by Clive Mullis
Cornwallis peered around MacGillicudy’s back. He noticed the little old lady wore a long tweedy type skirt with a cardigan, the blouse beneath white with lace trim and buttoned right up to her neck. Her legs ended in stout brown shoes above which were wrinkled stockings, or possibly even wrinkled legs — it was hard to tell.
‘She’s been keeping an eye on the boys,’ explained Gerald. ‘She’s good at that sort of thing.’
The two boys kept playing with their toys despite the entrance of the four men. They looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world, and were in fact, in a world of their own.
‘Never ‘ad any toys, they said,’ explained Gerald. ‘Poor little sods never ‘ad a mum or dad neither, them being orphans. Street kids now, living by their wits and someone else’s wallet.’
Cornwallis nodded; the Brews threw up kids like these as if they were confetti.
Gerald’s mum leant forward as a row of soldiers’ got mown down by a runaway cart, greeted by whoops of joy from the boys. ‘These gentlemen have come to see you. Arthur and Albert, you must be polite and bid them welcome.’
Arthur and Albert were scrambling across the floor on their knees but as soon as Gerald’s mum spoke, they stopped. ‘Yes, Granny Dorkie,’ they replied immediately.
Granny Dorkie smiled indulgently as the boys stood up and dusted themselves down. She pulled them towards her and spat on her hands before plastering their hair down neat and flat. Satisfied with their appearance, she spun them around to face the visitors.
‘Good afternoon, sirs,’ they chorused.
Cornwallis, Frankie and MacGillicudy were somewhat taken aback by the politeness of the boys, whereas Gerald grinned from ear to ear.
‘Mum’s been teaching ‘em,’ he explained.
MacGillicudy stepped forward to ruffle the boys’ heads, about to undo all of Granny’s work, but he had second thoughts when he saw something moving in the hair. Instead, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a couple of pennies. He gave them one each.
‘Now, my lads. My friend, Mr Gerald here, tells me you have something you wish to tell me.’
The boys looked at Gerald and received a nod in reply.
‘Are we going to get into trouble, sir?’
MacGillicudy shook his head. ‘No, my boys. I just want you to tell me the truth.’
CHAPTER 15
The girls stole out of Pendon two at a time, with instructions to go to various underground entrances where dwarfs waited to guide them as they arrived. They sneaked out without the guards noticing, surprised at how easy it turned out to be.
Rose, MacGillicudy and everyone else stood watching as the last swing of the pick did its work. The dwarf wielding it had spat on his hands, rubbed them together, picked up the pick and had swung hard. Goodhalgan had kept his word. The offshoot to the document room completed well ahead of time. He’d said this evening, but it had taken until only late afternoon.
Goodhalgan took the initiative. He stuck an arm through the hole holding a lit candle, followed shortly after by his head.
‘Oh, bugger,’ he exclaimed, as he looked around. ‘Anyone got a ladder?’
They made the hole bigger as a dwarf rushed off to find the required ladder, then everyone began to tumble out and down into the document room.
MacGillicudy stood looking up as a bum eased its way out through the hole and then watched as a pair of legs tentatively found the rungs. The rest of Felicity, the last one down, followed a second or so later.
The commander’s whiskers twitched as he fought the temptation. To look or not to look? Now that was a question. Cornwallis and Frankie had no problem with their conscience, they looked and watched as all the girls came down and kept on watching as step by step Felicity descended.
Rose jabbed an elbow into Cornwallis’ ribs.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked innocently.
‘I think you know,’ she replied with a frown.
‘I’m just making sure she doesn’t fall.’
Frankie looked up and grinned, enjoying the view. ‘Nice and steady girl, just take your time, take all the time you need.’
Felicity stopped mid-rung and turned her head to look down. She saw them all looking up, aware of what some of them must be thinking, after all, her anatomy had been plastered all over the papers. ‘You seen enough now, gentlemen?’
‘Not yet, girl,’ replied Frankie eagerly.
Rose sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘I give up with you two. I’ve tried teaching you manners but it seems to be a waste of my time.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘I thought we were getting better.’ He went to pat her bum, but then thought that she might consider that to be a bit patronising, so he decided against it. ‘Besides, I watched you the other day when we were at the dancing. Never seen such tight trousers on a man before, and you looked like you were enjoying it — you all but got the ruler out.’
‘That’s different,’ she countered. ‘We were watching art, so it didn’t count.’
‘Maybe, but you still borrowed my eye-spy to see right up close.’
‘Yes, so I could study their moves; get a feel for the performance.’
‘So it wasn’t so you could look at their lunch-boxes, then?’ he replied, a hint of triumph in his voice.
Rose hesitated with her reply. ‘In truth, yes,’ she agreed in the end, ‘and I tell you, some of them were far better built than you.’
Felicity finally stepped off the ladder and turned around. ‘When’s the baby due?’ she asked Frankie, pointedly.
‘Soon,’ he replied.
‘And here you are staring at my bum. What would your good lady say about that?’
Frankie’s mouth opened, but the reply stayed stuck in his throat. Guilt eased into his mind and he felt the tinge of a blush.
Rose stepped past Cornwallis and put an arm around Felicity. ‘That’s my girl, keep it up. You’re going to get a lot worse when you’re down at the watch-house. Hit them where it hurts, especially in their masculinity.’
MacGillicudy nodded. ‘I’m afraid Rose is probably right. But…’ and he cast an eye towards the rest of the girls. ‘… I hope it won’t put you off joining the force. Change has to start somewhere, and with the feelers, that change starts with you.’
The girls looked at each other, then at Rose, and then finally at the commander.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Tiffany. ‘We all know what we’re letting ourselves in for. We know we’re going to have to crack a few nuts before we get accepted.’
The girls grinned and suppressed a laugh.
MacGillicudy’s eyebrows hit his hair-line and his hands dropped protectively. ‘Er… good, that’s good to know.’
The dwarfs brought in more lanterns and soon the document room blazed in light.
Frankie headed for the door that led to the corridor where the stairs went up to the main building, checked that it was still locked, then rammed a spare key into the lock and half-turned it — it would jam anything that came from the other side.
MacGillicudy regarded the girls again and began to give them instructions. Pairing up, they were to go through all the files, beginning with the latest and putting aside the file of any serving feeler who had a military past. They were also to put aside any who served on ships or had a history of travelling to distant shores. Without giving them all the details, he impressed on them the importance of the exercise. There would be food and drink, provided by the dwarfs, and the work would continue until they had examined all the files. It was a mammoth undertaking, but he had confidence that they would find what they were looking for. He dangled the carrot that once they had finished the task, they would be sworn in as Police Officers and would be able to draw full pay, even though they were still to finish training. They were, in effect, to be fast-tracked into the Service.
The murmur of excitement ran through them all as the news hit home.
‘Er… does that mean we’ve all passed?�
�� asked Bragwin, a little nervously.
‘Not yet,’ replied the commander. ‘You have to sort the files first.’
Rose hadn’t known about this little development, though they had discussed various aspects and options but not the immediate introduction into the ranks of the feelers. It would be really interesting when they all got back to Pendon to see the men’s reaction to this news.
The girls were hushed into silence and the commander smiled at their reaction. He felt pleased with himself and nodded at Rose to begin the task.
Straight away, the work began.
They started off by pulling all the files off the shelves and laying them on the tables that Cornwallis and Frankie had dragged through from another room. There were a good few rooms down in the cellars, most of which had been abandoned over the years, a bit like a rabbit warren, with everything interconnecting but having only a couple of ways out.
When a good stack of files had been placed on each table, the girls lapsed into concentrated silence. The files themselves seemed to speak as they were opened, some perhaps for the first time in years. A kind of crackling sound could be heard as the papers were extracted and brought out into the light: a sound of relief, of hope, that the darkness and musty smell of the buff colour folder was a thing of the past. The files wanted to become alive.
The hairs on the back of Rose’s neck began to prickle as she felt the atmosphere change. The air seemed charged as though a spark could ignite it all, and not for the first time, she wished that she had Isabella’s ability to sense the world beyond life.
MacGillicudy stood in the centre of it all with his hands linked behind his back. He watched as the girls opened every file, perused the contents and then replaced it all back in its folder. Occasionally his excitement increased as a girl put one aside, and he had extreme difficulty in not pouncing on it to read the contents. Each file picked out could indicate the man responsible for the attacks on his watch-houses.
Cornwallis and Frankie had quickly grown bored with the waiting around and decided that perhaps they would be better off employed in doing something else. Rose felt that she had to stay, the girls were her responsibility, and while they stayed, then so would she.
The two lads, Arthur and Albert, had given them enough information for some discreet inquiries. The man who had bought the gonepowder off them seemed to know the Brews very well. Feelers did not as a rule patrol the slum, and most feelers would get lost within a few seconds of entering the place, so it raised the possibility that the man once lived in the area but had managed to escape. A former Brews resident who had become a feeler? It would be highly unlikely to find that information in the files, but street information might — and they had a description.
Medium height but stocky, wearing clothes that were slightly posher than the normal garb worn by the Brews residents, but nowhere near as posh as those worn by Frankie — and Frankie’s clothes could hardly be described as being good. The man had always worn a hat with the brim pulled down low over his eyes with a scarf covering his mouth and nose. He spoke with a definite Gornstock accent, but he tried to use long words which the lads said did not sound right, as though he tried to sound educated, like someone aspiring to greater things without realising that it made him seem more common, someone who thought that you only had to have the words nearly right.
They’d followed the man after he received the last delivery and he went to a pub, the back of a pub that had a foot in both camps.
Gerald said that he wouldn’t take things further as he had a reputation to keep as King of the Brews, a Crime Tzar and the arbiter of all wrongdoing in the Brews. Helping to bring a feeler, who might have been a Brews resident, to justice, tempted him, but he couldn’t be seen to be complicit at the moment. People had to be scared of him, but they also had to trust him.
Goodhalgan had left a couple of dwarfs hanging around the newly hacked tunnel to Scooters Yard in case MacGillicudy needed some assistance — or so he said. The real reason being that he didn’t want anyone exploring his tunnels, as they held all manner of interesting and expensive things.
Cornwallis and Frankie climbed up the ladder and headed off into the dark with an ancient dwarf scurrying along in front of them with a lantern stuck on the pointy end of his axe. Whistles indicated their presence to the other dwarfs guarding the labyrinth of tunnels that made up Under-Gornstock as they negotiated the twists and turns.
Soon they went through the tunnel that went under the river and came to the nearest entrance to where they wanted to go; right on the edge, where the slum petered out and civilisation began.
They came up into the half-light and stood still for a moment tasting the fresh air and cleansing the lungs after the musty smell of the tunnels. The iron-mesh gate behind them clanked shut and then came the rattle of keys in the lock. The dwarf disappeared quickly from view once he’d secured the entrance, leaving the two detectives alone.
A light drizzle now fell, so they pulled up their collars and shrank their necks and then stepped out into the evening air.
They were in Belchers Row, a street full of dilapidated shop fronts and market stalls which oozed across the pavement, a haphazard collection which looked as if a child had gone mad with a bit of cardboard and a pot of glue. It gave the place an ambience of shabbiness, bordering on the chic — but just the wrong side.
A bit further down was the pub that the two boys had indicated, where an alley ran down the side and into the Brews, their intended destination.
Dusk had come and all the vendors were doing their best to get rid of their remaining stock, as they really didn’t want to cart the stuff home again. There were bargains to be had, and the locals knew it, so last minute bartering brought the people out.
Frankie elbowed his way through the crowd as Cornwallis followed in his wake. Anyone who complained just took one look at Frankie and stuttered to a stop, generally giving a submissive grin before getting out of the way.
Little monkeys and meerkats dodged between the legs of everyone as they scampered from vendor to vendor, passing information and checking prices as each shop and stall holder tried to gain the upper hand.
Eventually they fought their way towards the alley, where on one side stood the pub. The front, facing the street, could be classed as looking respectable, but the back, which sat in the Brews, would be anything but.
The name of the pub indicated that it had a foot in both camps, The Reaper and The Wrangler didn’t apologise for what it was.
Pushing open the dark stained oak door, the detectives forced their way in.
The beer flowed copiously with pint after pint drawn by the harassed bar staff and Cornwallis and Frankie had a problem trying to catch one of their eyes. They waited a little while and then began to delve into the snacks on the bar: which consisted of cheese, pork scratchings and pickled onions, with a few thin potato snacks, all laid out in little bowls. After five minutes they had stuffed themselves, but then the barmaid deemed them next to be served. They ordered a couple of pints and Frankie took a long slow pull.
‘Not like the Stoat, is it.’
‘Well, we’re not regulars,’ said Cornwallis. ‘We have to go with the flow. Eddie would see us coming and have the beer ready, but here…’
They turned around with an idle elbow leaning on the bar until a bit of wet permeated through their jackets.
Frankie sniffed. ‘At least it’s only beer,’ he remarked, with a feeling of relief.
A punter desperate for his next jar eased them away as he pushed behind them, leaving them standing in the middle of the narrow bar. Cornwallis surveyed his surroundings. Dark wood panelling with some ornate mirrors lining the side wall, dark chunky tables with benches and chairs sat in front. Further down the bar, there were some small intimate booths, where private business could be conducted, out of sight and hearing of prying eyes and ears.
Right at the back, they could see another bar with a little walkthrough off to the side. The custome
rs were moving freely between groups, many of them traders from the street outside — but not all.
Frankie nudged Cornwallis and brought his attention to some of the memorabilia that decorated the pub: there were paintings of old traders standing proudly outside their shops, men in uniform, old soldiers and sailors, and even one or two old feelers.
Cornwallis leant in towards Frankie’s ear. ‘You go explore the back end and I’ll stay here. Let’s see if we can hear something to our advantage.’
‘Why don’t you go out the back?’ asked Frankie, not exactly relishing the task. ‘It looks quite nice in here.’
‘You’re already dressed for the part: you look like a sack of shit as it is. You’re made for that bar.’
‘Thanks, Jack; Isabella will be so pleased with your observation. Anyway, what makes you think you look better?’
‘Money, Francis, stacks of it. This is my fourth best suit and it just about fits in here. Around the back I’d have no chance.’
In the end, Frankie had to concede the point. If what they’d been told held true, then a posh suit, even a battered posh suit, would look way out of place in there.
‘Well, I’ll just have to hope the beer’s cheaper in the Brews,’ sighed Frankie.
Cornwallis smiled. ‘Don’t just stand around. Get to work.’
With a withering glance, Frankie eased away and began to head off to the back. He sipped at his beer and began to stagger slightly as if he already had too much.
Cornwallis watched him go and then emptied his glass in one gulp. He headed back to the bar and stood there, waiting in forlorn hope that he might manage to get a refill. The beer wasn’t too bad at all.
After a few minutes and a few false starts, as some bastard managed to jump in ahead of him, he managed to get a pint. Normally he would have made his position clear, but in an unknown pub, and where he would quite like to pick up some information, he thought that discretion and acceptance of his lot would prove more beneficial.
