by Tim Hehir
‘I gave it to Emily,’ said Julius. ‘But, I swear, I didn’t know it would do this.’
‘That was kind of you,’ said Clara.
Julius smiled an embarrassed thank you to her.
Mrs Trevelyan smoothed out her skirt, and then turned to the girls in the doorway. ‘Back to your books, ladies, and send Nell down here,’ she commanded. Then she turned to Clara. ‘And I suggest we get this mess cleaned up. We have supper to prepare, do we not?’
Then she turned to Emily. ‘And you, young lady, will help.’
‘But I can’t, Mrs Trevelyan. I ’ave to go wiv Mr Flynn. Mr Tock’s the cove wot gave it to me. We ’ave to find ’im and sort ’im out.’
Mr Flynn put the jar in his overcoat pocket.
‘You’re staying here,’ he said. ‘And when I come back we’ll be talking about diaries that don’t belong to you.’ He tipped his hat to Mrs Trevelyan and walked out the back door.
Emily glared disbelievingly at Julius.
‘He guessed,’ he said.
Emily continued to glare.
Julius hesitated under the eyes of everyone. Then he turned to go.
‘Goodbye, Julius,’ said Clara.
‘Oh, yes, goodbye.’
He ran to catch up with Mr Flynn who was slapping flour from his sleeves.
‘That girl will be the living death of me,’ he said.
‘I think we should put some feelers out at the bare-knuckle bout tonight,’ said Julius. ‘Somebody’s bound to know about Tock, or Rapple and Baines, at least. What do you think?’
Mr Flynn did not reply.
Later that evening, after supper of honeyed ham, baked potatoes and boiled beef with Mr Higgins, Julius and Mr Flynn arrived at a vacant warehouse on the southern bank of the Thames.
The babble of the bare-knuckle crowd rose to a cheer—someone had landed a punch. Julius and Mr Flynn were late, and the first bout was already in its final blows as they entered. Julius wedged himself in the corner of the ring to watch.
The smaller man, Giles ‘the Gentleman’ Farnsworth, was hunched behind his fists. His opponent, Jimmy Knottley, reeled back, throwing up a fin of blood and sweat. He fell against a dandy, who dropped his opera glasses. The lord shouted something into his ear. Knottley ignored him and rebounded into the fight just as the Gentleman sidestepped and rolled his left shoulder to prepare the right. The crowd saw what was coming. Their roar instantly changed to a shared intake of breath. The next second would be talked about for years to come and it seemed everyone knew it. Giles Farnsworth landed an exquisite knockout punch to the side of Jimmy Knottley’s jaw. A gob of saliva shot out of Knottley’s mouth as he crashed, unconscious, to the ground. The crowd erupted, and the warehouse walls quaked.
Julius looked through the haze of cigar smoke at the fallen boxer. After many nights like this he still could not bring himself to cheer, even though he knew the clamour was almost as much for the fallen boxer as for the victor, at least among the aficionados.
Crimper McCready was in the stands. Julius could see him cheering loudest of all, jumping up and down as if his ecstasy was too great to contain.
Knottley woke with a jolt when the smelling salts were waved under his nose. The crowd cheered again. His coach poured a tot of brandy between his bloodied lips. Gentleman Giles accepted the pats on the back and pumping handshakes from his supporters. Knottley rose to his feet, with the help of his seconds, bloody and sand-caked from where he had fallen. He took a few staggering steps toward Giles who embraced him like a long-lost brother. The crowd cheered again. The two pugilists spoke a few quiet words into each other’s ears and then went out of the arena, arm in arm, to clean off the blood and celebrate the fight with tankards of ale and fat cigars.
When the noise died down Mr Flynn tapped Julius on the shoulder. ‘I’ll make some enquires,’ he said. ‘Here’s a few shillings for a drink. But only one, mind.’
‘Thank you, Mr Flynn. I’ll meet you at the door in half an hour.’
Julius squeezed through the crowd to the makeshift bar. Everyone knew he was a friend of Danny Flynn, the champion bare-knuckle boxer of all London, so no one gave him any trouble.
‘What’s up?’ said Crimper, slapping Julius on the back, slightly less hard than he had that morning.
‘Want a drink?’ asked Julius.
‘Jolly decent of you, old man,’ said Crimper.
Julius held up two fingers to the barman who responded with two tankards of foaming porter—Baxter’s Brew, better known in the area as Badger’s Piss. Julius dropped a shilling on the counter, and he and Crimper retreated to a barrel that served as a table.
‘Cigar?’ said Crimper.
‘No, thank you,’ said Julius. He had turned green and vomited the last time he tried one.
The two boys took a sip from their tankards and tried not to gag at the vile taste.
‘Did you tell Mr Flynn about last night, Higgins?’ said Crimper.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell him I was going to steam in if they caused any trouble?’
‘No, I forgot.’
Just as Crimper was about to protest, Mr Flynn appeared. ‘I hope I find you well, Master McCready,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Flynn, very well, thank you,’ spluttered Crimper.
‘Julius, you’ll never guess who I’ve just met. You last saw him in St Paul’s Cathedral.’
Julius looked up.
Not Jack Springheel?
‘He has information about Rapple and Baines and he’s eager to sell it. What do you think?’ said Mr Flynn.
Jack Springheel’s back. Cripes, Higgins.
Julius felt the Badger’s Piss chill and shift in his stomach.
A familiar face came through the crowd.
‘Julius Higgins,’ said the man.
‘Clements?’ said Julius.
CHAPTER 6
Friday 19th January 1838
10:12 PM
‘The very one,’ said Clements. ‘How are you, my boy? My goodness, you’ve grown a full three inches since I saw you last. Clements clamped his cigar between his teeth, freeing his hands to vigorously shake Julius’s.
‘I’m very well, thank you,’ said Julius, relieved and astonished at the same time.
He noticed Clements’s frayed shirt cuffs. His suit was the same one he was wearing when he stood at the doors of St Paul’s Cathedral with a pistol in his hand when he was working for the time-criminal Jack Springheel. He looked as if he had been living in it ever since.
‘Mr Flynn tells me you’re involved in another case,’ said Clements. He appeared to be genuinely pleased to see Julius. He had changed sides and helped bring Springheel’s downfall by putting a bullet in the villain’s shoulder that day at St Paul’s. He was one of the few people in London who knew about the realities of time-travel and the Guild of Watchmakers—the band of gentlemen sworn to protect the timeline.
‘Yes, er…you’re looking well, Clements,’ said Julius, somewhat amazed by the exuberant greeting. His nose twitched. He sniffed, trying to identify the odour lingering malignantly amid the cheap cigar smoke.
‘Well? Couldn’t be better, Higgins,’ said Clements. ‘I see by the crinkling of your nose that you’re onto the secret of my success. Ha, ha.’
‘Er…’
Clements chuckled at Julius’s confusion.
Mr Flynn slapped Clements on the back. ‘I’m glad to see that your unfortunate acquaintance with Jack Springheel hasn’t dented your spirit,’ he said.
Julius took a sip from his tankard of Badger’s Piss to distract his senses from the disagreeable smell that was setting up home in his nose.
‘It takes more that the likes of Jack Springheel to put a good man like me down, Mr Flynn,’ said Clements.
‘And on the subject of putting good men down, tell young Julius here what you told me.’
‘I know where Rapple and Baines are hiding, Higgins.’
‘He’s agreed to take us there for a small
fee,’ said Mr Flynn. ‘Master McCready, you’re welcome to join us. We’re going to call on those two bruisers who came to the bookshop. Julius and I are going to sort them out.’
‘Er, thank you, Mr Flynn but, er…I must get home to do some schoolwork, I’m a bit behind,’ said Crimper.
‘Oh well, maybe next time,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Sure thing, Mr Flynn,’ said Crimper with relief. He sucked on his cigar and doubled over in a coughing fit.
‘Julius, it looks like it’s just the two of us,’ said Mr Flynn. ‘Finish your pint and we’ll be off.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Julius. ‘Crimper can have it, I’ll need a clear head.’
Outside the warehouse, the biting cold lifted Julius from his cigar-smoke torpor. ‘We’re not really going to sort Rapple and Baines out, are we?’ he said.
Mr Flynn laughed. ‘No, we’ll do a bit of nosing around. See what we can see.’
Julius sniffed to try to clear the mysterious smell from his nose.
‘My beat is in the area, you see—the tanning yards near the Bermondsey rookery. I see all the comings and goings at night,’ explained Clements, as they walked along Bermondsey Street. A London fog had descended. It hung illuminated around the lamps like spectres.
‘Your beat?’ said Julius.
‘Yes, I’m in the purefinding trade, my boy. I have a nose for pure. I harvest it at night when the roads are clear.’
‘Pure?’ asked Julius.
‘That’s dog poo to you and me, Julius, It’s used in the tanneries to cure leather,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Correct,’ said Clements. ‘Brown gold, littering the streets of this great metropolis. Think of it, Higgins, the leather on your next pair of boots might be tanned using the very pure that I pick up tonight. How many people can say that?’
‘Not many,’ said Julius.
Clements laughed. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t go into the business years ago. Urban agriculture, I call it—the agrarian idyll among the cobblestones. But I’m just doing it to get my foot in the door, you know.’
‘Foot in the door, where?’ asked Julius.
‘At the tanneries, of course,’ said Clements. ‘My name has been bandied about by those in the know: “Clements is a reliable fellow.” “Clements knows pure.” “Clements is a force to be reckoned with.” Those are but a selection of the many things being said of me in Bermondsey. This time next year, I’ll be smoking cigars as long as your arm. Ha, ha.’
Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn walked on. A smell like festering sewage wafted through the fog. ‘That’s the tanning yards,’ said Clements. ‘You get used to it.’ He led the way, appearing to navigate by scent alone.
They passed the workhouse on Great Russell Street and turned into a narrow street. It was lined by tenements, rising up and leaning out over their heads. Unseen dogs barked, and babies cried.
‘Through here,’ said Clements. He led them into an even narrower street. Julius held the back of Mr Flynn’s coat so as not to lose him.
‘Nearly there,’ said Clements, as cheerful as a tour guide.
The street stopped and wasteground began. Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn stood there in a row, peering into the night. A muddy path stretched out before them through an expanse of swampy grass. After ten yards it dissolved into the fog.
‘Lead on,’ said Mr Flynn.
Clements hesitated. ‘You can take my word for it, Mr Flynn. Their hideout is through there. Follow the path and you can’t miss it.’
‘I want to see it for myself before I part with a farthing,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Three pounds, did we say?’ said Clements.
‘Two, if I remember correctly,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Yes, of course, two. I remember now.’
The fog began to sink its damp claws into Julius’s skin, making his head ache with the cold. He tried to stamp his feet quietly, waiting for Clements to come to a decision.
‘Just a sight, then, and our deal is done?’ said Clements.
‘Just a sight,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Very well…’
Julius thought he heard a curse under Clements’s breath. ‘This way,’ said the purefinder and he walked into the fog.
‘Stick close,’ said Mr Flynn to Julius.
When they had gone a few paces Julius looked back. There was nothing but fog. He held Mr Flynn’s coattail firmly as they walked on. Julius lost count of his steps.
Clements stopped. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered.
Up ahead, the fog thinned and Julius could see a wall, slightly darker than the night. Beyond the wall the black silhouette of a house rose from the wasteland. Faint candle-lit rectangles showed the windows.
‘They come and go at all times of the night,’ whispered Clements. ‘They stole a hansom cab a few days ago, and they use it to bring boxes and whatnot into the place. There’s an odd fellow with them.’
‘Odd?’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Short, gives everyone the collywobbles.’
‘That’s Tock,’ whispered Julius.
‘Thank you, Clements,’ said Mr Flynn, handing over two sovereigns. ‘The Watchmakers will remember this.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Flynn, Higgins,’ said Clements, and he skittered back along the path.
Julius had lost his sense of place. They could have been on a Yorkshire moor, but for the stench of the tanneries. At the stable door, he lit several Lucifers so that Mr Flynn could see to pick the lock. Finally it opened with a satisfying click and they slipped into the dark yard and made their way along the side of the stable outhouse until they came to the first window.
Julius peeped through the corner of the dusty windowpane. The interior walls of the building had been demolished, leaving only the outer walls and the roof. Birdcages and candles hung from the ceiling. The candles lit the cavernous lair as far as the second floor—above that, only hints of the roof rafters could be discerned.
Julius carefully shifted his position to see the floor. There were floorboards, with strips of plaster and brick where walls had once stood. Pale rectangles lined the walls, ghosts of pictures long gone.
To the left, in the far corner, stood a table covered with beakers, test tubes and large glass bulbs, in a complex arrangement connected by rubber tubing. Their contents bubbled and steamed over gas burners. Another table was crammed with pots of orchids of all shapes and colours. Julius strained his eyes and peered through the dirty windowpane to get a better look.
‘What’s that in the birdcages?’ whispered Mr Flynn. ‘Are they rats?
‘I think so,’ Julius replied. ‘And there’s orchids in some of them.’
‘We’ve come to the right place, then,’ said Mr Flynn.
Julius crept to the next window. He poked his head up and leaned to the side to see the left wall, where there was a basic kitchen and a sleeping area.
Julius cleaned a circle in the glass to get a clearer view.
A tall man in a brown overcoat lay on a bunk. Another man, also wearing a brown overcoat, sat reading a newspaper. Julius recognised them immediately as the men in the hansom cab.
Mr Flynn cleaned a circle for himself ‘That’s Rapple and Baines,’ he whispered ‘No doubt about it.’
Julius and Mr Flynn watched them for some minutes. There was little to see until one of the bubbling bulbs boiled over. The man reading dropped his paper and hurried to the apparatus as the hissing steam rose up to the rafters.
‘Mr Rapple, Mr Rapple, wake up, it’s nearly ready,’ he said.
Rapple woke with a jolt. He stared at nothing for a few seconds as if he was trying to remember where he was. Then he swung around to sit on the edge of his bunk and watched Baines, who turned down the flame on the burner and adjusted the taps on the tubes.
The rats screeched and scurried around, making the birdcages sway on their chains.
Rapple stood up. ‘They’re getting excited,’ he said.
A loud rapping made them both turn.
; ‘Well done. You’ve gone and woken Abigail,’ said Baines.
Julius ducked down below the windowsill. He sneaked past the back door and came up at the next window.
He cleaned an eye-sized circle in the grime on the windowpane and looked through. He saw a dining table near the far wall. A stained lace tablecloth was spread over it. Two small dots of red light glowed in the dark corner behind the table.
The rapping noise sounded again.
Rapple jumped. He looked around as if he had lost something that desperately needed to be found.
Baines backed away.
‘Throw her something,’ said Rapple.
‘There’s nothing left.’
‘There must be.’
‘She’s had everything there is,’ said Baines, searching frantically under the one of the tables.
Rapple untied one of the suspended cages. ‘She can have one of these,’ he said.
‘Oi! We need that,’ said Baines.
The rat squealed and scrambled up the bars. The other rats joined it, in a discordant chorus of high-pitched cries. The rapping behind the table started up again.
Rapple took a leather gauntlet from his pocket and slipped it over his hand. Then he opened the cage door, thrust his hand inside and grabbed the rat by its tail. It dangled upside down, arching its back and screeching, its teeth snapping, trying to bite Rapple’s arm.
‘Toss it over,’ said Baines. ‘Quick, man.’
The rapping grew lower and faster.
‘Here you are, Abigail,’ shouted Rapple. He threw the empty birdcage into the dark corner.
A giant, metal creature leapt out from behind the table and caught the cage with two claw-like appendages.
Julius jumped, nearly falling backwards.
The creature looked like a cross between a giant praying mantis and a spider.
Baines held one of the candles hanging nearby and took a few cautious steps towards the creature. ‘There you are, Abigail, my dear. That’ll keep you quiet for a bit.’
‘Let’s get to work,’ said Rapple. He stepped back and knocked his shoulder against one of the cages. Immediately, orchid tendrils stretched through the bars, reaching for his face. Rapple flinched. ‘Bleeding things,’ he said, as he scrambled to keep his hold on the rat.
