by P M Cole
I quickly tried to recall the headlines I had talked of. “Umm… I know… err… knew one of the workers who died at the docks.” They were the first dishonest words I had ever told him, but I hoped my lie would take flight regardless.
He poked the logs again. “Yes, that is a sad tale. I do not remember fog as thick as this in all my years residing here. It is as if the very city itself is sick.”
He appeared to be paying particular attention to one of the front-page stories, but from my position, I could not make out which.
“Do you know the family? Perhaps we could provide them with some food? It would be hard on them now he has gone.” As he talked, his gold pocket watch, which, unlike most people he wore on a chain around his neck, caught the light from the fire.
I feigned a smile, but my mind was locked on the words ‘Key-shaped scar’. How many men could have a similar disfigurement? A shiver ran through me again. My nightmare was threatening to pull me back to it. My stomach rumbled and I took another sip of my drink. I had never spoken to anyone of how I ended up being placed with a baby farmer, or my time in the asylum, and my earliest memories were distant, with no way to prove my lineage. Now, though, for the first time, an unfortunate event that befell the Haywards might have provided a clue to my past, and I had to know more.
The bell rang, making me jump. The sound of satin and lace sliding across the wooden floor came from the shop.
“Mr Gladwell? I am here to collect my clock,” said an elderly woman.
The old man enjoying the fire briefly rolled his eyes, and this time my smile was real.
“I’ll be right with you, Mrs Groves.”
He stood and looked towards the parlour. “Take some potatoes and carrots to the family if you wish.”
I nodded, and he pushed the sheet which separated the rooms to one side, his face contorted by his own fake smile. As he demonstrated the inner workings of Mrs Groves’ repaired clock, I quickly retreated to my home below, looked for suitable clothing, and tied my hair back.
After putting on my dress, coat, and placing my feet in boots, I wrapped a scarf around my neck and placed a bonnet upon my head, then returned to the kitchen. I could hear the conversation continuing in the shop but instead paid attention to the name of the reporter who wrote the crime story and the address of the newspaper. ’110 Fleet Street’.
I placed vegetables from the parlour in my bag and left by the rear.
Quickly, I made my way over the cobbled yard and into the alleyway between the backs of the shops. The confined space was shadow-ridden, and the blanket of fog which hung in the air meant I hurried past the moss-covered walls, stepping over the puddles of putrid water, and out to the main thoroughfare.
Three- and four-story Georgian buildings and older towered around me. Most had shops at their bases with the upper floors containing more businesses. Some of the lower level walls were covered in advertisements. Tea, soap, local exhibitions, and anything else the posters could squeeze onto the ever-dwindling space, shouted for attention. While the higher levels contained windows with plant boxes outside.
I made my way across the wide road, slightly lifting the hem of my dress to avoid what had been left behind by the horses, and held onto my scarf, placing my head down to avoid the unwanted attention of those that were loitering.
Even though it had been seven years since I lived on the streets, the memories of the winding lanes that connected the city were always fresh to me, and I cut my way between the buildings, being careful to avoid the darkest alleys, until I emerged onto Fleet Street.
A continuous throng of carriages moved past. The buildings here were even taller and more crammed together than my home. In the distance, just visible in the mist, the dome of St Paul’s sat high in the sky.
I looked at the closest entrance, spotting the building number then moved along the street, counting off the doors until I found it. ‘London Gazette’ was proudly displayed across the front of the building, just shy of the first-floor windows. I peered inside the large entrance. Men sat at high desks, examining the white printed pages in front of them, while younger men ran between them.
‘Excuse me, miss!’ A young boy pushed past me and ran inside then continued until he was lost to me between the workers.
Catching the door before it fully closed, I walked inside onto the boards. The smell of paper and ink filled the air. In the distance, a large hulking machine sat while people covered in dark stains buzzed around it.
“Are you lost?” said one of the seated men.
“I’m looking for a Mr Eaton… he wrote an article about a crime in Badger Lane.”
The man looked confused. “Yes? Do you have information on the crime?”
“Umm, no, but if I could just talk to him, I’m—”
The man looked back down at the large volume in front of him. “Mr Eaton is a very busy man, he does not have time for the likes of you. Please be on your way.”
Sniggers rippled around the rest of the copywriters.
Behind these desks, a wide staircase beckoned. I went to take a step forward when a firm hand grabbed my arm, dragging me back towards the door.
“This way, young lady,” said a stout man. His clothes were covered in oil and grease stains. I could tell he was one of those that operated the machine.
Before I had a chance to protest, I was outside. I stepped back, almost bumping into passersby and looked up at the other floors of the impressive building. Behind the windows, in the shadows, I could see movement but no easy way to access who was up there. Perhaps if I came back at night…
“So you knew the Haywards?” came a voice to my side. A young man, whose appearance was appealing, despite his spectacles and slightly dishevelled suit, leaned on a street lamp. His accent was not from here, but I recognised it as coming from America.
“Excuse me?”
“You wanted to talk to Eaton, about the mugging in Badger Lane. You know something?”
I pulled my scarf around my neck and started along the road. “I don’t know anything.”
I tried to walk fast, but I noticed he was keeping pace.
“I’m Abner Brooks, I work at the Gazette.”
I stopped, not fully believing him. “Do you know the Haywards? I want to talk to them.”
Confusion swept across his face. “Why do you want to talk to them?”
“They umm… I think I have seen some of their possessions being sold in the lanes behind Butchers Avenue. I thought they would want to know.” It was part of the plan I had come up with on my way to the Gazette.
“Why not just tell the police?”
Despite his appearance, he clearly was not someone who had involvement with the streets, or he would have known why that was not possible.
“Because I do not want to end up in Tothill! Can you help me or not?”
I could see the gears working inside his mind.
“If I show you where they live, I get to write about what happens, OK?”
“Yes.”
“Then follow me.”
He stepped out in front of a cab, which promptly stopped. “Driver, Pimlico!”
I stepped back. “No, I cannot.”
Mr Brooks looked back at me, his foot already on the carriage’s step. “You cannot what?”
“I cannot go on that. It… it makes my head spin.”
Again, he looked confused.
“You coming on or not?” grumbled the driver.
As Mr Brooks stepped onto the road, another man pushed past him and hopped onboard. Mr Brooks frowned. “I have never heard of such a condition. I guess we are walking then.”
CHAPTER THREE
“You never ride the Omnibus? You walk everywhere?” said Mr Brooks, out of breath.
“Yes. It is good for one’s heart,” I said, keeping up a good pace. “How much further?”
He waved one hand at the terraced houses some yards ahead of us. “Number twelve. If they ask, you never got their address from
me!”
I nodded and ran between the two pillars. Composing myself I then used the black door knocker. Footsteps on the other side were followed by the door opening and a maid looking at me.
“Yes?” she said.
“I would like to talk to Mr Hayward.”
The maid looked me up and down. “Mr Hayward is not available, good day.”
“No, please, I have information relating to their affray.”
The maid’s face drained of colour and she looked past me to see if I was alone. “What do you know of what happened to them?”
More footsteps came from the chequered tiled hallway. An elderly man with a waistcoat and pocket-watch chain hanging from it appeared from the shadows. “What is it, Hessie?”
“There’s a girl here, she says she knows something of your disturbance from the other night, sir.”
He stepped to the doorway. “You can leave us, Hessie.”
She nodded and moved away.
I hid my nervousness, trying to concentrate on the next part of my story.
“What do you know, girl?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I read—”
“You can read, child?”
“Yes, sir. I read in the Gazette about the horrible thing that happened to you and your wife, and particularly what your wife mentioned about the mark on the man’s hand?”
“What about it?”
“I was accosted myself by a man with just such a mark. I was hoping you or your wife would know more about the man? Maybe we could tell the police more, and he would be found?”
I wasn’t sure my ruse was working. I could tell he was trying to ascertain the validity of my story. Those who lived on the street often became good at telling a hard-luck story to any man or woman of means, and in turn, they became good at ignoring it. Eventually, he nodded to himself.
“Do you have lice or fleas?”
“No, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Umm… people call me ‘Cog’, sir.”
He frowned. “Then come inside. Perhaps there is more to learn.”
I stepped inside the hallway. My mouth went to fall open at the opulence that surrounded me, but instead, despite the brief excitement that I was starting to feel at seeing the paintings and ornate lamps, my head started to hurt. Somehow the scene seemed familiar. I briefly rubbed my forehead.
Mr Hayward waved me forward to the living room. “In here, young lady. I shall call my wife.”
The main room of the house was even more full of wonder than the hallway. Glass-fronted cabinets full of books covered two of the walls, with a large painting on another. A sofa sat opposite two high-backed armchairs, all close enough to the roaring fire to feel its warmth.
I walked inside, suddenly being concerned if there were any muck on the underside of my boots, and went to sit on the sofa, when the maid from a few moments before cleared her throat. I looked at her then remained standing.
From the sound of material moving across rugs and board, I could tell Mrs Hayward was about to enter.
A stout lady, wearing a full maroon dress moved into the room and sat on the sofa. Mr Hayward chose one of the armchairs.
“Talk, girl, what do you know of this man?” said Mrs Hayward.
“I was at Shard Pit Lane with some of my friends. This man—” Despite my mind struggling not to, I pictured the face from my dream… his chapped lips, rotting teeth, and bushy eyebrows. His hand marked with what looked like oil, and the key-shaped burn. “— Attacked us, and made off with some of our belongings.”
“Did you not report it to the police?”
I looked down. “Umm… those like myself do not get much time from the coppers, ma’am.”
“No, of course.”
“If I may, ma’am. It said in the newspaper they took your valuables? Maybe if I knew of what items he took, then on my travels if I might see them, I could tell you?”
This was the plan from the moment I had decided to visit the Gazette. The madam of the house looked at her husband. He nodded.
“Well, these items were quite expensive. But more than that, they had belonged to my father, and his father before that. They hold great sentimental value to myself and my family. It is important you know that, young lady.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“There was a gold bracelet… umm a heart-shaped pendant, which contained a photographic image we have just had done of myself and Mr Hayward.”
I felt bad for the lady that she had lost her items, but I needed more. I needed something specific. Unique.
“And the ring, dear…” said Mr Hayward.
She sighed. “They also took my wedding ring. A gold clasp inlaid with a red ruby… it was inscribed on the band, to myself from my husband.”
That’s it.
“If I may be so bold, could you tell me what the inscription said exactly? So I can know if I come across such a garment, that it is truly yours?”
“Our love will outlast our history. Forever yours Bernard.”
*****
After thanking the Haywards, I gave them Mr Gladwell’s address to assure them of my attentions. Also, I noticed that the timepiece they had hanging above their fire was thirty-two seconds slow and that we could offer them a good deal if they brought it to us to be repaired.
Outside I said my goodbyes to Mr Brooks, also giving him my employers address and made my way towards home. This time, though, I took the route which brought me alongside Gooseman’s park. The houses here lurched against each other, barely able to stand, reflecting the condition of their occupants. And their windows had long since become vacant holes, offering no solace from the conditions outside. The people that lived here were too poor even for the workhouses and gained any chance of seeing the next sunrise through scouring the streets for rubbish that might have value. Others did the same on the mudflats of the river Thames. For many, though, those endeavours proved unsuccessful and crime was the only pathway left unless they were happy with an early journey with the ferryman. Many were.
It had been many years since I had been to such a place, and I had almost forgotten just how bleak an existence it was for those who resided in these dwellings.
A boy of maybe eight years of age sat on a step of one of the homes. His pale hands wrapped around his dark grey coat. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small potato. On seeing it, something stirred within his eyes, and he stretched out a hand slowly as if the air itself was too heavy for his limb.
I rolled my eyes. “Cut it out. I know you are not that sickly. If you were you would have sores over your hands and face!”
He frowned. “What you want for it?”
“I need what’s in your noggin!”
He pulled back. “I’ll scream if you try to get inside my ‘ead!”
I smiled and tossed him the vegetable. He rubbed the dirt from it like he had discovered gold, then promptly bit into it.
I produced another. He stopped in half chew.
“You one of those church ladies?”
“Doesn’t matter what I am. You can have this one too. But I need you to tell me. Where do blaggards and ruffians sell their thieved items?”
A noise came from the alley to the side of me. There were people moving amongst the shadows. I needed to be on my way.
“What’s it to ya?”
“Do you want this or not?” I waved the potato.
The boy frowned again. “Fine. I ain’t ‘eard much, but sometimes I ‘ear that the rich go to the back of the station at Euston, in the warehouses there, there’s like a bazaar or something. They buy things that’d been taken.”
“’Ere, miss, you need help with something?” A man, whose clothes hung from his arms, emerged from the shadows.
I tossed the potato to the boy and walked away at good speed.
CHAPTER FOUR
On returning home, I slipped back into my usual routine of taking the next clock to be repaired to the basement where
I set about deconstructing it before finding the fault. Unlike the hundreds of days previously I had performed such a task, my mind was not following my fingers, and I found myself often breathing heavily, images from my past bubbling into my brain.
I wondered if somehow the deepest parts of me knew what would appear in the paper. My dream somehow showing me the future from my past? I scoffed at the suggestion. I never had much time for the ideas of magic and superstition. I believed in what could be designed and built from the earth’s elements. Even before I started to work at the shop I would sometimes find discarded penny magazines filled with the latest inventions. Devices that allowed sound to be transmitted with electric charge, or a combustion device that, instead of working with steam, worked with gas or oil. Some of my favourite finds though were within the newspapers that would show the works of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Railways, bridges, and the biggest naval vessel in the world, the great Eastern would be heralded across the pages, and I loved every rain-smudged photograph and drawing, imagining myself creating the same one day. I devoured what I could, happy to be living in a time when mankind was making such strides.
I looked at the closest timepiece to me.
7:50 p.m.
Outside, night had already fallen.
I lifted the mechanism back into its wooden case and set the correct time, then watched and waited a full minute before being sure it was now keeping with the others around it.
I picked the clock up, holding it in both arms and walked up the steps to the store. Mr Gladwell was checking through the ledger.
“Unusual for you to take a whole day to fix a clock?” he said without looking up from the rows of names, dates, and payments. His eyeglasses teetered on the end of his nose.
I placed the clock carefully on the wall, using one of the freed-up spots. “I had to fashion a number of cogs.”
He nodded then closed the book. “I’ve already locked up. We need to go see Mr Baker tomorrow to deliver his clocks for the bank. It would be good if we could go together.”
