by Karen Odden
I shook my head.
“You look a bit peaked. Be you nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted. “I can’t help thinking about the disaster at Holmsted.” That much was the truth.
She nodded briskly and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “ ’Twas ’orrible, I’m sure. But I ride this train every week and ain’t nothin’ ’appened yet, so I think it’s a good train.”
“I hope so.”
“D’you want a biscuit?” She opened a box to offer me one.
“No, thank you,” I said.
She gave me a curious look. “You needn’t be putting on fine airs with me, when you be a servant same as me, anyone can see.”
I felt a flush rising to my cheeks.
“Or be you a governess?” she persisted. “Like another girl I met on the train, not a month ago. She said ’er family had come down in the world, and she went from ’aving a governess of ’er own to bein’ one. That’s ’ow come she talked like a lady.”
I feigned surprise and then smiled. “You’ve guessed it exactly.”
She nodded smugly. “I knew it. I kin alwus tell the truth about folks.”
—
As we approached London, every stop seemed to take longer, and just outside Liverpool Street Station, a dozen trains converged on the tracks around us, and we were forced to wait our turn. Gray clouds and smog made the city feel very dark. An enormous clock stood outside the station, and as we inched along, I watched the iron hands ticking away the minutes past five o’clock. When we finally drew to a stop, nearly two hours beyond our scheduled arrival, I was feeling desperately impatient; and after bidding a hasty goodbye to the woman beside me, I made my way out of the carriage onto the crowded platform.
The dozens of noises and voices and smells were even more overwhelming than I remembered. Porters blew their whistles, waving impatiently: “Boy! Bring that trolley over here!” The hawkers shouted, “Baked kippers, three pence! Get ’em hot!” Small boys slipped through the crowd, their hands moving furtively, and I held my purse firmly inside my cloak. A patterer, with a tray of pamphlets slung around his neck, cried, “Read it now! The true and turrible story o’ how Tom Mansfield strangled Clara Bowen and stuffed ’er in ’is forge! Look at the bones, burnt to bits!” He grinned around his missing teeth. I shuddered and hurried toward the exit, hoping that I’d find a hansom cab unengaged when I reached the street.
I needn’t have worried; there were dozens of them lined up and being hailed by well-dressed gentlemen. I marshaled more confidence than I felt, approached a cab, and raised my hand. The driver slouched forward, staring heedlessly ahead of him, the reins loose in his bare hands.
“Good afternoon,” I called. “I need to be taken to the offices of the Falcon.”
He didn’t even turn his head.
“Excuse me!” I shouted. “I need to be taken to the offices of the Falcon!”
His eyes shifted sideways, and then his head jerked toward me. “What?”
I repeated my request in a firm voice.
He only stared at me.
“The newspaper office,” I said impatiently. “Do you know it?”
He spat tobacco, and wiped at his chin with his sleeve. “Where is ’em?”
I froze. I had no idea of the address. I had never had to provide an address to anyone—and I had assumed, as the Falcon was one of London’s larger newspapers, a cab driver would know where it was.
“I’m not sure exactly. Don’t you know?”
He scowled and shouted to the driver behind us. “Hey, Driggers! Where’s the Falcon offices? Fleet Street?”
“Nah! That’s for the loikes o’ the Times! Falcon’s t’other way, in Whitechapel. Take Houndsditch down to Minories, cut east on Prescott.”
Whitechapel.
Home to the infamous Spitalfields Market, where butchers sold all cuts of animal meat and men traded wives.
“Up from St. Katharine’s Docks?” my driver shouted back.
“Yah, it’s in that pa’sel of streets before you get to Weymouth! You ca’ miss it—it’s a big ugly building, with a sign.”
My driver turned to me. “It’s a ways. You got money to pay? I ain’t takin’ you all the way out there and gettin’ stiffed o’ my fare.”
I stared, affronted at first, but then realized that a maidservant—or a governess—whatever I was—would in all likelihood be asked that before she was allowed into the cab. “How much?”
“Three bob, plus three, ’cause I won’t get a fare back from there.”
I plucked out my little bag of coins and jingled it. “I’ve enough.”
“What be sum’un like you doing at a news office?” He squinted at me, showing his rotten teeth.
“That’s not your concern, is it?”
He gave a shrug. “All right, then.” He jerked his head. “Get in.”
I’d never climbed into a carriage unassisted in my life. I reached over and tugged at the door handle. It didn’t budge. I yanked harder, but it held firm. Frustrated, I pulled downward, and to my relief, the panel swung open. Awkwardly I climbed inside and sat down, dragging the door closed behind me.
I’d made it this far.
The cab started forward, rattling across the cobblestones. The sudden movement jarred me, and I winced as my spine hit the back of the seat. If there had ever been a thick pad of stuffing in that cushion, it was gone now. I groped about, found the remains of a leather strap attached to the wall, and grasped it tightly. Then I planted both my feet on the floor to keep my balance, and looked out the side window.
From the hook on the cab’s left side hung a lantern that cast its light in wavering arcs against the dusk. We were on a broad street, wide enough for other cabs to roll past in the opposite direction with room to spare. The streetlights looked like sets of twin moons, with their pairs of lit spheres glowing atop iron stands. We passed shops closing up for the night, half a dozen open pubs, a gin palace with a shining tin façade and music emanating from the windows, and St. Botolph’s church, with one of its windows boarded shut. We turned down the next street. Here, some of the lamps were unlit, leaving long stretches of darkness between. There were no cobblestones anymore, and after a quarter of a mile, the cab swung left into a narrow lane. With each zig and zag, my misgivings grew.
I wished I could be sure we were even heading in the proper direction. What if that other driver was wrong? I tried to remember if, in any of our conversations, Mr. Flynn had ever mentioned where the Falcon was. Was it in fact near the Thames? I swallowed hard, my lips and mouth suddenly dry.
We turned again, into yet another narrow alley. On either side were houses, cheaply built and crowded together, the rooflines overlapping. The smell of night-soil was stronger here, and in the light from the lantern I could see filth, debris, old newspapers, and bits of metal and wood thrown up against the sides of the buildings. Above the creaking of the cab’s wheels, I heard sounds I couldn’t decipher. Was the clanking metal a door banging, or a pail knocking against a trough, or something else? Raised voices came from inside the houses, but I couldn’t make out the words. A dog yelped—but whether in pain or welcome, I couldn’t tell. At the corner three swarthy men stood together over a ringed fire, watching the cab approach.
Fear snatched at my spine like a claw.
What if the driver were taking me somewhere to be robbed?
Or worse?
We passed a woman not much older than I leaning in a doorway, her thin face yellow in the light from the fire, her dress askew so that her bosom showed. A prostitute.
I pressed my gloved hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.
Not a soul on earth knew where I was. No one but Anne even knew I was in London, much less in this narrow street in Whitechapel whose name I didn’t know. I pressed back against the seat as hard I could and sent up fumbling, frantic little prayers that I’d arrive safely, that I’d live. The carriage turned into an alley lined with crooked buildings, w
here lights flickered through broken shutters. I’d read about such places in the papers—rookeries, they were called—in Seven Dials and Devil’s Acre where even the police didn’t dare to go—
And then the cab stopped.
I leaned toward the window, my eyes searching for any sign of the Falcon offices. But there was none. I couldn’t help it; tears sprang to my eyes.
I’d been a fool, and I was going to die.
“Ho there!” my driver called out. “I’m looking for the Falcon—the newspaper office. Y’ know where it is?”
A night-soil man lifted his shovel to point ahead of us. “Next street, go right and a ways. You’ll see it.”
I sank back, feeling weak with relief.
The right turn took us to a street wider than the alley through which we’d come. The cab slowed, finally drawing up in front of a tall square building with a decently bright lantern on either side of the front door. Above a window hung a sign that declared, in plain metalwork: OFFICES OF THE FALCON. A yellow light shone out of half a dozen windows on an upper floor, and I saw the silhouettes of people moving about.
“Here ’t is,” called my driver. “There’s a black bird up on that sign. Now, pay up.”
I turned the door handle, stepped down onto the filthy street, and fumbled some coins out of my purse. He grunted, turned his weary horse about, and started back the way he came without another word to me.
Now that the danger was past, I felt ashamed of having mistrusted him, and I couldn’t help but notice his horse. She was a plain brown mare, with a dull coat, and her head hung low in the traces. She wasn’t terribly thin, but she looked tired—and something was wrong with her right fore.
“Wait!” I called.
He looked back, his scowl impatient. “What? Be ye changin’ your mind now, after all that?”
“No.” I crossed to the horse, put my hand on her right fetlock, and she lifted it. In the dull light from above, I could see what the problem was. “Come down here. She’s picked up a stone.”
He got down with a grunt, took up her foot, pulled a metal hook from his pocket, and pried the stone out.
I drew out some extra coins. “Here. Buy her some extra oats, would you? She needs them.”
He looked at me strangely. “Well, ain’t ye a queer one.” Then he pocketed the coins, climbed onto his box, and chucked to his horse to move on.
“I’m a queer one all right,” I muttered under my breath as I knocked on the front door. I could hear noises inside, but no one came. I made my hand into a fist and pounded, but to no avail. I tried the handle; it was locked solid. Why didn’t anyone come?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two men emerge from the shadows of an abandoned warehouse down the street.
I forced myself to remain calm. Hadn’t I just lost my head for no reason in the cab? The men could be laborers or dustmen or rivermen on their way home; there was no reason to suspect them of ill intent.
I hammered at the door again. As I waited for a response, I stole another look at them.
And then I knew I did have reason to worry. The men were moving quickly, and they were headed straight toward me.
Chapter 26
My heart was hammering as I scurried along the wall, away from the lantern light. In my haste, I nearly missed the narrow alley between the Falcon and the next building, and I hesitated at its threshold, peering into the murky darkness. I couldn’t see much other than a dim glow at the end of it, and it stank of garbage. But a backward glance told me that the two men were closer now. One of them called out in a voice that was meant to sound wheedling, “ ’Allo, lass! Where’d ye go? We jus’ wanna talk to ye!”
I looked around frantically. The street was deserted; I had to get into the Falcon offices. I could only hope that there was another entrance in the back and the two men would assume I’d continued down the street. I started down the alley, my feet faltering over the uneven ground, and my left hand groping along the bricks. My fingers caught against the frame of a door, and I felt a wave of relief until I realized there were rough wooden slats nailed across it. I stifled a groan and chanced another look behind me. The two men were silhouetted at the entrance to the alley and peering into the darkness.
I froze, praying that my dark cloak would be camouflage enough.
“Did she go down this way?” one asked. “Or over there?”
“I dunno.”
A pause that seemed to go on forever. I didn’t dare breathe.
“Niver mind. We ain’t goin’ t’ find ’er now.”
They turned away, and I let my breath go in a ragged exhale, sagging against the slats for a moment. I waited until I could no longer hear their footsteps, and then, feeling my way as silently as I could, I kept on around to the back of the building.
Here was another entrance, thank god—and there was even a guttering lantern to illuminate it. I grasped the handle tightly and pulled hard, determined that this door would not keep me out. It came open with a faint creak of its hinges, and at last I was inside, facing a narrow set of stairs that stank of mold and ascended into what looked like utter blackness.
Trembling, I dragged the door closed behind me and took a moment to steady myself. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a faint vertical line of light above, like what would appear between a door and a jamb. The staircase echoed with the sounds of masculine voices, heavy footsteps, and an intermittent thunking noise.
“Hello!” I called out. “Hello!”
No reply.
I put my hand out, hoping for a railing. There was none. But the wall was dry plaster, and with one hand on it for balance I started up the wooden steps.
And then my foot fell into an empty space where a step should have been.
As my entire body pitched forward, my hands flew out and landed hard enough to bruise. I felt for the next few steps; they seemed solid enough, but my heart was thudding as I struggled to pull myself up. I cried out, and when no one answered, my voice rose to a scream. “Hello? Is anyone here? Mr. Flynn. Mr. Flynn!”
Above me, the door opened, and a wedge of light appeared, followed by a man’s voice. “Who’s there?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Flynn, and I can’t see!” I shouted back. “Have you a lamp that you can bring down? I don’t want to fall through another step.”
The man vanished and reappeared, a large lantern held aloft. “It’s only the one step that’s gone, miss!” he called. “The rest are all right! Can you see now?”
“Well enough, thank you.” I gathered my skirts with shaking fingers and began climbing again.
“Who’s comin’?” Another voice barked.
The man above me called back: “It’s a lady!”
“What the devil’s she comin’ up that way for?”
“I dunno!”
I arrived at the landing to find the man staring at me openmouthed.
“I’d have come in the front door,” I explained breathlessly, “but no one answered, and it’s locked.”
“Well, o’ course it’s locked!” The man frowned. “Some folks who don’t much like what we’re writin’ jimmied the presses last week.” He scratched at his forearm where there was a patch of black ink. “You said you’re lookin’ for Flynn? I ain’t seen him all day.”
My heart sank. “Are you sure?” I stepped toward the doorway and peered into what seemed to be the main workroom. There were about forty men inside, all talking loudly; some were hunched over tables, and others ran back and forth with large wooden boxes. A quick scan told me that Mr. Flynn wasn’t among them.
The man with the lantern stepped around me and hollered into the room. “Anybody seen Flynn today?”
“Upstairs!” came two or three shouts.
“Archives!” yelled someone else.
Were these men incapable of speaking at anything close to normal volume?
“Ho, Ted!” My man with the lantern beckoned toward a young man of about thirteen, with a long, thin face.
H
e jumped up from his stool and darted over to us. “Yes, Mr. Michaels!”
“Take this lady upstairs, to the archives. She’s looking for Flynn.” He pointed down the stairway. “And then get down there and lock the bloody door!”
“Yes, Mr. Michaels.” Ted bobbed his head several times, like a horse dipping into a trough. He took the lantern and turned to me. “Watch the steps up ’ere, miss. There’s a few that’s most-ways rotten and some of ’em are loose.”
“Naturally,” I said under my breath.
We went up one more flight of stairs. Ted opened a wooden door that stuck hard to the jamb, then led me down a hallway lined with dusty boxes and crates until we reached another, narrower passage. At the far end of it, light was spilling out of an opening. Ted swung his lamp. “That room’s where he’ll be, miss. D’you want me to wait fer ye?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll be staying for a bit.”
His eyebrows rose, and he looked at me dubiously. “Aw right, miss.”
I made my way quietly, bracing myself for Mr. Flynn’s reaction. He wasn’t going to be happy that I was here, and he’d never admit that he needed my help. But as I peered in at the door, I realized that Paul hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it could take days to examine the listings.
Mr. Flynn sat at a worktable, illuminated by two ugly, overhead lamps. On the floor to his right were five large open boxes full of newspapers. A sixth box, empty, rested on a slat-backed wooden chair. Two other similar boxes, lids closed, were near the wall by a pot-bellied black stove, which Mr. Flynn either had forgotten to keep stoked or hadn’t bothered to light at all. He sat between two piles of newspapers, a tall one to his right, and a shorter stack to his left. He was bent over a page, scowling. His hair was mussed, his shirtsleeves rolled, and the front of his shirt smudged with the blacking off the newsprint.
So he’d gotten through only two-and-a-half boxes of eight.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Flynn.”
His head jerked up, and his expression changed from irritation at being interrupted to complete shock. He stood abruptly, the chair making a horrible grinding noise against the floor. “What the devil are you doing here?” He looked me up and down. “And what are you wearing?”