Wild Boy and the Black Terror

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  “Only the killer would want us to stay,” Clarissa snapped.

  Gideon reached to his coat on the floor and pulled out his pistol. “That ain’t the reason.”

  Wild Boy moved to protect Clarissa, but he didn’t think that Gideon would fire the weapon. He noticed his finger stay deliberately clear of the trigger.

  “Please,” Dr Carew said. “There is no need for—”

  Clarissa lashed out a foot, kicking the cauldron of wax. The iron vat toppled over and spilled its bubbling contents across the floor. Gideon slipped and dropped the firearm.

  Clarissa grabbed the gun. For a second Wild Boy feared she might use it, such was the rage that flashed through her eyes. Instead, she splashed through the wax to the door, and ran out into the alley. “Come on.”

  Wild Boy raced after her. They peered out to the street, where Gideon’s carriage sat by the museum’s boarded entrance. Its horses stamped and steamed, their snouts buried in nosebags of corn as much for warmth as for food. A lamplighter struggled with his ladder through the thickening snowfall. Fat flakes fell through the lamplight, glowing like furnace sparks.

  As soon as the lamplighter passed, Wild Boy and Clarissa darted to the carriage. Wild Boy grabbed a blanket from inside and threw it to Clarissa as she climbed onto the driver’s seat. “You know how to drive this?” he asked.

  “Course I do. Better question is, what’s going on?”

  “I know where we’ll find the last black diamond. And I got a plan to catch the killer with it an’ all.”

  “About bloomin’ time. So where we going?”

  Throughout this case there had been too many questions that Wild Boy couldn’t answer. He was glad to finally have one that he could. He leaped inside the carriage and swung the door shut.

  “Buckingham Palace,” he said. “We gotta have a word with the Queen.”

  25

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE

  Marcus had once said that the grand marble archway which formed the entrance to Buckingham Palace was modelled on Roman monuments to victories in battle. As Wild Boy stared at the imposing structure through the carriage window, he tried to draw confidence from this history lesson. But he found none.

  The plan he’d hatched to get the last black diamond and catch the killer now seemed as dangerous as it was crazy. But it had one thing going for it: it was the only plan he had.

  They had stopped beside St James’s Park, close to the Mall – the wide, tree-lined avenue that led to Buckingham Palace. The park was empty apart from the crows that squabbled in the bare trees. One of the black phantoms swooped down and landed on top of the carriage. It made no sound, but still Wild Boy heard the grating squawks. Louder now, they caused his head wound to pulse with pain.

  The crows in his mind. The terror still in his blood.

  He wished they could have parked the carriage somewhere else, but this was where they needed to be; far enough from the palace to avoid being seen, yet close enough to watch it through the snow and the gathering dark. In the palace forecourt, lamplight showed three carriages being prepared by royal grooms. One of them was the Queen’s coach. The others belonged to the Gentlemen. A Black Hat Gentleman roared orders at the servants harnessing the shivering horses.

  “Lucien,” Clarissa said. She rubbed frost from the carriage window. “You were right, he is here.”

  As they watched, three footmen ushered Queen Victoria from the palace’s columned portico. They tried to protect her from the snow with umbrellas and blankets, but she swatted them away. Lucien attempted to speak to her as she climbed into her coach, but he too was dismissed with the flap of a royal hand.

  “What’s he saying?” Clarissa asked.

  “He’s telling her to leave London until the killer is caught.”

  Wild Boy guessed the Queen would refuse. He remembered Marcus’s story about how, after the failed attempt on her life, the Queen had insisted on continuing her usual routine, and even used herself as bait to catch her would-be assassin. She was clearly very stubborn and very determined.

  She reminded Wild Boy of Clarissa.

  This was a busy night for Her Majesty. It was Thursday evening, the night she attended performances at the Italian Opera House in Mayfair. After that, she would return to the palace to host her ball. Wild Boy could tell from Lucien’s exasperated expression that she’d refused to cancel either event.

  “Good,” he said.

  Their plan to catch the killer relied on it. They needed to speak with the Queen, but with Lucien guarding her they wouldn’t even get close. They’d planned something slightly crazy to get her attention.

  “They’re setting off,” Wild Boy said.

  The royal coach rode across the forecourt, led by one of the Gentlemen’s carriages and followed by another. Moving slowly, the convoy passed through the marble arch and onto the Mall.

  Wild Boy handed Gideon’s pistol to Clarissa. He swung the door open, swatting away snowflakes. “You remember the plan?”

  “All I gotta do is keep my balance and act crazy, right?”

  “That’s about it,” he replied, wondering if anyone was more qualified for that job than she was.

  As he climbed to the driver’s seat, a dark snowflake fluttered past his head, as big and black as a crow’s feather.

  “Black snow,” he muttered.

  The snowfall was speckled with them. Lit by the moon, they looked like black diamonds falling through the white. It wasn’t unusual; London’s skies were rotten with pollution pumped from factories. Sometimes hail fell the colour of mud. Even so, Wild Boy couldn’t help fearing that it was a bad omen.

  One of the horses stamped, eager to get moving.

  Settling onto the carriage seat, Wild Boy dug his feet against the base of the box. He hoped the animals couldn’t sense his fear. The only horse he’d ever handled was the old draught-nag that pulled his freak show van. These were powerful Arabian horses, and he was going to have to ride them fast.

  He shook the reins, and the horses moved forward with such force that he almost slipped from his seat. He held on tighter as they increased their pace. Iron-rimmed wheels cut through the snow as he steered the carriage from the park and onto the Mall.

  He pulled out onto the street just ahead of the royal convoy. Looking back, he saw a Black Hat driving the leading carriage, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy in shawls and scarves. Lucien was inside.

  So far so good, except for Wild Boy’s heart, which pounded harder than the horses’ hooves. He held his breath, as if to trap as much courage inside as possible. Then he slowed the horses, letting the royal convoy catch up. He heard a cry from the Black Hat, demanding that he pull over, although it was too snowy for the man to see who he was shouting at. In response, Wild Boy slowed his carriage even more. He led the convoy to the end of the Mall, passing piles of rubble where workers were laying a new square to celebrate the Battle of Trafalgar, and then round onto Pall Mall, the street that ran along the other side of the Mall.

  The road was busier here, and Wild Boy’s deliberately slow pace quickly caused a jam. Other drivers joined in with the Gentleman, yelling at Wild Boy to pull aside.

  From behind came a thump of metal on wood. Clarissa opened the carriage door and dumped the pistol on the roof.

  Wild Boy’s stomach began to turn somersaults. He kept his eyes on the road, his grip on the reins, and whispered a prayer to whatever god – or demon – might be listening.

  Another thump. Clarissa swung up and landed on top of the cabin.

  In the carriage behind, the Black Hat’s anger changed to panic. “Get down from that roof,” he demanded. “What in blazes are you playing at?”

  Clarissa picked up the gun and aimed it at him. She began to hop up and down on the roof, filling the air with as many swear words as there were snowflakes. The plan was for her to act crazy, and she did it perfectly. Her hair thrashed and her feet pounded so hard that one of the panels cracked. In fact, the act was almost too genuine. Wild Bo
y was glad her pistol was too damaged by wax to work.

  BOOM!

  A shot roared through the sky. The horses charged forward.

  Wild Boy looked back, saw Clarissa lying flat on the roof. Beyond, Lucien leaned from the window of the carriage, a pistol smoking in his hand.

  “Clarissa!” Wild Boy shouted.

  She slid around and jumped up. “Missed me!” she screamed. “You thickheads. Come and catch us!”

  Lucien bellowed an order, and his carriage raced after them.

  Wild Boy couldn’t believe this was actually going well. But everything depended on the few next minutes. The Queen’s coach was now only guarded by the carriage at the rear of the convoy. With the road clogged behind, they would most likely race ahead to the Opera House. Wild Boy had one chance – just one – of blocking the royal coach, and getting hold of the last black diamond.

  The snow drove harder, blurring his vision. He pulled the reins, riding faster down Pall Mall. Behind, Lucien’s carriage was catching up.

  “Go faster!” Clarissa yelled.

  “Yaa! Yaa!” Wild Boy cried.

  Ahead was the arched entrance to the Opera Arcade, the tunnelled parade of shops that led behind the Opera House.

  “Hold on!” he called.

  Clarissa clung onto the roof rail as Wild Boy turned the carriage into the arcade. A lantern on the tunnel’s low ceiling whacked her head and she fell to her knees. There were sparks and screeches as the carriage door handles scraped shop windows on either side of the narrow passage. The sounds were drowned by the rattle of wheels, the thunder of horses and the cries of shoppers fleeing for the other end of the arcade.

  Lucien’s carriage followed them into the tunnel. It had a clear path and was catching up.

  “Hold on,” Wild Boy said.

  “Stop saying that,” Clarissa replied.

  “This time I mean it.”

  He yanked the reins. The carriage lurched forward, then came to a sudden, jarring halt. The momentum thrust Wild Boy further and harder than he expected. He flew from the driver’s seat and thumped to the ground, landing so close to the horses that their stamping hooves snagged the hair on his cheek.

  He slid back, scrambled up. It had worked. Behind, Lucien’s carriage had stopped, its path in the tunnel now blocked.

  Clarissa grabbed the pistol and leaped from the roof. She landed beside Wild Boy, and they ran towards the exit.

  “Are we too late?” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has the Queen already gone past?”

  “I don’t know, Clarissa!”

  They stumbled out onto the street, twenty yards from the Opera House entrance. Crowds thronged around the theatre doors, shivering faces lit by gas chandeliers in the colonnaded portico. Every man was in an opera hat, every woman in pearls. The group buzzed with excited chatter about the upcoming performance. But the chatter turned to shrieks as they saw Wild Boy.

  “Look. Look!”

  “It’s the Wild Boy of London.”

  “My God, it is. It is!”

  “He’s got a gun.”

  Actually, Clarissa had the gun. She waved it in a wide circle around the street. “Get back,” she warned. “Everyone, get back!”

  Everyone did, desperate to escape her sweeping aim. Some of them slipped on ice and tumbled on the stairs. Horses reared and drivers cursed. A dustcart toppled over, spilling ash across the snow.

  Wild Boy tried to ignore the chaos, to focus on the street. At first he saw nothing except the snow driving at his face. Then something big and dark burst through the white curtain.

  “It’s her,” he said. “It’s the Queen’s coach.”

  The royal coach raced closer. The driver saw Wild Boy in the street, but instead of slowing down, he gritted his teeth and lashed the horses harder.

  “He ain’t stopping!” Clarissa cried.

  Cobbles shook beneath Wild Boy’s feet. Clarissa tried to drag him from the coach’s path, but he pulled back, standing his ground. His mind gave itself over to just one thought – this coach must stop. If it didn’t, he had failed, and Marcus would die.

  “Wild Boy,” Clarissa said. “It ain’t stopping.”

  He dug his feet harder into the snow.

  It had to stop. It had to…

  26

  The cobbles shook harder. The horses charged closer.

  Steam snorted from the animals’ snouts. Wild Boy heard the jangle of harnesses even above the screams from the crowd outside the Opera House. The Queen’s coach was just a hundred yards away, but still he didn’t move from its path.

  He wasn’t scared. He was determined. He stared at the driver and hoped the man understood. He would not move.

  Fifty yards.

  The cries from the crowd grew louder. There were demands for Wild Boy to stand aside, as well as shouts for the carriage to crush him to the snow.

  Thirty yards.

  Then he saw it. It was just a slight change in the driver’s face, resolve replaced by realization. The man understood what Wild Boy hoped he would. If the horses hit him, the driver would lose control of the coach. A coach with the Queen inside.

  Twenty yards.

  Finally, the driver pulled the reins, slowing the coach. The horses came to a fretful stop, so close to Wild Boy that their hot breath rustled the hair on his face. He looked up and a shriek escaped his mouth, a high-pitched mix of panic that he’d tried something so crazy, delight that it had worked and relief that he hadn’t been trampled into the ground.

  Clarissa moved closer, aiming her pistol at the driver. “Don’t move.” Her face was hot with anger, her voice a banshee shriek. “Wild Boy, go!”

  Still Wild Boy stared at the horses. He couldn’t believe he’d just done that.

  “Now, Wild Boy!”

  Snapping back into action, he raced to the side of the carriage and called to the curtained window. “Your Majesty. I gotta speak to you.”

  No reply. The curtain didn’t even twitch.

  The carriage behind the royal coach stopped and two Gentlemen leaped out. In the other direction, Lucien and his Black Hat driver staggered from the Opera Arcade. They saw Wild Boy and charged closer.

  “Your Majesty!” Wild Boy yelled. He bit his lip, stopping himself from shouting, Open the bloody door. “I gotta speak with you. It’s urgent.”

  Still no reply.

  The Black Hat driver leaped at Clarissa in a flying rugby tackle. She jumped the dive, but Lucien shoulder-charged her and knocked her to the snow. She thrashed and screamed as the two men twisted her arms behind her back, pinning her to the ground.

  Wild Boy rushed to help her, but the other Gentlemen grabbed his arms and yanked him away. Unlike Clarissa, he didn’t struggle. He felt deflated. This was Marcus’s last hope, their last chance to catch the killer and get the cure.

  And they had failed.

  For a moment Clarissa stopped thrashing and returned Wild Boy’s heartbroken gaze. Then her eyes filled again with anger. She tore free from Lucien and swung a punch at his nose. A spurt of blood, a scream of pain, and Lucien tumbled to the snow. Clarissa pounced on him, screeching like an alley cat. She raised a fist to strike again.

  “Miss Everett,” a voice said.

  Clarissa’s hand froze mid-swing.

  During the fighting, the driver of the royal coach had opened the cabin door. Queen Victoria sat inside, a sheepskin folded over her legs, and her hands tucked inside a mink muff on her lap. With a long sigh, she turned her head to look at Clarissa and Lucien.

  “This is the second time in as many days that we have intervened in a quarrel between the two of you. One would think that you harbour ill feelings towards one another.”

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd outside the Opera House. Men removed their hats, and women sank into curtsys. The Gentlemen holding Wild Boy yanked him down as they dropped to their knees on the pavement.

  Lucien shoved Clarissa away. He tried to wipe the blood
from his broken nose, but only succeeded in smearing it across his whiskers.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, in a pained voice. “These children are extremely dangerous. Please allow us to protect you.”

  “And how would you rate that protection so far, Mr Grant?”

  “They tricked us, Your Majesty.”

  “Indeed.”

  Wild Boy pulled free of his captors. “Majesty, I—”

  “Wild Boy,” the Queen said.

  In a flash, the look on her face changed from mild disinterest to fierce authority. “Do not think for one second that we are somehow obliged to you. We entrusted you with a confidence and a responsibility. You have failed us in both regards, with quite desperate results. It is clear that you have not been found wanting in effort. Rather, we must assume that Marcus was mistaken in his assessment of your abilities. If that is the case, then there is no reason to listen to another word you have to say. Mr Grant, please remove the children from our path.”

  Lucien reached for Clarissa. She stepped back, her fingers like claws.

  “You touch me again,” she warned, “and I swear…” Then she shouted to the Queen, “We have to speak to you!”

  The Queen arched an eyebrow. “You forget yourself, Miss Everett. We are not Marcus Bishop.”

  “And we ain’t Gentlemen, Your Majesty.”

  “Even so,” the Queen replied, ignoring her tone, “you would be well advised to listen to us.”

  “No, you listen to me.”

  “Clarissa,” Wild Boy said.

  He reached for her, but she shrugged him off. “You wanted our help,” she told the Queen. “You and all your Gentlemen. Well, this is how we do things. You don’t like that, you shouldn’t have bloomin’ asked in the first place.”

  As her anger calmed she realized what she’d said and added quietly, “Your Majesty.”

  An even louder gasp rose from the opera crowd, and mutters of outrage. Lucien erupted in a coughing fit and another of the Gentlemen was so offended that he drew a pistol to defend his sovereign.

  Only the Queen remained calm, neatening the blanket over her legs. “You are correct, Miss Everett,” she said. “We should not have asked for your help. We should never have expected a child to understand the concept of responsibility. You have let us down.”