The Dream Thief

by Catherine Webb

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ demanded the girl with wild frizzy hair. She was furiously grinding two powders together with a pestle and mortar, and only half glanced up as she spoke.

  Mrs Hobbs stammered out her name. ‘I’ve been investigating the financial records of the St Bartholomew’s Workhouse. What happened here?’

  ‘Poisoned,’ said the green-eyed woman. ‘It is really rather imperative that we keep Mister Lyle conscious throughout this experience.’

  A boy, who had said nothing so far, now straightened up with a needle in his hand and a determined expression on his face. Carefully he lowered the point towards the crook of Mister Lyle’s exposed arm. ‘What are you doing?’ gasped Mrs Hobbs. ‘You’re just a child!’

  The boy hesitated, looked at her, then looked at Lyle. For a moment, there was something infinitely small and frightened in his eyes, before it was replaced by an expression of immovable stubbornness. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘I am just a child, ma’am. But if you have a better grasp of organic chemistry and its medical applications, then kindly speak up.’

  Mrs Hobbs’ jaw sagged. She turned to the green-eyed woman. ‘Do you permit this?’ she demanded.

  To which the other woman just smiled and said, ‘Mrs Hobbs, was it? Ma’am, may I be so bold as to tell you, the world is never as it seems. I am not just a woman in a socially inappropriate costume; Miss Teresa is not just a petty thief with a reprehensible attitude towards personal hygiene; and Master Elwick’ - Thomas slid the needle under Lyle’s skin and pressed the plunger - ‘is not just an aristocratic bigwig with an intellect equal to that of one of his hounds.’

  On the table, Thomas drew back the needle, and they all watched in silence for Lyle’s reaction. For a moment, he was lay unmoving, his breathing low and steady. Then his eyes opened wide, and he half raised his head and stuttered from between trembling teeth, ‘Uh . . . uhm . . . heart faster breathing faster head hurting exploding. Uhm . . . hands shaking arms shaking legs shaking. Thomas, did you just give me purified caffeine directly into an artery?’

  ‘Yes?’ said the boy, a note of uneasy hope in his voice, seeking approval.

  ‘I hope you’re taking notes,’ muttered Lyle. ‘Hello, Mrs Hobbs,’ he added, half turning his head as if his mind had only just registered the events of the last thirty seconds. ‘Sorry about this, but I think I’m about to . . .’

  However, Horatio Lyle never managed to explain what was about to happen or, more importantly, why. With a gasp his head fell back and, with his fingers clenching into claws and legs tightening into corkscrew stiffness, every muscle in his body started to shake like a butterfly in a hurricane. His eyes bulged from his face, his face turned red. Mrs Hobbs couldn’t shake off the feeling that if he had enough breath, he would have screamed. As it was, every breath came in a tortured wheeze as if nothing more than the presence of air around him, rather than any action of his lungs, kept his body alive. One flailing hand fell round Thomas’s wrist, locking so hard that she heard the young man gasp. Through gritted teeth Lyle wheezed, ‘Pudding . . . poisoned . . . pudding . . .’

  Thomas nodded, his mouth twisting with pain and his eyes filling with a look so frightened and young that Mrs Hobbs wanted to hold the boy to her and whisper, ‘It’s all right, it’ll be all right’. Then Lyle’s hand fell away from Thomas’s wrist and he seemed to jerk like a frog trying to swim on dry land. His nails scrabbled at the table top and he beat his head against its surface. ‘Lin!’ he half screamed. ‘Talk to her! She knows . . . she knows . . . poison . . .’ Mrs Hobbs covered her mouth with her hands, waiting in vain for it to end.

  ‘Maybe we should—’ began the girl Teresa. Her eyes were filling with tears that she was too stubborn to acknowledge by wiping away.

  ‘Caffeine will keep him awake.’

  ‘Breaking all his bloody bones will keep him awake!’ snapped Tess. Under the table Tate covered his head with his paws and whimpered in response to his master’s groans.

  ‘Then he must break his bones,’ replied Thomas firmly, putting the needle to one side, ‘so long as he does not sleep.’

  Mrs Hobbs backed away, feeling for the stairs. Then a hand brushed hers and, with a start, she found her gaze locked into those strange green eyes. She smelt old leaves rustling in the forest, the clean smell after rain, and heard the woman called Lin say, ‘So tell me, Mrs Hobbs, what do you know?’

  Lin took Mrs Hobbs to the drawing room. The walls were scarred by burnt chemicals, the floors strewn with books and broken glass. She sat her down on the edge of a gutted armchair, and struck a light to a single candle. As she stood opposite Mrs Hobbs, her bright green eyes were almost light enough to illuminate the room without the tiny flame.

  She said, ‘You are a banker’s wife?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hobbs. ‘What has happened to Horatio? And where’s the doctor?’

  ‘I doubt this is a poison within your average doctor’s remit,’ sighed Lin patiently. ‘All things considered, I would say he is receiving the very best of care. They were already investigating the substance concerned and I have every hope of them achieving a cure at . . . at some point. Why did he come to you, banker’s wife?’

  Something in the way Lin spoke sent a shudder through Mrs Hobbs. She had a coldness, a weary hardness in her voice, as if she had walked across the world, seen every ocean and continent and been impressed by none of them. This young woman standing before her, Mrs Hobbs knew, knew with that implacable certainty that didn’t bother to ask for proof, was old. Older, maybe, than she. Not knowing whether to try to hold the other’s remarkable gaze, she recounted how Lyle had brought her the irregular-seeming workhouse accounts.

  ‘You? Why? Why not to a banker?’

  Mrs Hobbs looked up sharply. ‘Because bankers’ wives know all the other bankers’ wives, Miss . . .’

  ‘Lin. My name is Lin Zi. Don’t try to get the pronunciation right; you’ll only embarrass yourself. And you know banking?’

  ‘I ran my father’s estate for six years,’ retorted Mrs Hobbs. ‘I kept exact records of every farthing that went in and out, handled mortgages, brokers, lenders, buyers, sellers, tradesmen of every account, fraudsters and embezzling serving men. It is true that when my husband conducts business with his fellows, I am sent into the neighbouring room while the men drink port and discuss their arrangements; but do not think that being banished, a door away, I cannot hear every word. I can find you the destination of every shilling you may ever spend, young . . . my lady. So do me the courtesy to be honest and respectful, and I shall be with you.’

  To her surprise, the green-eyed woman smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I can see why Mister Lyle went to you. I might be able to manage courtesy, but honesty? There are dangers that would come and find you in the night if you knew even a fragment of what I know. But I will try my best.’

  Mrs Hobbs shifted on her uncomfortable seat. ‘Does Horatio - Mister Lyle - trust you?’

  Lin’s gaze seemed to fill the room, a receding infinity of emerald green. ‘A complicated question,’ she replied softly, and for a moment, the laughing woman was gone, leaving something old and still in its place. ‘But, yes, despite his better judgement, I’d say he does. I’d say he has no choice but to.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Lin sighed, and for a moment, her voice was the tumbling sound of old fallen leaves across bare stones, ‘When your people scrambled naked over the rocks and found for the first time the secrets of fire, mine were already teeming in the trees and the fields, spilling across the earth like the sea across sand. When you first raised the pyramids, we sent you golden treasures, like children to be indulged. When Alexander the Great sent to the kings of the world for tribute, he was sure in turn to give us our due.

  ‘We made the legends from which the ancient gods are derived, we are the ones behind the myths and stories, we were the spirits to whom you sacrificed your children on the altar stone, back in the days before iron and guns. We thought you
just weak children, when first you began to build across this world. But you humans are so industrious, so inventive, so cunning in all that you do. You made things that not the wisest sage or greatest dreamer could foretell: a world of iron and machines. And now we scuttle in the dark, and watch, and fear, and wait. This is who I am, Mrs Hobbs. And you should know that, being all that I am, I would stop at nothing to protect this human, Horatio Lyle, and keep him safe from all this perilous world. He knows so much and so little.

  ‘So tell me all you know.’

  Mrs Hobbs nodded slowly. ‘Very well.’

  And she did.

  Thomas sat alone in the basement by Lyle’s side.

  Too still.

  After everything, after the raving, Lyle was now far, far too still. Eyes still open, still aware, but aware of what? Thomas didn’t wish to speculate.

  He’d read a book once - Mr Westwood’s Basic Introduction to Surgical Principles - which had described with horrible precision all the nasty things that could happen to a body under strain. It hadn’t mentioned what to do when nothing happened at all.

  Thomas couldn’t remember when exactly he’d read Mr Westwood’s Basic Introduction; maybe last Christmas when the family had been inflicted with a deluge of aunts from Northumbria, cousins from Devon and, worst of all, endless in-laws returned fresh from the colonies, and full of complaint about how the Old Country had gone to the dogs in their absence. Not even Mr Dickens’ latest literary achievement could keep the time from dragging.

  He’d had to send Tess away.

  She was crying, like a child but, like a child, refusing to let it show, glaring at him and snapping, ‘No, I ain’t!’ even as the tears dripped off her chin. She said she wanted to stay, that it was the grown-up thing to do. And he’d said, ‘No, leave. I’ll stay with Lyle.’

  Now Thomas sat alone, watching his . . .

  . . . pick a title: teacher, friend, co-inventor, colleague, companion, fath—no, not quite that, not a father. That was a role Lyle reserved for someone else. He was a distant uncle, perhaps. A funny uncle, whom Thomas was entitled to love nonetheless.

  Whatever Lyle was, he was in pain.

  So much pain that every muscle seemed to have locked so that now he was still, frozen in position like a metal sculpture of a man turned to rust.

  And then he spoke.

  ‘Thomas!’

  Thomas leant forwards, and saw the sweat running down Lyle’s neck, in pale rivers across the dried blood. ‘Mister Lyle?’

  ‘A cure,’ he gasped. ‘Mustn’t . . .’

  ‘I’ve been trying to analyse the poison we found in the cake they were giving at the circus,’ whispered Thomas, ‘but it’s slow, we don’t have time to—’

  ‘Listen!’ hissed Lyle. ‘Listen to me! You have to look after her! You have to! She’ll have no one, nothing! My ma will take her in, if I . . . But you’re her only friend! You’re the only one who can keep her safe! Tess will be . . . she ’ll . . . Please, please. I’m so sorry. Please promise me, I’m . . .’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ whispered Thomas. ‘We’ll try to keep you comfortable. ’

  ‘Promise! Please, for God’s sake, please!’

  ‘I promise. Mister Lyle, I will always look after her. I promise. ’

  Lyle managed a smile, then nearly choked on the effort. ‘Sorry!’ he murmured.

  ‘There’s nothing . . .’

  ‘For getting in the way!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your father . . . He’s your father, I should never have got in the way. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You didn’t. Mister Lyle? You didn’t. It was just the way things were.’

  Lyle smiled, then groaned and half closed his eyes. ‘Course they are,’ he wheezed, as his smile turned to a grimace of distress. ‘Course they are. Don’t ever accept it. Don’t ever accept . . .’

  His eyes began to flicker shut.

  Thomas shook him, and though his eyes drifted open again, and seemed to see him, Thomas couldn’t help but feel they were seeing without understanding what it was they saw.

  CHAPTER 17

  Accounts

  Mrs Hobbs said, ‘Would you like to hear a story? I concede now may not be the time, but . . .’

  ‘I love stories,’ replied Lin firmly.

  ‘This is a story about money.’

  ‘Oh. Bankers. One of the less charming innovations of your species.’

  Mrs Hobbs avoided Lin’s gaze, intent on not perceiving anything she couldn’t cope seeing. ‘The handling of money,’ she insisted, ‘is too important to leave to ordinary people, and far too dangerous. In matters such as the transfer of funds, society needs men too unimaginative to consider all the possibilities that money may present. Offer anyone with any initiative the chance to take a great sum of money, and I guarantee you that sooner or later, they will be tempted to take just a nibble - even a tiny nibble - of the prize.’

  ‘You mean humanity is naturally inclined to embezzle?’

  ‘Of course. Which, by the by, the master of this - St Bartholomew’s - Workhouse,’ Mrs Hobbs brandished her notes, ‘was doing in great quantities. But what engaged my interest, far more than his crude attempts at plunder, were the regular payments from an unknown contributor which seemed to go directly, with no attempt at disguise, into the master’s pocket.’

  Lin folded her arms. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in learning even about the most tedious of mankind’s creations,’ she muttered. ‘So what was the source of this strange finance?’

  ‘A charitable foundation, Miss Lin.’ Mrs Hobbs spoke with emphasis, having begun to feel her companion didn’t fully appreciate the situation’s gravity. ‘A foundation by the name of the Fund for Orphaned and Unfortunate Children was making fortnightly payments of thirty pounds. In exchange for which, the master of the workhouse was expending twelve shillings ten pence one day later on taking children to the circus.’

  ‘One day later?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, the St Bartholomew’s Workhouse isn’t the only one in London to be receiving regular payments. In total, nine workhouses, one asylum and two hospices for orphaned children are regularly paid between five and twenty-five pounds, all with the stipulation that . . .’ She rummaged in her papers. ‘Ah-ha! That they “endeavour to improve the conditions, spiritual and physical of the children in their care, and bring the light of entertainment, education and childish joys to all their wards between the ages of five and thirteen”.’

  ‘And?’ Lin looked alert as ever, but quite uncomprehending.

  ‘Miss Lin, children are not put on this earth to be entertained! Youth is a time to learn, to study, to mature and grow, not to be indulged with . . . pretty things. Such an idea is anathema to the whole provision of the state!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lin, uncertainly rubbing the end of her nose. ‘But surely if you’re a child, you should enjoy being a child for as long as is possible, and only when you get old—’

  ‘Have you seen this city, Miss Lin?’ interrupted Mrs Hobbs. ‘Look around you. Count the beggars, the infirm, the dying, the dead, the starving, the crippled, the lost, the lonely. And tell me that in a time like this, most children can truly be indulged.’

  ‘Ma’am, in a time like this,’ replied Lin, ‘being a child seems an infinitely superior prospect than being an adult burdened with care. But go on, please.’

  ‘Regular payments,’ continued Mrs Hobbs, spreading papers across her lap, their numbers running up and down like a frantic goldfish in a narrow tank, ‘made by the fund to a dozen different institutions, all designed to improve the life of the children in their care, all of which result in some . . . excursion: a trip to the circus or to the music hall or to the theatre or to the fair, from which—’

  Lin’s eyes lit up. ‘So this charity is paying to give the children to Greybags?’ she breathed.

  ‘What’s Greybags?’

  ‘He’s a troublesome cousin,’ replied Lin. ‘A creature spawned by - but not altoget
her of - my kind. Genus rather than species. Or was it the other way round? Please, tell me more. The charity enables the master of each workhouse to pocket a very large profit. So the money is buying silence as well as complicity? ’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ breathed Lin. ‘In the past, Greybags just preyed on beggars and travellers, lost half-dead creatures. I would never have thought he had the capacity to set up an arrangement such as this.’

  ‘Curiously enough,’ Mrs Hobbs brightened, warming to her theme, ‘the commissioning board of this charity have gone to great lengths to keep themselves anonymous. A mountain of paperwork and some extremely difficult members of the banking trade stand between them and any form of easy discovery, and I assure you, no one can be as difficult as a banker. But . . .’