by Mez Blume
It took a few trembling breaths before I could ask, “Who is Phineas Webb?”
It was Dobbs that answered. “Ah, come off it, Miss. You’re ‘aving a laugh! Who doesn’t know the most famous painter in all of Britain? Maybe the whole world!”
Captain Nemo gave a mirthless laugh. “Yes, yes. A man of timeless genius! The most celebrated talent of our age!” His raised voice was as icy as the canal’s waters, then it dropped and he mumbled to himself as he hobbled to the back of the boat. “His ship may have come in, but we have our barge. The River is our Kingdom. We may not live in halls of marble, but still we have some pretty ornaments… we have our freedom and our dignity. Two treasures he doesn’t understand. Well, his day is coming. You can tell him that!”
He shouted the last bit at us, as if we were meant to deliver the message. Then he carried on mumbling to himself as he disappeared behind the curtain. Imogen was giving me a look that said, “Let’s get out of here quick.”
I had no doubt there was much more this Captain Nemo could tell us, but if I pushed him any further, it seemed he was likely to crack. I didn’t fancy finding out just how mad he could get while we were stuck within the confines of his boat.
Hesitantly, I lay the serpent stone on the little desk – as much as it made me sick to part with it, I had made a offer to Nemo, and I was going to keep my part of it – then I stepped towards the closed curtain and cleared my throat. “Thank you, Captain. We should really be going…”
“Yea,” Imogen echoed. “Now you’ve got that lovely snake stone to add to your collection, so why don’t we just take these old sketches and leave you to enjoy your things…”
She had just gathered up the sketches and handed them to me when the curtain was whipped back. Captain Nemo loomed in the doorway. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said in his old, polite tone; but his eyes were wild.
I suddenly noticed the floor beneath my feet was rattling, as if the barge had come to life like a dragon woken from slumber. It sent a chill of panic up my spine that made me whirl around for the door.
Captain Nemo advanced, his eyes fixed on the sketchbook. “You see, Miss Watson,” – He moved between me and the way out – “What’s inside that book is worth a lot more to me than leather. I’ve waited a long, long time… I’m not about to let a treasure like that leave this barge.”
My fingers tightened around the folder. “But we’re not leaving without it.”
“Then have a seat. It’s going to be a long journey.” He pushed past me and threw back the curtain to reveal the part of the barge that had been hidden: an open door that led to an outer deck with a steering stick. Inside was a coal engine, and it was burning.
The Captain ducked out the door and hobbled up to the steering deck. He was visible from the waist down only, but I could see him manoeuvring the steering stick and felt the boat responding.
“Katie, look!” Imogen pointed to the small, round window. “We’re moving down the canal.”
Sure enough, we were drifting away from the mooring; slowly, yes, but once we reached the middle of the canal, there would be no getting off that boat.
“Now’s our only chance to get out of here,” I whispered to Imogen. “Quick, to the other door.”
But before we could take a step, Captain Nemo returned to the cabin, a rope coiled over one shoulder.
“Dobbs, do me the favour of securing our friends here. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He tossed the rope to Dobbs who caught it in both hands. Now we were caught between a kidnapper and a crook. There was no way out.
Dobbs frowned at the rope in his hands for a moment then shook his head. “Can’t ‘elp you there, Cap’n.”
“What do you mean?” Nemo hobbled over to him and seized the rope. “Man the aft, then. I’ll do it myself.”
That was when Arty Dobbs decided to play the hero instead of the crook. With one slick movement, he kicked the walking stick out of the bargeman’s grip so that the man toppled over and crashed against the wall.
“Walk the plank, scurvy dog!” Billy Bones screeched as the Captain pushed himself up, cursing, only to take another tumble over Alpheus who had come to his master’s aid and was worrying in circles at his feet.
“Wot are you waitin’ for!” Dobbs waved us to follow him to the aft. “Let’s split, afore we drifts any farther!”
We scrambled up onto the steering deck where Dobbs grasped the stick and pulled back hard. “Hoist that gangplank, ‘n’ quick!”
I found the plank of wood and slid it towards the bank. The end just reached, but we were still drifting, and angry, uneven footsteps were approaching from within the boat.
“Well don’t just ‘ang about, get goin’!”
Imogen scuttled across the moving gangplank; then it was my turn. “What about you and Besty?” I called to Dobb.
“Ah, that ol’ blighter won’t ‘urt us.” No sooner had he said it, the Captain’s enraged face appeared in the doorway. He hobbled with amazing speed up onto the deck and grabbed Dobbs by the collar.
Before I could move, Betsy was there, her jaws locked on the Captain’s trousers, tugging with all her bullish strength.
“Katie, hurry up, it’s about to fall!” Imogen screeched from the towpath.
I turned back. The barge was drifting faster now, the gap widening by the second. With a gasp, I clutched the sketchbook and rushed across the gangplank, jumping onto solid ground just before the piece of wood plopped into the water.
A much louder splash followed.
“Oh no,” I gasped, expecting to see Dobbs’s top hat bobbing in the canal. Instead, Captain Nemo spluttered and flailed in the half-frozen water. He had pulled away from Betsy’s iron jaws all right, but it had sent him over the rail and into the canal.
Dobbs cast him a rope, then called over his shoulder at us, “Don’t worry! Bess & me’ll see he don’t drown. Now run for it!”
Imogen ran on, but I hesitated.
“Come on, Katie,” she urged. “You heard him.”
I didn’t feel right abandoning Dobbs. He had the upper hand now, but would Nemo try to kill him after the boy reeled him back to safety? Dobbs seemed confident he wouldn’t, and besides, the man would be too cold and weary to catch a slick squirrel like Dobbs. Reassured, I turned and sped after Imogen, the excitement of our escape making me reckless as I pulled up my skirt and jumped over bits of scrap in the shipping yard. I didn’t even notice the pile of horse manure until my foot landed in it. I slid before falling hard on my tailbone. The sketchbook flew out of my grasp; the sketches went everywhere.
Seeing stars from the pain, I turned over onto my knees and started gathering the sketches as quickly as I could.
“Are you all right?” Imogen had run back to help me.
“Fine,” I winced. “I just don’t want to lose a single…” My hand landed on a piece of parchment – the sketch of the old woman at St. Paul’s – and froze. Pinning a corner of the parchment to the ground was the toe of a large, shiny black shoe. My eyes travelled slowly upward, finally coming to land on the face of Detective-Inspector Sherringdon Janklow.
As he peered down his beak-like nose at me, one of his eyebrows rose high above the other. “How nice to see you again, Miss Watson. I dare to say a little chat is in order. Wouldn’t you agree?”
8
A Reasonable Conclusion
We rattled along the mist-shrouded, cobbled streets of London in a hansom cab. Glancing out the window, I could just make out the silhouettes of lamplighters climbing up and down their ladders. My stomach grumbled, forcing me to acknowledge just how weary and hungry and anxious I felt. Inspector Janklow had shown us nothing but kindness; he had helped us gather up the scattered sketches and had called the cab to take us back to his office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But what he intended to do with the sketches, or with us, once we got there… We could only wait and find out.
“We’ll save the questions for a nice hot fire and a
steaming cup of mulled wine, shall we?” he had said as he helped Imogen and me into the cab. “It’s best not to say anything off the record, if you gather my meaning.”
And so no one spoke a word for the whole journey. I watched the busy streets go by out the window and exchanged a few glances with Imogen. She looked flushed and tired and as uncertain as I felt. What were we in for at the end of this journey? Would the sketch be enough to convict us of having a hand in the case of the stolen St. Paul’s painting?
I rubbed my hands together in my lap and took a deep breath. You’re not guilty, Katie, so don’t act as if you are. Just tell the truth… or, at least, part of it.
The only trouble was, the truth was hardly believable to a sensible, serious sort of man like this Inspector Janklow. It might save us from prison only to get us thrown into an insane asylum. How would we convince him we were both innocent and sane?
The cab pulled up to a two-storey building that leaned so badly to one side, it looked like it might lose its balance and collapse at any moment.
At the door, which tilted at the same angle as the building, Inspector Janklow took a large ring of keys from his coat pocket and fished for the one he wanted. He unlocked the wonky door and held it open to us with a kind, reassuring smile, as if we were his welcome guests; yet I couldn’t help wondering whether we were being lured into a web we wouldn’t easily get out of.
The building was abandoned and dark, but the Inspector lit a few lamps; then, taking a candle, led us up a narrow, slanted staircase and into a small, slanted office. To my surprise, lopsided walls aside, the room was a picture of orderliness.
The Inspector politely took our shawls and invited us to sit in two chairs before a big, mahogany desk while he started a fire. I looked over the desk. Its surface was spotlessly clean, arranged with a tidy stack of papers framed by a magnifying glass, a ruler and a row of quills organised by size. All this was watched over by a marble bust with the name Aristotle carved at the base.
“Now,” said the Inspector, rising from the fire and brushing off his knees, “A little festive tipple to warm us up, eh?” He poured us each a small glass of mulled wine and took his seat across from us at the immaculate desk.
Inspector Janklow sipped his wine, straightened a quill on the desk that already looked perfectly straight to me, then leaned forward on his elbows, his fingertips touching to form a steeple that framed his beak-like nose. His mouth drew a straight line, pursed in thought. I could almost see the cogs turning in his head as his squinted eyes shifted mechanically between Imogen and me, like a pendulum.
I took a tiny sip from my glass and looked down at my lap where the sketchbook rested, a little wet but all intact, thank goodness.
“Miss Watson and Miss Humphreys… I have got that right, haven’t I?”
I looked up and nodded, amazed that he remembered our names from our brief encounter the night before. “Yes, sir.”
He nodded once. “And you know who I am, so let’s get straight to the point, shall we? Twice now I have had the pleasure of meeting you young ladies, on both occasions without guardian or chaperone. Do you wish to explain these extraordinary circumstances to me?”
Imogen and I glanced at one another; then, to my relief, she spoke. “My parents had to leave suddenly to look after an elderly, infirm uncle in… um… County Durham.”
The Inspector’s one eyebrow rose. “And they didn’t leave you in the care of a guardian?”
“Oh, um, yes. Of course. They left us with my old aunt. But she’s also very infirm and never leaves the house.”
He looked deeply perplexed now. “But surely your parents would not permit you to wander the city’s streets without a governess or chaperone?”
“Oh, I’ve never had either. My parents believe girls ought to learn to be independent. It’s a dangerous world out there, Inspector. We must all be on our guards.”
Imogen really is a marvellous actress, I thought in admiration.
The Inspector sat back and retreated into his thoughts. “Humphreys… Humphreys…” he said to himself as if trying to recall something. “I don’t suppose you’re descended from the Duke Humphreys?”
Imogen’s mouth hovered open for a second. “Yes!” she blurted. “Yes, I am. Great-great grandfather Humphreys. That’s the one.”
The Inspector nodded and lay his finger aside his nose. “That explains something. Always were an eccentric family, but then these old families often are. Still, if I were your father, Miss, I’d advise you to exercise your independence in a more savoury part of town than King’s Cross wharf.”
Imogen nodded modestly. “Yes, sir.”
The Inspector brought his fingertips together again. “The question begs, nonetheless, why you found yourselves in that part of town this afternoon.” Now he turned to me for an answer.
Just tell the truth, Katie. I thought. There’s nothing wrong with the truth. “We went to get back my sketchbook from someone who had taken it.”
“Ah, your sketchbook.” He raised his pointer finger. “And now we come to it. Might I have another look at that particular sketch, Miss Watson? I’m sure you know which I mean.”
With a gulp, I took the sketch of the old woman and the girl at St. Paul’s from the top of the pile and passed it to him across the desk.
He squared its edges up perfectly with his other documents, then reached for the magnifying glass. Leaning over the sketch, he swept over every magnified bit of it.
Finally, he sat up and returned the glass to its proper place on the desk before resuming his calm posture. “Almost an exact replica of the painting that mysteriously appeared in St. Paul’s Cathedral just last night … a painting not even the most knowledgeable art critics seem to know anything about… the very painting that replaced the stolen masterpiece, The Wedding Feast.” He paused and gave me a hard look. “Did you make this sketch, Miss Watson?”
“I… no sir! It was given to me. The entire collection of sketches was a gift.”
“From whom, may I ask?”
I was trying desperately to think how to answer in a way that wouldn’t sound insane, but the longer I put off answering, the guiltier I would appear. “It belongs to a woman called Ramona,” I said in a rush. “I’ve never met her, but she’s a relative of mine. I’m trying to find her.”
“You don’t know where she lives?”
“No, sir. She’s been missing for some time. None of the family knows where she’s gone, but we think she may be here in London, because… well, because of this.” I indicated the sketch. “But we promise we were telling you the truth last night. We don’t know anything about that stolen painting.”
“It’s true,” Imogen chimed in. “We just wanted to find Ramona.”
“A missing person. Why didn’t you come out and say so sooner?” Inspector Janklow frowned and tapped his finger against the side of his nose, deep in thought.
“Do you think…” I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt what was probably an ingenious train of thought.
“Go on, Miss Watson.”
“I was just wondering if perhaps the two cases might be related? I mean, maybe if we find who stole the painting, they might lead us to Ramona?”
“Or the other way ‘round?” He gave me a shrewd sideways look. “What sort of woman is this relative of yours?”
“Oh, she’s not a criminal,” I answered hastily. I leafed through the sketches and found one of Ramona in a forest clearing, lifting a baby Ka-Ti up over her head and laughing. “That’s her there, with her daughter.”
The Inspector looked at it thoughtfully. “And have you any notion of who might be behind her disappearance? Did she have relations in London? Friends?” His voice deepened as he said, “Enemies?”
“Well…”
I looked at Imogen. She was looking back at me as if unsure whether she ought to say any more.
“Go on, Miss Humphreys.”
“We met someone today,” she said. “Calls himself ‘Captain
Nemo’, owns a boat called ‘Ramona’ and would do anything to get his hands on these sketches.”
“Go on.”
“He runs some kind of pawn shop on a barge…”
The Inspector listened intently as Imogen related our strange encounter with the old bargeman and our narrow escape. “That’s why we were in the wharf this afternoon, and why we were running when we… well… ran into you.”
He was nodding by the time she finished. I felt my chest ease up a little. It seemed Inspector Janklow believed our story entirely now. He even looked impressed by our daring getaway from the bargeman, though Imogen hadn’t given fair credit to Dobbs for his part.
Seized by a sudden idea, I broke in. “Inspector Janklow, do you think we might be able to… that is, I don’t know if you ever… I just thought…”
He listened patiently to my drivel. “Go on, Miss Watson. What was it you thought?”
Why was I so nervous? I took a deep breath and tried again. “Do you think we could help you solve the case?” Before he could answer, I quickly added, “Because we’ve had some practice in solving mysteries, and I really believe we could learn a lot from you, and maybe even be of some assistance.”
What was his expression? Doubt? Or worse, amusement? I felt my cheeks flush.
“A detective’s work is, by nature, solitary, Miss Watson.”
How ridiculous he must have thought I was. Me offering to help him.
“But…”
I looked up at this hopeful word, ‘but’.
“There is merit in what you suggest, and no man is ever really an island. My web of informants spreads into every nook and cranny of this city, from the highest to the very meanest. A detective, you see, must have eyes everywhere. And I am, in fact, in the habit of employing young people. Children, I find, often offer the most perceptive observations of society that we rusty old know-it-alls are all too prone to miss. But…” His expression changed suddenly; it reminded me of the look my dad gives when he’s lecturing Charlie and me about something important, like what to do if you meet a bear in the woods. Instinctively, I sat up a little straighter. “If I were to take on an apprentice or say, two apprentices, well then I would have to know that they were entirely trustworthy.” The eyes tick-tocked between us again before he continued. “And trust must be earned through trial. I hope you don’t think me indelicate.”