He changed his posture. He dropped his shoulders a little and pushed his chin forward, enough to alter his profile but not enough to appear exaggerated or grotesque. Inside his boots, he shifted his weight so he was standing slightly on his toes. When he looked in the mirror he saw someone who wasn't Aubrey Fitzwilliam.
Instead, he saw a street scrounger who mixed with barge folk, pilgrims, dock workers, costermongers and beggars, someone who listened to gossip and rumours, who tried to divine the mood of the people. He grinned. 'What a 'andsome chap,' he said aloud. He slipped easily into Tommy Sparks's voice, slightly higher pitched than his usual. He tipped his hat and sidled out of the dressing room to find Caroline and George.
They were in Lady Fitzwilliam's drawing room. George rose when Aubrey entered, but Caroline remained seated. She frowned.
'Hullo, miss!' Aubrey tipped his hat, then stuck his thumbs in the rope belt around his waist. 'Tommy Sparks, at your service.'
George smiled. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, meet Tommy Sparks. Tommy Sparks, Miss Caroline Hepworth.'
Caroline scowled. 'This is what you need to take us to the Mire? This pantomime creature?'
Aubrey staggered back a step or two in mock horror. 'Wounded, I am, wounded to the 'eart! The lovely Miss Hepworth finks I'm nothing but a creature!'
'Settle down, Aubrey,' George said. 'Save the performance for the streets.'
Aubrey coughed and shook himself. 'Sorry,' he said, with his normal voice. It took an effort, as if Tommy didn't want to leave. 'Tommy does tend to take over.'
'I see,' Caroline said.
Aubrey massaged his neck. 'And you mustn't call me Aubrey when I've put on Tommy Sparks. No-one in the Mire knows me as Aubrey.'
Caroline nodded. 'This Tommy isn't inconspicuous, is he?' She raised an eyebrow. 'And he's a little forward.'
Aubrey took off his hat and studied its brim. 'Ah, yes. He tends to be like that. Especially with the ladies. He's quite a favourite.'
'I can imagine,' Caroline said dryly.
'And what about us, Aubrey?' George said.
Aubrey grinned, but this time it was not a Tommy Sparks grin. 'Wait here.'
He came back with two costumes.
'You want me to be a beggar,' Caroline said. Her voice was flat. She held up a ragged dress that looked as if Aubrey had plucked it from the gutter.
George screwed up his face. 'Me too? A beggar?'
'It's an excellent disguise. You and George can pretend to be mutes, which isn't unusual in the Mire. Beggars can go anywhere. People see the rags, not the person. They won't remember you.'
George shook his beggar's clothes. 'No fleas?'
'No. Just lice.'
George dropped the rags and took a step back. 'Lice!'
'I was joking.'
'I hope so,' Caroline muttered.
'Trust me,' Aubrey said. 'They look dirty, but they're actually quite clean.'
Caroline looked at him. 'Why do you have women's clothes?'
Aubrey felt his cheeks flaming. 'Well, just in case, you know. I've had them for ages. It's the sort of thing I collect, for study, you know . . .'
'You're babbling again, Aubrey.'
'Ah.'
George laughed. 'You've used those clothes, haven't you, Aubrey? You've dressed as a woman beggar!'
'Not for some time, I haven't.' He stopped. 'That is to say . . .'
Caroline stood. 'No need to be embarrassed. It makes good sense. I'm pleased to hear that you're not trapped into old-fashioned thinking. Now, where can I get changed?'
Aubrey showed Caroline and George to spare rooms, then went back to his own, wondering what sort of preparations would be useful. In the end, he stuffed an assortment of bottles, powders, scraps of paper and other possibilities in the capacious pockets of his coat. For a moment, he studied the mess of papers and books on one of his tables. It was the latest stage of his research, which had been extending in many directions. He'd been making an effort to bring his findings together, to take stock of possible remedies for his condition. Some were desperate, some were most unlikely, but he did have one that looked as if it could do something for him. He'd teased it out, refining it and eventually constructing a spell, but he'd shied away from it. It was rough, crude, and not without its dangers. It needed testing, developing, work. He rubbed his forehead. Time. I need more time.
George entered the room. He wore trousers that were torn off just below the knee. His shirt and jacket were threadbare. Jammed on his head was a hat that looked like a pie that had been stepped on. He was not smiling. 'I feel foolish.'
'Don't worry, George. No-one will notice you.' Aubrey tucked a feather in his pocket and looked around, wondering what else he should take.
George cleared his throat. 'That Caroline . . .'
Aubrey looked up. 'Yes, George?'
'Very capable young woman, wouldn't you say? Resourceful, clever?'
'Hmm. I thought she daunted you? You've changed your tune.'
George shrugged. 'Presentable, too. In a stylish way.'
'What are you getting at, George? Has she piqued your interest?'
'Not my type, old man. Or rather, I doubt that I'm her type. She doesn't need a plodder like me.'
'Then what is it?'
'I just wanted to make sure you realised she was your type.'
Aubrey didn't have time to answer. Caroline joined them before he could extract more from George on this issue. She stood unselfconsciously in her beggar's rags. 'Well?'
Aubrey studied her. The dress dragged on the ground, billowing around her. The collar had been torn off, leaving a frayed edge. The sleeves were much too long and Caroline had pushed them up. This made her forearms look enormous and puffy. Her hat had once been a collection of colourful fabric flowers, but was now a brown mess. To Aubrey's eye, there was no possibility of mistaking her for a beggar, but he hoped that the darkness would obscure Caroline's extraordinary features.
'Your posture is too good. Slump your shoulders and stoop a little. You too, George.'
'Better?' Caroline asked. She hunched, letting her head fall forward.
'It's uncomfortable,' George complained.
'You'll get used to it. Now, George, tangle your hair and smear on some of this.'
Aubrey gave a small pot to Caroline. She unscrewed the lid. 'Makeup.'
'False dirt and grime. It's quite convincing.'
Soon, Aubrey was faced by two convincing beggars. In the dark, at least, he thought. At a distance. 'Good enough,' he declared. 'Are you ready?'
'Ready enough,' George said.
'Yes,' Caroline said.
'Let's go, then.'
AUBREY FELT THE CHILL AS SOON AS HE STEPPED OUTSIDE. Rain was on the way.
The constellations were difficult to see behind the blanket of fog and smoke that hung over the city, but occasionally a star would appear and stare down at the unlikely trio.
First, Aubrey led them towards the river. They soon left Fielding Cross behind as they worked their way deeper into the bowels of the city. Gone were the sounds of the occasional piano in a parlour. Instead they had the shifting chorus of noise: guard dogs, pub brawls, clattering machinery, running water and indistinct caterwauling in the night.
They made their way through Newpike, the Narrows, Royland Rise and Downmarsh. They skirted braziers surrounded by sooty-faced men and crossed train tracks. Drizzle began to fall when they reached Little Pickling. The tang of burning coal, hot asphalt and rotting wood dampened and changed, becoming both more diffuse and more challenging.
After about an hour, through rain that grew heavier, they came to the Crozier district. Aubrey strode along Hayholt Street, waving at the few skulking passers-by. He skipped across a gutter that ran thick with refuse and turned down Creeland Lane. Sagging brick buildings looked as if they were held up by the many posters from the Army of New Albion which, in badly spelt and very large letters, denounced the King as a foreign puppet. He stopped at the only dwelling that showed a l
ight. Grinning, he pounded on the door.
It swung open and a tall, thin young man stood there. He wore round spectacles and fingerless gloves. He had a pencil behind each ear; they stuck through a thatch of brown hair. Two cats were at his feet and they stared evenly at the visitors.
'Jack Figg!' Aubrey crowed. 'Aren't you going to ask us in? It's wet enough to drown a duck out here!'
Jack Figg didn't say anything. He nodded, stood back and allowed them to enter the tiny room.
A large, battered desk took up one entire wall. Papers and pamphlets were piled up high on it. They also stood in shaky piles to either side, next to four wooden crates and the only chair in the room. When the door was closed, Jack Figg stood and crossed his arms. 'I'm honoured,' he said mildly. He glanced at Caroline and George. 'Have you brought some poor souls who need help?'
Aubrey ran a hand over his face and sighed. He put Tommy Sparks away for a while. 'Hello, Jack. Things are moving apace.' He waved at his beggar friends. 'This is Miss Caroline Hepworth and George Doyle, whom you've met before, when he was a little better dressed.'
Jack shook hands with George. 'Good to see you again, Doyle.' He bowed to Caroline. 'Miss Hepworth. You wouldn't, by any chance, be related to Ophelia Hepworth?'
Caroline smiled. 'She's my mother.'
'Ah! One of my favourite artists. I think her Adonis at Bay is the lushest painting I've seen.' He frowned. 'She's much undervalued.'
'Yes,' Caroline said. 'You saw her work at the Academy?'
'Charlie, the nightwatchman, is a friend of mine. I see most of the Academy's exhibitions after dark. It's not ideal, I grant you. I'd prefer to see them with natural light. But the Academy has a habit of turning away riffraff like me.'
Aubrey watched this with interest. 'I hate to interrupt,' he broke in, 'but we have more important matters to discuss.'
'Take a seat,' Jack waved a hand, 'or a crate. I hope you can tell me what's going on around here.'
'What do you mean?' Aubrey asked.
'Strange times, at the moment. Lots of unrest.'
'Such as?' George asked.
Jack frowned. 'I haven't seen so many agitators at work for a long time. They're haranguing, hanging posters, encouraging people to disobey authorities, calling for war, warning against war . . . And so many pamphlets!' He gestured at his own. 'Mine are getting lost in the avalanche at the moment.'
'Ah,' Aubrey said.
'And hotheads are getting organised, too, recruiting members, looking out for mischief to do. The Army of New Albion, the Patriot League, the Reformists.' He shook his head. 'It's making the struggle even harder.'
Aubrey wondered how much of this was the doing of the Holmlanders. Stirring up the masses was a useful tactic before a war.
'Jack,' he said, 'we need to go to the Mire. The burnt church.'
Jack lifted an eyebrow. 'The burnt church? Well, that's interesting. You're the second person today who's talked of the burnt church.'
'Who's the other?'
Jack looked at his hands in his lap. 'You know how I work. I don't give the name of my informants or my comrades in the struggle.'
'This is important, Jack,' Aubrey said. His face was serious. 'The fate of the country is at stake.'
Jack snorted. 'Well now, you can understand how that makes me bleed inside, seeing as how this country has been responsible for the plight of the working class.' He stood. 'Do you know how many babies die in this neighbourhood before they're six months old? D'you know how many children leave school before they're ten, just so they can earn some money to help feed the family?'
Aubrey reached out and put a hand on Jack's arm. 'I do know,' he murmured. 'Remember?'
Jack blinked, then laughed a little, embarrassed. 'You caught me making a speech.'
'You don't need much encouragement.'
'No, I don't suppose I do.' Jack sighed. 'Aubrey actually does understand the way things are,' he said to Caroline and George. 'If it weren't for him and his family, there'd be no medical care in this whole part of the city.'
Aubrey groaned. 'Jack.'
'It's true. The Broad Street Clinic is funded by your family, thanks to you.'
Caroline looked at Aubrey. He shrugged. 'Jack showed me the sights when I first came down here. I realised something had to be done. If we waited for the authorities to act, we'd still be waiting at the end of time.'
'That's the truth,' Jack said. 'Well, I've been reminded of my obligation. What was it you wanted to know?'
'Not through obligation, Jack,' Aubrey insisted. 'But because it's the right thing to do. My father's disappeared and we're trying to find him.'
Jack lifted his head. 'Why didn't you say so? Sir Darius gone? How can I help?'
'You said someone today mentioned the burnt church,' Caroline said.
'A friend of mine. A Holmlander.'
At the three-way intake of breath, Jack crossed his arms and looked defiant. 'Yes, a Holmlander. I'm not afraid to admit I have Holmland friends. Workers across the world are united in their struggle. We don't see nationality as important.'
'It's not that, Jack,' Aubrey said. 'It's just that Holmlanders could be involved in this matter.'
'Sir Darius's disappearance?'
'And other associated intrigues. How long have you known your Holmlander friend?'
'A few years. He travels a lot, he tells me. He goes back to Holmland and then returns here. He's an organiser.'
'I'm sure he is,' George said. 'And what else does he tell you?'
Jack frowned. 'He told me that he's on the run from the authorities. They want to stop his activities. Another example of the state trying to crush the workers.'
'You'd be hiding him, then?' Aubrey said. He kept his tone neutral.
'In a manner of speaking. He's safe.'
Aubrey grinned and a little of Tommy Sparks crept into his voice. 'Come now, Jack. You'll have to do better than that. We're very interested in talking to this fellow.'
'You can't. When he found out where the burnt church was, he left.'
Aubrey studied Jack. His friend was a committed man, dedicated to improving the lot of people around him. He'd educated himself through books he'd managed to put his hands on and it was his fierce, untutored intellect that led him to write and print pamphlets aimed at rousing the masses.
His greatest flaw was, however, that he was too trusting. Aubrey remembered the last time he'd seen von Stralick. The Holmlander had been wounded in the confrontation at the Society for Non-magical Fitness.
'And did you get medical help for him? Head wounds can be messy,' Aubrey asked.
'He didn't need it. Most of his ear was missing, good and clean. A plaster stopped the bleeding.'
'So it was von Stralick you were sheltering,' George blurted.
Jack looked defiant. 'He's a good man.'
'It doesn't matter,' Aubrey said.
'We need to get to the burnt church,' Caroline said, echoing his thoughts. 'Quickly.'
Jack looked at Aubrey, who nodded. 'It's very important.'
Jack did not move for some time, then he lifted his head. 'You're sure this is for a good cause?'
'On my honour,' Aubrey said.
'I'll take you, then. But I think it may be wise to get someone to come along with us.' Jack fetched a coat and a long scarf, which he wound around his neck. 'Follow me.'
The rain had grown heavier and was hammering on roofs, making a noise like hissing drumbeats, all out of rhythm. As they walked through the flooded streets, Aubrey began to feel the night pressing in around him. The thoroughfares grew narrower, buildings crowding on either side. Shadowy figures, solitary or in small groups, flitted through the wet, never talking, never acknowledging each other.
The rain lessened and turned into fog, then back again to rain. They trod along an old towpath beside a canal that had become a communal dumping ground. It was choked with ash, chunks of concrete and stone, household refuse and dead animals, and was heavy with the stink of decay.
Jack Figg led them under a road bridge, then through an abandoned factory that now seemed to be the home for a thousand people. By the light of a few guttering fires, they wound their way through the piles of rags that were sleeping men and women. Moans, the cries of babies and the deep, phlegmy cough of the terminally tubercular were the accompaniment to their night journey.
Aubrey clutched his coat shut as they stepped through this nightmare. When he emerged once more into the drizzle, he tilted his head and let the rain run over his face. He glanced at George and Caroline and saw their dazed expressions. 'Many people live like that,' he murmured.
'It's inhuman,' Caroline said.
Jack shook his head. 'They're as human as you, Miss Hepworth. They're just struggling to live, that's all.' He jabbed a finger at the factory. 'They say there's a war coming, but I've been fighting a war for years. A war against that.'
They walked on in silence. Jack brought them to the remains of a small quarry where brickworkers had long ago given up on scraping out more clay. It formed a bank, along the top of which ran a railway. The bottom of the quarry was a heap of scrap iron and timber.
Jack took a length of iron from the heap and banged on a rusty oil drum.
A slab of timber lifted and fell aside to reveal a hole. Faint music rose from it and Aubrey smelt an odd mixture of soap and cloves
A huge, bald head poked up. A huge neck followed, then a mighty pair of shoulders. 'Jack?' said a voice like thunder.
'Hullo, Oscar,' Jack said. 'I've got some friends who need to go to the burnt church.'
'The Mire?' Like a whale sounding, a vast white shape emerged from the debris. 'Righto, then.'
When Oscar dragged himself from the rubble and stood, Aubrey realised that he was the biggest man he'd ever seen.
He was at least seven feet tall, but his bulk made him look even taller. He rolled as he walked, settling each foot on the ground as if unsure it would support him. Aubrey could only see his legs from the knees downwards, so immense was his belly. His bald head was round and enormous, but smooth and unmarked like a baby's. The rain rolled off his naked scalp. He wore a robe-like garment, made of old hessian bags, and he carried a large, empty sack slung over his shoulder. His feet were bare, and Aubrey guessed it was because he'd couldn't find shoes to fit.
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