by P M Cole
I went to reply when, suddenly, a chill filled the alleyway, and what had just transpired filtered across my mind making me shiver. I threw my arms around myself to keep warm.
Colin went to remove his blazer, but I held my hand up.
“It’s been a long night, I need to get back home. But thank you, Mr Murphy, for saving me… and Mr Brooks.”
“Please call me Colin. Are you OK? I can walk—”
I nodded, walking past him. “I’ll be fine.”
I neared the end of the alleyway.
“Hey! You forgot your err… harpoon!” he shouted from within the mist.
I quickly looked back. “Keep it!”
I needed to be gone from this place. I hurried back into the fog, keeping to the buildings and using the lamps as my guide. My mind a whirl.
I stopped, reaching out for some black iron railings which belonged to a house and took a breath. I had been stupid going to the bazaar. What was I thinking? But ever since the morning I felt like I had been placed on a track, like one of the steam engines, endlessly moving towards an unknown destination. And until now I had not questioned it.
Is this Finlay the scarred man? How did I know how to build that contraption? A rush of questions all tried to cram into my mind. I felt a little dizzy.
I took a deep breath of the misty air and steadied myself.
Footsteps came from somewhere around me.
I started walking again, faster this time. At least I knew what I had to do next. Find Mr Finlay.
CHAPTER FIVE
A small wooden bird appeared from an equally demure door and inside the clock’s workings, air was drawn into a pipe to produce a whistle.
Ugh… it cannot be time to awake, I thought.
I looked at the clock on the wall beyond the bottom of my bed, and instantly calculated the height and force I would have to throw my pillow to impact the wooden device and quiet the incessant noise.
Then I remembered Mr Baker. I placed the pillow over my head to obscure the sound and the image in my mind, but now a second clock was chiming in.
“Ahh!” I sat up.
The bird returned to its home and the pendulum stopped swinging.
A creak came from the top of the stairs.
“Thirty minutes and we have to leave, Cog!” shouted Mr Gladwell down to me.
The sounds of horses in the street above came through the grating on the wall. No doubt the cart ready to take us and the clocks to Lombard Street.
“I’ll be ready!” I shouted.
I went to get up when I realised I hadn’t dreamt. In fact, I felt quite refreshed. This struck me as an unusual state to be in, considering what transpired the previous night. When I got back, I had grabbed my charcoal and sketched some of the faces I had come across and placed the likenesses on one of the only clear areas on the walls I had left. At the top, I sketched another likeness although this one was far rougher, with a key, and the word ‘Finlay?’ next to it.
I still wasn’t sure what I would do if I came across the man that was involved with the death of my parents. Maybe a trip to Whitehall Place to talk to the constables there would be an appropriate course of action once my suspicions were confirmed, or maybe I would take matters into my own hands…
But how would I even prove who I was? That it was my parents that were killed by the highwaymen? I couldn’t even remember my parents’ names… only their faces remained in my mind after all these years. Faces I had sketched and were now also on my wall.
I sighed.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
I beat Mr Gladwell to his second request, telling him I would be up soon.
I quickly dressed, being not too concerned with my appearance, and made my way to the small room, where the fire was merely smoking.
“Ready?” said Mr Gladwell already wearing his long coat and tall hat. He also had his ornate walking stick in his hand. Ever since I had first met him, he made a point of keeping up his gentlemanly appearance, and within working hours was usually dressed in an excellently turned out shirt, waistcoat, and long coat. Although today he also wore an overcoat due to the extreme weather. I knew he wanted the same for me, but I made it clear during the early days that my appearance was my own, and he begrudgingly agreed.
I nodded and we walked outside. The morning was even colder than the previous, but the fog had lifted somewhat. Mr Gladwell sat up front with the driver, while I climbed onto the back and made my own seat of one of the wooden crates there.
The cart slowly made its way towards the financial district of the city. With each mile the buildings grew grander, reaching heights that would hurt your neck if you tried to see their topmost floors. Today the view was lost in the fog anyway. Packed in with our clocks were sacks of grain for the cattle markets, and barrels, some of which appeared to be leaking their contents. I brushed my fingers across the damp area of wood and sniffed my fingers.
Gin… an excellent accelerant…
The strange tingling that I experienced the previous evening, running from stall owners and ruffians, started to overcome my person once again. In my mind, images of a device started to take shape, its component parts appearing then slotting together. It would be fuelled by alcohol, but would have a deadly outcome if use…
The cart bumped and I was back looking at the proud looking buildings. I shook my head. Strange daydream, I thought.
We moved into the narrow road which was home for many of the private banks of London. I had never even been to the area until I had started working for Mr Gladwell, and for my first few visits the castle-like exteriors impressed me, but after witnessing the dark hearts of those within I started to dread coming to this part of the capital.
The driver tugged on the reins and we headed down one of the passages that riddled the imposing structures, each one an entrance to a world of men whose only concern was the numbers on their ledgers. Finally, after a request to the horses from the driver, we stopped outside the rear entrance to ‘Mathews and Company’ bank.
I tried not to notice Mr Baker standing outside the entrance.
Mr Gladwell climbed down slowly and walked up the steps to greet the head financial secretary, whatever that meant, and briefly shook his hand. They both looked back to me.
Ugh.
I jumped down and placed the closest clock between my arms and walked up the steps to them. “Where do you want this?” I asked Mr Baker. He appeared to swallow and swept what little of his hair remained across his head.
“Umm… no need to carry them, dear. I have a —”
I walked past him and into the entrance which, despite being located at the back of the bank, was still larger than our entire shop.
He trotted after me. “Well we need them on the first floor, but it’s no trouble, here let me—”
He tried to take the clock from me, but I resisted, my hands clinging to it. “No need, Mr Baker. It’s no weight at all…” I protested.
Realising he lacked the strength to pull it from me, he pulled his hands back with a frown, then looked around at those who were trying to hide their grins. “First floor,” he said in a dour tone.
I walked up the wide stone staircase, past paintings the size of doorways, each one of an unhappy but important looking man. I stared, wondering what they needed to do to be immortalised as they were and promptly tripped up the final step, sending the wooden clock through the air.
I lunged forward trying to catch it, but instead a man, standing nearby, deftly ducked to his side plucking the timepiece from the air.
I landed face down on the ornate rug.
“I never knew the paintings of the old directors were so enticing,” said the man above me.
Hoping that not too many saw my undignified attempt to save the clock from ruin, I got to my knees, then looked up into blue eyes, set against a youthful but distinguished face.
He held out a hand to help me up.
I stood on my own. “I’m fine…�
�
He chortled. “Are you sure you’re OK? You took quite a tumble.”
My face flushed red. “I… well your rug is quite thick. Thank you for saving the clock.”
He went to reply when I heard rushed footsteps behind me.
“Are you OK, dear?” came Mr Baker’s words from below.
I groaned then quickly regained my pose, realising the young man in front of me saw my reaction.
He smiled.
“What are you doing loitering here, Mr Ashmore?” Mr Baker posed to the dark-haired man.
He bowed slightly. “On my way to the director’s office, sir. He asked for the morning accounts.”
“Yes, yes, be on your way then.”
Mr Ashmore handed me back the clock, his hand briefly touching my own and a spark of warmth moved through me. He moved off, my eyes trying not to follow him.
Mr Gladwell finally made it up the stairs to be with us. “Are you OK?” he said to me. “I saw you disappear from my view. Is the clock in one piece still?”
My hands were able to ascertain that the ornate clock was undamaged. I nodded.
Mr Baker’s eyes tracked the young clerk who disappeared up another set of stairs at the end of the corridor. He sneered. “He’s only here at the behest of Lord Cannington. He’s from the Lords Awakening Society, so who knows what his ancestry is, could be anyone! Although I will admit, he has quite the talent for the numbers.” The small sinewy man looked away from his prey and smiled at me.
“Where should I place this clock?” I said, desperate to be somewhere else.
“Oh, please follow me.”
As I and Mr Gladwell, together with others who were carrying the remaining clocks followed Mr Baker, my eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the path that Mr Ashmore had just taken.
CHAPTER SIX
After finishing my daily chores, I requested that I be allowed to finish my workday early because I needed to visit the dock worker’s family again. I disliked the continued telling of tales to Mr Gladwell. He was now in his chair days and deserved better, but I was in no place to be telling him the contents of my mind. Since I had stumbled upon the story in the newspaper, my nights had been peaceful. Perhaps because my nightmares were now real, but the fact that they were no longer plaguing my rest, meant I think, I was following the correct path. Or at least that was my hope.
I stepped out into the yard. There was still a few hours of daylight left, although the fog had left the sun as just a memory in the sky.
I quickly retraced my steps to Fleet Street and to the entrance of the London Gazette. Inside, most desks were empty.
I approached the one that was not.
“Excuse me, sir. Might I bother you with a question.”
The head of a bald-headed man hung low over a large sheet of newsprint, a small monocle over one eye. “Yes, what is it,” he said without turning.
“I understand there is a Mr Brooks who works here. Would it be possible for you to give me his address? I understand he is poorly and I would like to check that he is OK.”
“No Mr Brooks here,” said the man, still not turning to see who was asking him the question.
“Umm… he is from the new world, an American?”
The man frowned and turned to face me. “No Mr Brooks works for the Gazette. How much clearer do I have to be, child? Now I have a deadline to meet, so please be on your way.”
I turned away disappointed and confused and was about to take my leave when an idea struck me. I turned back to the man at the high desk. “Umm, sorry to bother you again, sir. But do you know a Mr Finlay?”
The copywriter froze. “Cephas Finlay?” he said without moving.
“Err… yes?”
The man turned to me. “What do you want with him?”
“I, er… have business with him.”
The man scoffed, “I doubt that is true.” His brow tightened as he examined me. “You don’t know who he is, do you? Although I must admit I am curious why you would ask of such a man.”
I batted my eyelashes in a look of innocence.
“Well I would usually not utter such words in the presence of a young miss, but he is at the top of most of the criminal outfits in London. It is said they all report to him. He is a blighter and whatever your ‘business’ is, I suggest you avoid him at all costs! Now I have given you what you wanted. Will you leave me to my work now?”
I nodded and quickly left. Standing on the pavement as countless clerks streamed from the buildings around me, all trying to find what space they could on the omnibuses, I questioned what my next move should be. There was still one person that I had met that knew of this Cephas Finlay.
“Are you waiting for travel?” said one of the clerks behind me, leaning off the side of an omnibus.
“No, thank you.”
As the coach moved off, being swallowed by the mist. I knew I needed to travel back to Euston.
As the sun set and the sky darkened to the east I grew close to the arch, being wary of any rough looking individuals. I tried to remember the faces from the night before, but despite being excellent with plans and designs for machines, I was never that good with human beings, which is why I always needed to record them on paper.
The bright lights and sounds came from a public house not far from my location. I usually avoided such establishments, but if anywhere would know of a Mr Murphy, surely it would be there.
I put my head down, making sure my scarf covered my head and walked past the drunk individuals who were loitering outside.
“Oi, what you doing out ‘ere, miss?” said a pot-bellied, red-faced man, his moustache white from the froth of his beer. He made a weak lunge to grab at me, but missed and stumbled almost into the path of a cab. I quickly made my way inside.
A cacophony of voices, some singing, mixed with cigar smoke and fumes so strong I could taste what most people were consuming.
Cackles of laughter rang in my ears, while I pushed my way forward to the bar. I waited impatiently trying not to draw unwanted attention.
“What can I do for ya… young miss?” said the barmaid.
I leaned over the mahogany surface, stained from small puddles of beer. “I’m looking for a Mr Murphy?”
She laughed. “Kick a foot out and you’ll find plenty of Murphys in here. Is there any in particular you fancy?”
“Colin?”
I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes, but the smile remained fixed on her face, then she started wiping the bar top. “Never heard of him. Now is there a drink you’d be wanting?”
I shook my head in frustration, turned and squeezed back outside, being thankful for the cool night air.
Before anyone else could proposition me, I walked quickly away, annoyed by my failure and moved off into the mist-covered street. Standing next to a street lamp, I tried to ascertain my location, and which way to return home.
A sound came from behind me. I whirled around trying to see any detail in the fog, but it was uniform in all directions as if only the pavement I was standing on still existed.
I must have imagined the noise I thought.
I reached into my bag and pulled out a small pocket watch that I had modified to also contain a compass dial. The tiny needle spun around, then settled. I promptly set off in the southerly direction.
Another sound echoed off the walls of the nearby terrace.
Was it a footstep? I briefly looked back. A blast of cool air swept across me making me shiver and I quickened my pace, crossing the street.
Now I was on the opposite side, I stood and looked from whence I had come. Was that a person in the fog? I turned and started walking quickly. I was surely being followed.
I went to break out into a run when a figure stepped out in front of me. I held out my hand. “Stay away or I will scream!”
The young man tipped the rim of his Derby style hat. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, miss. But I understand you were looking for Colin Murphy?”
****
*
I ducked under the arch which divided one part of the sewer from the other while clinging onto my dress. The boy of maybe fifteen years lit our path with a small oil lamp. “So how long have you known Mr Murphy?” I said.
“Since I was ‘alf my height. He found me on the mud flats, me and my pa had got caught on the morning tide. The river came in and did for him. Would’ve got me too if Colin hadn’t pulled me out.”
Living on the street I had gotten used to the smells of refuse, but walking through these seldom used tunnels, all manner of stenches were making themselves known. “You live down here?”
The young man pulled open an iron gate. “Yeah, miss. We all do.”
We were now descending further into the bowels of London. Thankfully, we had left behind the putrid water, being brought by gravity to the Thames, and were moving into a fresher cooler area. “Where is this?”
I noticed the size of the bricks which made up the walls were increasing in size. “Colin found it some years back. He says it used to be a smuggling den or somethink.”
As we moved along a dark tunnel, the sound of voices could be heard up ahead, and soon we were moving downwards again, by a small spiral staircase which ended at a wooden door. The young man pulled it open.
We emerged into a cavernous space. I marvelled at the curved arches and square pillars all lit with candles and torches. Young people of various ages sat on ledges, at different heights from the floor, which itself was full of small huts, covered in fabrics. This then led to a much larger covered construction at the back of the large area.
Dirty faces looked at me as I was led between the living spaces until we came to the entrance of the largest of the dwellings. The young man nodded to another two that were standing outside, and pulling the sheet back from the ‘door’ we moved inside.
“A little bird told me you was looking for me,” said Colin. He sat behind a small square table, two others were seated to his left and right. Numerous playing cards, together with a pile of copper and silver pennies rested between them. He nodded and they got up and left, as did the young man that found me.
