by Ian Beck
‘Got a copper or two for us, mate?’ Bible J said in his best cheerful-sounding voice.
The boy stared back at Bible J in silence.
‘You all right, mate?’ Bible J said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a bleeding ghost. Mind you, that’s not hard tonight though, eh, whole place is groaning with ’em.’ Bible J looked around the street, and as if to confirm the idea he waved his arms up and down, imitating the movements that ghosts were supposed to make.
The boy nodded; nodding, it seemed, was all he could manage.
‘About those few little coins then, smudger,’ said Bible J brightly.
‘Coins?’ the boy answered.
‘Looks to me like you must have some on you, mate.’ He reached forward and shook the boy’s fine top coat. The boy stepped back as if he had been shot.
‘Ooh, steady on, no harm meant,’ and Bible J advanced again, smiling, his arms raised, his palms outwards, empty.
‘You must be a Gawker,’ he said. ‘All dressed up like that,’ he added quizzically.
The boy nodded, casting his eyes down once again.
‘Got lost on a murder trail, did you, or what?’ Bible J asked, walking backwards now down the hill, keeping pace in front of the boy, who had set off again.
The boy shook his head, and stopped dead again on the pavement. Bible J stopped too.
‘Coppers, tanners, any coins left at all, any moolah, splosh, dosh, shillings?’ Bible J asked, keeping his big, friendly winning smile on his face.
The boy suddenly pushed his hand into his trouser pocket, like someone in a trance. He pulled out a big handful of coins. They sat in the palm of his hand, a mound of heavy copper and silver.
Bible J let out a low whistle. ‘That’s the stuff,’ he said. ‘How much you got there? You and me, we could live like kings on that for a good while.’ He poked around among the coins held out on the boy’s trembling palm.
‘You’re nervous, ain’t you?’ Bible J said. ‘Let’s see how much you got altogether then.’
Bible J took a handful of the coins and counted them fast, skimming through them, muttering the names and amounts under his breath. After a while he looked up, still smiling. ‘There’s more than enough there for a nice big fat lamb chop and gravy dinner for two, and plenty of change left after, if you know the right place.’
The boy nodded. ‘Could you help me?’ he said quietly.
‘Good idea, mate,’ said Bible J. ‘Thank you, I will join you. I don’t mind if I do. First sensible thing you’ve said to me all night.’ He laughed and added, ‘I’m starving. Follow me, come on, I won’t bite, I promise.’
‘I need help,’ the boy said more insistently.
The smile faded from Bible J’s face, his posture slumped a little. ‘You in trouble?’ he said with a sigh.
‘Yes,’ said the boy, lifting his head high for the first time his eyes bright, his face pale and wet.
‘Big trouble, little trouble?’ Bible J asked, knowing what the answer would be.
‘Big trouble,’ said the boy.
‘Very big?’
‘Very big.’
Bible J resigned himself. Here was another waif and stray to look after for a while. Why did he allow himself to get involved. He seemed to seek them out by some special process, as if he was drawn to them.
The boy let himself be taken around the base of the station mound, through the last throngs of laughing partygoers in their Halloween costumes. Bible J said, ‘Tell me all about it later. Stick with me and you’ll be all right,’ and he carried on, jingling the coins in anticipation of the meal they would soon be able to eat.
Figures rushed past them on the pavement, shoved against them, and the boy just let them buffet him, slip past him, turn him this way and that, as if all the strangely dressed teeming people were just another part of the weather.
Further along on a dimly lit street far from the station, the boy stood and watched while Bible J chose a cigar from a glass case at a tobacconist’s kiosk.
‘Want one?’ he asked, turning to the boy and smiling.
‘No,’ the boy said.
Then later still, on a more brightly lit street, they stopped in front of a white and gold fronted Lyons Corner House restaurant. It glowed with warm and friendly amber light, which blurred out into the chilly fog from the steamed-over windows. Bible J nodded to the boy. ‘Here we go.’ He pushed hard against the spring and opened the restaurant doors.
.
Chapter 20
Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard changed out of his ridiculous costume, and refreshed himself. He had not enjoyed the Corporation Halloween party. He washed in his private washroom, and then shaved his cheeks, using a freshly stropped razor. He felt better now, cleaner. He studied his face in the glass over the sink, while the suds and water ran out. He was tired, and he looked it. It had been a long day. His office was calm and quiet now, which was just as he liked it, and it was late enough for him not to be bothered by anyone. A single foolscap-sized brown envelope lay on his desk. It was labelled as confidential and was fastened with a wax seal and a loop of string. He sat at the desk, broke the official seal, and unwound the string from the brass nub in the flap. Some file entries, two or three full-plate photographs, mostly of startled-looking young adults and children with dirty faces, the usual thing – slates with numbers chalked on.
‘Blessed are the poor,’ he muttered. He looked through the file pictures with care, just as he looked through dozens of similar files almost every day. There was always a chance that he would see that unique and beautiful face. The lost girl, the one he had seen only once or twice but had never forgotten. There was, however, nothing among the pictures to detain him. He replaced the file, relooped the string. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come,’ he said.
DI Hudson, as a tough professional detective, had little use for the imagination and even less for the dream of the past. He was a company man to his fingertips, just as Sgt Catchpole was, but Hudson found Pastworld police work insanely inefficient, and maddening. It was hampered by what were to him artificial constraints. He looked out of the porthole and felt depressed at the sight of the city at night – the yellow lamplight and the fog. He never wanted to spend any time there, had never allowed himself to really understand its appeal or get the feel of it.
His colleague, Sgt Catchpole, on the other hand, felt a sense of rising excitement and a sort of secret homecoming relief every time they were flown across to the Pastworld side. He was a romantic. The sight of the lights blurred and softened by fog, even machined fog, struck him as beautiful in a way that Hudson would never understand. Sgt Catchpole welcomed the exhilarating feeling of being immersed in history. The sensation of actually stepping back in time. He felt changed by it, and he was changed a little more each time he went in.
When they crossed into Pastworld by airship, any information or files that they carried with them had to be meticulously authentic. Photographs were permitted, but only in a correct period format, there could be no emailing of images, no computers, no moving images at all, and no telephones. There was a form of telegraph, and occasional pockets of electricity in Pastworld, but most of it was hidden ‘below stairs’ with all the rest of the enabling technology. All of the police methods, once on the Pastworld side, had to be authentic to the time and place as well. There was a network of security cameras, but they were very well hidden. The Buckland Corporation restricted such security matters and devices as much as they possibly could. Authenticity of experience was everything. A year or so ago Hudson had managed, through fierce lobbying, to introduce the tiny flying Espion transmitter security cameras. They were the size of a sewing needle, and in appearance much like the body of a dragonfly. They were more or less invisible in the London fogs. They could be remotely controlled from Buckland Security, and were triggered by ‘exceptional activity’. They transmitted their images back direct to the Comms Centre but nothing at all to Scotland Yard itself. The images
would be analysed, and acted on if serious enough.
Hudson and Catchpole cleared arrivals quickly and were soon climbing the stairs to the office. Hudson knocked on the door, feeling self-conscious as usual in costume.
For Inspector Lestrade it was sometimes worth the strain, the frustration and the sheer oddness of living and working in Pastworld to see the discomfiture of his support staff and detective officers from the Outside, when they had to cross over to Pastworld side. The Inspector ushered Hudson and Catchpole in with an amused and surprised smile on his face. The fact that they were both here, so late and with no prior appointment or letter of arrangement, gave the inspector a little shift inside, a lurch of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Why were they here – perhaps, perhaps . . . ?
‘Well, this is a surprise. Do sit down, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable,’ the Inspector said, maintaining the formal manners appropriate to the illusion that he lived in.
They took their seats. Hudson dropped a large brown paper envelope on to the desk.
‘He’s back,’ Hudson said, reaching up and pulling at the collar at his throat.
Before he opened the envelope the Inspector said, ‘You are sure?’
‘Sure as we can be. There was the body found in Shoreditch. Severed limbs, missing heart, he left the head at the top of Tower 42,’ Catchpole said. ‘These are pictures from the Espion cameras in here. Looks like it’s him, not a copycat.’
The Inspector opened the envelope and pulled out the first sheaf of pictures and flicked through the images of the tower, the masked figure, his sudden death-defying jump.
‘So it would seem then,’ the Inspector said, not looking up but laying the pictures out in sequence across his desk. He picked out a large reading glass from his desk drawer and looked closely, comparing. ‘It looks like our gentleman all right,’ he said.
‘There’s more,’ said Catchpole, and he indicated the envelope where there were other photographs, the ones that showed the murder of the blind man and the abduction of Lucius Brown.
‘The figure you see there in the dark frock coat, the one printed over with the skeleton pattern, has been positively identified.’
‘I can see exactly who it is, Sergeant, thank you,’ the Inspector raised his free hand and continued to study the pictures. ‘It is Lucius Brown, one of our first imagineers, a very senior and founding executive of the Buckland Corporation.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hudson, surprised. ‘The knife victim is so far unidentified. We think he may be an illicit. Perhaps he was robbing them and they fought back. The boy that you can see here, and here –’ Hudson pointed his stubby fingers across the sheaf of pictures – ‘we identified him as Caleb Brown, only son of same Lucius Brown. At present he has been listed by a local Pastworld station as the prime suspect.’ He indicated the knife in the boy’s hand, the dark stain on his fingers. ‘You can see why.’ There was no response from the Inspector.
‘Well, sir?’ Hudson asked, as ever frustrated by the lack of urgency, the sense that there was another, slower time zone in operation, as indeed there was.
‘Well,’ said the Inspector, not wishing to show either the rising excitement or the sudden chill and dread in his heart, ‘I think you are right in your assumption. You did the right thing in bringing me all of this and so promptly. This sighting changes everything. No doubt someone has already issued Wanted posters of the boy. If we manage to bring him in, it will be for his own protection. If the locals find him, we will get him out safely. Obviously the boy is no killer. You can clearly see the scum around them are responsible. I intend to finish them for good at the earliest opportunity. I will need someone to work for me, someone I can trust absolutely on this case. I want them undercover right here in Pastworld from tonight. Things have just got serious. I need someone who can pass as authentic, who looks right in this place.’ He smiled at Hudson. ‘You’ll be glad to hear that you will be spared this time, DI Hudson.’ Hudson let out a quiet but relieved sigh. ‘You will go back on the next available transport. If you hurry there should be one out of the port in about twenty minutes. You will liaise with Catchpole here by post and carry out any research as necessary.’
After Hudson had taken his leave the Inspector said, ‘Right, Sergeant Catchpole, I cannot overemphasise how confidential this case has just become. I was here at the founding of this place, at its very inception, you might say. Abel Buckland is a personal friend of mine, as was our poor missing victim, Lucius Brown. Abel saw a way of saving the sharp and salty, the savoury life of old London. And he succeeded, perhaps a little too well, in founding this place. Just look around us. Millions live here, some rich, most poor. The past has become a sort of new frontier, a place which not only allows opportunies for a new class of entrepreneur but also for the return of bogeymen like our friend the Fantom.’
Catchpole said, ‘He seems almost supernatural.’
‘Perhaps he is,’ the Inspector said, with a smile, ‘and in a very odd way there is more to him than mere criminality. Since his first mysterious appearances and his daring crimes the Fantom has assumed a special place in the mythology of Pastworld. But he has an Achilles’ heel. I know more about him than I can tell you here. He feels a strong attraction towards a young girl. He senses a close bond, sundered somewhere in the past. The Fantom seeks this girl above all things and will stop at nothing to find her. The history of the girl will be found in another dossier altogether. Her guardian, another important early employee of the Buckland Corporation, is this dead victim. His body will at present most likely be hidden somewhere on an illicit murder trail, as it was not left at the scene in Clapham. You must find it and confirm the identity. Since her disappearance, it has been the greatest and express wish of the Corporation at the highest level that she should be found and retrieved safely. We must get to her before the Fantom does. Now I must add Mr Lucius Brown and his young son, Caleb to that list; they are central to our case. Nothing must get in the way of our finding them. As far as I am concerned, you must feel free to deal with the Fantom with extreme prejudice.
Lestrade went to the heavy compact iron safe that was bolted to the floor inside his coat cupboard. He dialled the combination, opened the thick door and pulled out a file and some envelopes. He tucked one of the envelopes into the back of the file and took it to his desk.
‘Read this dossier for a full background, strictly for your eyes only. Digest, understand, read between the lines then go and find Lucius, and his son.’ The Inspector reached out and shook Catchpole’s hand. ‘It is an important case, so don’t fail me, Sergeant Catchpole.’
After Catchpole had taken himself and the file off to his lodgings, the Inspector readied himself for another meeting, somewhere quite different, and with a far more difficult and demanding night-time audience.
.
Chapter 21
The heavy stained-glass panels rattled as Bible J pushed against the doors of Lyons, and he and Caleb entered a world of warmth and food smells: fried bacon, sausages, potatoes and lamb chops, and beer and dark coffee, and damp woollen overcoats. There were noises too: the sound of sizzling fat, the clattering of plates, the calling out of orders, the hum of lively conversation and the raucous laughter of the Halloween partygoers, Gawkers and residents. Brisk waitresses in black with white aprons and caps dashed to and fro. Bible J and Caleb had walked in as far as a line of bentwood coat racks when a waitress barred their way.
‘Not in here, you don’t,’ she said, looking them both up and down, but Bible J quickly said, ‘It’s all right, I’m with this fine young gentleman here. I’m his guest. You can see he’s a respectable Gawker all dressed up. Look at him, isn’t that right?’ The waitress looked at Bible J in his rough clothes, and then she looked at the pale and shocked boy, with his mass of dark hair and his bright aqua blue eyes, his smart coat and his good boots. She shook her head. Bible J held out some of the silver coins and she reluctantly stepped aside, but before they could take another step f
orward she said, ‘Where are your manners, young man? Hats off indoors.’ And she snatched the cap from Bible J’s head and pushed it at him as if it were something diseased. Bible J smiled back at her good-naturedly. He carried his hat carefully in both hands over to a table by the window. He politely pulled out a chair for the pale boy, and nodded at the seat. ‘Old cow,’ he said under his breath, grinning.
Bible J stretched out his legs, and then reached somewhere inside his coat, and from the inside pocket, he pulled out the cigar he had bought. He lit it, and blew out a cloud of heavily perfumed cigar smoke, then he coughed and spluttered. He smiled across at the boy and winked. ‘Not used to luxury,’ he said.
The boy looked back at him. He had a regular face; it would be nondescript, if it were not for his eyes, bright and greeny blue. They reminded Bible J of someone. The main thing was that, sitting lost in the sudden warmth and confusion of the restaurant, he looked to Bible J like someone who needed help badly. He also looked like someone he would have wanted as a friend.
He would soon take him to meet Mr Leighton.
‘I’ve been up and about on the dip, for my boss,’ Bible J said, ‘or trying to be, since first light,’ he added, trying to blow out another proud stream of smoke. ‘And I’ve eaten nothing much at all today and I doubt you have by the look of you either.’ A young waitress came over to the table. She pulled a notepad from her apron pocket, and took a stub of pencil from behind her ear ready for their order. ‘Now then, Miss,’ Bible J said affably, enjoying his moment and his cigar, ‘I would like two Halloween specials, double meat platters, one of those big pork chops, some fried back rashers, a sausage, pumpkin and potato mash, nice big mushrooms, make that two rounds of fried potatoes, nice and salted, and proper platefuls, please, I’m no Gawker, I’m a resident.’ He smiled up at her and the girl wrote it all down carefully on her pad. She glanced across at the pale boy and smiled at him. ‘Oh,’ said Bible J, ‘and a big tankard of porter beer, and bring one for him while you’re at it.’