by Avi
I was aware that their words meant quite another thing—though neither dared speak plainly—and the question hung in the air.
Mr. Farquatt offered up a faint smile. “I assure you I shall not renounce Mademoiselle Huffam in these difficult times,” he said with a little bow. “And any comfort I can bring to the Huffam family is my privilege. Master John, your sister informed me that your aunt will be providing for you after some fashion. I wish you well.”
Before I could say anything, Brigit said, “She has provided: He’s cleaning the Church of All Hallows.”
Mr. Farquatt started. “Near the Tower?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you begun?” he asked me, suddenly tense.
Not wishing the man to know I’d seen him there, I said, “Tomorrow.”
His anxiety eased. “Ah! I’m pleased to know that. Now, you must excuse me,” he said, and he crowded into the cell.
“You told him you did not begin your work,” said Brigit. “Why?”
“Brigit,” I said, continuing down the hallway, “I was only respecting Clarissa’s request that we say nothing about my employment.”
“Master John,” Brigit said after a moment, “I should tell you, I don’t believe Mr. Farquatt is a good match for your sister. My advice—and I told your parents: The marriage should be forbidden. It’s this offer he’s made to your father. Sure, it’s as if he’s buying your sister, as they say the heathens do.”
“What did my father say to your advice?”
“He would give no opinion.” Suddenly, she stopped, turned me about, and with as much force as she could muster, leaned over and said into my face, “Master John, you must tell Mr. Huffam that only he can solve this problem.” She seemed distraught.
“But how can he?”
“If he put his mind to it,” she said in a sulky voice, “he surely can.”
Not wishing to debate the point, I started off again toward the gates. “Master John,” said Brigit, “I presume you saw your aunt this morning. Will she be doing anything for your poor father?”
Having no doubt Brigit’s insistence came from wanting my father to sell his secret to her brother, I shook my head. “I fear it’s no different than before.”
When we reached the gates, I bid her a good night.
“John,” she said, holding me back, “what friend will you be staying with tonight? Surely he has a name?”
I could not resist. “It’s not so much a friend,” I said, “as it is my teacher: Sergeant Muldspoon.”
“The sergeant!” she exclaimed, and bit her lip as if to keep from speaking out.
“I didn’t wish to tell Father,” I added. “The two don’t care for each other.”
“But you’ve always said how much you hate the man.”
“I chanced to meet him and told him of our plight. He was unexpectedly kind,” I said over my shoulder.
As I went out of the prison, I could positively feel Brigit’s fierce eyes upon my back, and I wondered if I had done a foolish—or even a dangerous—thing.
CHAPTER 37
I Hear Sary’s Astonishing Story
Sary was waiting on the pavement, her back against the prison walls, sitting on her cap. “Me bum gets cold sittin’ on the stone,” she explained. “That’s why I’ve got a big cap.” No, I had never known a girl like her.
“Are we goin’ back to the rookery?” she asked. It was beginning to drizzle lightly.
“Wait,” I said, thinking over what had just occurred with Brigit. “Something’s happened.”
“What’s that?”
“Just now I was coming to the gates—to meet you. Brigit wished to talk to me, so she followed along. She was pressuring me to tell my father to solve his problem. And she wanted to know where I was staying tonight.”
“What for?”
“Don’t know.”
“You didn’t tell ’er nothin’ ’bout me, did you?”
I shook my head. “And since I didn’t want to say, I told her I would be with Sergeant Muldspoon.”
She stared at me, leaning forward.
“I thought you remembered everything,” I teased. “I told you about him. Sergeant Moldy. Remember? My schoolteacher.”
That time she nodded.
Then I explained what I had neglected to tell her before, that I had seen Old Moldy at the Red Lion in conversation with O’Doul.
“Brigit’s brother?” said Sary.
“Right. And Old Moldy was at the court too, when my father’s case came up. And, Sary, just today I saw him in conversation with … Mr. Farquatt.”
“You did? The Frenchy? Where?”
“In the church.”
“Where you were workin’?”
I nodded.
“And they weren’t prayin’?”
“Not at all.”
“They see you?”
“I’m sure they didn’t.”
She thought for a moment and then said, “Seems like this ’ere teacher of yers knows everyone an is everywhere,” she said.
“Sary, when I told Brigit I’d be stopping with the sergeant, she became very upset.”
“’Ow come?”
“Don’t know. But there’s more,” I said.
“Let’s ear it.”
“If there’s anyone who can appreciate and understand the importance of rifling, it’s Old Moldy.”
“’Ow so?”
I told her about my teacher’s military history and his love of guns.
Sary drew up her knees and hugged them. “All right, then: What’s this bloke look like?”
“Tall, stiff, gray-haired, dressed all in black, and with one wooden leg.”
Sary grinned.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’m guessin’ you’d like to know the doin’s I done.”
“I would, yes.”
“Almost as good as yer Ali Baba story.”
“Tell me!”
“Want to get away from the rain?”
“Just tell me what you did!”
“All right,” she said, laughing. “Listen ’ard. Now then, like we agreed, I waited round, to see if yer Brigit would come out.”
“I saw her name in the sign-out book.”
Sary nodded. “She came out with a shoppin’ basket under ’er arm.”
“There’s nothing special about marketing, is there?”
“As may be, but she only did it after she done other things.”
“Such as …?”
“Shhh! Now, out she comes. I was over there—keepin’ me distance, you understan’. Yer Brigit just stood ’ere, afore the gates. As if she were tryin’ to make up ’er mind. An’ she didn’t look none too ’appy, either. Anyways, she must ’ave made up ’er mind ’cause she started goin’, but slow, like somethin’ ’eavy was on ’er back. See, you can tell what folks got in their ’eads by watchin’ their feet. Mind, she only ’ad ’er basket, an’ as much as I knew, it were empty.
“Well, I keep meself behind, sneakin’ the way I do. Never a thought she were bein’ followed. Leastways, she never looked one way t’other, save the way she was goin’.
“Down she goes, ’long King William Street. Then it comes to me”—Sary paused dramatically—“she’s ’eadin’ for the bridge. Now, one o’ the tricks o’ me trade is this: If you knows where yer man—only in this case it’s a woman—is goin’, you skip ’head an’ watch ’em come. That way you see things different. The face mostly. So that’s what I done, goin’ fast, but not too fast, ’cause I’m a girl an people gets suspicious seein’ girls trottin’.” She edged forward and glanced at me as if to see if I was taking it all in. “Us maids,” she explained, “always ’ave to find our own ways of doin’.
“Well then, I gets in front of yer Brigit, an’ I can see ’er face. An’, blimey, weren’t she the sad one. Cryin’. Wipin’ tears away.”
“But why?” I said.
“’Old on. Comin’ to that. Well, now she’s on the bridge, wa
lkin’ slow as drippin’ ice in January. An’ I’m still sneakin’. She gets to the bridge middle. River there somethin’ fierce, all churnin’, tumblin’, an’ foamin’. She’s leanin’ over the wall there. Suddenly, I understand …”
“Understand what?” I cried.
“Yer Brigit is ’bout to end ’er life.”
“Kill herself?” I cried.
“Nothin’ special there. Lots o’ ladies do,” said Sary. “I’ve known four ’as done it meself. Things get terrible ’ard, you get down, or with child, and nothin’ is goin’ to ’elp you, nothin’.”
“But why should Brigit think that?”
“Don’t know. But I’m watchin’ ’er an’ I just know what’s in ’er ’ead. ‘What if she goes for it?’ I asks meself. ‘What does I do? Keep ’er from leapin’?’”
“Did you?”
“Didn’t ’ave to. She changes ’er mind. Turns back to the City. Down she goes this way an that, but I’m keepin’ close till she gets where she’s goin’.”
“Where’s that?”
“Some coffee-servin’ place. By the customhouse. And who do you think she sets down with?”
“Her brother?”
“Can’t be certain it was ’er brother ’cause I don’t think I’ve ever seen ’im, right? But I’m willin’ to say, an I am sayin’, they looked like brother an’ sister, though she bein’ the much older one.”
“It makes sense she would see him,” I said.
“But, you see,” she said with a grin, “there was a second man there.”
“Who?”
“The same as you just described … yer teacher.”
“Sergeant Muldspoon?” I cried, astounded. “But why?”
“Couldn’t get close enough to ’ear ’em talk. But puttin’ it together, that one sure keeps sittin’ in the middle o’ things. Fact, the two men gets into some argument. Brigit jumps up an’ runs off. Upset. Wipin’ tears. I kept sneakin’ after ’er. She goes to Covent Garden for eatin’ stuff. Then back she goes to the prison.”
“But what does it all mean?” I said.
“Don’t know. But if you were askin’ me if there were one bloke behind all the doin’, an if I were doin’ the answerin’, I’d likely say it were none other than that darlin’ teacher o’ yers—what you call him?—Old Moldy.”
CHAPTER 38
I Receive an Invitation from Mr. Tuckum
Old Moldy! I was so taken by Sary’s notion that—despite the dark and the cold rain, not to mention my hunger—I leaned back against the prison wall trying to put my thoughts together.
Mr. Farquatt: Mr. Farquatt was French, our ancient enemy. There was, I supposed, reason then for him to act as he had, which I could comprehend.
Mr. O’Doul: I knew little of Ireland, save what Brigit had told me, though I was aware in a hazy sort of way that there was always trouble in Ireland. No doubt Mr. O’Doul could play a part in that. And I remembered Brigit’s fierce remark: For things held dear to the hearty all kinds of sacrifices must be made.
But Sergeant Muldspoon! In school, if he proclaimed his patriotism once, he did so twenty times a day, forever denouncing the red revolutionaries in other places—in Paris, Rome, and Berlin—as well as the “English Mob,” as he called them, who would, he foretold, tumble the monarchy. Why should he desire the secret of rifling? What need had he? Was he about to shoot his students?
I shared my thoughts with Sary, whose only comment was, “I know nothin’ ’bout the world beyond—’cept Australia. Never been out of the City, save once when I was on the river. Never even crossed it.”
Though the City bells rang for nine o’clock, we continued talking. Shortly thereafter I heard the prison gates open and close. People emerged—visitors, I assumed. One of them was Mr. Tuckum. The bailiff fairly waddled out across the pavement to stand by the curb. From the way he looked up and down, I was sure he was seeking a Hansom cab.
Sary, who knew nothing of Tuckum, paid him no mind. But I could not help but observe. Draped over his squat frame, his faded red great-coat seemed drab, his Piccadilly weepers quaint. No smiles and bows. In truth, at that moment he looked less old-fashioned than just beyond his time. And troubled, too. I wondered if I was seeing the real man.
Then, as he looked about, he spied us—or I should say me, for he knew naught of Sary. On the instant he was all smiles again, nothing but familiar amiability.
“Master John,” he cried, “you’re still here!” He extended his hand.
I got to my feet.
“You said you were stopping with a friend,” he said. I saw his eyes shift to Sary.
“I am with a friend,” I replied. “This is Sary,” I said, not quite willing to say Sary the Sneak, or Sarah Waiting.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, bowing in his way but looking upon her in puzzled fashion, as if he could not quite fathom my acquaintance with such a ragged girl.
Sary only grinned, saying, “Pleased to meet you.”
“You told your parents,” said the bailiff, turning back to me, “that you were staying with a friend from school. Is this …?” He hardly knew what to say, but his eyes appraised Sary again.
“Mr. Tuckum,” I said, “be assured, I have no better friend than Sary.”
“Where does she … hmm … reside?”
“St. Giles Rookery,” said Sary, bold as polished brass.
“Indeed,” said the bailiff, at a momentary loss for words. “Well then, as you say. But I’m glad to see you, Master John. Very glad. And glad to have been visiting your father. A most amiable man.”
Perhaps it was my brief glimpse of Mr. Tuckum beyond his buoyant good nature that made me take a chance.
“Mr. Tuckum,” I said, “I suspect I know what brings you to him.”
“I hope friendship, Master John, is above suspicion.”
“And not, in any sense,” I said, “at the request of Chief Inspector Ratchet?”
Mr. Tuckum inhaled deeply, then pursed his lips as if to let that same breath out. He scratched one side of his Piccadilly weepers. “Well … hmm … yes,” he fairly stammered, “if you know about that.”
Then he seemed to make the same decision I had made. “See here, Master John, I am, as you know, a most old-fashioned man. That being the case, there are those below me. To the same degree, there are those above me. It’s the nature of our well-established order that those above can and do give me orders. How much … how much of this … hmm … matter concerning your father do you know?”
“Sir, you once asked me if my father had confided in me. At the time he had not. Since then he has.”
“Ah!”
“So I’ve discovered a great deal. And I beg to tell you, sir, between my friend Sary and me, we know even more … now.”
Mr. Tuckum’s eyes shifted to Sary, then back again to me. “More than … Inspector Ratchet knows?” he asked.
“With all due respect, sir, I think so,” I said.
He paused to consider. “Master John,” he said, “would you do me the honor of returning with me to the Halfmoon Inn? We might best talk there. Share some food. The weather, in its old-fashioned way, is wretched tonight and probably will get worse. At the moment I have no other … hmm … guests.”
“I’d be happy to,” I said, “but only if my partner comes with us.”
“Partner, Master John?”
“We’re detectives,” Sary blurted out, her face a yard of grin.
“Are you?” cried Mr. Tuckum. He allowed himself a smile. “Then by all means, the two of you must come along. I should like to hear what you have detected.”
He hailed a Hansom cab, and the three of us climbed in and drew the cab blanket up to our chins. A good thing, too, for the cold rain began to come down hard, making the streets glisten and pedestrians fairly run.
During the brief, jolting journey to the inn we did not talk at all about my father’s circumstance. Instead, Mr. Tuckum enlightened us with the latest developments—as he had r
ead them—of his beloved serial novel, David Copperfield.
“It’s quite a remarkable tale,” he insisted. “Do you know what I like about it the most?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“It’s not as if I were reading what transpires. No, I fear I’m no longer fond of reading. My eyes are—”
“Old-fashioned,” I suggested.
“Perhaps merely old. The nature of my duties, Master John, has me reading mostly facts. But to read facts is to read only of other souls. Read Mr. Dickens, and it’s as if I were living life with my own soul.”
He went on from there to tell the story in some detail—all that he had “seen.” While Sary seemed very interested, I confess the story only put me in mind to think again about Inspector Copperfield. In all our reckoning we had ignored him. But who was he? How did he fit in?
All too soon, however, we clattered onto Halfmoon Alley. When we stepped out, it was evident from the Hansom standing before the inn that Mr. Tuckum had a visitor.
“Ah,” said the bailiff, “Chief Inspector Ratchet has already arrived.”
CHAPTER 39
Make More Discoveries
“Ratchet?” I demanded. “Why is he here?”
“He’s my superior.”
“’E’s not mine!” exclaimed Sary with surprising vehemence. “Don’t want nothin’ to do with that man!” She started out of the carriage.
“Please,”! said, holding her back. “I need you to stay.”
“What for?” she said, gazing at me.
“We must solve the mystery,” I said. “And I can’t do it alone.”
She considered.
“And you’re the only one I trust,” I whispered.
“That true?”
“It is.”
“All right, then. I’ll come.”
The inn’s main room looked dingier than ever, illuminated as it was by a hearth fire far brighter and warmer than I ever saw Mr. Tuckum burn. And Chief Inspector Ratchet was indeed within, as big and burly a man as I had recollected.
The inspector had taken a chair and pulled it close to the grate with his booted feet extended to the side hob, his fingers interlaced over his ample stomach. His oilskin cloak hung about his shoulders, touching the floor. It gave him a massive, brooding appearance. He appeared to be deep in thought.
