by Mez Blume
Effie Turvey released our hands to take her sister’s and pat it, nodding sympathetically. “That’s just what you are, sister. A martyr.”
“’Tis true.” Agatha nodded piously. “But you’ll not hear a word of complaint from my lips.”
“No one would dream of it, sister,” Effie assured her.
“I won’t say a complaining word about it, but my nerves are so severely shaken, I’ve no choice but to return to my rooms.” She turned her enormous blinking eyes towards us. “Effie will show you to your own room and see you settled. She is fortunate not to suffer as I do from such afflictions as nerves.”
Effie shook her head sorrowfully. “’Tis very hard for you, sister. But never you mind. I’ll see these two sweet angels settled.”
Agatha stepped lightly onto the first stair, then stopped and turned. “Breakfast is at 8 o’clock sharp if you want it. I spend that hour in private contemplation and prayer, but Effie will see to your needs.” And with that, she climbed the stair with her candle and her head held aloft as if she were ascending the heavenly stairway.
Effie led us along the poky corridor to the back of the house, then down an even pokier flight of stairs and into a draughty cellar kitchen with stone floors and a small, smoking fire.
Imogen and I were seated side by side on a wooden bench at a long table. We watched while Effie, after tying an apron over her nightgown, bustled between a small cupboard and the feeble little fire and, like a fairy godmother, conjured up a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and two steaming bowls of leek and potato soup.
“Now, don’t you waste any ladylike airs on me. You’re hungry, so you slurp up that soup as quick as you can.” She leant down and added in a whisper, “Besides, Agatha’s not here to know.”
We thanked her, then did just as she ordered us, plunging our spoons into the hot soup and slurping it up. Only when I’d finished the bowl did I sit up to enjoy the wonderful sensation of thawing insides. Effie watched us with delight.
“It was delicious,” I said after slurping up the last bit of broth, which made her beam all the more.
“Well, I suspect now you’re fed, a warm bed is what you need most. Your room is right at the top of the house, but when the fire is stoked, ‘tis as snug a little room as you could wish for.”
She led us up the creaky flight of stairs to a landing where she put her finger to her lips and mouthed “Agatha.” We tiptoed past the door behind which Agatha was already snoring like a bear, then followed up another flight of even creakier stairs to the attic. Effie pushed open the door into a tiny room with slanted ceilings, a bed and a miniature desk. It was cold, but in no time she had a fire going in the grate and the room became friendly and snug in its glow, just as she’d said.
“Now,” she brushed her hands off as she rose from the hearth and smiled. “You’ve a candle allowance of two per day. Tapers and matches are kept in the desk. And you’ll find two nightgowns laid out on the bed. As for day clothes … I suppose what you’re wearing is all you have?” Her eyes flitted over the damp short skirts, tights and sweaters we’d travelled in. “Your garments are of a most … interesting fashion. But perhaps you’d be more comfortable in something else? I’ll just have a look in our charity cupboard. We’ve just had a delivery from the girls’ school, so I’m sure we’ll find something to suit you both. Leave it to me.”
We thanked Effie again as she left, glowing all the way out the door. Once we were alone, we wasted no time in pulling off our wet things and getting into the woollen nightgowns left out for us, along with floppy little nightcaps. We pulled them on, then looked at each other and laughed.
“Welcome to jolly old England!” Imogen said, pantomiming a curtsey. “Let’s see what 1885 looks like from here.” She creaked across the floor to the window and knelt on a stool. “It’s awfully grubby,” she said, using the outside of her fist to wipe clear a portion of the soot-coated glass. “But what’s a little grime?”
I flopped onto the bed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
She looked mischievously over her shoulder. “After sleeping beside a muddy river night after night last October, this is nothing.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, actually. I mean about what happened in Nickajack … I just can’t work out how it all fits with this time. We got here by following one of Ramona’s clues from her sketches,” I began, hoping to untangle my thoughts by speaking them out loud. “Our mission is to find Ramona. She’s the key to getting home, but also to this whole great puzzle of why I time travel.” – with every word, I felt more certain, and my pulse rushed a little faster –“She must be here, Im. I just know it.” I caught her eye and paused. “Are you smiling?”
“I can’t help it,” she said, grinning. “I know it sounds mad, but ever since we got back from 1828, I’ve kind of been wishing it would happen again. That trip was the best time of my life.”
I could hardly believe my ears. “You do remember how we nearly died on several occasions? And snakes. There were lots of snakes.”
“That just goes to show how this time is going to be even better. No snakes in England!”
I couldn’t help laughing, in spite of my nervous pulse. “I’m glad you’re here, Im. I never thought you would remind me to relax and enjoy the adventure.”
She shrugged. “Well, I learned that lesson from a very wise cousin of mine. But enough sentiment. My feet are cold.” She tiptoed back across the creaky floorboards and climbed under the blanket. “Now, where do we start to solve this stolen painting mystery, Watson?”
“Right, the painting.” I rubbed my palms together, eager to dive into a fresh, new mystery. “Who would steal a painting on Christmas Eve night?”
After a pause of pin-drop silence, Imogen said, “We don’t exactly have much to go on…”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “And not much to go on to find Ramona either. This city is huge. But…” – I pulled my satchel into my lap – “hopefully the sketchbook will lead us in the right direction.” Throwing open the bag’s flap, I reached in and froze.
“What’s wrong?” Imogen leaned forward to peer inside the bag.
My mind drew a blank so that all I could say was, “It’s not here.”
“What’s not?”
“The sketchbook. I had it in my bag and now it’s gone. There’s only this.” I pulled out a piece of splintered wood that was roughly the size of the sketchbook and held it up in horrified disbelief.
Imogen frowned at the imposter piece of wood. “When’s the last time you saw the book?”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember. “When that boy, Arty Dobbs asked if… Wait a second.” My stomach sank. “Surely he didn’t…”
“What?” Imogen urged. “You don’t think he…?”
Slowly, with a sickly feeling creeping into my stomach, I nodded. “You saw the way he was eyeing it. He must have stolen it.” The chunk of wood dropped to my lap. “And to think I trusted him all because of his dog rescue story.”
“That little weasel!” Imogen snarled, punching her palm with her fist. “Just wait ‘til we meet again.” She made a violent face as she strangled an imaginary neck in front of her.
“Without that sketchbook, we have nothing to go on,” I said, letting my head collapse into my hands.
“Oh, we’ll get it back. You’ll see,” Imogen said through her gritted teeth. “Arty Dobbs is about to find out just how bricky I am.”
6
Christmas Goose Chase
I fell asleep that night fuming. If Arty Dobbs wasn’t pricked by his conscience, I hoped at the very least he was out there somewhere sleeping in cold manure and being pricked by bits of frozen hay. It was too much to stomach how he had pulled the wool over my eyes and stolen from me in cold blood. But if I was angry at Dobbs, I was even angrier with myself. I, who was supposed to be a seasoned detective by now, had fallen for his tricks like a mouse for the old cheese-on-a-trap trick.
I don’t know
when I fell asleep, but I woke with a start to the bizarre and unexpected crow of a rooster and the frosted window glistening from pale morning rays. It took a few blinking moments to remember where I was – a rooster in London? – before the memories of my stolen sketchbook came back to me, and all my anger came flowing back with it until I was wide awake and ready to pounce.
I shook Imogen’s shoulder.
She might as well have been a brick.
“Merry Christmas!”
Miraculously, one of her eyes peeled open and searched around the room.
I gave her a minute to re-orient herself before asking, “Ready to catch a thief?”
At that, her eyes opened wide and, in a most un-Imogen-like fashion, she threw off the blanket and sprang out of bed. Then, with a gasp, she jumped back into the bed and flung the cover over her legs. “It’s freezing!” she stammered, teeth chattering.
There was a tap on the door. Effie Turvey’s round, rosy face appeared, topped with a lacy, lilac mopcap. “Oh, good. I was afraid of waking you.”
She backed into the room carrying a big, wicker hamper. “Merry Christmas, dears. I’ve picked out a few items from the charitable donations for you. I hope they’ll do.”
She set down the hamper and began to poke the fire. “The basin’s on the desk if you want a wash. Most of the other girls have already taken to the streets to look for the day’s work, but there are still plenty of currant buns – a little Christmas treat – and a pot of hot coffee in the kitchen. Now, I’ll leave you to it. I must tend to poor Agatha. It seems her rheumatism is keeping her in bed this morning, poor lamb. And on Christmas!” Her smile dropped for just a moment in which she looked on the verge of tears; but the next second her chirpiness returned. “Do help yourselves, my dears.”
We wished her a merry Christmas and thanked her for the clothes as she backed out of the room nodding her frilly head.
“Did she say the other girls had gone out to find work?” Imogen looked scandalised. On Christmas?” She shook her head as she tiptoed across the chilled floorboards to kneel on the hearth mat and began picking through the clothes hamper.
“I guess Christmas isn’t a day off for poor people in 1885,” I answered, leaning on the window ledge and peering down at the bustling scene below. “And you know what that means?”
Imogen dropped the plaid dress she had been considering and twisted around. “What does it mean?”
I turned to face her. “It means, Arty Dobbs has more than likely already hit the streets as well. There’s no time to lose if we’re ever going to find him.”
Imogen snorted. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s pretty recognisable with that ridiculous top hat, those dumbo ears and that mangy dog always at his side. Not to mention he must reek of livestock after having a sleepover with them.”
“I’m not so sure.” I gestured her towards the window.
Her perplexed face fell as soon as she gazed out. “Oh crumbs!” The deserted streets from last night had transformed into something of a carnival. Covent Garden Market vibrated with life: carriages, carts, people and animals.
Imogen pushed herself away from the window and cracked her knuckles. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get Victorian.”
Somewhere, church bells clanged the nine o’clock hour as we left the Misses Turveys’ Hostel for Girls of Good Character to join the London mobs, and did we ever look the part. Imogen wore a violet dress with pearly buttons up the front, and I’d chosen a simple blue chequered one with a fat blue ribbon around the waste. Once we wrapped our torsos with crocheted shawls and stuffed hot currant buns into our dress pockets to warm our hands as we set out into the frosty streets, we were armed and ready to hunt our criminal.
Shutters still covered the shop windows, but that didn’t stop street sellers from making the most of the festive mood to sell their goods.
“Holly and Ivy for your doorways! Mistletoe for the Missus!” a woman shouted as she swayed from door to door with a basket of greenery perched on her hip.
Across the road, a man pushed a cart full of dead birds along the bumpy cobbles. “Get your Christmas goose! Fattest birds you’ll find in London!”
A pair of cantering horses brought a carriage careening in his direction. He swerved, sending a puff of white feathers into the air, swirling about like giant snowflakes.
“Drive on!” a smartly dressed man inside the carriage called out. The driver gave a choked “YA!” as he batted away the attacking feathers.
“How are we supposed to find one boy in all this madness?”
I was busy searching hopelessly for an answer when a shrill whistle blew. A policeman with a blue uniform and tall hat was darting through the crowds and carts in the middle of the street, heading in our direction.
“Stop that crook!” he shouted, pointing at someone a little way ahead of him. It didn’t take long to discover who it was. A tatty top hat was weaving its way through the crowded street, darting madly this way, then that, like a kite caught in a gale. The hat turned behind what appeared to be a sort of horse-drawn bus and disappeared.
Recalling Dobbs’s boastful tales of omnibus getaways, I deduced that the horse-drawn vehicle must be an omnibus, which meant it was very likely…
“Come on,” I said, grabbing Imogen’s hand and plunging headfirst into the current of shoppers and sellers.
Keeping up with the omnibus was not difficult. It stopped several times to let people on and off. We kept a close distance, watching for any sign of a top hat or a bulldog getting off each time it stopped.
The bus started off again, and we started after it when Imogen threw out her hand. “Wait, it’s turning.” We watched as the bus turned down a side street. Sure enough, there, hanging off a hand rail, was the unmistakable Arty Dobbs, and there on the back step sat his loyal partner in crime, Betsy. Dobbs held an apple in his free hand, chomping off mouthfuls as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Hey!” a policeman across the street shouted out. We weren’t the only ones to spot the fugitive when the bus turned its broadside to our view. Dobbs tossed the apple, raised a hand to his hat, and pushed himself down out of sight.
“Ugh, great! He’s giving them the slip,” I groaned. “If we hurry, we can get in front of the bus and ambush him when he gets off.”
Paying no attention to the scandalised expressions of well-to-do passers-by, we hoisted up our long skirts to slosh across the slushy road as quickly as we could. Then we darted down the side road after the omnibus, passed it and slipped in a narrow side alley between two tall buildings to wait out our prey.
Imogen peered around the corner.
“Can you see him?” I panted.
“Yup. He’s… oh! He’s getting off! He’s coming this way. Get ready to grab him.”
Dobbs’s clear-toned whistle came first, growing louder by the second and accompanied by Betsy’s snorts. So, he was taking an “act natural” approach to throw off the police.
Imogen held up a finger and mouthed silently, “One-two-THREE!”
On three, we both sprang from our hiding place, grabbed whatever bit of Dobbs’s clothing we could get our hands on, and yanked him into the alley.
Imogen, who was taller and stronger than the gangly street boy, pinned him up against the brick wall by his coat collar. The violent action brought out a side of Betsy we had not seen before. She growled low and bucked her hind legs as if about to charge Imogen. I froze, worried that Dobbs might give the signal to attack.
“He went this way!” a voice shouted from the road. Footsteps were running in our direction.
“Shush, girl,” Dobbs whispered hoarsely. “Play dead.” To my relief, Betsy whimpered and flopped over on her side. The policemen, meanwhile, were getting close.
Dobbs cast me a pleading look. “You wouldn’t give me away to them square-keepers, now would’ya? Not after I ‘elped you out of a fix ‘n’ all?” Now he was at our mercy, his bravado was deflating like a balloon shot by a blowgu
n dart.
Imogen gave me a quick nod. I nodded back, then stepped out of the alleyway just in time to meet the pair of policemen. They pulled up short when they saw me.
“Are you looking for a boy in a hat with a dog?” I asked.
“Tha’s right,” one of them answered. His red face sparkled with perspiration. “Stole from the grocer. You see which way he went?”
I nodded. “He crossed the street, I think, then headed back to the main road.”
The red-faced policeman grimaced at his partner. “I told you he’d have a trick up his sleeve. That one’s a right skilamalink. Manages to slip through our fingers every time. But just you wait.” He shook his fist at an imaginary Dobbs. “Your fun is comin’ to an end, ye young ruffian.” He tipped his hat to me with a “Ta, miss,” and the pair of them turned on their heels and chugged and huffed back the way they’d come.
No sooner had I ducked back into the alley than Dobbs gave a low whistle. “Well, fancy meetin’ the two of you ‘ere. Why ‘tis jus’ like a Christmas miracle, make no mistake. An’ if I may say, you’re both lookin’ much better for the night’s rest.” His wide, mouth stretched into a sheepish, crooked grin. Imogen kept him pinned to the wall with her fists at his throat.
“I’ll tell you what,” he went on, his confidence not the least bit deflated. “Being the generous businessman that I am, I’ll call us even now, on account of your ‘elp. We can forget all about that little token we was to agree on. What do you say, an ‘elping hand for an ‘elping hand?” He struck out his dirty hand to Imogen as if expecting her to shake it.
She simpered and released her grasp on his collar. Taking his out-held hand in hers, she yanked it hard so the two of them were nose to nose. “You call that even? Not even close. You stole something from us.”