by Mez Blume
“He’s looking for us,” I answered. “We should run for it, before it’s too late.”
Imogen took a deep breath and nodded once. Then, like a couple of jack-rabbits running for cover, we sprang from our hiding place and sprinted. As we neared the east end of the cathedral, we both shot one last glance back at our pursuer. The same instant we turned back, a tall, shadowy figure arose before us like an apparition, but it was no ghost. Before we could stop ourselves, we hurtled smack into its very solid form.
“Sorry, sorry!” I mumbled as I tried to disentangle myself from the folds of his heavy trench coat. But by the time we freed ourselves, the policeman had caught up, spluttering and choking, snowflakes frosting his bushy eyebrows and moustache.
The figure in black stepped out of the cathedral’s shadows. Before I could see his face, he lay a hand on my shoulder and the other on Imogen’s.
“Inspector!” wheezed the policeman, his hands braced on his knees. “I apprehended those two peculiarly arrayed young ragamuffins slipping away from the crime scene just now.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “They seemed in a mighty hurry, if you ask me.”
The man in black spoke. “Thank you, Constable Smart. I will question them both forthwith.” His voice struck me as surprisingly friendly, even polite.
“Shall I clap ‘em in irons, sir?” the policeman asked, hopefully.
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Constable,” was the man’s gentle answer. “They are securely in my custody, as you see. You had better keep an eye on the cathedral’s west end. We don’t want a thief slipping through our fingers, now do we?” As he said it, I thought his fingers tightened ever so slightly around my shoulder.
The policeman stood erect as a soldier, tipped his tall hat and marched back through the graveyard, twirling his truncheon as he went.
But the wheezing constable seemed the least of our worries now. Wasn’t it just our luck to go and land ourselves in the middle of a crime scene? And this man in black, friendly enough though he sounded, seemed to have authority even over the police. If he suspected we had some part in a crime, how were we to explain ourselves? We hadn’t even a clue what time period we’d landed in!
“Now, if you two young ladies might favour me with a few minutes of your time, I’d like to put to you a question or two.”
We both turned slowly to see, for the first time, the man in black’s dimly lit face. I was amazed to find that it matched his voice – not in the least frightening, though he’d commanded so much respect from the constable. Deep lines creased his forehead, like someone who spent a great deal of time thinking. He looked down a hooked nose, and the bags under his eyes hinted he hadn’t slept for many nights. But put all together, it was a kind, fatherly face. If anything about his looks made me uneasy, it was his eyes. They glittered in the lamplight beneath the brim of his black hat, sharp and unblinking as they floated between Imogen and me. I thought right away of the watchful eyes of a sleepless, wise old owl.
He was waiting, I realised, for an answer.
“Oh, um, yes. We’ll try to answer your questions,” I stammered.
“But we didn’t have anything to do with a crime,” Imogen added a little too hastily.
The man removed his black hat, methodically brushed the snow off the top, and replaced it. “Well then, it stands to reason that this interview should not take too much of your time.” His whole face creased into a smile, then he reached his black-gloved hand inside his coat and pulled out a scrolled-up paper. Unfurling it, he held it out so as to catch the light from the streetlamp. “This picture is an engraving of a very famous oil painting. Are you familiar with the original?”
I bent over the engraving of a medieval king and queen with their court at a banqueting table.
Imogen took one glance and straightened up. “I’ve never seen it before.”
The man in black turned his owl eyes inquisitively towards me. I looked hard at the picture – something did feel familiar about the Queen’s face, but it was very difficult to see much detail in the dark, and I was not eager to raise his suspicions.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think I’ve seen it either.”
He watched me sharply for an uncomfortable moment, then rolled up the picture and returned it to the inside of his coat. “Then it stands to reason you know nothing about how this painting came to be stolen from the cathedral and replaced by another mysterious painting, unknown to the cathedral chapter?”
“You mean to say that the painting was stolen from St. Paul’s Cathedral?” I asked.
“This very night,” he answered. “The cleric says the painting was in its usual place in the crypt before the Midnight Mass commenced. By the time Mass finished and the crowds emptied out, the painting had vanished.”
Imogen fidgeted beside me, no doubt eager for our interview to end. But I had an uneasy feeling about this missing painting business, and I had to ask just one more question.
“I’m sorry. We don’t know anything about it. But… just out of curiosity… did you say whoever stole the painting replaced it with another one?
He nodded one slow nod.
“I was just wondering… out of curiosity… what was the other painting a picture of?”
His eyes remained unblinkingly fixed on my face as he answered. “It’s a painting of an old woman and a girl selling wares on the cathedral steps. No one seems to know where it came from or who the artist might be.”
I tried not to show my interest, but he must have heard me swallow down the large lump that leapt into my throat.
“You’re quite sure you know nothing of the matter, Miss…?”
“Watson,” I answered. “Katie Watson. This is Imogen Humphreys, my cousin. And yes, sir. I’m quite sure.”
His mouth twitched. He seemed to be contemplating whether or not to believe us. I held my breath, expecting him to ask more questions. But after a second or two, his hard expression melted into a polite smile. “Very obliged to you ladies for your time. I shan’t detain you in the winter elements any longer. If you see anything… suspicious, you will find me at this address.” He handed me a card. “A merry Christmas to you.”
“Thank you,” I answered and, not knowing what was polite, I added an awkward sort of curtsey. Imogen followed my example, then took my arm and we set off at a quick pace. Not that either of us had a clue where we were going, but anywhere was better than a graveyard under the watchful eyes of the man in black.
3
Dobbs and Betsy
I held the card up to the lamplight to read the engraving:
Sherringdon Janklow, Detective, 14 Portsmouth Street
“I can’t believe it. He’s an actual detective, which means he must be telling the truth about the stolen painting. But what can it mean? Whoever stole the other painting and replaced it with the magic one obviously did it for a reason…”
“Katie…”
“It’s as if they wanted us to come here, to this very place and time. But how could they have known we’d see it? They’re in the past… well, the present now… and we–”
“KA-TIE!”
Imogen had my attention. I snapped out of my thoughts and looked at her. She was standing in snow up to the shins with her arms wrapped around her middle, shivering. Only then did I notice that my own tights were soaked through and I couldn’t feel my feet which had disappeared beneath the fresh fallen snow.
“Can we think about all that later?” she asked through chattering teeth. “We’ve got more pressing problems at the moment. Not freezing to death, for instance.”
“Sorry, I guess I just… got a little distracted,” I apologised, yanking one leg out of the shin-high snow. “You’re right. We should get inside somewhere warm.” I hobbled over the icy cobbles and linked my arm through hers, and together we pressed on against the gusts of stinging wind. I didn’t look back, but I sensed St. Paul’s dome still peeked over the roofs and chimney pots behind us, like a guardian watching ove
r our retreat.
“I hate to ask, but where precisely are we supposed to go?” Imogen’s teeth chattered as she spoke. “I mean, what’s going to be open in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve?”
I raised my head, shielding my eyes against the fast-falling flurries. The street looked completely abandoned, the shop windows all dark or covered over with shutters. Here and there, a candle lit an upper story window, but there were no signs of welcome as far as the eye could see.
“Argh, let’s just keep moving.” Imogen covered her nose. “It smells like a barn out here. Or worse, a sewer. What is that stench?”
A shadowy movement in the alley to our left made us start. I thought at first it was a cat, but then I saw it was much too large. Now my eyes had dropped to ground level, I noticed to my horror that the street wasn’t as deserted as I’d thought. Pressed up against doorways and into side alleys were groups of shivering bodies – men, women and even little children. It was no wonder we’d missed them before. They were all so dirty, they melted right into the sooty darkness of their hideaways.
One very young woman, no more than a teenager, huddled on the cold stone steps of a shop with two smaller bodies pulled close to her sides. On first glance, the trio were no more than a pile of dirty, tattered clothes in the shadows. But as we approached, three sets of hungry, hollow eyes turned upwards and caught the streetlamp’s yellow light.
Seeing us stop and take notice, the young lady spoke. “Have a pity, misses,” her voice creaked out like a rusty hinge. “Spare a trifle for my babies. For the sake of the Christmas child in the manger, have a pity.”
We froze in our tracks, our eyes darting from the pitiful little family to one another.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Imogen whispered. “We don’t have any food to share or warm lodgings to offer.”
I bit my lip. She was right of course, but we couldn’t just walk away and leave them to freeze either. I took my satchel off my shoulder and began unbuttoning my new pea coat. Imogen looked horrified, but after a deep breath, she too removed her designer white goose down coat and handed it to the young mother who gratefully took the coats and began bunching them around the half-frozen children.
“Wha’s this? A couple o’ li’l do-gooders, ‘anding out Christmas charity,” a gruff voice spoke from behind, and the young woman’s teary eyes widened with fear. Imogen and I turned slowly around to see the owner of the voice. He was hideous. Though short, he was stocky as a bull. An oversized head rested right on top of his hunched, ape-like shoulders as if the weight of it had caused whatever neck there might have been to cave in. He approached, lifting the brim of his tattered hat to reveal a face that would make anyone wince: two bulging, blood shot eyes, a wide, leering mouth with more gaps than teeth, and a slash-mark scar across one scruffy cheek.
“Leave ‘em be, Tobias. They ain’t done no ‘arm to nobody,” the young woman pleaded. “They just gave what they ‘ad to ‘elp my babies, is all.”
The stench of sour liquor and unwashed clothes filled my nostrils as the man advanced up the stone steps and jabbed his leering face up close to ours. “Is that so? Well then, what ‘ave they got for old Tobias, eh? I’ll bet there’s a pretty li’l Christmas present just for me in that bag of yours, missy.” He reached out and grabbed Imogen’s purse with two monstrously strong hands.
How I wished in that moment I’d brought my blowgun with me! All I had was my own satchel filled with the precious sketchbook and my detective notebook. I picked it up, reared back and slammed it against the man’s gargoyle-like head. He stepped back and lost his balance on the stair. As he teetered, Imogen yanked her purse out of his grip. Together we shot away as fast as our feet would take us across the slippery cobbles, pursued by the horrible man’s bellowed curses. We never looked back but scurried on as quickly as we could, our eyes searching desperately for a refuge.
“Look, a light! Up there!” Imogen pointed to a large hanging light over a doorway. We skidded to a halt beneath the lantern which had on it in cast iron letters Ye Old Cheddar Cheese Tavern. The windows were steamed up, but it was clear from the sound of laughter and singing there was life within. Imogen grabbed my arm and pulled me beneath a stone archway where a couple of drunken men staggered out the tavern door. We slipped around them unnoticed and ducked inside.
“Thank heavens!” Imogen groaned, bracing herself against the wall and doubling over to catch her breath. “You know, if I wanted to run this much, I’d join the athletics team,” she panted. “Just as well we got rid of our coats before that hooligan turned up, huh? Katie?”
I wanted to answer, but my tongue was tied and my back pressed hard against the wall. The moment we had walked through the door, all the talking, laughing and singing had gone mute. Every eye was turned towards us, and none looked too cheerful. Imogen, becoming aware of our uncomfortable situation, zipped her lips and straightened up.
If there’s one thing I admire about Imogen, it’s her ability to take an awkward situation in her stride. While I might have stayed glued to the wall all night, or worse, run back out into the street, Imogen cleared her throat, thrust her nose haughtily into the air and took my arm. “Well some people clearly never learned that it is rude to stare. Come on, Katie. We’ve as much right to a hot drink on Christmas Eve as anyone else in here.” And with that, she marched us right through the maze of tables, barstools and upturned kegs while the tavern’s surly-looking patrons sneered and murmured to one another. Soon enough, as we wound our way through the series of rooms, they turned back to their conversations, laughter, shouting and alley-cat singing as if we had never interrupted them.
The tavern was a series of cavern-like stone-walled rooms with low ceilings that sank lower and lower beneath ground, a bit like a crypt. When at last we reached the bottom–a larger room with a crowded bar–we inched our way through the boisterous drinkers to where an old man with greasy grey hair was wiping down the bar with a grubby towel between swigs from a jug. After several minutes in which it appeared we were invisible to the man, Imogen boldly cleared her throat. He looked at us as if we’d just come from the lunatic asylum.
“Wot you want?” he wheezed.
“Are you still serving food?” Imogen asked with an impressive show of confidence.
“Bread and cheese is all you’ll get,” the man barked, gesturing towards a basket of loaves and a big wheel of cheese. My stomach gave a pleading growl.
“We’ll take it. And two hot chocolates, please.” Imogen sat herself primly on a bar stool to wait, but the man only glowered.
“You want hot chocolate, go to Fortnum and Mason. I’ve got ale and gin. Take your pick.”
Imogen cast him a disdainful look. “Just the bread and cheese, then. And a jug of water.”
The man still didn’t budge except to hold out a dirty hand. “Pay first.”
As Imogen resentfully clicked open her bag and dug around for her coin purse, I chanced a glance over my shoulder where I sensed someone watching us. I was right. A gangly boy in mismatched, misfitting clothes slouched against a wooden post with an unnaturally ugly bulldog at his heels, a tankard in his hand and an annoyingly smug smirk on his face. I caught his eye and he tipped his oversized top hat with a wink. I turned swiftly back to the bar, but I still felt the boy’s eyes on the back of my neck.
Meanwhile Imogen and the bartender were caught at odds. “What do you mean it’s not real money? These are pounds sterling. Legal tender!” Imogen was shouting.
“Look, Miss, I don’t know who you fink you’re kiddin’, but wotever that is, you can’t pay with it. Move aside and let the customers with real money through.”
“I’m offering you way more than that bread and cheese are worth,” Imogen argued, shaking a pound coin in the bartender’s face.
“I said, MOVE ASIDE!”
“Now now, gov, don’t bust a gut. You leave these bricky young lasses to me.” It was the smug boy who spoke. He’d sidled up beside me at the bar as sil
ently as a shadow while the bulldog snorted up behind him.
“Be my guest, Dobbs.” The bartender waved his hand in the air as if happy to be rid of us, then turned to the next customer.
Imogen jumped off her bar stool and squared off the boy. She was taller by a couple of fists. “What did you call us? Something about bricks?”
“I meant no disrespect, Miss. Was a compliment about your being pretty bold for a girl ’n’ all.”
“Oh.” Imogen looked appeased. “Well say what you have to say then.”
The boy leaned in. “Step into my office,” he said, beckoning us to follow him to a quiet back corner. With an overdramatic bow, he gestured to a couple of stools at a spindly little table before seating himself across from us. The bulldog snorted and threw itself adoringly on top of his feet. It was just as well; several of his toes had wormed their way out the holes in his boots.
Now that I had a better look at the boy, I thought he must be the most comical figure I’d ever laid eyes on. He appeared to have outgrown most of his clothes several years earlier, all except the oversized top hat perched atop his flyaway ears, and a chequered tailed coat that practically swallowed his gangly frame. He removed his hat to reveal a head of hair that looked more like pitched hay heaped about his impish, freckled face. There was no mistaking the mischief in his eyes, nor the half-grin that hinted he had some clever trick up his sleeve. One look, and I was immediately torn between a natural liking for the boy and an intense distrust.
Very suddenly, he thrust his fingerless-gloved hand across the table. “Name’s Arty Dobbs, but most just call me Dobbs. And this ’ere is Betsy.” The bulldog lifted her forlornly ugly head in acknowledgement, then flopped it down again.
We introduced ourselves, shaking his hand in turn.
“Wha’s the accent?” he asked after I’d told him my name.
“I’m American,” I answered a bit defensively.