Timecurse

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Timecurse Page 8

by Tom Becker


  He found himself standing in a narrow alleyway that ran alongside Bartlemas Timepieces. At one end, the black carriage remained motionless at the pavement’s edge. Harry and Raquella were already moving swiftly through the shadows in the opposite direction, into the bowels of the Lower Fleet. Jonathan was about to follow them when a movement caught his eye. It was Holborn. The Abettor had returned to the carriage, and was talking to someone in the back.

  Carnegie landed easily on the ground beside him. “Time to go, boy,” the wereman whispered, brushing his hands.

  Jonathan pointed at the carriage. “Who’s that with Holborn?”

  “Who cares? If the Runners look out of the window, we’re done for! Move!”

  But just then Holborn opened the carriage door to climb inside. Before the wereman could drag him away, Jonathan caught a glimpse of another man huddled in the back seat of the Abettor’s carriage.

  He gasped.

  It was Lucien.

  11

  By the time they reached the Grand it was well past midnight. Usually the riotous peak of Darkside’s main street, the threat of the Bow Street Runners had somehow managed to quieten the savage menagerie. The pavements were unnaturally quiet, fists kept unclenched and insults swallowed. Doorways were unsullied by shadowy figures. Outside the Aurora Borealis candle shop, one foolhardy gang was taunting rivals across the street, hurling insults through the wheels of passing carriages; but whereas this would usually have been the prelude to a mass brawl, now they maintained a surly stalemate.

  Trying his best not to look suspicious, Jonathan stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked nonchalantly alongside Carnegie. Having failed to persuade the teenagers to return to his lodgings while he visited the Psychosis Club alone, the wereman was lost in a moody silence. Jonathan knew that he was concerned about what they had seen outside Bartlemas’s shop. Lucien was a large enough threat on his own – if he was now in league with the Abettor, the second most powerful figure in Darkside, there was no telling what he might be capable of. But if Carnegie was pensive, Harry was absolutely livid.

  “You saw Holborn talking to Lucien?” he spluttered. “What’s he thinking? It’s the middle of the Blood Succession – the Abettor has to stay neutral!”

  “It didn’t look very neutral to me,” Jonathan replied darkly.

  “Bad news for Marianne,” Carnegie added. “If Holborn’s cosying up to Lucien, I’d say the odds on her winning the Succession aren’t good.”

  “Even if Lucien and Holborn have joined forces,” Raquella said slowly, “why are they bothering to chase after Bartlemas?”

  “Good question,” answered Carnegie. “I don’t know. Something big is afoot here, and I’ve got a hunch your master’s deeply involved in it.”

  Though the mood of his companions was downbeat, as Jonathan slipped through the subdued throng on the Grand, he had to confess to a feeling of strange elation. Lucien’s return may have been bad news for Darkside, but it rekindled Jonathan’s hopes that he could discover what had happened to his mum. All he had to do now was prise the truth from Lucien – admittedly, a task easier said than done.

  The entrance to the Psychosis Club was notable for the large area of empty pavement outside, as though even those risking the Grand that night refused to walk past it. A hulking doorman in a formal black suit was standing guard by the arched front door, scanning the street with contempt. Two stunted, twisted horns rose out of his forehead. As Carnegie made to enter the club, the doorman placed a large hand across his chest.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Inside.”

  “You know the rules, Carnegie. You can’t come into the Psychosis Club unless you’re on your own. And you definitely can’t come in with a bunch of children.”

  “I know the rules, Pork,” the wereman replied easily. “I’m just ignoring them.”

  “You don’t want any trouble,” the doorman said slowly, cracking his knuckles.

  “Really?” Carnegie grinned wolfishly. “Who says?”

  Pork hesitated, unnerved by the wereman’s composure.

  “Look,” Carnegie said. “We just want to talk to someone. We’ll be in and out in ten minutes. It’s not worth a fight, however much fun that might be.”

  Pork scratched one of his horns, thinking hard. Eventually he moved to one side. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said. “Then I’m coming looking for you.”

  Carnegie shrugged, then stepped past the doorman and through the archway. After sharing a dubious glance with one another, the three teenagers followed him.

  The Psychosis Club was a dolorous honeycomb of low, vaulted caverns. At first glance, it appeared to be deserted, but as they walked onward they saw customers nursing drinks alone, their heads down, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone else. Droplets of water seeped through the ceiling on to the floor, trickling down the brickwork like tears.

  From somewhere in the damp depths, there came the low sound of a fiddle. Jonathan followed the trail of the music into a slighter larger cavern, where a dishevelled, grey-haired man was playing on a semicircular stage, against a backdrop of blood-red drapes. He moved expressively, swaying in time to the music, his body rising and falling with every wailing note. Under the man’s gentle touch, the fiddle sang a plaintive song of loss and heartbreak. Jonathan stood transfixed. He had never heard anything like it.

  “Who is that?” he asked.

  It was Raquella who replied – tears glistening on her cheek. “Isaac Lacrimoso. When he was a young man, a girl broke his heart, and he swore never to love anyone again. He’s played here every night since. This song, nothing else.”

  As the notes soared higher and higher, the water began dripping faster through the ceiling, until it fell in a torrent that drenched everyone in the room. Jonathan could barely see Lacrimoso through the rain, but the wizened old man didn’t seem to notice the downpour, utterly lost in a song he had played thousands upon thousands of times.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Raquella breathed. “And so sad.”

  Lacrimoso drew his bow across the fiddle in a final, keening note. When the sound finally died, the deluge slackened as quickly as it had begun. His shoulders slumped, Lacrimoso shuffled off through the puddles on the stage and back through the red drapes to a silent ovation.

  Jonathan was too shocked to clap. Instead, running a hand through his wet hair, he watched Carnegie stride over to the bar in the corner of the room, where a bored young man was staring off into space.

  “What?” the barman asked in a surly tone.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Isn’t everyone here?”

  Carnegie reached over the bar and fastened his hand on the barman’s shirt, pulling him so close that their noses were almost touching.

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I’m looking for someone, and you’re going to help me find him. We think he’s a regular here – Josiah Bartlemas?”

  “All right, guv,” the barman said hastily, hands raised in the air. “The name rings a bell, but I couldn’t say for sure. Honestly, most of the folks in here keep themselves to themselves. Isaac might know him, though.” The barman pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the crestfallen fiddler, who now sat in a booth on his own. “He’s in here every night. That’s the best I can do, honest.”

  The wereman relented, removing his grip on the man’s shirt claw by claw.

  “See how easy that was?” he said brightly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re . . . you’re welcome,” the barman stammered, before scurrying out of reach to the other side of the bar.

  Raquella caught Carnegie’s arm. “Let me talk to Lacrimoso,” she said. “I don’t think your usual tactics will work with him.”

  “My usual tactics work with everyone – eventually.”


  “Please?”

  Carnegie nodded reluctantly. “Take the boy with you. Pierce – you can keep me company.” The wereman slouched against the bar with Harry, while Jonathan followed Raquella over to the fiddler’s booth.

  The maid coughed, and said hesitantly: “Excuse me, sir?”

  Isaac looked up and gazed at the maid with large, doleful eyes. He gasped.

  “Can it be?” he breathed. “Maria?”

  Raquella shook her head, her cheeks reddening. “No – my name is Raquella. I’m afraid I don’t know who Maria is.”

  The fiddler inspected her closely, and saw Jonathan standing beside her. He sighed deeply. “Of course not. You must forgive an old fool – it’s just, you have the same hair. Flowing red locks, like a field of roses. Please,” he said, gesturing at the seat opposite, “sit down, both of you. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “We’re looking for a man called Josiah Bartlemas,” Raquella began, as the two of them squeezed into the booth. “I was told you might know him?”

  There was a pause, and then the fiddler nodded.

  “Yes, I know Josiah. He comes in here every now and again. Sometimes we talk.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Isaac frowned. “The night the Ripper died.”

  Jonathan leaned forward eagerly. “You saw him that night?”

  “Yes – I remember because he was acting so strangely. Josiah was babbling that he had cracked some sort of code, and now a wheel could start turning. He was so excited that I couldn’t make head nor tail of what he was saying. Then, when the Blackchapel Bell started ringing, an odd look came over his face. He put down his drink without a word and raced out. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “Did you know him well?” Raquella pressed.

  “Josiah?” Isaac replied. “As well as the next man, I suppose. He was private, kept himself to himself. As far as I know, he didn’t have any friends. He spent nearly all of his time in the shop. Watches and clocks were his passion, his obsession.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about his work?”

  “Not really . . . I don’t think he thought a mere fiddler could understand. From time to time Josiah boasted that he was involved with some sort of special project that was going to make him rich, but I didn’t pay him much heed. I have heard many such stories in here before. . .”

  As the fiddler smiled sadly to himself, Jonathan thought of the plans Harry had taken from Bartlemas’s workshop. What if the watchmaker had been telling the truth – could they be the key to his secret project?

  “Do you know where we could find him now?” he asked.

  “If he’s not in his shop, or here. . .” Isaac shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  The fiddler turned his sad eyes back to his drink, his voice trailing away. Thanking him quietly, Raquella and Jonathan got up and returned to the bar, where the sizeable figure of Pork had suddenly loomed up on Carnegie’s shoulder. Producing a pocket watch, the doorman tapped it meaningfully with a thick finger.

  “Time’s up,” he grunted.

  “We were just leaving,” Carnegie replied, favouring the doorman with a beatific smile. “Come on, Pork. I’ll walk you out. We can fight another time.”

  As they climbed the steps out of the Psychosis Club and back on to the Grand, Jonathan felt a wave of tiredness wash over him. Having reached a dead end, all his energy had drained away, and he was suddenly desperate for bed. He hadn’t slept since he had heard Vendetta was after him. How long had that been – two days?

  They had to linger on the Grand in order to hail down carriages to take Raquella and Harry home, and the street lamps were burning low by the time Jonathan and Carnegie reached the wereman’s lodgings. Carnegie unlocked the front door, yawning loudly, and began to climb the stairs. Jonathan was about to follow when a hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder.

  12

  “Dad?” Jonathan’s voice rang with astonishment.

  It seemed unbelievable, but it was indeed Alain Starling standing in front of him. His dad was dressed in the Victorian style, sporting an open-necked white shirt, waistcoat and trousers beneath a black overcoat. The outfit was completed by a top hat set firmly on his head, and a stout walking stick that threatened to deliver a hefty clout. Although he looked surprisingly at ease in the perilous environment of Fitzwilliam Street, the beads of perspiration on Alain’s forehead and the grey pallor to his skin hinted at the toll Darkside’s atmosphere was taking on him. He was also, Jonathan couldn’t help but notice, furious.

  “What are you doing here?” said Jonathan. “You’re not well enough for this!”

  “What am I doing here?” Alain shot back. “I’m here to collect my son – who is in an unbelievable amount of trouble – and drag him back home. By his ears, if necessary.”

  “Oh, Dad—” Jonathan began.

  “Don’t ‘oh Dad’ me,” Alain snapped. “You sneak out of the house in the middle of the night like a common thief, crossing over to Darkside when I expressly told you not to . . . the one time I forbid you to do something – with your safety in mind, to protect you – and you disobey me. You can’t imagine how angry I am with you!”

  At the sound of Alain’s raised voice, Carnegie had stopped halfway up the stairs. Now he stalked back to the doorway, eyeballing Jonathan.

  “Seems I owe you an apology, Alain,” the wereman said. “The boy didn’t tell me he’d gone behind your back. I would have hauled him back to Lightside myself if I’d known, Vendetta or not. Happy to do it now, if you want.”

  “Thanks, Elias, but I’ve got this one.” Alain turned back towards his son. “Well? Anything to say for yourself?”

  Jonathan thought for a second. “If I’d stayed, you’d have tried to protect me from Vendetta. Dad, he’d kill you! This was the safest thing for all of us. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry you’ve had to come here to find me, but don’t make me go back.” He looked up at Alain, eyes shining with excitement. “Lucien’s come out of hiding! We don’t know what he’s up to, but it’s something shady. Don’t you see? Now he’s out of hiding, we can make him tell us about Mum!”

  “No doubt he’d be delighted to talk to you,” Carnegie said sourly.

  “He’s all we’ve got,” Jonathan retorted. “He’s the only one who knows what happened.” Turning back to Alain, he added softly: “And if you make me go home now, Dad, we might never get another chance to find out about Mum. That’ll be it.”

  Before Jonathan’s father could reply, Carnegie stepped between them, his eyes narrowing at the sight of a group of lads strutting down Fitzwilliam Street towards them.

  “We’d better continue this upstairs,” he growled. “That’s a particularly nasty gang of troublemakers heading towards us, and I don’t think this is the right time for a disagreement.”

  They headed smartly up to the wereman’s lodgings, where Carnegie busied himself stirring up the fire in the hearth. Alain took off his hat and laid down his stick, before sinking into an armchair. As he rubbed his face wearily, he looked suddenly smaller and weaker than he had before. Jonathan stood and waited, unsure of what to do.

  “I don’t want to talk about this now,” his dad said eventually. “It’s late, and you look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

  “Take the spare room,” Carnegie said, stabbing at the coals with a poker. “You know the way.”

  Jonathan opened his mouth to argue, but took one look at his dad’s face and closed it again. Back in the familiar surroundings of Carnegie’s spare bedroom, he undressed quickly, convinced that there was too much churning round in his mind to sleep. Within seconds he was unconscious.

  It was still light when he awoke, pale sunshine drifting in through the curtains. Down on Fitzwilliam Street, a shop owner was resignedly sweeping up the remnants of a shattered window. Desp
ite the daylight, the air in the spare room was chilly, and Jonathan hopped barefoot across the wooden floor to slip on some trousers. He washed quickly in the hand basin, wincing at the feel of the icy-cold water on his skin.

  The sound of Carnegie and his father talking was carrying in from the main room. Jonathan was about to join them when something about their urgent, hushed undertones made him pause at the door and listen.

  “You went to Bartlemas’s and you didn’t tell him?” Alain said.

  There was a pause.

  “Didn’t feel like the right time,” Carnegie replied.

  “Why on earth not? That shop was like a second home to me! He would have wanted to know!”

  Suddenly, Jonathan realized why the name Bartlemas Timepieces had felt familiar. He had seen the shop before, in a photograph he had found in his dad’s study. Alain and Theresa had been standing outside it, their arms around one another, looking young and happy and in love. His dad had worked there, and Carnegie had known about it, and he hadn’t told him.

  “Listen to me, Alain,” Carnegie said carefully. “You haven’t been here this past year. You haven’t seen what Jonathan’s been like.”

  “I think I know my own son.”

  “You don’t understand!” the wereman said, his voice rising. “Every time the boy finds out something new about either of you, he becomes convinced that he can find Theresa.”

  “And what is so wrong with thinking that?” Alain asked icily.

  “For pity’s sake, man!” Carnegie shouted. “It’s been over ten years! She’s dead!”

  Time stopped. Jonathan caught his breath, frozen by the starkness of the wereman’s words. Once more he was confronted by his greatest fear, a fear of such enormity that he was too scared to acknowledge it might be true. He barely heard the wereman continue more quietly: “Theresa’s gone, Alain. She got tangled in something incredibly dangerous and paid the ultimate price. Ripper knows, I would give anything for that not to be the case, but you have to face up to the truth. Both of you. The longer you pretend otherwise, the more you’re going to get hurt.”

 

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