by P M Cole
I hated Mr Baker. I tried not to shudder. “OK.”
Mr Gladwell laughed. “I’m not expecting you to marry the fellow. But if you are there, he’ll be decidedly more agreeable to what we charge him!”
I sighed. “I know.”
“See you in the morning then.” Mr Gladwell turned off the gas lamp and made his way upstairs.
I quickly but quietly made my way back downstairs, grabbed my coat and scarf, then to the far wall, where I jostled a loose brick free and placed a few shillings from my savings into my bag. Returning the brick, I returned upstairs and, when I was sure my employer had laid down for the night, unlocked the rear door and made my way outside.
A dog immediately barked, although from what direction it was hard to tell because the fog only allowed me to see a few yards in front of my face.
Mr Gladwell’s words came back to me, and I couldn’t help but imagine the fog seeping from the cracks in the earth. A poisonous mist that oozed from hell itself.
I made my way to the main street outside the shop. The fog would equally act as a shield and a hindrance. I might not be able to see danger, but equally, they who lingered in the shadows, like spiders waiting for their prey to stumble into their domain, would not know where I was as well. The clacking of hooves told me when a carriage was passing, and I tried to keep away from the alleyway entrances as I progressed up the Kingsway and past Russell Square. A group of Hansom cab drivers sniggered and sneered as I rushed past, but I was soon out of range of their insults.
In the mist, the street gas lamps looked like floating phantoms waiting to descend on passersby but were a useful guide as to the direction I was heading.
A disconnected woman’s laugh made me jump, no doubt plying her wares despite the lack of visibility of who she may be engaging.
Soon the distinct Greek revival shape of the Euston arch loomed through the mist, and the sounds of steam engines being maintained became clear.
I was close to my destination.
Keeping to the wall of the station, I made my way east around the back of the building, until I could see the line of sheds, their internal gas lamps glowing through their glass roofs.
A stampede of hooves made me jump to the side, narrowly missing a cascade of three omnibuses hurrying past. I wondered if their occupants’ destination was the same as mine.
I lifted the hem of my dress and ran, luckily I did not have to follow for long before I saw them stationary.
The coaches were pulled up outside a large building with few windows. Its walls were plastered with advertisements as if those that owned the structure did not care for it anymore. The men, all decked out with fine long coats and tall hats, disembarked from the coaches, laughing and slapping each other on the back and with a toss of a coin to the doorman, walked inside.
“Ahem…”
I spun around to face Mr Brooks. “Sir, you gave me a fright! Why are you here…” My face scrunched to one of confusion. “Have you been following me?”
He pulled me to one side, into one of the buildings recesses. I promptly brushed him off.
“This is not the kind of place a respectable young lady should be!”
I rolled my eyes. “First. You do not know anything about me. Second, I know what I’m doing! Third, I repeat. Have you been following me?”
His expression softened. “Only to the boy in Gooseman’s park. He told me of the girl that had kept him fed for a few days, and in return, she only wanted to know about the Euston Bazaar. You’re here looking for the man with the scar, aren’t you?”
Despite my anger at him following me, I couldn’t help but be impressed by his ability to keep track of a story.
“Actually, I’m here to try and help the Haywards reclaim what was taken from them. If I see the man, well that shall be an extra reward. Your presence is not required.”
He pointed towards the door and the burly looking individual standing beside it. “You see any ladies going in there?”
I looked away. “Well… I’m sure there are other entrances.”
“There’s two. One for the clients, and one for the merchandisers.”
I started to walk towards the side of the building. “Perfect.”
“But they have guards there as well!” he shouted after me, but I was already crossing the road being lost in the fog, and then moved swiftly down an alley. Inside I could hear the sound of a crowd, and high, just visible beyond the walls I could see glows from tiny windows.
Mr Brooks bumped into me. “I can’t see a thing in this fog.”
“Please look where you are going!”
“How are you going to get inside?”
I continued walking towards the voices at the end of the narrow path. “I’ll think of something.”
I peered around the wall to the traders’ entrance at the back of the building. A queue of carts with horses waited to enter through the large opening. Two men, one with a pipe in his mouth, stood guard and nodded to those who passed by.
“There’s no way you’re getting inside,” said Mr Brooks over my shoulder.
I tutted at his suggestion and him being so close. “I thought newspaper men were meant to be courageous!” I said in a hushed but assertive manner.
“They… we are!”
I ignored his reply, instead looking at the steady flow of wooden wagons moving inside, waiting for just the right…
I sprang from my spot and ran forward as a cart, loaded with particularly large cargo moved across the vision of the two men keeping watch. To my frustration, Mr Brooks had managed to follow me, and we both kept pace with the horses pulling the cart, moving inside and then nipped between the already offloaded boxes.
The sound from the main hall was now inescapable, although nothing distinct could be made out. I followed the artificial path behind the wooden containers until I emerged at the front, quickly moving through a large fabric partition into a wall of sound and heat.
I had always wanted to visit the great exhibition at Crystal Palace, but alas it had already finished a few years before I was born, but the scene I was witnessing now surely was similar, although on a smaller scale and with entirely different intentions.
‘Exhibitors’ filled the large space with stalls, some covered some not, while exotic animals roared and squawked from cages. Around the walls were wooden stages where women danced and men fought, both drawing large raucous crowds.
The throng was so thick that nobody knew a young lady was amongst them, but I pulled my scarf tight around my head to try and hide my features best I could anyway. I briefly looked back to see where Mr Brooks was, and I must admit I was relieved to see he was only a few steps behind.
As I was buffeted by arms, we moved from stall to stall, and I looked at the objects on display as closely as I could without drawing too much attention. Most were household items, candles with ornate holders, pans of all sizes, glass bottles with skulls painted on the sides, books and magazines, while others contained more exclusive items such as various kinds of home-made alcohol. When I came to a stall with tradesman’s tools I almost forgot the purpose as to why I was there, but then a stern voice rose above the rest a few stalls further along.
“You there! young man! I am sure any lady worthy of your attention, would appreciate these fine items from the far reaches of the empire! Recently purchased from my travels with the East India company!”
Mr Brooks stood frozen as others moved past him.
“Umm… me?” he enquired.
“Yes! Come closer. Look at what luxurious items I have!”
As he did as the voice requested, I tried to see through the bodies to a slightly larger stall than the others. A lean man stood on a stool, his attire more in keeping with those looking to buy, than sell. He started to talk again, trying to catch more in his net. As he talked, he waved his hands in a flamboyant style, and I could tell most watching were captivated by the story he was selling them.
I, however, was more interested i
n the glittering items laid out on the large flat table in front of him. I pushed forward, until bumping into a man that was almost twice my height. Luckily, I managed to move past him before he caught any clear sight of my face, and I stood just behind those that were closest to the stall. Trinkets, bracelets, necklaces and rings, inlaid with all colours of crystals and tenures of metals were just a few inches from my grasp. Even without my eye lens, I could tell most on the table were fake. The light that caught them also reflected the tiny dark patches which betrayed how they had been created. But then I noticed something that was not fake. A gold bracelet, and next to it a ruby ring…
“Do you see anything?” said Mr Brooks an inch my from my ear.
“Maybe. I need to see that ring…” I whispered back.
I went to try and push further forward when he got there first.
“I say, fine sir. May I partake in a closer inspection of that gold ring, with the ruby?”
The man on the stool stopped mid-sentence, seeing a new fool to take advantage of. “Well, of course, you can, friend.” He nodded to a man in front of him, and that’s when I realised that many of the stout individuals surrounding the jewellery table were, in fact, guarding it.
One of them leaned over, picked up the ring, and handed it to Mr Brooks, who did his best to look interested in the small item. He turned around to face me while giving a brief smile to those who were watching his every movement.
He pushed it in front of me. “Is this it?” he whispered with some urgency.
Using him as a barrier to probing eyes, I snatched it from his fingers and examined the inside of the band. Just as I suspected it did indeed have the Haywards’ inscription.
He turned around once again, smiling at the faces becoming increasingly concerned with his actions.
“You gonna buy it or not?” growled one of the guards. A bearded man with tattoos on one arm. He was also as wide as he was tall.
Mr Brooks looked down at me. A number of possible actions came to me all at once. I had found the ring, but none of the men at the stall was the man with the scar on his hand, and I doubted the man with the fancy words would but look at me let alone talk or tell me where he obtained it.
But I had the proof. So I ran.
Mr Brooks panicked and did the same. “This is your plan?” he shouted after me, trying to keep up, then knocking over the next stall.
This definitely wasn’t.
I dodged left and right, trying to fight my way through the crush, but each time I looked back I could see the lumbering hulks from the jewellery stall gaining on us, creating their own trail of destruction.
Looking up at the rafters I tried to orientate myself to a possible escape route, but the artificial lanes of stalls and sheer volume of people made doing so impossible.
“Come on!” shouted Mr Brooks, rushing past me, seemingly knowing which way to go.
“Grab her!” Came from a man behind us, accompanied by at least three others. They crashed through wooden tables sending their contents sprawling over the hay-covered floor.
I set off again, trying to keep up with the reporter, but I could almost feel the hands of my pursuers on my shoulders.
Angry faces and stalls flashed past, each containing an array of useful items…
An idea hit me so hard it almost knocked me from my feet and a strange sensation flowed through my body. My hand flicked out, grabbing a block of wood, it conveniently possessed a hole bored in one end. The stall owner screamed for me to return, but I was already onto my next target, a piece of twine, then a bolt, then other items. Each one necessary. My hands worked as I ran, as if moved by an unknown force, the pieces slotting together like they were ready made to do so. I wasn’t even sure what it was I was building, but somehow I knew it was what I needed.
“Over here!” shouted Mr Brooks.
I ran past the final stalls near the entrance and together we burst out of the door to the street outside, and kept on running. Moving forward into the fog, we tried to keep up our pace but could hear countless boots on the hard ground behind us.
“Keep going! We haven’t lost them!” I shouted.
My lungs burned from the cold, but I continued to push my arms and legs onwards.
We both skidded around a corner, not having any idea of where we were and went to run again when a wall reared up in front of us.
“A dead end!” said Mr Brooks.
I turned to escape when forms of men appeared in the mist behind us.
“Phew girl… you gave us a right run around…” said the gangly shape at the centre of the group.
It was the tall man, although now his words were not so refined, and his accent had dropped a few classes. He stepped forward, his henchmen doing the same, one of them grabbing Mr Brooks.
“Hey, get off—” Before Mr Brooks could finish, wind left his lungs as a hammer-like fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over.
“Leave him alone! I took the ring!” I shouted to the stall owner.
Come closer, I thought. Behind my back, I wound the screw, pulling the arm back. The bolt was already in place.
Mr Brooks head flew upwards and blood sprayed through the air. He groaned, grabbing his nose.
I felt sick.
The tall man, secure in his victory stepped closer.
Perfect…
I whipped the small weapon from behind my back and raised it until it was an inch from the tall man’s face.
He momentarily wavered.
“Let him go! Or I’ll fire my weapon!” I stated defiantly, not being entirely sure what kind of weapon it was. It kind of looked like a small crossbow.
“What are you doing…” said Mr Brooks, his words escaping between breaths, his spectacles sitting at an unwieldy angle.
A smile crept across the tall man’s face and he started laughing. Not the response I was hoping for. Others joined in until the sound of their mocking echoed around the walls.
He leaned into the sharp stick protruding from my device until it touched his forehead. “Go on then, fire.” His eyes were aflame.
My hand started trembling. How did I get here? Am I really going to shoot this thing I somehow made into a strangers head? And I did steal the ring…
The man pulled back. “I think she needs to see what happens when you steal from Mr Finlay.” He looked at the ruffian holding Mr Brooks. “Cut his ear off.”
Mr Brook’s eyes widened as he tried to struggle free. But the men held him firm as the knife drew closer to his appendage.
Rage flowed through me. “No!” I swung my arm around and released the finger on the trigger mechanism. The stick split the air slamming into the neck of the tattooed man, causing a spray of blood. He cried out in pain. Mr Brooks slammed his boot down on the foot of the other who was holding him, and we both stumbled forward trying to make good our escape. For a moment a flash of hope ran through me, but before I could take another step, a hand grabbed my neck and I was dragged backwards, the same happening to Mr Brooks until we were both thrown up against the wall.
The tall man walked forward. “You think this is a game, girl?” He grabbed the weapon from my hand, examined it, then threw it against the wall where it promptly broke in two. He then looked at the man to his right. “Get the ring from her!”
The man grabbed me, his grip not allowing me to pull free, then pulled my bag from my hand and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for and handed it to the tall man.
The one in charge looked at it closely. “It’s a fine piece. But was it worth it?” He looked at the men around him. “Take them to the dock and throw them in. Just another unlucky couple who got lost in the fog.”
“No… no…” I struggled against the muscular arms pulling me away, Mr Brooks doing the same, but there were too many.
Then I noticed in the mist at the end of the alleyway, another figure. This one almost the same height as the tall man.
“Ya know, it’s not nice to hurt a young lady,
Nevin, not even for the Smoker Street gang.” The voice was thick with an Irish accent.
The tall man whipped around. “Stay out of this, Colin, this ain’t any business of the Ratters.”
‘Colin?’ The name rang a distant bell in my mind.
The new individual casually strolled out of the fog. Other human forms appeared at the end of the alley. “I’m just saying, you got the ring back. The young lad there is hurt. On this cold night, why are we all standing around like goons, when we could be inside having a bevvy?”
I could feel the tall man’s anger even from just the sight of the back of his head. He waved his hand and the men let us go. They then walked into the mist and past the other ghostly figures, until just the tall man and this Colin character were left.
The tall man walked close to him. “Mr Finlay will be told about this.”
Colin smiled, tipping his cap. “Tell him I said hello.”
*****
“Colin Murphy at your pleasure, ma’am,” said the young man, who removed his cap, revealing his unkempt dark brown hair. Others, around his age and younger, stood by his side. He looked at one of them, a smaller stouter boy, tossing him a silver coin. “You an’ Addy, carry the young sir back to the street. See that he gets home alright.”
The boys ran forward and propped up Mr Brooks, who nodded to Colin as they walked past. The blood below his nose was starting to dry. Luckily he was able to produce a brief smile for me as he left.
I cocked my head trying better to see this Murphy person in the dim light. When a flicker of recognition came to me. “Colin of Grange Street?”
He looked at me surprised. “I used to hang with a crowd of whippersnappers around there some years back. Why?”
“I’m Cog…”
His eyes grew wide as if seeing me for the first time. “Nah… surely… Cog? The girl with the wild hair who would bite you as soon as she would look at you?”
I smiled.
He took a step back waving his cap. “You were always a bricky girl! What happened to you back then? We thought the gangers got you for the workhouse? Or maybe one of those lords and ladies you liked to sell your toys to had taken you for their own!”
