The Door That Led to Where

by Sally Gardner

  ‘What’s this?’ asked AJ.

  ‘It’s where Mr Baldwin is being treated and, strange as it may seem – and believe me it seems strange to me – he has asked to see you. So you are to take a taxi and go there now. That’s all.’

  ‘Do I take flowers?’

  ‘No,’ said Morton.

  ‘Mr Jobey,’ said a nurse. ‘You may go in.’

  Mr Baldwin was in intensive care in a smallish room that you weren’t allowed in until you had washed your hands and were wearing a plastic apron. This and the morning visit to Samuel Dalton couldn’t have been at further ends of two worlds. To AJ, both felt as unreal as the other. The cold light and the endless blip-bleep of the monitors had more life in them than the patient. The place was as hot as a lizards’ aquarium. Mr Baldwin was tubed and wired, his mouth covered in a plastic mask. Two nurses were reading charts and checking the monitors. For all that, his condition looked not unlike Mr Dalton’s.

  AJ had never visited anyone in hospital before and had no idea what he was supposed to do. He stood awkwardly at the end of the bed.

  ‘Hello, Mr Baldwin. You sent for me.’

  The QC’s eyes were closed and he didn’t appear to be up for any profound conversation.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down,’ said a nurse kindly.

  AJ did and a tidal wave of tiredness overtook him. He hadn’t slept in so long and the atmosphere in the room wasn’t exactly conducive to being alert. He must have nodded off, but he woke with a start as soon as he heard his name. The mask that had been on Mr Baldwin’s face had been taken off.

  ‘You have five minutes and no longer, Mr Baldwin,’ said the nurse, looking anxiously at her patient.

  Mr Baldwin waved her away.

  ‘Listen to me and listen carefully,’ he said to AJ, his tight words held together by a lack of emotion. ‘This is important. The documentation that authenticates the snuffboxes in the Purcell case is at Samuel Dalton’s house in Clerkenwell. Do you know where that is?’

  Lying seemed pointless. AJ nodded.

  ‘I take it Ingleby found you?’

  AJ nodded again.

  Baldwin’s tongue flicked in and out of his mouth.

  ‘It is imperative that you find the papers and give them to Ms Finch. They are vital to the defence of our client. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said AJ.

  ‘Good. I am fighting this sickness and I will win. I am not going to die, Aiden – neither am I going to lose the case or my reputation.’ A hand with a drip attached to it grabbed hold of AJ’s arm with unexpected strength. ‘Have you locked the door?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So you have the key, then. Whatever you do, do not lock the door. When you’ve found the papers you will return the key to me. And you will mention it to no one, no one. It will be our secret and I will take the matter of your stealing it no further. Your job – your future – will be secure. Do I make myself clear?’

  AJ nodded.

  Baldwin closed his eyes.

  The nurse came back and fitted the mask over the lawyer’s mouth. The visit was over.

  Outside, the toxic fumes of Marylebone Road smelled good and AJ took deep gulps. Everything had gone tits up. Perhaps the professor would be able to put him straight about a few things. He should be at the café at Rosebery Avenue by now.

  AJ fell asleep on the bus. His phone woke him up and he was relieved to see Slim’s familiar number. The sky exploded with rockets trailing stars of light. AJ had forgotten it was Guy Fawkes’ Night.

  ‘Where are you?’ Slim said.

  ‘On my way back from work. What’s up? Is everything all right?’

  There was silence at the other end. Another firework roared into the sky.

  ‘Slim,’ said AJ. ‘Is it Moses?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Look my phone is about to crash. I’ve something to … ’

  Slim’s phone died. AJ tried to call him back but couldn’t get through. By the time he had arrived at Mount Pleasant he had put Slim’s call out of his mind.

  AJ found the café the professor had taken him to. He had the change from the taxi fare and he went in, sat down at a table by the window, and used it to fund a feast.

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Bloody hell! Where did you spring from?’ said AJ.

  ‘A nice waistcoat and a shirt of the finest cambric,’ said the professor, sitting down. ‘Have your wages gone up, AJ?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you now know the answer to the riddle of my pocket watch.’

  AJ drank his tea.

  ‘I now have several riddles, all of which have one thing in common: a key. It seems that I have the only key to a door, and I am the only person who can lock it but at this moment it’s open to anyone who knows about it. Mr Baldwin said that unless I return the key to him he is going to bust me, and Mr Stone with four eyes said I must lock the door and post the key back.’

  The professor interrupted him.

  ‘But you haven’t, have you, AJ?’

  ‘Haven’t what?’

  ‘Haven’t locked the door and posted the key through the letterbox?’

  The professor’s eyes never left AJ’s.

  ‘No. I still have it on me.’

  The professor sighed.

  ‘I am glad to hear that. Another pot of tea, please,’ he called to the man behind the counter.

  ‘Coming up, professor.’

  ‘Now, tell me slowly and precisely what has happened and where you have been.’

  AJ told him about meeting Ingleby and Stone, and being taken to Samuel Dalton’s house, and about his recent interview with Mr Baldwin.

  ‘I tell you, some weird shit is going on. Now I don’t know who to trust or even how many people know about the door. This is far more complicated than anything Beanstalk Jack ever had to deal with.’

  At that moment AJ’s phone rang. It was Slim.

  ‘Hi, bro. Phone ran out of juice.’

  ‘Later,’ said AJ.

  ‘No,’ said Slim. ‘This is important. You need to come back.’

  ‘Why? I’m busy.’

  There was a pause and for a moment AJ thought Slim’s phone was dropping out again. He could hardly hear him for the whizz-bangs. One lone spectacular wheel illuminated the sky with falling diamonds.

  ‘Because,’ said Slim, ‘Leon’s mum is dead.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  AJ had never been on a plane, never been to a foreign land; only London muck had ever stuck to the soles of his shoes. He had no idea what jet lag felt like but he wondered if he could be suffering from time lag.

  Whatever it was, everything was unreal. Leon, Leon’s mum, Slim – all seemed to float about him. He felt sick with tiredness, so much so that he had fallen asleep again on the bus and missed his stop at Stoke Newington Town Hall and had to catch another bus back from Stamford Hill.

  Slim was waiting outside the Rose and Crown, uncomfortably puffing on a fag.

  ‘You don’t smoke,’ said AJ.

  ‘Leon’s gone missing,’ said Slim, stubbing out the cigarette. He stopped and looked at AJ. ‘You all right? You’re grey.’

  ‘Had a hard day,’ said AJ, wishing he had been with Leon instead of chasing a mystery he didn’t have a hope of ever understanding. ‘What do you mean, gone missing?’

  Slim sighed. ‘It’s messed up. Auntie Elsie went to the hospital with him and that was when they turned off his mum’s life support. The social services were there too. Leon told them he needed a piss and that was the last anyone saw of him. Now the police are round at his flat.’

  ‘Shit,’ said AJ.

  ‘Yeah, life is shitty, it sure ain’t pretty. The vultures have descended. Margot from Ranger Housing Association is up there too. The rent was months overdue. Seems like Leon has lost his mum and his home, all with the click of a switch. His mum was more use as a living vegetable than a bleeding corpse.’

  ‘Ever thought of being a poet?’ said
AJ. ‘Come on, we’d better try to find Leon.’

  ‘I’ve been looking all day. Down at Blues, on the South Bank – nothing. And I can’t search any more, man,’ Slim said sheepishly. ‘Sorry, bro, I’m taking my girl out.’

  ‘What are you on?’ said AJ. ‘Leon’s mum has died and you are determined to add to the sum total of misery by going out with the girlfriend of the nastiest piece of manhood that was ever assembled in the factory of life. Moses is a basket case.’

  ‘She’s finished with him for good.’

  ‘I doubt that, bro. I imagine Sicknote is making sure she has one of her Gucci stilettos in each camp. Why do you want to be involved with the bitch?’

  ‘Don’t call her that. I love her. Don’t laugh.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘You see, I’ve had this crush on her since –’

  ‘Since you lost the will to live?’ said AJ. ‘Oh, give me strength. There’s no cupid’s bow waiting for you, mate, just Moses’s flick knife and you know it. It’s pathetic.’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Slim. ‘Just shut it.’ He took out another fag and lit it with an unsteady hand. ‘Got to go.’

  Walking towards them, in a gaggle of glittering girls, was Sicknote, the Cleopatra of Stokey, coming to claim her slave.

  Slim threw the fag away.

  AJ looked on, disgusted, as Slim almost ran to her.

  ‘Just be careful, that’s all,’ he said to no one in particular.

  Outside Leon’s block, AJ found Leon’s sofa leaning against the wall along with two mattresses and several black bin bags. His clothes were mixed up with the rubbish. They all stank. So that was that. For what it was worth, Rangers had reclaimed the dump. There was no point in seeing if he could get in. Anyway, it was dark and hard to see with eyes that needed matchsticks to keep them open. He focused on his oversized brogues. One step, two steps, three. He had to put his faith in something and shoes seemed a good bet. He saw Moses’s gang hanging out in the doorway.

  Keep your eyes off those geezers and concentrate on the shoes, he thought. They were moving in the general direction of Bodman House. He rang Elsie’s bell.

  Dear old Elsie. London may tumble, St Paul’s might crumble but Elsie would always be there. She’d been just a little kid during the Blitz, had seen the houses round about go down. She even had an Uncle Stan who had been shot by a Stuka on Church Street.

  ‘He was a stubborn bugger,’ she’d said. ‘He wouldn’t lie down on the pavement when the plane flew overhead – he just stood in the road with his fingers in a V-sign and, lo and behold, if that Stuka didn’t double back and shoot him full of holes. No one else, just my Uncle Stan. Daft as a brush, he was.’

  Elsie opened the door.

  ‘Give me those,’ she said, taking his smelly clothes. ‘Cup of tea? You’re all done in. What a day, what a day. I take it you haven’t seen Leon?’

  ‘No. I’ll have the tea and then I’m going out searching and I will find him.’

  The idea that you could just boil water and make tea at the flick of a switch struck him for the first time in his life as a luxury. Maybe you needed to see the past to appreciate the present.

  Elsie, the queen of the practical, put both hands on her hips. She had just had her hair dyed blue and the tightness of her curls and the lines on her face made her, in the dim light of her lounge, look beautiful to AJ.

  ‘You … ’ she said slowly, as if measuring out each word to see if they had the right amount of weight to them, ‘you are not responsible for Leon or for Slim.’

  AJ stood up to protest.

  ‘I haven’t finished. You need to take care of –’ Elsie stopped mid-sentence. ‘What are you wearing?’

  AJ was too muddled to understand what she was saying. Her words drifted in and out of his consciousness. She showed him into the bedroom that had once belonged to her son Norris.

  ‘You can stay here for a while, if you like,’ she said.

  He took off his waistcoat and shirt and lay down on the bed, and before Elsie had brought him tea and Marmite toast, AJ was fast asleep.

  The next morning he had a bath and realised that he felt a human being again. A human being with a plan. He would look for Leon after work. He would find him even if it meant tackling Dr Jinx. Elsie was in the living room, sitting in her armchair. The ironing board was out and all AJ’s clothes had been washed and pressed.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ said AJ. Elsie was staring into space. ‘Elsie?’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Where did you find those?’ she said, pointing to the shirt and waistcoat Ingleby had given him.

  ‘Oh – I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s what Norris said when I asked him the same question, a week before he went missing.’

  ‘Norris, your son?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elsie. She stood up and went into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

  Some things are so important that getting the right information demands asking the right question. AJ had to give the question some thought. He waited until Elsie had put coffee and cereal on the kitchen table.

  ‘You mean your son Norris had these very same clothes?’ said AJ.

  ‘That’s about the sum of it,’ said Elsie. ‘I told the police about them but they weren’t interested.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘Lucas was supposed to come back to live with your mum. He said he just had to sort something out. When he never came back Norris said he would go looking for him. That was the last time I saw my son. And no one ever saw Lucas Jobey again either.’

  It had never occurred to AJ that Elsie might have known his father.

  ‘You knew my father?’ He said the words quietly, as if the sound of them might frighten away the answer.

  ‘I did,’ said Elsie. ‘But it was a long time ago.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  AJ opened his eyes on Saturday morning and thought, what a mess. He had looked for Leon every evening after work with no success and today he planned to devote his whole time to finding him. Even as he thought it he knew he wouldn’t be able to. Somehow he had to retrieve the papers Mr Baldwin wanted. He dreaded what would happen if miraculously Mr Baldwin was out of hospital on Monday. The first thing the lawyer would do would be to demand the key and the documentation. And the second thing he would do would be to fire him.

  ‘Shit, shit.’

  AJ was wide awake – no long lie-in this morning. He climbed out of bed. He washed and put his suit on over the shirt and waistcoat. There was a clank as a penny rolled out of the waistcoat pocket. It was large and old with a picture of George IV on one side and Rule Britannia on the other. It had the date on it: 1825. This was a good sign. It was the same year as on the stone above the doors to 4 Raymond Buildings.

  Heads I look for my best mate and blow the consequences, he thought; tails I go back through Jobey’s Door. He felt a longing to be there again, to feel that other London for himself, to walk its streets and be a part of it. He wanted to call on Miss Esme and ask a few important questions. Hopefully she would know where to find the documents Mr Baldwin wanted. And he had this half-baked notion that if he could only speak to her alone the mystery of how her father knew his father would be solved. He tossed the coin.

  Tails.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’ Elsie asked him.

  ‘Just to look for Leon.’

  ‘All dolled up like that? I may look like I am missing a spanner, but I can tell a lie from fifty feet and that one is so whopping it almost fills the lounge.’

  AJ sighed. ‘There something I have to do. It’s all right, it’s safe.’

  ‘As long as it’s not trailing trouble behind it.’

  Fearing more questions, AJ left the flat with a piece of toast in his mouth and the rest of the clothes Ingleby had given him in a Sainsbury’s bag.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Elsie.

  AJ imagined it would be a lot harder to get into the car pa
rk at Phoenix Place in daylight than it had been at night. What he had discovered working at Baldwin Groat, though, was that a suit, however cheap, put you in a different category. You didn’t look like someone who was about to spray his name, lairy and large, on a brick wall.

  He followed a worker from the sorting office through the side gate into the car park. A little way off a car alarm began a constant whine.

  Gradually he became aware that the needy wail had faded away. A fog enfolded him and the red door appeared, as did the stone face and the hand of the knocker. He almost ran at it, imagining its hinges to be stiff as before, only to find that the door opened with such ease that he almost lost his footing. Once he was in the hall the door closed behind him and he could hear the meow of a cat, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves outside but nothing else, only the silence that belonged to a house in another century.

  The hall had a fraction more light in it than it had at night. The place felt coffin-still.

  ‘Hello?’ he called.

  He was half hoping that Ingleby would be there. He wouldn’t have minded a chat with him. He changed his clothes, left his suit and mobile in the cupboard under the stairs and picked up his hat and muffler. He opened the door again. Fingers crossed he wasn’t going out into the Phoenix Place car park.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said to himself.

  He had arrived in the nineteenth century.

  A frost had settled over this London and the air was bitter and clear. The city was so transformed in the daylight that it took his breath away. The grey dome of St Paul’s loomed through the rolling drifts of murky smoke from a thousand chimney pots.

  In his world St Paul’s could just be seen from his mum’s balcony, dwarfed by the Shard and the Gherkin – the great-great-great-grandfather of London surrounded by its precocious children. Here, Christopher Wren’s building stood tall above roof tops, a landmark by which he could take his bearings.

  He walked towards Clerkenwell through a London that no longer existed, dawdling, taking it all in. It smelled raw; poverty and grandeur nestled together. The shop fronts were small, some decorated, some undecorated, with nothing to show what they were selling. The noise of the city was deafening. A brewer’s dray came along, making more din than AJ thought possible; a sedan chair wobbled past, the passenger a lady with a painted face and a tall white wig, protesting that the porters were too slow. This was the London he’d read about and somewhere here lived his hero, Charles Dickens. He wouldn’t have yet written Sketches by Boz, let alone Pickwick Papers. Dickens must be about eighteen, and if AJ remembered correctly, was working as a reporter.