his hat.
‘Not bad,’ said Mr Flynn.
Constable Abberline raised his eyebrows in good-natured disbelief. ‘Who’s this young man,’ he said, nodding towards Julius.
‘Allow me to introduce Julius Caesar Higgins,’ said Mr Flynn.
The constable eagerly shook Julius’s hand. ‘Hello, my lad,’ he said. ‘Any friend of Mr Flynn, and all that. Mr Flynn’s all right with me and that means you are too.’
‘Yes…er, thank you, sir,’ said Julius.
‘We’re not meeting by chance, Constable Abberline,’ said Mr Flynn.
Abberline’s smile remained on his face. ‘I surmised as much, Mr Flynn. People don’t loiter in cold doorways for no reason. Something’s come up has it?’
‘You could say that,’ said Mr Flynn. He took The Times from his coat pocket. It was folded with the orchid report to the outside. ‘It’s about this,’ said Mr Flynn.
Abberline glanced at the newspaper. ‘Yes, the lads at the station have been giving me a good old ribbing about it.’
‘The thing is…’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Go on,’ said Abberline.
‘Julius’s grandfather received a visit at his bookshop last night,’ said Mr Flynn. ‘From an odd fella named Tock.’
Abberline’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at Julius. ‘Tock, you say? Where have I heard that name before?’
‘He was looking for a diary written by a Mr Darwin,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ said Abberline.
‘And the fella had Rapple and Baines with him.’
‘That pair? Go on.’
‘When they took the diary they left an orchid as a parting gift.’
‘Odd.’
‘Very.’
‘And you think it’s connected with what happened at Mr Darwin’s lodgings?’ said Abberline.
Mr Flynn shrugged. ‘Perhaps. In any case, friends of mine have been threatened and, well, let’s just say I’d like to know what’s going on.’
‘I suppose you’d like a look around Mr Darwin’s lodgings, then?’ said Abberline.
‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Constable,’ said Mr Flynn.
It was a short distance to Walnut Tree Walk.
‘Here it is,’ said Abberline. He, Julius and Mr Flynn stood outside a respectable-looking house. A handwritten sign at the window advertised rooms for rent, at reasonable rates to single professional gentlemen.
‘Bedlam’s just round the corner, so when he couldn’t be reasoned with I took him there,’ said Abberline. ‘He was still raving when I left him.’
‘What was he saying, Constable?’ said Julius.
‘All sorts of nonsense. He was clearly mad. About an orchid climbing out of its pot. About his soul being stolen by someone called…what was it? Mr Dock? Or was he saying Tock? That’s it. It must have been Tock.’
‘So there is a connection,’ said Julius.
The front door opened a crack, then more fully, to reveal a woman in a woollen bonnet.
‘Constable Abberline, I thought I heard your voice,’ she said. ‘Come about poor Mr Darwin, have you?’
‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Clitherow. I have a couple of independent investigators with me. They’re keen to look at Mr Darwin’s rooms.
The woman looked the large bare-knuckle boxer and the schoolboy up and down. Mr Flynn doffed his top hat, and Julius blew into his mittened hands and stamped his feet.
‘Well, if you’re sure, Constable. I…um, I suppose it’d be all right,’ she said.
Constable Abberline, Julius and Mr Flynn followed the landlady up two flights of stairs.
‘How long had Mr Darwin been lodging with you?’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Not long, sir. A few months. A very respectable young man, he was. He’d recently returned from a long voyage. He saw some things an Englishman shouldn’t see, if you ask me. That’s what made him like he is. Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir, I never had any nonsense from him. Not like some of my other gentlemen. No, he’s just a bit highly strung that’s all. The nervous type, you might say, on account of being among foreigners for too long.’
‘I see. Did he have any visitors?’
‘Oh, no. He kept to himself. Always in his room scribbling in his notebooks, mumbling to himself about Heaven knows what. You’ll see when we get there—not natural it’s not.’
‘Did he have a profession?’ asked Julius.
‘He had private means, which in my book is better than a profession. He didn’t keep regular hours, but he always paid his rent in advance and was never any trouble.’
They came to a door with a sheet of paper pasted over the lock. It bore Abberline’s signature.
‘I thought it best to seal the room so that any clues wouldn’t be disturbed,’ said the constable. He tore the paper off the door and unlocked it with a key provided by Mrs Clitherow.
‘Thank you, we’ll manage by ourselves from here,’ he said.
Julius stopped as soon as he entered the room. Papers, books and clothes were strewn everywhere. ‘It’s like a whirlwind been through here,’ he said.
‘It certainly does,’ said Abberline. ‘Mr Darwin turned everything upside down when he was battling the imaginary orchid.’
Julius looked at the walls. They were covered with pa
ge after page of drawings of flowers and strange animals Julius had never seen before. Intricate diagrams of petals and leaves, and eyes, beaks and hooves as well as watercolour paintings of strange landscapes and native people.
In the far corner was a bed and on the bedside table was a plate, bearing the greasy remains of a half-eaten pie.
‘That’s where he was lying when it happened. He said he fell asleep and was woken by the thing creeping towards him,’ said Abberline.
Julius moved the tangled blankets aside. There was only a creased bed sheet and pie crumbs beneath.
‘Mr Darwin was rather a distracted and driven young gentleman. Nobody knew anything about him except that he’d been abroad for some years. I’ll be speaking to him in a day or two, when he’s calmed down,’ said Abberline.
Mr Flynn shuffled through the detritus on the writing desk.
‘Yes, apparently he was one of those orchid-maniacs you hear about,’ said Abberline. He pointed to a row of orchids in pots on a narrow table set against one of the windows.
Julius studied them. The orchids were different colours and forms but all had the same four-petal structure. ‘Did you notice this?’ he said to Abberline.
‘What?’ said the constable.
‘There’s an orchid missing.’
‘Well I’ll be…?’
Mr Flynn closed the desk drawer he was shuffling through and came to the table.
‘There.’ Julius pointed to an empty pot.
‘Blow me down,’ said Abberline. ‘I never thought to check, not with all the commotion. I feel a complete fool.’
‘Look at this,’ continued Julius. ‘There’s an indentation in the soil, as if the plant was pulled out, and there’s soil scattered around the pot.’
‘Our Mr Darwin might have been telling the truth,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Not necessarily. He might have pulled it out of the pot himself in his mania,’ said Julius.
‘So, where is it now?’ said Mr Flynn.
They searched the room until Abberline found a squashed orchid hidden under some papers.
‘Looks like he stamped it to death,’ he said.
Julius poked it with the tip of a pencil. ‘It’s the same as the one Tock gave us,’ he said.
