Yuletide Miracle

by Robert Appleton

Chapter Six

  Ten to nine: fast approaching his bedtime. Already Mrs. Simpkins had caught a taxi home, and the neighbours’ merry-making, which had been so pronounced during the brandy and cigars, now gave little more than the odd hearty laugh or distant carol. While Mother and Father were upstairs, changing into their night attire, Edmond slipped out, dynamo lamp in hand, into a generous snowfall.

  Being out without permission didn’t faze him tonight; it wasn’t the first time he’d tried it on, and anyway he wouldn’t be gone all that long—just long enough to find out what Mr. Mulqueen and his veteran friends intended to do about their eviction. They were bound to make up their minds tonight, for tomorrow, Christmas Day, they would have to pack up and be out of the emporium by lunch. Edmond been privy to so much, he’d hung on every word; it would be a shame not to know at least a part of the outcome.

  He kept checking aloft for signs of the aerogypsy but the sky was thick with heavy snowflakes, and Mr. Mulqueen was likely already at the hangar by now. A tardy gaslighter, muffled to the gills and cursing aloud, criss-crossed Challenger Row, lighting the streetlamps there. This fresh layer of snow erased all but the newest hack tracks, while not a single steam vehicle braved the treacherous lanes. Happen news of the crash that morning had warned them against risking heavy machines on the ice.

  “Till England rises, true and green—aye, rich and true and green; Nor’ west, nor’ west, my maiden Queen, till England rises, green.” He repeated those lines from Ode to a Nor’ west Maidenhead, more for the tune than the words, and they kept him company until he reached Bishopsgate, where several couples inched along the pavements, arm-in-arm, slithering every few steps and objecting to the scarcity of cabs on a Christmas Eve.

  By the time he reached his destination, the streets were deserted and only one or two home lights were visible. It was very dark indeed down the side of the emporium building. Around the back, on the waterfront, it was almost pitch. He checked several times to make sure Parnell wasn’t hanging about, then he tiptoed into the darkness, using only his lamp to help pick his way under the bare ash branches on the other side of the fence. Up he climbed, and in he sneaked, through the gap in the roofing panel. A piece of torn clothing that hadn’t been there earlier—was it John’s or Saul’s?—was frozen stiff, along with a dash of blood on the steel panel’s sharp corner.

  The veterans were in fine fettle below, belting out an aeronautical shanty he hadn’t heard before. This time, the emporium was quite well-lit. A bright spotlight had been rigged over the entrance. It blazed its yellow beam at the giant Norway spruce tree, reflecting a multitude of red and green glints from glass decorations among the foliage. Edmond wondered who could possibly have affixed them there at such precarious heights—the tree reached over 180 feet high. The operation must have taken an entire day. He took his place on the scaffolding, a little higher this time so he wouldn’t be seen.

  “What time are you shooting off then, Red?” Reggie tucked his knees up against his chin.

  “In the early hours, most likely—before dawn.”

  “We’ll miss you, love.” Angharad re-draped her shawl over her shoulders as best she could manage with only one arm. “Back to Africa, is it?”

  “Afraid so. Back to spotless diamonds and muddy water. But hey, at least I got to see snow again.”

  “Too bleedin’ much o’ the stuff,” Reggie said.

  “So it was you all along.” Joe gazed at the still-smoking kiln as he held his mug in mid-air, half way to his lips. “Had to bring your foreign gripes home, didn’t you. Had to spread that filth now—couldn’t let us have just one Christmas in peace.”

  “Easy, Joe. You’re not exactly in with the Council cronies either. Red’s got it where it counts, you said so yourself. And sedition or not, that clockwork tower does want busting open, see what spills out.” Reggie spat onto the floor.

  Joe looked at Mr. Mulqueen. “There never was any record of you having served in the B.A.C. I made enquiries yesterday. Far as they’re aware, the only Mulqueens out in Africa are with the bridge-builders in Zululand. They never heard of an Ethelred Mulqueen.”

  Edmond’s brow ached from his constant frown, but now he managed an even deeper one.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, Joe, you’re wrong. I sailed from Africa three weeks ago, spent every penny I had in the crossing. Those letters I posted, they each have a specific purpose, but this mission, I’ll have you know, was entirely my own. No one sent me here to do anything. Let’s just say I’m privy to more than you as to what’s going on inside the Leviacrum and its council chambers. Here and in Benguela.”

  “You have to admit you’re a conundrum, though, Red, dear,” Angharad said. “I mean what you’re doing sounds rum ’n’ all that—no doubt you’ve got Scotland Yard chasing its tail—but it’s blasted odd the Admiralty thinks you’re a ghost, too. How do you account for that?”

  Mr. Mulqueen said nothing, sipped from his mug.

  Ghost? Ghost. Edmond couldn’t get the word out of his mind. Maybe Mother had read Dickens’s A Christmas Carol to him too many times, but under the magical coloured tree, it seemed oddly appropriate.

  “I wonder if Chorlton and McCabe got lucky,” Reggie said, eager to change the subject. “They picked a fine day for it, that’s for sure.”

  Angharad scoffed, then wiped a dribble of liquid from her chin. “Those two’ll be lucky if they find a hot water bottle willing to share a bed with ’em, Christmas or no. We’d best wait for them, though—tomorrow I mean. No matter what that fat article Parnell burbles, we owe it to old Chorlton and McCabe to keep ’em abreast of what’s happened.”

  “You think they’ll come with us?” Reggie asked.

  “Aye, I do,” Joe replied. “It was McCabe suggested the Roundhouse Circus a while back. Soon as the thick snow clears, they’ll reopen the market and the big acts. They’re bound to have something for us, even if they can’t pay us except with food and a roof.”

  “And at least I’ll know where to find you,” Mr. Mulqueen said without any real conviction. Everything Edmond had heard today—every half-truth, outright lie, cryptic hint—told him the old soldier was set to leave Britain and never return, that he’d done what he came here to do and Edmond would never see him again after tonight. The notion swelled an ache deep inside. He sensed that same ache in the others around the kiln.

  A flash from above made him think a lightning storm had arrived. He looked up to the long, thin window in the roof, directly over the silver star on the tip of the tree. Yellow light shone through the glass, blinding him. It was another spotlight, its beam flitting about like a fishing line in a choppy river. Then he saw something drop through the beam—a dark, flailing form.

  At the same time as he realized what it was and leapt to his feet, yelling the thought out, the glass shattered. Two people hit the upper branches with horrifying force. One screamed in pain on the spot where he—no, she—had landed. Her voice could shatter glass on its own. The other fell through the foliage. Loud cracks, rustling, and the tinkering of smashed glass marked his descent. The body came to an abrupt stop about half way down. There it lay twisted and lifeless on an outstretched branch, its limbs dangling.

  When the woman’s screams faded atop the tree, angry wind howled through the hangar. Snow fell in swirls, while the yellow spotlight continued its crazy search from above.

  “Edmond! Come down here, boy! It’s not safe for you up there.” Mr. Mulqueen waved him down. Edmond felt the others watching. He concentrated on each sturdy rung, each wobbly step. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the shock and safely on terra firma.