by P M Cole
Colin nodded, “Then in that case—” He ran forward into the street and with a lunge grabbed hold of the back of a large cart, hopping onto the back. “Come on!” he shouted in my direction as the cart moved away into the fog.
I held my dress off the ground and made haste, just about managing to join him and sat, slightly out of breath.
“Where are we going?” I enquired.
“Whitechapel!”
*****
After a number of changes of carts, we finally were entering Whitechapel. Despite our infrequent exchange of words, we both fell silent on passing a four-storey monolith that rose into the fog. The ‘Whitechapel workhouse’ was one of many I had seen the young taken to, but was by all accounts the worst with the least chance of ever seeing freedom after entering.
“My cousin Jack is in a workhouse in Spitalfields,” said Colin as we passed the imposing wrought iron gates. “Got snatched up with a few of his friends, just after his eleventh birthday… he would be going on fourteen now.” He turned to me with a smile. “But they never got Colin!” Then looked quickly away.
Soon the road became too bumpy for us to remain on the back of the small cart, and we jumped down, being careful not to be impacted by the cavalcade of other horses that were moving past.
“This way,” said Colin, running onto the damp pavement, then down a narrow alley. Women and children hung out of windows and doors, their eyes following us. When I existed on the streets, I made sure not to end up in any of the abandoned buildings that made up the slum areas. I had heard too many stories of the young being swept into gangs, so found refuge where I could, in other places. We quickly made our way past stained walls and tired eyes until we reached a courtyard. A group of men stopped their discussion and looked at us as soon as we appeared.
Colin moved close to me. “Have you got money?”
I frowned at him. “More money?”
“Quickly.”
I shook my head but pressed a shilling into his palm anyway.
“Wait here,” he said, then marched across the slime-covered cobbles, past a well, and to the person that was centrally positioned in the group. This man was the only one to be wearing a hat. A dark grey Derby.
He looked over to me as they talked. I tried to occupy myself with what I was going to do once I came face to face with Mr Finlay, but one of my hands remained ready to slip inside my coat to where my weapon was stored.
Footsteps made me turn around. “We’re leaving,” said Colin, pulling me along with him, back into the narrow alley.
“What is it? What did you learn?”
He ignored my questions, instead increasing his turn of pace. I hurried along behind him. We were soon back out onto the main road, where he stopped, looking down as if he just learned some grave news.
“What is it? Tell me?”
He shook his head, not wanting to share what he had just learned. “They… don’t know where he is. Nobody knows…” As he talked I noticed how he avoided his eyes meeting mine. He was lying.
“You’re not being honest, Mr Murphy.”
He continued shaking his head, struggling with the information he no doubt just gained. “No, no… no good will come of you knowing…”
“Knowing what?”
He stood directly in front of me, no longer avoiding my gaze. “Where he is! We cannot go! You have to let it go, Cog!”
A shiver ran through me, but I straightened my back. “Where… is he?”
“The Whitechapel workhouse, Cog… he is involved with those who run it…”
A wave of fatigue ran through me, but a distant drumming of hooves stiffened my resolve. I started off in the direction of the ominous building.
Colin ran alongside. “Now I know you’re mad! If you go beyond those gates you won’t return!”
I walked quickly along the pavement, passing shops. “Thank you for your help, Mr Murphy, but I will attend to matters myself from here on.”
He jumped out in front of me, but I moved around him and kept walking.
“What are you going to say to them? That you are a reporter? They will never believe you!”
He had a point. I started to slow. We were now at a busy junction. About a hundred yards further on, the wall of the workhouse, interspersed with black iron spikes, was just visible in the mist.
“Write about another. The streets of this city are full of vagabonds,” said Colin just behind me. “I should know. I am one!”
My head lowered with a weight of failure. I stared at the stone slabs of the street and the carriage wheels moving over them…
I turned around. “You say the tunnels run under most of London?”
“Aye…”
“Would they run under the workhouse?”
CHAPTER NINE
A knock came on one of the iron bars in my basement. I looked up from the clock I was repairing.
“Finally…” I said under my breath. The sun had set some time ago and I had spent most of the day repairing one clock when I would have usually repaired three times that amount.
I walked to my bed and stood on it, placing my face near the grating. “Are you there?”
“Aye, I’ve brought some company as well,” said Colin.
“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be outside.” As I moved back to my work desk I heard him mumble something about creating an opening from the sewer, which I ignored, instead thinking through my plan.
Putting my coat on, I tied my hair back and made my way upstairs. Mr Gladwell was reading by the fire.
“Mr Bellweather’s clock repaired?” he said without looking up.
“Almost. It will be ready before he gets here in the morning.”
He turned a page.
“Umm… what are you reading?” I stood somewhat awkwardly.
“Just some very old poems. You are going out?”
“Yes. The young man from earlier is outside waiting.”
“Mr Ashmore?”
“No, Mr Murphy.”
“I see. Make sure you are back before ten.”
“I will.” I quickly made my way to the door and left.
The fog had returned, making it hard to see the end of the yard. I carefully made my way forward, until I bumped into the gate, then unlatched it and moved out into the alleyway. An orange glow a few yards away on the ground gave me my direction and I was soon looking down upon Colin’s dark brown hair lit by his oil lamp.
After we both climbed down, he nodded to two others who looked anxiously at me.
“This is Kappie—” A stout young man, almost as tall as Colin, tipped his cap. “And that’s Fisher.”
“Alright, miss…” said the youngest and smallest of all of us.
“Do you know which way to go?” I asked of any of them.
Fisher spoke up first. “I do, miss. Been under the Whitechapel a few times, but it’s a good ways in the tunnels.”
“Then we better get going then.”
Fisher led the way with Kappie trailing behind us. As we progressed through the winding confined spaces, I could feel their concerned eyes on me. When there was a bit of a distance to the others I leaned in closer to Colin. “Why are they looking at me like that?”
He smiled. “That would be because they think you’re a witch.”
I rolled my eyes. “Because of the piece of metal you waved at me?”
“Aye.”
We ducked under a low hanging arch and continued, trying to get as little as the foul-smelling sludge on us as possible.
“That…” Just as I was about to dispel the insanity of their views once and for all, I suddenly realised there may be utility in their thinking. “Umm… well, maybe I am, but I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Ah, so you admit you have the gift then?”
“If that’s what you think.”
“My ma used to tell me stories of those that had the gift. And could do things others couldn’t. I’d never met one until I met you.”
; “Where is your ma?”
“She died some years back, anyway you might want to think up a good spell for when we meet Finlay.”
We turned another forgotten corner of the sewer system.
No spell, but my crossbow might come in useful, I thought.
As we stalked the shadow, rat-infested tunnels I ran through what I was going to say on seeing the face from my nightmares. Over the years I had almost come to believe that he was not even real, just a phantom my imagination had conjured. Instead, I always tried to focus on my final memories of my parents, but the dream would inextricably roll onwards to how they met their end. Questions rumbled in my mind. How much silver was their lives worth? And why did they want to capture me as well? Were they being paid by a local workhouse to find children? Now he resides in one it would make sense. Is he still doing it? Despite my fear as to how the evening’s events should unfold, it was all I could do to keep my anger suppressed.
After it had seemed we had been walking all night, Fisher abruptly stopped and pointed upwards, waving his lamp towards a ladder. “I think we’re under the Spike, miss. But I dunno where it comes out could be anywhere inside.”
I nodded. “It’s OK, you can stay here. I’ll go on alone.”
Colin scoffed, moving past me to the base of the ladder. “And what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you go into that hell pit by yourself?” He continued before I could reply. “So when we’re up there, we’ll try and find Finlay, but then what?”
“I’ll… explain who I am, and that all he has to do is answer a few questions, and he will be the toast of the town.” I pushed past Colin, snatching his lamp from him and started to ascend.
I pushed on the iron cover, which came loose after the third attempt. Holding it up a few inches I tried to see into the dark beyond, but instead, an odour hit me almost making me drop it. Finally, after getting somewhat used to the stench in the sewers, I was now harassed by an equally potent smell, but I ignored it and climbed out after being sure there was no movement above me.
The light from my covered flame only illuminated a small area, but I appeared to have emerged into a kind of food preparation area. Huge wooden vats, enough to swallow a few large men alive sat across the grime-laden floor, with a number of long wooden tables between them. On these were copper pans and serving tools.
Colin and the others climbed out. They had all now produced scarves like myself, which covered their mouths.
“What’s the stink,” said Fisher.
Colin stepped closer to one of the half cylinders, lifting a hatch then immediately stepped back letting it close. “Rotting vegetables. Must be what they feed the poor souls…”
I stood and walked to the closest wall. A few yards away a door loomed from out of the shadows. “This way,” I whispered.
I crept closer to it and listened. Only silence came from the other side. Carefully twisting the iron handle, I peered into the gloom, but could only just about make out the straight lines of a long corridor. I moved swiftly outside, keeping my lamp low as to not make it too obvious to any who may have glanced in our direction and quickly encountered another two doors, and a wide staircase. Above the doors were the signs ‘Men’s day rooms’ and ‘Waiting and Yards’ while a plaque on the wall near the stairs read ‘Floor 1: Women’s day rooms’, ’Floor 2: Man’s dining room and rest, Women’s dining room and rest’, ‘Floor 3: Infirmary’, ‘Floor 4: Master’s Parlour’.
I didn’t need to speak, the path to follow was obvious. I crept up the steps stretching my senses to their limits, ready to snuff out my lamp and jump into the shadows.
We moved as quickly as we could, making our way to the third floor when we heard our first sign of life. Screaming came from beyond a sturdy door. I hesitated for a moment trying to ascertain if the individual would gain some help for their suffering, but instead, the incessant noise continued. Colin placed his hand on my shoulder and pointed upwards. I nodded and we proceeded to climb. Each step increased the beating in my chest, and as I neared the top I patted the lump which protruded from the side of my coat.
I’m ready…
We arrived on a landing larger than the rest, it was also the only one that had its own gas lamp, but we kept our own oil lamps lit anyway. I noticed how the floor was covered in ornately patterned tiles, while the door that Colin and Kappie stood near would have been more at home in a palace than a workhouse, having a gold gilt trim. They listened for any sign that there were people on the other side, but both shook their heads on not hearing anything.
Colin then tried the octagonal black iron handle, but the door held firm.
I looked at the keyhole. I was sure with the small set of tools I brought I could pick the lock, but that wasn’t going to enamour myself to the occupant. I wanted at least a chance to get information out of him before I had to switch tactics, so instead, much to the horror of those standing beside me, I marched to the door and used the heavy snake head knocker.
The sound reverberated around the entire stairwell.
“There’s someone coming!” said Fisher, scurrying back to the top of the stairs.
I held my head high and the door opened.
CHAPTER TEN
A woman whose narrow face sat amongst a mass of black hair looked in my direction. If her eyes were addressing me I could not tell, because she was also wearing the strangest eyeglasses I had ever seen. Small round lenses, tinted completely black and almost lost in wiry hair, reflected my disappointment back at me. I needed Finlay to be alone. But there was no going back now.
“What do you want, child?”
“I’m here to see Mr Finlay. Tell him it is Agatha Hoxted from the London Gazette.” I thought it was an appropriate sounding name.
The woman’s head moved slowly between each of us until finally resting back on me. Beyond her, the wide hallway was shadow-laden with just two gas lamps lighting the way, but it was possible to see that the walls were covered in huge murals, and at regular intervals along the corridor, life-sized stone statues sat on pedestals.
“Cor, it’s like one of those museums,” said Fisher.
“I am from a London newspaper. I’m here to conduct an interview with Cephas Finlay. Our newspaper thinks he is a very important citizen of London, and—”
“And they have young girls out here bothering people at night?” her expression remained placid, not having changed since she set eyes on us. The sound of my heart pounded in my ears.
“It’s American owned. And that he should—” I could tell none of what I was saying was getting through to her, and I needed to be inside. “Just inform Mr Finlay the newspaper wants to pay him for his time.”
A smirk crept across her mouth. “Show me then.”
“Show you what?”
“This payment for Mr Finlay.”
I pulled out what constituted most of my income for the past year, a gold sovereign. I could hear the inhale of breath from those around me, but the woman at the door remained motionless.
She reached forward and I took a half step back.
“This is for Mr Finlay and only if he does—” At first I wasn’t sure in the gloom of the landing if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, but as her hand stretched from the doorway to mine I saw it. A scar in the shape of a key, just below her wrist. I looked up at her astonished.
I could feel her eyes boring into me and then in one swift movement, she slammed the door closed.
I stood frozen, not being sure of what had just transpired.
“I guess she don’t want—”
Before Fisher finished, the door opened once again. The woman was standing slightly back from the threshold, her face covered in shadow.
“You may enter this domain.”
I momentarily hesitated, my mind not being able to make sense of why another person would have the same burn mark.
“Do you want to enter or not?”
“Yes. Of course,” I spluttered, then walked forward, remaining a few feet fr
om the woman. Colin and the others moved inside as well, all being enraptured by their surroundings.
I, though, kept my eyes on the strange individual.
She closed the secure looking door, her silk blue and silver dress catching the orange glow from the lamps, and turned to us. “My name’s Daria Thorton. I run this establishment for Mr Finlay. I’m the work mistress for this house—”
“So what’s Mr Finlay’s official role here?” I said.
“You can ask him that yourself.” She looked at the others. “Do you not show respect for those whose homes you enter?”
Colin quickly realised she was referring to the cap on his head, which he removed, as did the others.
We followed her along the hallway, her silk dress drifting effortlessly across the stone floor. Despite the opulence, a chill filled the air. The statues of men, women, and children, each in an agonising pose, added to my sense of foreboding.
How is there another with the same scar?
As my mind raced for an answer she threw open double doors and we emerged into an even more impressive space. Stone circular pillars rose to a high ceiling. A number of them were arranged around a central area, which a large set of windows in the roof looked down upon. A fire twice the size of ours at the shop roared, and standing in front of it was a man, his head turned away. His dark green coat was frayed in areas and black hair like a nest of spider legs laid upon his shoulders. I immediately tried to focus on his hand, but it was in shadow.
“These are the people from the newspaper,” said Thorton.
I took a step forward, trying to better see the man.
Is this him? I could hardly catch my breath. My mother’s face came to me, which I instantly pushed away.
“Give the gold to Miss Thorton…” growled the man at the mantel, still looking into the flames.
I looked at Colin then pulled the coin from my pocket and gave it to the woman.
She held it close to her face. “It’s real.” She then offered it up to the man at the fire. We couldn’t see his reaction, but he turned it over in his fingers, then placed it in his pocket.
