by Paul Stewart
I followed him, leaving the chaotic scene behind, feeling sick to my stomach with what I’d just witnessed. I was beginning to suspect that Clarissa Oliphant’s fears for her brother’s mental state were well-founded. As we went deeper into Gastown, the buildings became increasingly rundown and ramshackle, with cramped living quarters built on top of dark sweatshops and filthy workhouses. I had to take care not to miss my footing on the cracked roof tiles and crumbling brickwork. At the end of Blue Boar Lane, Oliphant turned abruptly onto a narrow alleyway, and stopped in front of the battered, padlocked door of a squat building halfway along. He rummaged in the pockets of his breeches for a key.
Blood Alley. Of all places!
Of course, I knew Blood Alley by reputation. The place was notorious. It lay at the centre of Gastown, the dark heart of the grimy district. Of course, there are other seedy parts of the city, each with their own problems, from the grinding poverty of the Rats Nest to the brutal gang violence of Gatling Quays. But Gastown was different. It was a sinister, brooding place, full of shuttered workshops and ominously boarded-up buildings, behind whose facades all manner of disreputable enterprises were rumoured to take place. And of all the tightly packed streets, Blood Alley’s reputation was indisputably the worst.
Apparently, years earlier, tanneries had lined the alley on both sides, the red dyes and acid chemicals of the so-called ‘odiferous trade’ sluicing down the gutters like blood. It was this foul effluence that gave the alley its name. These days, the tanneries, along with their foul vats filled with stale urine and stinking dung, were gone. The buildings had been turned into two rows of industrial lock-ups, bolted and shuttered against prying eyes.
The infamous Gutrot Gang were rumoured to produce the foulest, most intoxicating stevedore brandy in Blood Alley, while it was said that the Mog Shavers, the largest gang of cat-skinners in the city, manufactured their ‘ermine’ fur coats here too. Counterfeiters, document forgers, scammers, skimmers and hot-toddy merchants lurked behind every locked door, each one a fortress against the raids of the city constabulary, which were few and far between.
Laurence Oliphant disappeared hurriedly inside the building and pulled the door shut behind him. I heard bolts slamming into place. There was a small window next to the door, but as I lowered myself onto a wedge-shaped roof opposite, I saw that, unsurprisingly, it had been boarded up. I shinned down a rusting drainpipe and landed lightly on the cobbles. In front of me, to the right of the lock-up, was a dank ginnel, which took me to the back of the row. Each of the lock-ups had its own high-walled back yard, screening them from view.
Carefully, I eased myself up the wall, my fingertips and the points of my boots finding purchase in the crumbling mortar between the brickwork. It was slow work, but after a couple of minutes I was able to peer over the shards of broken glass that crenellated the top of the eight-foot wall.
I glimpsed an untidy yard, strewn with dented zinc tanks and twists of greening copper. There was a window to the right of the back door, glazed rather than boarded. Taking care to avoid the razor-sharp glass, I was attempting to get a better view when all at once there was a bloodcurdling roar, and in a blurred rush of glistening slaver and glinting teeth, a monstrous hound reared up at me and thrust its snarling mouth towards my face.
I recoiled, almost losing my grip on the wall, my heart hammering with fright. The creature dropped back down out of sight, only to reappear a moment later as it lunged up at me.
Transfixed, I stared at the hideous beast, my legs trembling. Up on its hind legs it must have been six feet tall at least. It was lean and muscular, and its rough, matted fur bristled as it jumped repeatedly at the top of the wall, only to fall back again. It eyed me furiously from beneath bushy wire-like eyebrows, its eyeballs rolling in their sockets. Frothing drool dripped from yellow fangs as its scarred jaws opened, and a low, menacing growl emerged from the back of its throat. I knew that it would have liked nothing better than to tear me limb from limb.
I’d been stupid. Careless. Most of these lock-ups were likely to be guarded by savage dogs, and I should have known that Laurence Oliphant would want to protect his own secrets from prying eyes. As if to confirm my thoughts, the yards along the alley erupted in a cacophony of angry barks and howling as the chained beasts within them joined the chorus.
… a monstrous hound reared up at me and thrust its snarling mouth towards my face.
From inside the lock-up, there came the sound of a door slamming. I let go of the wall and dropped to the cobbles below, hitting the ground running – but not before I saw the face at the window.
It was scarcely human. One disembodied eye, grinning teeth, wisps of hair and patches of skin, all disconnected, as if half the face had been ripped away. But worse, far worse, I realized as I ran back down Blood Alley and round the corner, was not that I had seen this hideous creature, but that it had clearly seen me.
I sat myself down on the flat roof of a six-storey brown brick tenement block on Prospect Avenue, where Gastown borders the more upmarket Bishopsgate, my legs dangling over the side. I was still shaken up by the events in Blood Alley, and had decided to take a moment to collect my thoughts before I continued back to Clarissa Oliphant’s house.
I’d been confronted by watchdogs before of course. It came with my line of work. Scruffy mutts and mongrels for the most part, ill-fed and bad-tempered. But the dog I’d encountered in Blood Alley was not one of these. I’d recognized it as a pedigree Moravian boarhound, a noble breed usually associated with country estates rather than Gastown lock-ups. Good-natured and loyal as a rule, this one must have been brutally treated to turn it into the vicious beast I’d encountered.
Had Laurence Oliphant done this? I wondered. Or did the creature belong to the hideous apparition I’d glimpsed at the window? And if so, then who was that foul, deformed monster? Questions were buzzing around my head, when all at once I heard the sound of desperate wailing …
I looked round and noticed a cat on the adjacent fire escape. It was clinging hold of a cast-iron rung, its ears pinned back and body trembling, caterwauling for help. I guessed that it had been running from the unwanted attentions of a watchdog when it had taken to the stairs of the fire escape, leaping up the cast-iron rungs to safety – until its confidence had run out, that is. Now it was stuck, unable to return the way it had come and incapable of making that final leap onto the roof; a manoeuvre that any self-respecting tomcat would have managed without a second thought.
But this was no alley-cat, no ratter, no sleek pigeon hunter or backstreet mog. No, the quivering specimen before me was clearly a lap-cat. A Persepolis blue, if I was not mistaken; a plump and pampered household pet, and with a pedigree every bit as impressive as the Moravian boarhound’s.
The cat’s wailing hit an agonized crescendo. It stared at me pitifully, as if pleading for my help. I didn’t have the heart to ignore it.
‘All right, you win,’ I told it, as I headed back along the roof. ‘I’m coming.’
This was easier said than done, as I soon discovered. Though petrified of the yawning drop below, the cat seemed even more terrified of yours truly. As I lowered myself onto the first of the diagonal iron stairs of the fire escape, the stupid creature yowled and shrank back. I stopped at once and leaned down.
‘Shhh,’ I whispered. ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you …’
The cat trembled. I took another step, trying hard not to make the metal stairs vibrate. It let out a cry of terror and scrabbled back awkwardly along the rusted rung.
‘It’s all right,’ I repeated, stopping a second time. ‘Just stay where you are. There’s a good cat.’
But the cat remained unsure. Claws out and fur on end, it went rigid as I got closer. I paused on the rung just above it, twisted round so my back was to the ladder and looked down. The creature stared back, bared its teeth and hissed. I crouched and, whispering reassurances, reached towards it, ready to scoop it up.
All at once, with
a terrified screech, the cat lashed out, its claws slashing at my outstretched fingers. I withdrew my hand just in time and straightened up, ripping the front of my poacher’s waistcoat on a jutting bolt as I did so. I heard something hard clatter down the metal flights of stairs below me, and saw half a dozen business cards flutter away …
The cat squirmed round, braced itself and took a flying leap off the edge of the ladder and onto the adjacent window-ledge. I glared at it furiously, and had half a mind to leave the ridiculous creature where it was. But then it mewled piteously, staring at me with those wide panic-stricken eyes.
Taking a deep breath, I lowered myself to the rung below and edged closer to the window-ledge. The cat eyed me suspiciously, its fur on end.
‘I’m going to rescue you, whether you like it or not,’ I told it.
Gripping the side of the stairs with my left hand, I pulled my coalstack hat from my head with my right. I stared ahead, calculating the angles, and counted down from five. When I hit zero, I tightened my grip on the stair rail and swung out into midair. As I drew level with the window-ledge, I brought my hat down over the cat and dragged it towards me. Then, just as it reached the edge of the sill, I twisted my wrist, flipping the hat round so that the cat dropped down inside it, and swung back to the fire escape.
‘I’m going to rescue you, whether you like it or not,’ I told it.
It had worked like a dream. As for the cat, it offered no further resistance, instead lying still in the darkness at the bottom of my coalstack hat. I tucked the hat under my arm and descended the fire escape, planning to release the cat when I reached the bottom.
That was when I discovered I’d had an audience. I heard the sound of clapping hands and an excited voice calling out from below.
‘Bobbin! Bobbin!’ the voice cried, and I looked down to see a slim, even-featured woman staring up at me, her blue eyes radiant with happiness and relief.
I jumped down beside her and proffered my hat. ‘This cat is yours, I take it.’
The woman reached inside, pulled the cat out and dangled it before her. It went limp and purred loudly.
‘Bobbin, you naughty cat,’ she said, shaking her head in mock anger. She tucked him inside her shawl. ‘He’s mine, all right,’ she told me, smiling brightly as I replaced my hat on my head. ‘Thank you so much for rescuing him, Mr …?’
‘Barnaby Grimes, tick-tock lad,’ I told her, smiling back. ‘Glad to be of assistance.’
The woman frowned. ‘But your waistcoat,’ she said, her face creasing with concern. ‘It’s completely ruined.’
I looked down. The bolt I’d snagged my waistcoat on had caused considerable damage. Three of the pockets were hanging by a thread, while a fourth was missing completely, and there was a gaping hole down the right-hand seam.
‘It is a bit of a mess,’ I conceded. ‘I’ll have to take it to the tailor to be repaired …’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ she said, and seized me by the sleeve. ‘One good turn deserves another.’
Taking me by the arm, she led me along the sidewalk, talking nineteen to the dozen as we went. Her name, she told me, was Mrs Clare Gosney, and she was a bespoke seamstress by profession. She ran a little shop with her daughter, Molly, and her beloved Bobbin was, as I’d thought, a Persepolis blue, and rather valuable into the bargain.
‘Though absolutely priceless to me,’ she added, and hugged the purring bundle wrapped up in her shawl.
We came to a small shop at the end of the street, its front window overflowing with rolls of lace, bolts of material and an assortment of wooden tailors’ dummies, the finely cut clothes they were modelling somewhat spoiled by the way they leaned drunkenly against one another. Above the door was a sign, painted in elegant serif lettering. Gosney and Daughter : Fine Millinery and Dressmaking.
‘Here we are,’ she announced.
A doorbell jangled as she shouldered her way inside. I followed her and found myself in a small room, made smaller by the number of tailors’ dummies and bundles of cloth which filled every available inch of space. There was an oak counter directly in front of me, piled high with folded items of clothing, each one with a card of neatly written instructions pinned to it. A black leather-bound book lay beside them. Behind the counter were three tables. Two of them were laid out with pieces of crimson material, white chalk marking the places from which collars, sleeves and sides would be cut out. At the third table sat a girl, fourteen or fifteen years old, with a long braided pigtail and the brownest eyes I had ever seen.
She put down her needlework and leaped from her stool. ‘You found her!’ she exclaimed.
‘Not me, Molly,’ said Mrs Gosney. She hung her shawl on a hook behind the door. ‘It was Barnaby here. Mr Barnaby Grimes, a tick-tock lad. He rescued Bobbin from the top of a fire escape, didn’t he, Bobbin?’ she said, and pressed her nose into the cat’s face. ‘And he ruined his poacher’s waistcoat in the process.’
She placed Bobbin down. The cat trotted over to the glowing coal fire on the far side of the room, and curled up on the rug in front of it. Mrs Gosney watched him indulgently for a moment, a smile on her lips, then turned to her daughter.
‘So I’m going to make him a brand-new one,’ she announced.
‘Really,’ I said, ‘there’s no need to—’
But she silenced me, pressing the tip of her finger to her lips. She pulled a cloth tape measure from around her neck and turned to me.
‘Take off your jacket.’
I did as I was told and she took my measurements, one by one. Under my arms, across my shoulders and around my waist, noting everything down in the black leather book. Then, stepping back, she looked me carefully up and down, and made a charcoal sketch of the waistcoat’s design, noting every pocket, every loop and clasp, every button, toggle and hook.
‘There,’ she said at last. ‘Leave your old waistcoat with me. If you come back in a few days, I’ll have the new one ready for you—’
Her words were abruptly drowned out by something clattering noisily down the cobblestones outside. I poked my head out of the open door, only to jump back again as a familiar figure sped past in a blur, skidded wildly and crashed headlong into the lamppost on the corner.
I hurried over to the stricken figure, Mrs Gosney and her daughter close on my heels.
‘Will?’ I said softly. ‘Will Farmer!’
At the sound of my voice, Will Farmer’s eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright.
‘Barnaby!’ he said, and grinned. ‘What do you think of my new invention?’
I helped my good friend, Will Farmer, to his feet and he dusted himself down, seemingly none the worse for wear. Will was a tick-tock lad just like yours truly, and had rooms next to mine on Caged Lark Lane.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think, Barnaby?’
He pointed to the object lying in the gutter. I’d never seen anything like it before. It consisted of a bevelled board about a yard long and a foot wide, with four spoked wheels that had been attached to the underside with two stout brass axles.
‘This,’ said Will proudly, ‘is a little something I’ve been working on.’ He flipped the board over with his boot and stamped down on one end, sending the contraption leaping into the air. He caught it with one hand. ‘I call it a wheelboard.’
‘A wheelboard?’ I repeated.
‘I made it myself,’ he said, nodding. ‘Out of a piano lid and four perambulator wheels. Gaffer Jones, that ironmonger down Solder Lane, made up the axles for me to my own design. It’s brilliant for getting around town. I got the idea when I saw a piano fall off a delivery cart at the top of Coppervane Hill last week and roll all the way down to Goose-fair Square.’
‘So this is all your own work,’ I said, impressed.
It looked intriguing, and was far less cumbersome than a horse and carriage, though clearly far trickier to bring to a halt.
‘I’m still getting the hang of it,’ added Will, ‘but it’s really good fun. And given tim
e, Barnaby, I believe wheelboarding could become all the rage!’
Will stopped and his mouth flopped open like a pond carp on a paving stone. I followed his gaze. He was staring at Molly Gosney, who stared back, her face flushed.
‘Will Farmer,’ I said. ‘Allow me to introduce Mrs Clare Gosney and her daughter, Molly.’
‘P-p-pleased t-to meet you,’ stuttered Will.
‘Come, Molly,’ said Mrs Gosney, smiling and giving me a wink. ‘We’ve got a waistcoat to make. Mr Grimes, Mr Farmer, good day to you both.’
They turned and started walking away.
‘Will,’ I told him, ‘I’ve got to be going. I’ll see you back at Caged Lark Lane.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he muttered, but I knew he hadn’t heard a word. He had ears and eyes for Molly Gosney alone. I waited. But it was only when the bell above the shop door jangled softly and the object of his attention followed her mother inside that Will looked round. ‘You said something, Barnaby?’
I laughed and bade him goodbye a second time, and we went our separate ways. Will clattered off down the hill on his wheelboard, while I returned to the fire escape on Prospect Avenue. I noticed a couple of the business cards I’d dropped lying on the pavement, together with a small leatherbound notebook which my friend, Professor Pinkerton-Barnes, had given me to aid my research into one of his hare-brained theories.
The professor – or PB, as he liked his friends to call him – had all sort of theories on animal behaviour, everything from bipedal voles to choral-singing crows. Recently, he’d theorized that sparrow hawks were abandoning their farmland habitat and venturing into the city to prey off the vermin that lived there. He’d asked me to keep a running tally of any nesting sites I saw at the top of the tallest buildings while highstacking, so that he could compile comprehensive tables. I’d had the notebook for more than a month, jotting down the size and location of each one I spotted. And I’d spotted quite a lot. As to how many exactly, I wasn’t sure, but the notebook was practically full.