by Gareth Clegg
Most of the mud that coated the front of her jacket had vanished under the constant downpour. The sodden hat she wore dripped into her bright red mop of hair, leaving thick strands clumped together. “Well, there’s an interesting thing. Where did you get the photograph then?”
“An ex-army colleague called Pemberton. We were friends years ago. He said it was his daughter, my goddaughter.”
“And the other woman?”
“She was your governess.”
Rosie laughed. “Do you honestly think I’d have a governess?”
“Her governess,” Simmons said. “It seemed reasonable. I hadn’t seen Annabelle since she was a baby and she…” He stopped again, correcting himself, “you looked the right age.”
“But why would he give you my portrait? Where did he even get hold of it?”
“I’m still trying to work that out.”
She paused for a second then turned on Simmons, her gaze growing fiery.
“They followed you. It was the bloody Black Guard. Lured you in and waited until you led them to me. Damn you, Simmons.”
“Now wait a minute. The Black Guard killed Cooper, and if they knew you were connected to him, it’s reasonable to guess you’d attend the funeral.”
“But we were there,” Bazalgette said, his voice low. It was the first thing he’d said since they left Highgate.
“What?” Simmons said.
“We were there at the Britannia; you were there. What if Cooper’s murder was a ploy to get you to find Rosie?”
Simmons shook his head. “No, but that would mean—”
“It means,” Rosie interjected, “that they followed you to their little performance at the Britannia. Killed poor Silas to hook you further and then trailed you until you brought them here.”
Simmons felt his fist’s tightening, and as his eyes lowered, he blew out a long breath. “Damn them. Damn them to hell.” It all fit into place. Pemberton, leading him to find the girl who had run off, fixated on Silas Cooper. “I’m a damned fool. It’s my fault Cooper’s dead, and Pinkett too. Now, I’ve even got you involved Bazalgette. What was I thinking?”
“Maybe you weren’t,” Bazalgette said, “but this is the Black Guard we’re talking about. They specialise in information and deception. To be honest, I was as intrigued as you.”
“Perhaps I’m just getting too old for this, going soft in the head?”
“Look,” Rosie said, “there’s no point mulling over this now. We need to get away from here somewhere safe, somewhere out of their reach.”
Bazalgette shook his head. “Where’s safe from the Black Guard?”
“South of the river,” she said. “We’ll go to Josiah.”
“Who?” Simmons asked.
“He’s a man who knows almost everyone. Silas worked for him, and I suppose I do as well.”
Simmons flicked his eyes towards Bazalgette and back to Rosie. “We don’t have a huge number of other alternatives. Where do we find him?”
“Greenwich,” she replied, picking up the pace.
14
The towering city walls cast a deeper shadow than the rest of the jagged ruins as Simmons surveyed the view ahead. Icy gusts tore through their clothing as they picked their way between the remnants of old buildings. Bazalgette pulled his coat tighter around himself, but the wool wasn’t designed to withstand a prolonged soaking. His teeth were chattering while he thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
Rosie showed no outward signs of the chill conditions. She plodded on, one foot in front of another, oblivious to the water that had soaked her dress and jacket.
“We need to get under cover, or we’ll freeze,” Simmons said. Bazalgette nodded.
“I know people,” said Rosie, pointing further to the east. “We can rest there for a while.”
Simmons was unsure, but what choice did they have? They couldn’t stay out much longer in this weather. If they delayed too long, they would be at the mercy of the fog rising from the Thames. Oh, and the constant threat from the bleeders. “Very well. Lead on.”
Rosie led them to an old warehouse on the dockside; its doors and windows boarded up. A dim red haze rose on the river, and the lapping of its waters wove a steady rhythm on the stone steps leading to the waterline.
She stopped. “I’ll go ahead. We wouldn’t want any unfortunate misunderstandings.”
“If you’re sure,” Simmons said.
“It’s for the best,” she replied, striding off towards the warehouse.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, turning to Bazalgette.
“I’m freezing.”
“Well, let’s hope these people are the friendly sort, with plenty of space.”
“And blankets,” Bazalgette said, his whole body shaking.
“Stamp your feet,” Simmons said. “Get things moving. It will keep you warmer.”
He took the lead, showing what he meant. Stamping his feet and clapping his arms back and forth around his torso in a strange, vicious hug. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t worry how stupid you look, get the blood pumping.”
Bazalgette stood for a few seconds, then gave in to his demands. The pair of them must have been a pretty sight stomping and flapping their arms about.
“Can you two make any more noise?” Rosie’s voice cut through the darkness. “Let’s get inside.”
They wasted no time, covering the distance to the front of the warehouse in moments. As they approached, a dim yellow glow from a small coal brazier illuminated three rough-looking fellows in thick clothing. Rosie stood next to them, her hand on a large wooden door.
“Come on,” she said, ushering them through, “mind the fogsheets.”
Simmons pushed his way through the layered blankets that lined the doorway. They were a mix of wool and canvas, with a strong chemical smell. It was common practice Fogside to have this type of protection. It trapped most of the fog between the different layers as folk entered or exited the premises, any remaining wisps dissipated harmlessly.
A few gas lamps lit the dim interior, along with open fires in metal drums providing warmth to small groups huddled around them. Black smoke hung above them but drifted to exit through a series of makeshift grills in the high ceiling. A ragged band of hard-looking men and women occupied floor space between the barrels. Their eyes tracked the interlopers through their territory, and Simmons knew they weren’t the friendly sort he’d been hoping for.
Bazalgette turned to him. “Are you sure about this? It doesn’t look—”
“It’s fine,” Rosie said. Her voice was calm, but she kept it low. “These are members of the Black Canaries.”
“The gang?” Bazalgette blurted.
“Yes. They are associates of Josiah, and thus friends to us.”
Bazalgette seemed to relax. “Oh. Well, that’s all right then.”
Simmons kept a wary eye on the hard faces. There were perhaps fifty bodies he could see, each with the telltale black and yellow about their clothing advertising their brotherhood. Most sported sashes at their waists, others bright waistcoats contrasting with dark shirts or jackets.
As Rosie led them to the rear of the large building, the occupants lost interest in their new visitors. They soon found themselves in a secluded spot near a makeshift brazier, flames painting shifting light on the wall. Four of the Canaries lazing in the vicinity stared up, eyes dark with suspicion, hands moving towards belts.
“Here,” said the nearest, “why don’t you bugger off somewhere else? This is our fire.”
Bazalgette stumbled to a stop, turning to Rosie.
“We’re all family here,” Rosie said, a great smile beaming from her petite face, “there’s plenty of space over there.” She pointed out another burning barrel, twenty feet away. “So, no need for any trouble here is there? You don’t want to upset my friends or me, that’s not a good idea, is it?”
“No, no trouble,” the mouthy one replied standing and raising his hands. “Come on lads there’s room
over there.” He nodded towards the other area, and they sloped off, nervous looks on their faces.
Rosie sat and rubbed her palms by the fire. Simmons watched as the four gang members made their way across the floor to join their brethren around the other barrel. He turned to see Bazalgette had joined Rosie, and steam was rising from their wet clothing. Regardless of his apprehensions, and their precarious alliance with the Black Canaries, at least they were out of that damned rain and safe from the fog.
A short while later, clothes drying by the fire, they huddled in blankets the four earlier residents obviously hadn’t needed.
Simmons turned to Rosie. “What exactly is your relationship with these… people?”
“Josiah has links with all the gangs, except the Elephant and Castle, but he’s working on that. They know I work for him, so we get along fine.”
“Right,” Simmons said, shifting his coat a touch further from the fire. It didn’t do for it to get too dry. If the wax cracked, it would ruin the waterproofing.
“So they work together?”
“Josiah has information and skills useful to them. They do favours for him in return. It’s a good arrangement, everyone benefits.”
“So what of Cooper? What was his role in this?”
“Silas was a go-between. He organised and distributed money. Disbursement I think he called it. Josiah paid for people to do certain things, and Silas made sure it went to the right places.”
“Ah, that explains it. I found a ledger, at Cooper’s house, full of payments. It mentioned an RC. I presume that was you, plus there were a few others.”
“Oh, who were they?”
“I was rather hoping you could tell me. Woodruff, Cargill, Addison, Blakelocke?”
“Oh yes, I remember them well…” Rosie seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then her eyes lit up. “I killed them.”
“You what?” spluttered Bazalgette.
“I killed them,” she repeated matter-of-factly. “Well, most of them. I’ve still to find Blakelocke, he’s proving to be a slippery one.”
They sat in stunned silence. Bazalgette, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Simmons stared at Rosie, who had reacted with no more emotion than if she had told them how much sugar she preferred in her tea.
“Why did you kill them?” Simmons asked.
She looked him in the eyes. “Because they deserved it, of course.”
She sat back against the wall, still warming her hands.
“Is that it?” Simmons asked. “That’s all you have to say, it’s that simple to you?”
Rosie shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it simple. It took considerable time and effort to locate them and plan how it needed to happen. One by fire, one by air and one by water. It was only fair.”
“Huh,” Simmons snorted, “and the last, no doubt, by earth.”
“Oh, yes. Perhaps buried alive? Can you imagine the clawing desperation? The sheer despair trying to dig his way out with cracked and broken fingernails, his mouth slowly filling with dirt and filth?” Rosie smiled, her eyes intense. “Delicious, isn’t it, almost poetic?”
Simmons checked how Bazalgette was faring. He had distanced himself, eyes downcast, chin resting on his hands and fingers interlocked with bright knuckles as if in silent prayer.
“But why?” Simmons asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“They brought it on themselves,” she replied. “They came to see her. She knew them all, in every way you could imagine, and then many more you couldn’t even conceive. Ask Josiah, he knows the truth.”
Simmons left it there, unable to bring himself to delve deeper into her fractured past and instead moved over to Bazalgette. “Are you all right?”
Bazalgette lifted his eyes to meet Simmons’ gaze but raised his right hand. “I’ll be fine. I need time and rest, perhaps.” He returned to contemplating the rough wooden floor.
Regardless of the strange surroundings and Rosie’s revelation, Simmons slept. He awoke in darkness, a low furnace-like glow cresting the top of the steel drum they huddled around. Bazalgette lay to his right, wrapped in one of the blankets left for them. To the other side, a crumpled mess of material, but no sign of Rosie.
Simmons checked his watch. By the dull red glow of embers, it was just before seven-fifteen. A figure resolved from the darkness. Rosie’s black mourning dress swishing as she moved past a couple of wooden chairs.
“Time we got moving,” she said. “Is he all right?” she nodded over towards Bazalgette.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Simmons replied. “A good night’s rest does wonders.”
“If you say so. Best wake him then. There’s a boat waiting for us.”
Bazalgette jumped like a startled animal caught in torchlight.
“Sorry, it’s just me,” Simmons said, keeping his voice low. “Are you ready to leave?”
Bazalgette stifled a yawn. “Yes, I’m fine.” He stretched and flexed his shoulders, then pulling the blankets to one side, rose yawning again. He took the arc-rifle and slung it over his shoulder. “Well, lead on, old chap.”
The three of them picked their way through the darkness, mindful of the grunts and snorts of those still sleeping. Amidst muttered obscenities from the residents, they crossed to the doorway and out into the bright, morning sun.
The fog had burnt off and, as they moved to the dockside steps, Simmons noticed a familiar-looking vessel moored there. Isaac doffed his cap as Rosie approached. “Morning, Miss Rosie.”
“Good morning, Isaac,” she replied, “early as ever I see?”
“It don’t pay to be late.”
As Simmons and Bazalgette got closer, Isaac’s face lit with recognition. “Ah, Mr Simmons, a pleasant surprise, sir. Are you well?”
“Yes, and yourself?”
“Mustn’t grumble,” Isaac said, his voice sour, “or so the missus always told me.”
Rosie turned to follow the exchange. “You two know each other?”
“Yes,” Simmons said. “Isaac took me over to the south bank a few nights ago, quite the adventure. Red weed, a near capsize and gunshots fired. He was the consummate professional.”
“I’m sure he was,” Rosie said, “he’s something of a legend amongst the other watermen, isn’t that right, Isaac?”
The older man hung his head, mumbling. A little louder, he added. “Well, I don’t know about that, Miss Rosie, I’m just a humble transporter of goods, mercantile or flesh-and-bones. Mister Simmons did the dangerous work the other night, weren’t none of my doing.” He pulled his cloth cap down onto his balding head and started a slow rolling walk towards the stern and the sanctuary of his canvas tent.
“Come now,” Simmons said. “Don’t be playing down the role you played in that evening’s endeavour, Isaac. You handled this vessel with expertise I’ve rarely seen in these waters.”
“It’s no big deal, sir. I ply my trade and keep things tidy. Get folk from A to B and sometimes back again if that’s their pleasure.” His voice trailed off as he retired from the uncomfortable limelight into his private sanctuary among the fumes of the clanking boat engine and the steam of the tea kettle.
“Small world,” Simmons said to Rosie.
“So it seems,” she replied, “but as he’s the best in the city, not too surprising you’ve used his services before.”
Bazalgette, conspicuous in his silence, surprised Simmons as he asked Rosie. “So Greenwich and this Josiah then I presume?”
“Yes. Nathaniel, isn’t it?” she asked.
“That’s right. I must apologise, in all the chaos of yesterday, I don’t think we were properly introduced.”
She looked somewhat shocked for the briefest moment. “I’m Rosie.”
“Nathaniel Bazalgette,” he replied, taking her proffered lace-gloved hand and bringing it to his lips, “at your service.”
Simmons glanced from one to the other, a mirthful but confused expression on his face. “Well, if everyone is finished with th
e introductions, I believe we have somewhere to be?”
“Ready when you are, Isaac,” Rosie called.
“Aye,” came the muffled reply behind the canvas. A soft splash announced the lines casting off, and with the growing roar of the engine, the vessel pulled forward against the incoming tidal waters of the Thames.
Isaac steered them out into the centre of the river heading east past the once great London dock. Massive tangles of red weed bobbed on the water. The high tide made it difficult to tell where the different piers and jetties ended.
Simmons watched as the docks faded behind them as they continued south around the loop towards the Isle of Dogs. The dilapidated buildings became more ruin than dwelling here. Many of the poor folk called the appalling slums home. It was a shanty town of makeshift bricks and wood scavenged from the ruins of the other structures. Their shoddy construction spoke of being thrust together in desperate hope rather than built, and most were prone to ingress by the red fog with a high risk of collapse.
Bazalgette waved, and Simmons headed over to him. “Everything all right?”
“I’ve never been south of the river, this close to it, I mean. I’ve seen it from the outer edges of the city walls, across the Thames, but never like this.”
“You’ve not missed much,” Simmons said. “It gets worse the further south you go. The flooding is widespread over there, especially at high tide. But even through all that, some people call it home.”
“Really?”
Isaac piped up from his position leaning on the tiller. “Yeah, most of them have no choice, but there’s them what choose to live there.”
“Who in their right mind would live that way?” Bazalgette asked.
“You never heard of the Golden Dawn?”
“Who?”
“They’re a group devoted to magic and the occult. You must know of Aleister Crowley?”
“The wickedest man in the world?”
“So the papers would lead you to believe. Anyhow, Crowley is a member of this Golden Dawn cult, and he moved their main temple to somewhere in the depths of South London.”