by Amy Myers
The voice. I knew it now. The tract seller was Flint.
*
Still reeling from this revelation, I returned to my own procession to find Phineas and Ned, expecting to see Flint at every turn now that I knew his identity. Not that he would be selling Biblical tracts here; he could look completely different and that didn’t cheer me in the least. Nor did finding Inspector Wiley still holding forth to Constable Peters at the front of the procession, which was about to move off on its return journey.
Flint wasn’t on his mind, but the Tarlton manuscript was, and he was determined to have his hour of glory by finding it.
‘Ah, Wasp. Constable Peters tells me that manuscript’s here today and Miss Pomfret has it. Fetch it, Wasp!’
I had to put the kibosh on this straightaway. ‘It’s not my property. It belongs to —’
‘— You’re perverting the course of justice!’ he roared, turning to Constable Peters. ‘You fetch it then.’
‘We’ve no proof that it’s evidence,’ the constable said bravely.
With us anxiously hurrying in his wake, Inspector Wiley promptly marched off to Hetty’s wagon where she was patiently waiting for the procession to move off. Phineas was lolling at the wagon’s side.
‘Hand over that manuscript if you please, miss.’ The inspector’s chest was swelling with self-importance.
Hetty looked at Constable Peters uncertainly but when he nodded she rose obediently to her feet, stepping back to reveal Cockalorum guarding the precious script. The inspector’s eyes widened but he was not deterred.
‘Come on, pussy cat,’ he said, patting Cockalorum on the head with one hand and stretching out for the script with the other. I saw Cockalorum’s body tense, but he didn’t move. Inspector Wiley thereupon put both hands to the task of dragging him out of the wagon.
This time I was there to see the fun. One hiss and Cockalorum was clawing at the inspector’s clothes, hands and arms, yowling, wriggling and squirming to avoid the inspector’s flailing hands.
‘Call him off!’ he yelled, trying to grasp the cat while avoiding those claws.
‘I’ll try, inspector.’ Constable Peters bent over Cockalorum in the pretence of trying to help.
While the inspector grappled with him, Cockalorum slithered this way and that, claws in full use, until finally the constable did manage to detach him from an incoherent Inspector Wiley. Cockalorum thereupon jumped off the wagon, cast a disdainful look at the inspector and disappeared into the crowd.
Meanwhile Hetty and Phineas had also slipped quietly away — together with the Seven Deadly Sins manuscript. Although the crowds were noisy and the inspector was shouting threats at Constable Peters and myself, I thought I heard Phineas call something out to me. It sounded like ‘Zechariah’.
I was on my own — and so was Ned. I realised with a lurch of fright that I had been so preoccupied that I’d forgotten Ned, and promptly rushed to the front of the procession as it turned into Great Tower Hill. And there, to my relief, was Ned, still surrounded by four attendants — he was safe in his cage.
No, five sweep attendants. At first that didn’t worry me — there were enough sweeps to protect Ned. As I relaxed, though, it struck me that one of those attendants was unknown to me — a tall man. Then a hammer-blow of fear struck my stomach. Panic-stricken, I rushed up to him, tugging at his arm. He turned around and my fear had been justified. Flint, face begrimed with soot, was staring into my face.
‘Tom Wasp,’ said that voice, as soothing and caressing as a snake wrapping his coils around its prey. Only this time it wasn’t asking what plans I had for eternity — Flint would be all too eager to despatch me there. ‘Welcome. Good of you to drop by. I thought my little plan to join the sweeps’ community would bring you to me.’
‘Flint,’ I said, though it sounded more of a squeak than a brave facing up to danger.
‘Pray don’t think I have no further plans for your Ned, Tom. Or for you. I do have both, but as you have deprived me of Slugger’s assistance, it would be foolish of me to act immediately. But I shall, in due course.’
Cold eyes stared into mine, as sharp as the nickname he bore.
‘And in the meanwhile?’ I tried to sound as cool as he did, but failed.
‘To be present at the Old Bailey when Mrs Harcourt is on trial is a temptation, but one I shall resist.’
‘She and Mrs Fortescue did hire your services?’
‘For Mr Harcourt’s death? My dear Wasp, I never discuss my customers. Let us say that in this guise of a fellow sweep, I listened to the explanation of the events you have just given and saw no reason to leap forward to correct it.’
‘But you won’t be here to join Mrs Harcourt in Newgate.’
‘I shall be taking up residence somewhere other than in London. But Wasp,’ he leaned down towards my face as he hissed, ‘do not think you are alone. I will always be with you, the breath of wind that stirs a peaceful garden, the shape that slips by in the fog, and the question mark in your mind as you walk through the crowd of strangers. Never alone, Wasp, never alone.’
*
There were two last jobs to perform once our procession had arrived back at Trinity Square. Shaken though I was, I had had to break the news to Clara that her prized waiter had been, or would be, arrested. Constable Peters had told me that he’d alerted Inspector Harvey who had promptly detailed his men to track him down. Clara had taken the news bravely.
‘Let’s hope President Thomas Jefferson doesn’t pop into Dolly’s again for a steak tonight. He’d have to make do with me as his waiter.’
Now I had my second dose of bad news to impart. I had to tell poor Mrs Snook that Slugger Joe wouldn’t be coming home for supper, although my guess was that she wouldn’t be too upset.
‘You could move in here for a while,’ she said thoughtfully to me. ‘I’ll take the boy too.’
Clara, who had forsaken the City procession for ours, snorted at my side. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said with great dignity, ‘but he can manage.’
I too thanked Mrs Snook very much, explaining that Ned’s and my hours of working precluded my acceptance. Clara remained suspicious and she lingered before taking a cab back to Dolly’s.
‘What’s on your mind, Clara?’
‘William and Jericho. You wanted to know how they knew you were at that warehouse. They were looking for you round the Tower and asked a patterer where to find you.’
Enoch, I realised.
‘He was shouting out, “Sweepie cuffed at Billingsgate warehouse”.’ Clara paused, pleased to see me laugh. ‘And, Tom,’ she added. ‘That woman’s right. Ned needs mothering. And you do too.’
She looked hard at me, and I thought wistfully once more of what life with Clara might be like. Then I thought again of how Ned would feel if we left the only home he had ever known and of how I would feel working as a sweep and living at Dolly’s. Did I want to leave the world of chimneys behind? Not yet.
‘One day,’ I said regretfully, and she nodded.
*
On Monday morning I took the familiar route round the Churchyard, past the orange sellers, past the spot where Flint had sold his Bible tracts, and on to Mr Chalcot’s bookstore. He had suggested to me yesterday that he would welcome an early visit from me in order to talk of matters more pleasant than Mrs Harcourt and murder.
We spoke briefly about those therefore, as he was able to tell me that Mrs Harcourt and William Wright had now been charged, and gave me the good news that Mr Splendour had been released. Then, while enjoying the delights of Mrs Chalcot’s coffee, I listened with pleasure as Mr Chalcot then spoke of the possibility of his holding a special event with copies of Mr Kingsley’s The Water Babies on sale at a suitably affordable price, with Ned and myself appearing as real life sweeps and former climbing boys. The true business of the meeting was then broached.
‘And now to our muttons, Mr Wasp,’ Mr Chalcot said firmly. ‘We now know that the Seven Deadly Sins manuscript is safe
ly in the hands of its rightful owner, Mr Phineas Snook. I should very much like to speak with him. My fellow Tarlton Ordinaries and I wish to approach him with an offer to value and purchase it. A common valuation can be agreed by us all once we have established how much was written by Shakespeare and how much by Tarlton himself. We would also agree this price with the British Museum which has expressed an interest in acquiring it.’
‘And you wouldn’t compete with each other?’ I enquired seeing problems arising.
‘We shall not. Indeed, I feel a new era is opening for the Tarlton Ordinaries. We have been so shocked by recent events that the need for change has become evident. We are to expand our current activities which consist — I admit — mainly of over-indulgent dining; we shall now concentrate more on the re-establishment of the Tarlton name, in the light of this new exciting manuscript.’
‘What’s your opinion on how much of the play Shakespeare might have written?’ I asked him, donning my most literary expression.
He beamed at this opportunity to express his opinions. ‘My estimate, based both on what Mr Timpson was told by Mr Harcourt and on our scant knowledge of Shakespeare’s early career, his so-called lost years, is that he contributed quite a lot to Tarlton’s play. It was said of Tarlton that he was “nobody without his mirths” but it seems to me that Shakespeare did his best to make Tarlton a somebody of mirth while writing his own plays, as he is recognisable in several of Shakespeare’s fools. We are thus still enjoying Tarlton’s work today.’
I nodded my head gravely, feeling that I was rapidly learning how to be a scholar.
There was one more matter I had to raise with Mr Chalcot and an unwelcome one. I explained the likelihood of Phineas’ beloved cat poetry being in a manuscript that was likely to have been stolen property. He listened intently and said: ‘Then I will speak with Mr Snook on that too.’
*
After leaving Mr Chalcot, I wasted no time before walking round to find Zechariah as Phineas had suggested. There was Zechariah, sitting on the corner of Panyer Alley slowly and carefully mending another ancient chair as if it had come straight from the late French king’s palace at Versailles. I was glad that Ned was not with me, for all he had seemed to accept it when I told him that the Panyer Alley Boy could indeed be sitting on a rooftop and meant nobody any harm. I walked along to pay my respects to the Boy, then came back to Zechariah.
‘Tell me a story, Zechariah,’ I said.
‘What story would that be?’ he asked, applying his polishing cloth with great care.
‘About the Boy whom you guard so carefully, and the verse carved under him.’
‘That be Pip’s verse.’
‘So you know the name Pip.’ This was an advance and perhaps I would at last know how the Tarlton manuscript came into Pip’s hand and then down to Phineas. ‘I believe you know the Panyer Boy was Richard Tarlton’s son,’ I said to Zechariah carefully. ‘He was also Phineas Snook’s ancestor.’
And then Zechariah recounted what had happened, looking at me sadly. ‘There was a story I heard tell about an old man who strolled along here one day and sees that old inn sign and knows he’s come home.’
‘Could that have been Pip’s son, another Pip?’
He considered this. ‘I believe you might be correct, mister, my reasoning being that this old man had been told that his granddad —so that’d be Pip’s dad — left him some treasure and he was trying to find it. He was in this alley and found the old sign that his granddad — that’d be Pip’s dad like I told you — kept outside the Castle alehouse; that was on the twenty-seventh of August 1688, so that’s what they carved underneath the sign of the Boy, and inside the house it stood on, the old man was given the treasure he’d been looking for. I don’t know what it was, but the old man must have been pleased to find it.’
He explained more too, but this was the gist of it. I knew what the treasure was: the play of the Seven Deadly Sins.
‘And now, if you please, mister, I’ll have a threepenny piece for a glass of ale.’ Zechariah didn’t even look as I put one in his hand. He was too busy admiring his chair.
*
‘Ned,’ I said. ‘We’re going to see Phineas.’
His eyes brightened. ‘Now?’
‘Soon as we’ve done a chimney or two and Phineas is up and about.’
I had a feeling in my bones that we might not be seeing much of Phineas in future and the sooner we got to see him — and Cockalorum — the better, although I wasn’t going to tell Ned that. I’d spent last night telling him about the Boy, convincing him that the Boy too had a story just as if he’d been a climbing boy. Ned had grasped the idea. ‘I said that was a roof he was sitting on. And a roof is the highest ground.’
I let him think so and, who knows, he could be right. After I’d heard Zechariah’s story I had returned to Mr Chalcot and talked the story of the Boy over with him to see if he could make head or tail of it. He did, after giving it some thought, and even explained how the Tarlton manuscript probably reached Panyer Alley, a tale that even brought Mr Harcourt’s Hart House into the story. I had even added a thought or two of my own.
‘My dear sir,’ Mr Chalcot had beamed. ‘We work well together as a team of literary detectives.’
My head was twice the size it had been by the time I reached home and I vowed that I would try to write it all down so that Pip’s story was never forgotten. Meanwhile Ned was bursting to know what had happened.
‘It’s not the Boy any longer,’ I said to Ned after I’d finished telling him the tale. ‘You just call him Pip. He’s from Phineas’ family.’
He looked doubtful at first, but then his face brightened. ‘Yes, guvnor.’
And the reference to the ‘highest ground’ in the verse on the stone? It couldn’t be a reference to the Castle tavern itself, but it could be the roof as Ned said — or, as I like to think and Mr Chalcot agreed, the verse was two lines from the Seven Deadly Sins.
‘I’ll look through the script to see — if Mr Snook brings it to me,’ Mr Chalcot had said, happily.
*
And so we arrived at Phineas’ lodgings on a May morning a day or two later. Cockalorum was purring halfway up the steps, I could see Hetty was here and there were a few flowers in the garden which she must have planted. She was wearing a blue and white dress, no crinoline today, just a country girl’s dress, and she looked a delight.
‘Isn’t it wonderful, Mr Wasp?’ she greeted us. ‘Phineas and I are leaving today.’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked in surprise as Ned and I went up the steps, led by Cockalorum. Phineas was standing there in the doorway to greet us.
‘Over the hills and far away,’ he laughed, taking Hetty’s hand.
‘Dancing all the way,’ Hetty giggled. She kissed me and I felt like a king. She kissed Ned, too. He doesn’t care for kisses normally, but this one he seemed to like.
‘I sold the My Cat Jeoffry poetry to Mr Chalcot,’ Phineas said blithely, ‘and so we have enough money to marry now.’
‘And what about the Tarlton play?’ I asked, thinking of Mr Chalcot’s plan for it, but knowing Phineas it would probably never happen. Instead Mr Chalcot had taken the Jubilate Agno to return it to the rightful owner and had personally paid Phineas enough to marry, without letting him know that the money came from him, and the poem was not put up for sale. ‘The Seven Deadly Sins manuscript could be very valuable,’ I felt I had to point out.
‘It’s a play by a fool,’ Phineas said serenely, ‘and we’re a family of fools. We’ll take the play with us and keep it. It can come a-roaming with us.’
And that seemed to me a fitting destiny for it. I hardly dared ask Phineas my next question, but seeing Ned’s sad face I summoned up my courage. ‘What about Cockalorum?’
Phineas looked surprised. ‘He’ll come with us.’ He picked the cat up who seemed to have sensed that something of importance was happening.
‘Will he follow you?’ I asked, hearing Ned gasp. P
hineas looked troubled. He’d heard the gasp too.
‘We’ll see what he wants to do, Ned,’ Phineas said gently, putting Cockalorum down. I watched, my heart wringing for Ned, as Phineas and Hetty went down the steps and waited for Cockalorum, who stretched and got to his feet, looking up at Ned. Ned snatched him, and looked hesitantly at me. I didn’t say anything, just nodded my head. Then I watched while Ned carried Cockalorum down the steps and put him into Phineas’ arms.
A Literary Journey
by
Tom Wasp
Later, I had several more chats with Mr Chalcot over the interesting matters that had arisen through the tragic deaths of Mr Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue and by the time I came to record Pip’s story we had reached an explanation regarding the Seven Deadly Sins and the Boy in Panyer Alley that satisfied us both. I would have enjoyed meeting Richard Tarlton as he sounded a jolly fellow, well worthy of his memory being preserved hundreds of years later. He died in 1588 and his play, although performed by the Queen’s Men in about 1585, was then lost, although a few fragments of his other work still exist.
Mr Chalcot believes that after Mr Tarlton’s death, Mr Shakespeare kept the play safely in the hope that his son Pip, who was only six when his father died, would one day come to collect it. Mr Tarlton had been in great distress about the time of his death, fearing that his family would be cheated of its rights by a fraudulent lawyer who had offered to adopt Pip. What happened, Mr Chalcot told me, is not known, but what might have happened is that after Mr Shakespeare’s death in 1616 his trustee William Johnson kept the manuscript, with the knowledge of Mr Shakespeare’s family, in the hope that Pip might turn up. He didn’t, and it’s my own belief that he went a-wandering, just as his descendant Phineas has all these years later.
As we knew from Zechariah, after Mr Shakespeare’s death, many years passed and Pip’s son, now an old man, came to look for the old Castle alehouse to see where his father had been born. He knew about the old inn sign that used to be outside it because the boy carved on it was his father, the original Pip. The little boy had once been lost and Tarlton had found him on the roof of the alehouse, so he carved a picture of the scene on the sign for a joke. But the Castle had gone when Pip’s son came to look for it, and so had the inn sign.