by Paul Stewart
‘Mr Frimley said that the finger-chain has to be ready by tomorrow,’ I said, remembering his words. ‘The client’s people will be around to collect it first thing.’
‘I’m sure they will, dearie,’ Ada Gussage said, pushing the lid of the box back into place. ‘I’m sure they will. These days, nobody wants to be buried without a finger-chain, now do they?’
I shook my head.
‘And they knows where to find me. After all, I’m the only one left in the mansions since the hauntings began …’
‘Hauntings?’ I said, intrigued.
‘Ghosts, they say, just over yonder in the graveyard by Gatling Sump,’ she said, and her eyes sparkled. ‘Wandering about in the river fog at dusk, scaring folk witless.’ She shook her head, the wiry hair trembling. ‘But I’m used to death in my trade, and it’ll take more than a few phantoms in red coats to make Ada Gussage leave the mansion, make no mistake.’ She shot me a yellow smile. ‘But never mind all that,’ she said, ‘would you care for a cup of tea – a lovely smoked Assam, fresh from a clipper just docked last week?’
She stepped back and her fluttering hand beckoned me in. I looked down the narrow corridor to the parlour at the other end. Even though it was approaching midday, a lamp was lit, casting a golden light onto a small table, its surface covered with the tools of her strange trade – hammers, pliers, a soldering-iron and small anvil.
‘That’s very nice of you,’ I said, ‘but I’d best be going.’ I added cheerfully, ‘I’ve got lots to do and you know what they say – tick-tock, time is money.’
‘In that case, Mr Grimes, I’ll let you to.’ She jangled the box in her hands and smiled. ‘When you see him, tell Mr Frimley not to worry. Ada Gussage won’t let him down!’
I tipped my hat and bade her good day.
‘Goodbye, Barnaby,’ said Ada Gussage, stepping back into her apartment. ‘And take care out there on the cobbles.’
‘Oh, I shall, I shall,’ I assured her as I took my leave – though I had no intention of setting foot on the cobblestone streets of Gatling Quays.
On the fourth-floor landing, I disturbed a mangy ginger tom, that yowled indignantly and tore past me, puffs of dust thrown up into the shafts of light in its wake.
Back on the rooftop, the air had cleared. Setting off, I quickly left the neglected building behind me and was just getting into my stack-hopping stride over the chimneys, when I heard the sound of angry shouting from somewhere below. Stopping for a moment, I peered down over the edge of a rooftop, to see three great hoodlums clustered together in a triangle on the cobblestones below. They were dwarfing a fourth person, who was cowering in the middle.
‘These are our homestones, and you’re trespassing,’ one of the ruffians growled, thrusting his brutal features into the frightened individual’s face.
‘Looks like we’ve trapped a rat, Lol,’ said the second with a snarl.
‘And you know what we do with rats, don’t you?’ said the third, and there was a flash of metal as he pulled a knife from his belt.
The others did the same.
My stomach churned. Even though I was high up, from the tassel-sleeved overcoats that this lot were wearing, they looked to me like members of the Ratcatchers Crew. If I was right, I didn’t fancy the chances of the poor sap they’d just fingered.
At that moment, the said sap turned round to face the third of his thuggish tormentors. His clothes were more tattered than I remembered and his hair was much shorter, but I knew him at once.
His name was Will Farmer.
Like me, he was a tick-tock lad. But there the similarity ended. I was a highstacker; he was a cobblestone-creeper, stuck down on the ground. But he had spirit and ambition, and wanted to take to the rooftops like yours truly. I liked him and had promised to give him a couple of highstacking lessons when I had some spare time. That had been months ago, and I still hadn’t got round to it. If I had, I realized, then perhaps Will wouldn’t be where he was now.
‘Go on, stick him, Lol!’ one of the ruffians snarled.
Without a second thought, I dropped down over the guttering and performed a speedy Drainpipe Sluice – praying the whole lot wasn’t about to come away from the wall – and landed with a slapped thud feet away from the three ruffians and their hapless victim. The Ratcatchers spun round, weapons raised.
I drew my sword.
They were on me in an instant. I lunged forward, knocking the dagger out of the first ruffian’s hand and sending it scudding across the road. Then I parried a blow from the second, before spinning round and pinning him up against the wall, the point of my sword pressed against the base of his throat.
Behind me, the heftiest of the three thugs bellowed furiously, ‘Let him go!’
They were on me in an instant.
I turned to confront him, only to find that he’d grabbed Will and had his own knife pressed at the lad’s neck.
It was at that moment I realized Will Farmer wasn’t the only one I recognized. The thug before me was none other than Thump McConnell, skim-merchant and leader of the Ratcatchers.
Our paths had crossed a year earlier. I’d inadvertently helped him out of a scrape when a consignment of pungent spices I’d been delivering to the kitchens of Admiral McMahone had thrown the dogs of the Harbour Constabulary off his scent and allowed Thump to escape across the rooftops. At the time, he’d told me that he owed me one. It was time to call in that favour.
‘Thump McConnell,’ I said.
I saw him frown, the knife still pressed at Will’s neck. His two henchmen looked at him, puzzled. All three of them were wearing Ratcatcher clothes; black breeches, flat hard-peak caps and short overcoats made from a patchwork of rat skins, the sleeves fringed with leathery tails.
‘Do I know you?’ he demanded, his gruff voice showing no sign of recognition.
‘Red madras curry powder,’ I said. ‘Last year on the Admiral’s roof. Pack of sneezing bull mastiffs in the courtyard and you on the roof with a sackful of silver plate. Ring any bells?’
Thump frowned. ‘Last year?’ he said, the rats’ tails on his coat sleeves swinging as he scratched his ear.
Slow on the uptake was old Thump. Too many blows to the head in the bare-knuckled fights where he’d earned his nickname. But slowly, the light dawned.
‘Not the tick-tock lad …?’ He smiled slowly. ‘The one who helped me down the guttering … Benjamin, is it?’
‘Barnaby,’ I corrected him.
‘Barnaby!’ he agreed, switching his knife from right hand to left and sticking out a great paw of a hand. ‘Barnaby Grimes! I owe you one for that night, and no mistake.’
Sheathing my sword, I turned and shook the paw – my smile glazing on my face as my knuckles cracked. I nodded to Will, who was still in Thump’s knife-wielding grasp.
‘And this is a friend of mine,’ I added, taking back my hand and thrusting it safely into my pocket. ‘Will Farmer.’
‘Friend, you say?’ said Thump, looking down at Will, who was staring at me like a lapdog at a lost owner.
Abruptly, Thump let him go and re-sheathed his own blade. Will stumbled across the cobbles and stood beside me. The other two stepped menacingly towards us.
‘It’s all right Lol, Mugsy,’ Thump told them. ‘Leave ’em be.’ He looked at me, then Will; then, with a flourish, he reached into the pocket of his rat-skin jerkin and pulled out a fob-watch on a chain. He flicked open the embossed silver cover and peered at the hands. ‘It’s ten after midday,’ he said, looking at his crew. ‘The truce has started.’
‘Truce?’ I said.
He turned to me. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said. ‘A forty-eight hour truce has been agreed between all the quays’ gangs. As a mark of respect.’
I looked around and noticed that the streets of Gatling Quays did look unnaturally quiet, even for midday.
‘The Emperor’s being buried tomorrow,’ said Thump grimly. ‘The twelve gangs had a big meet last night, and I was elected the new
Emperor of Gatling Quays. It’s down to me to give old Firejaw a proper sendoff, with all the trimmings.’
Firejaw O’Rourke – or the Emperor of Gatling Quays as he was usually known – was the most powerful of the skim-merchants. For years, the Emperor’s crew, the Sumpside Boys, had run the biggest protection racket of them all, skimming a percentage off every major business in the quays – and woe betide anyone who failed to cough up. Six foot six, and with a beard of flaming red, Firejaw O’Rourke cut quite a figure, even among the hardened gangs of the quays.
With his untimely death, the gangs had been thrown into disarray, with the leaders of all the gangs vying amongst themselves to be the new Emperor. Thump McConnell of the Ratcatchers had obviously come out on top. The leaders of the other gangs – Flob McManus of the Flour Bag Mob or Lenny Dempster, O’Rourke’s successor with the Sumpside Boys, for instance – were probably less than happy about it. Old Thump would have to earn their respect, and a successful sendoff for Firejaw would be a good start.
‘Nasty accident,’ Thump was saying, his thin lips taut. ‘Boatload of fireworks and a stubbed-out cigar …’ He shook his head grimly. ‘Half burned when they fished ’im out of the water. Not a pretty sight.’ Thump McConnell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I take it you’ll be there to pay your respects, Barnaby Grimes,’ he said, and from his steely glare I knew I wasn’t being given a choice. ‘The funeral’s at the Adelaide Graveyard, down by the sump …’
As he uttered the name, I saw his two henchmen flinch and exchange glances. The one called Lol swallowed noisily. Thump McConnell rounded on him furiously and slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand, the rats’-tails fringed sleeve lashing his cheek.
‘If I hear one more word about phantoms and ghosts, and ghouls in red jackets, it’ll be your last. D’you understand? Truce or no truce!’
‘Didn’t say nuffin’,’ Lol muttered, tracing his fingers gingerly down the welts on his face, the raw lines where the rats’ tails had lashed him beaded with blood.
‘Didn’t need to,’ said Thump, and wagged his finger. ‘Just you make sure you don’t.’ He turned back to me, and continued speaking as though nothing had happened. ‘Now that I’m taking over as the new ganglord, it’s my job to make sure the funeral runs like greased clockwork. All the skim-merchants and their crews will be there, along with well-wishers …’ His face contorted into a thin-lipped smile, menacing and humour-free. ‘Such as yourself, Barnaby, and your friend here.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ I answered.
‘Good.’ He nodded sternly, then turned to the others. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘there’s still that little matter with the Fetter Lane Scroggers to attend to …’
With that, the three of them turned and left. Will and I watched them go – bulky Thump McConnell in the middle, flanked by his two heavies; the three of them swaying to the left and right in unison.
Will Farmer turned to me. ‘Oh, Mr Grimes,’ he said, ‘thank you, thank you. I was meant to be delivering a wagon permit when—’
‘Call me Barnaby,’ I told him. ‘Wagon permits! That’s a job for a dozen harbour constables, not a lone tick-tock lad.’
‘But the desk sergeant said it would be easy …’ Will began.
‘Yes, well, best choose your jobs a bit more carefully in future, Will. Still, no harm done.’ I clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Will, turning on his heels and heading for the drainpipe I’d shinned down.
‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ I called.
He stopped in his tracks. ‘I thought …’ He frowned. ‘You did mean it, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘When you said you’d show me how to highstack?’
I laughed. The kid was nothing if not enthusiastic.
‘Course I did, Will,’ I said, ‘but let’s not try to run before we can walk, eh? Besides, we’re going to have to put that lesson on hold for a little while longer,’ I told him. ‘You and me have got a funeral to go to.’
‘Balance, Will. It’s all a matter of balance,’ I reminded him the next day, calling across from the flat roof I was standing on, to the jutting pedestal behind me where young Will Farmer was still poised, his legs shaking and his face taut and pale. ‘Relax and lean into the jump,’ I said. ‘Don’t think about the drop. Concentrate on the landing …’
He looked across the gaping chasm at me and nodded earnestly, his cheeks flexing as he clenched his teeth. He squared his stance and raised his arms. The low sun cast a long, cross-like shadow behind him.
‘That’s the way,’ I told him encouragingly.
Normally, highstacking across town to Gatling Quays would have taken me an hour and a half at the very outside. I’d allowed twice that amount of time to shepherd Will across the rooftops, taking a long and convoluted route that avoided the need for any particularly tricky manoeuvres.
If not a born highstacker, Will Farmer was certainly a quick learner, swiftly mastering the Tuppenny Step and Two-Trick Pony, and proving himself a dab hand at stack-hopping. Now, however, perched on the edge of the jutting stone some seventy feet above the teeming street below, his nerve had gone.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘You know what to do. Push yourself off. Keep your arms outstretched. Then, when you land, roll forwards …’
‘Rather than tipping backwards,’ Will muttered, rubbing a hand over his cropped hair.
He took a deep breath and leaned back on his left foot. Then, with look of grim concentration, he kicked off from the wall and thrust himself into the air. As he hurtled towards me, I stepped to one side and readied myself to support him if he stumbled. A moment later he landed like an albatross on an iceberg and clattered into a sideways roll, before colliding with the parapet at the far end of the flat roof.
‘Not the most elegant Peabody Roll,’ I said, helping Will to his feet and dusting him off, ‘but I think you’re getting the feel for it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Will, now enthusiastic again after his bout of nerves. ‘Can I try another?’
‘Just follow me,’ I said. ‘We’ll ridge-walk the rest of the way.’
We continued, me in front, Will following behind, copying every move I made. The bright sun cast deep shadows that made every brick, every ridge, every stanchion and pediment stand out clearly, while the gentle breeze that morning was not enough to cause any of the dangerous eddies and currents that so often swirled round the rooftops, plucking at those daring enough to be up on them. In short, it was a perfect day for high-stacking – and a perfect day for a funeral.
Strains of music – bagpipes, a trumpet, a drum – were the first indication that we were approaching our destination. Sure enough, at the end of the long pitched roof of a tenement block, the pair of us looked down to see a small square – Angel Place – crowded with a great throng of milling people. Members of the Gatling Quays’ gangs clustered together in whispering groups. From above, the makeshift uniforms worn by the different crews made a constantly changing patchwork of colours. ‘We’re in time,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘How are we going to get down?’ said Will excitedly. ‘A Drainpipe Sluice? Or how about a Salmon’s Drop?’
I smiled. ‘Best to arrive in one piece,’ I said, and nodded towards a zigzag framework of cast-iron stairs, painted brick red, that had been bolted to the back wall of the building. ‘We’ll take the easy way down.’
‘All right,’ Will said, his voice a mixture of disappointment and relief.
He lowered himself agilely down to the top landing and, gripping the rusting banister, clopped down the flights. I followed him. The sunlight glinted on his scalp.
‘Looks like you’ve had a close shave,’ I laughed.
Will looked round. ‘That Peabody Roll?’ he asked.
‘No, your haircut,’ I said.
He grinned back at me, his right hand shooting to his head. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, with a grimace. ‘I sold my hair
to a wigmaker last week to make up the rent on my half room in the Wasps’ Nest.’
‘Are times that hard?’ I asked.
Will nodded. ‘I’m a cobblestone-creeper, not a highstacker like you,’ he explained. ‘I can’t charge highstacking rates.’
‘Then we’ll just have to do something about that,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s get this over with.’
At the bottom landing, instead of lowering the final length of ladder, I swung down on a horizontal strut and dropped lightly to the cobblestones below me. Will landed beside me a moment later.
‘’Ere, what’s your game?’ came a gruff voice over the sound of the music, dirge-like with its droning bagpipes and thudding drum.
I turned to find myself being confronted by half a dozen toughs. Their leader, a hefty brawler with thick, slicked-back hair and a wide-brimmed Kempton, stepped forward. There were smudges of flour on his hard face and brawny tattooed arms, which he folded as he eyed me and Will up and down. Like the crew at his shoulders, he wore a loose-fitting sleeveless jacket over his shirt, fashioned from flour sacks and decorated with skulls daubed in black tar. These, I realized, must be the Flour Bag Mob.
‘We’ve come to pay our respects to the Emperor,’ I said simply, removing my coal-stack hat and clicking it shut.
‘And who might you be?’ he demanded, thrusting his grim, lumpen face into my own.
‘He’s with me,’ said Thump McConnell, barging his way through the gathering and placing a heavy arm round mine and Will’s shoulders. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said. ‘Today, you’re honorary Ratcatchers. You march with us.’
Leaving the leader of the Flour Bag Mob staring after us, dumbfounded, Thump ushered the two of us across the square. The music grew louder. I looked at the band more closely.
The drummer and bagpipes players were both hefty, the brass buttons of their tartan jackets straining at their chests. The trumpeter, in contrast, was a scrawny individual with a long scar that extended from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his left ear and made it look as though he was grinning lopsidedly, despite his puckered lips. The final member of the quartet was a backwards cellist, playing the great fiddle strapped to his back by reaching behind with long thin dextrous arms; one hand behind his neck, the other sawing behind the small of his back with a bow.