Something rotten squelched under Wild Boy’s hands as he crawled through a hole in the sewer wall. A puff of foul-smelling gas rose at his face, making his head whirl and his stomach turn. He gagged and spat in disgust.
“Where are we going?” he spluttered.
“Somewhere safer,” Sir Oswald replied. “I would have moved you sooner, but I feared for your fever. Damned bad one it was too. You kept babbling about some machine. No, the machine, I think it was. Whatever was the meaning of that?”
Wild Boy grunted, pretending not to know. But he did, all too well. The machine — that was why the hooded man had murdered Professor Wollstonecraft. He was after some sort of machine. The golden-eyed man had spoken of it too. Wild Boy wished he knew more, something he could tell the police to prove his innocence.
“Watch your head,” Sir Oswald said.
The tunnel ended in an abandoned basement. A fire smoldered in the corner, and shadows squirmed on bare brick walls. Thin stalactites of filth hung from the low ceiling, dripping brown liquid to the black floor.
At the side of the chamber was a dinner table made from objects salvaged from the sewers — a corrugated-iron sheet with newspaper napkins and broken bases of oil lamps as bowls. A candle flickered between them, dribbling wax onto the sack tablecloth.
Sir Oswald stirred a pot of food over the fire. “It is not exactly St. James’s Palace,” he said, “but we shall make do.”
Wild Boy couldn’t help smiling. Good old Sir Oswald, always making the best of a bad situation. He spotted his coat by the fire. The sleeves were stiff with dried sewage, and there was a tear over the shoulder, but as he slid it on he immediately felt better.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Somewhere under Bermondsey, I think. Wretched district. You two are much better off down here.”
Wild Boy turned. “Two?”
Clarissa Everett stepped from the gloom. Underground, the acrobat’s face seemed paler than ever. She looked anxiously at Wild Boy, and the bandage on his shoulder. “Are you . . . ?” She turned to Sir Oswald. “Is he all right?”
Sir Oswald nodded. “He is indeed, largely thanks to your —”
Suddenly Clarissa stormed up to Wild Boy and jabbed him hard in the chest. “This is your fault!” she yelled. She was so close that flecks of her spit wet the hair on his face. “I should be in the circus tonight, but instead I’m wanted for murder.”
Wild Boy stepped back, clutching his bandaged shoulder. “Circus?” he said. “It’s them that’s after you! If your bloomin’ mother hadn’t —”
“Shut your head about her! She didn’t understand.”
“Some misunderstanding! She set dogs on us!”
“And I wish they’d caught you!”
Wild Boy was about to shove her, but Sir Oswald rushed between them. “Master Wild! Miss Everett! Listen here, I have been in tighter squeezes than this and ridden out with the colors. Ridden with the Iron Duke, by gad!”
“Tell her if she touches me again,” Wild Boy said, “she’ll be eating sewage.”
“Master Wild, that is no way to address a lady. Besides, you owe Miss Everett a debt of gratitude. Not only did she save you from the circus crew, but she is also responsible for your rescue down here.”
Beneath his hair, Wild Boy’s face reddened. He’d assumed that Sir Oswald had found him and saved his life. “What?” he said.
Clarissa shrugged. “I bumped into Sir Oswald after we split up. It was his idea to find you, though. I’d have left you here to drown.”
“Poppycock!” Sir Oswald said. “And, Miss Everett, may I remind you that, as you told me, Master Wild insisted that you run off to save yourself. An entirely noble gesture.”
“I was just sick of her moaning,” Wild Boy said.
“Enough, both of you. We can discuss what to do over dinner.”
Sir Oswald carried the cooking pot to the table, waddling awkwardly on the stumps of his thighs. He spooned thick green gunk into the bowls. It was pea soup, and it smelled wonderful. Wild Boy plonked himself at the table.
“Master Wild! It is customary for a gentleman to allow a lady to sit first.”
“Don’t see no lady, just her.”
Clarissa scowled. “And I don’t see no gentleman, just a freak.”
Sir Oswald tucked his newspaper napkin into his collar. “Well, bon appétit.”
For several minutes the only sound in the chamber was slurping as they drank their soup. Between sips, Wild Boy snatched glances at Clarissa. He saw her hand tremble when she raised her spoon, the redness of her eyes, and the salty tracks that stained her cheeks. He couldn’t blame her for crying — he could still picture her mother growling, “Get them. Get both of them.”
Clarissa slammed her spoon on the table. “I wish I’d never let you free!” she yelled.
“Why did you, then?” Wild Boy said. “I didn’t need your help!”
“I wish I’d never!”
“You never shoulda! You look out for yourself and that’s all.”
“Master Wild!” Sir Oswald said. “This is no time for high spirits. Need I remind you that whoever killed those men remains at large? Do you have any idea who the person was?”
Wild Boy felt a sudden sickness in his stomach, and not because of the soup. “What men?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You just said whoever killed those men.”
Sir Oswald patted his lips with his newspaper bib. “Ah, well . . .”
“Show him,” Clarissa said.
“Show me what?”
“Well,” Sir Oswald mumbled. “I had hoped to wait until you regained your strength. . . .”
“Just show him!”
With a defeated sigh, Sir Oswald pulled the newspaper bib from his collar. He passed the grease-stained sheet across the table. “Yesterday’s Chronicle,” he said. “But I wouldn’t let it upset you, Master Wild. It’s . . . Well, it is probably a pack of lies.”
Wild Boy took the crumpled page. At first he was too scared to look. But he had to know what was going on. Pulling the candle closer, he began to read.
New particulars have come to light with regard to the gross and violent murder of Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin, which has gripped the entire city since its perpetration three days ago.
The murder of Doctor Griffin, combined with that of circus performer Professor Henry Wollstonecraft, has thrown the city into a state of panic the like of which has never been witnessed. The particulars of the crime are as follows: on the evening of Wednesday 27th October Doctor Griffin was alone at the house that was both his home and his medical college on Tooley Street, in the borough of Southwark, when sometime around eleven o’clock, several students who lodged at nearby premises claim to have heard a scream from inside the building.
The gentlemen rushed to the house, but found no evidence of a break-in. All the doors were locked and bolted from the inside, and there was no sign that any of the windows had been forced.
At that moment another scream was heard and the gentlemen immediately forced the door upon its hinges. No further sounds were heard, but when the gentlemen ventured to the third floor of the house, the full wickedness of the crime was revealed.
Doctor Griffin was discovered laid upon a table in the classroom, having been murdered in a most shocking manner. Upon closer examination, the identity of his assassins was discovered written upon a wall in the doctor’s blood. All of the gentlemen present are in agreement that the words written were as follows:
WILD BOY AND CLARISSA DONE IT.
The alarm was raised, but the gentlemen were unable to locate the miscreants anywhere on the premises, and neither were the police able to establish the means by which the killers had gained entry into the house, which was locked from within. There is little doubt, however, that the assassins were the creature Wild Boy and his partner, Clarissa Everett, who continue to elude capture and pervert justice in a most hideous manner.
The concern
of Londoners could not be greater had the Devil himself committed these crimes. Police released the following description of Wild Boy: around 4 feet 5 inches tall, slim build, covered entirely in thick brown hair, red military jacket, bad trousers, no boots. Also known as the Wild Boy of London and the Beast of Bermondsey. Clarissa Everett is described thus: red hair, red freckles, sequined red-and-gold circus attire. Also known as the Fairground Fiend.
The police have stressed that no pains will be spared to bring these killers to swift and public justice.
The paper trembled in Wild Boy’s hands. He read it again, barely able to believe what it said. It was just like at the fair — he’d been set up, his name written at another murder scene. But he didn’t even know this new victim.
Anger boiled through him. Just because he was a freak, everyone believed that he was guilty. Unable to control himself, he grabbed one of the soup bowls and hurled it against the wall of the underground chamber. He leaned over the table, swearing and pulling the hair on his face.
“Finished feeling sorry for yourself?” Clarissa said.
“No, I ain’t,” Wild Boy spat. “Leave me alone, will you?”
“I will not! My name’s at that house an’ all, you know? And you’re going to help me get out of this.”
“Yeah? How am I gonna do that?”
“We’re going to find clues to prove we’re innocent.”
Sir Oswald collected the remaining bowls. “Listen to her, Master Wild. She speaks sense.”
“It was his idea really,” Clarissa said, nodding at Sir Oswald. She prodded Wild Boy’s arm. “That’s your skill, ain’t it? Seeing things.”
“I ain’t got a skill.”
“Master Wild,” Sir Oswald said. “It is poor form to lie to a lady. Perhaps, were you not so busy being angry, you might use your abilities to solve this mystery. Indeed, were you and Miss Everett to put aside your differences, I believe that you would make a formidable duo. Why, you even look like partners already.”
He gestured to their clothes — Wild Boy’s long crimson tunic with its gold tassels, and the red-and-gold sequined dress under Clarissa’s coat. “A detective and an acrobat,” he said. “Yes, a quite formidable duo.”
“I can pick locks an’ all,” Clarissa added.
“Good for you,” Wild Boy muttered.
He knew it was a silly thing to say. The truth was, he felt embarrassed. He’d always prided himself on being a survivor, but so far all he’d done was shouted at Clarissa. At least she wanted to do something about this. But he knew her plan wouldn’t work. “Ain’t no point trying to prove our innocence,” he said.
“Why ever not?” Sir Oswald said.
“Because no one will listen. See this?” He threw the news sheet across the table. “The Wild Boy of London. A monster with a price on my head. All anyone will care about is the reward. They don’t wanna hear about our innocence.”
“Great!” Clarissa said. “So you just wanna sit here and get caught. We ain’t friends, but I thought you were tough at least.”
“I ain’t saying we do nothing.”
“Then what are you saying, Master Wild?” Sir Oswald asked.
Wild Boy thought for another moment, wondering if his plan was right. They couldn’t hide down here forever, even with Sir Oswald’s help. The bounty hunters would flush the tunnels, drown them in the darkness. At best they’d get caught and only have their word to give the police.
“We go after the killer,” he said. “We find out who he is, and we catch him.”
Sir Oswald looked alarmed. “Master Wild, surely it would be more sensible to investigate those clues that you know. Miss Everett said the killer was after a machine of Professor Wollstonecraft’s. And she spoke of an individual with a golden eye. Perhaps you could pursue one of those leads, or —”
“No,” Clarissa interrupted. “I like his plan. We owe the killer anyhow. Revenge, right?”
She looked at Wild Boy, and it was as if her eyes lit that fire again inside him. They may not have been friends, but they were both fairgrounders and they had a score to settle.
“Revenge,” he agreed.
“Then we need to make a list,” Clarissa decided. “Things we know about the killer. Got any paper?”
Wild Boy dug in his pocket, brought out the warning letter from Greenwich Fair. He and Clarissa looked at it for a moment, wishing they’d never seen the thing. But it was too late now. “Write on the back,” he said.
Clarissa dipped one of her lock picks in the muck on the wall and used it as a quill to compose her list. “First,” she said, “you thought the hooded man walked funny.”
“Yeah, but he’s fast and strong an’ all.”
“Master Wild,” Sir Oswald said. “Did you recognize the killer’s voice?”
“No. It was muffled by his mask. But he knew the Professor, called him Henry. Stole his ring too.”
Clarissa scribbled that on her list. “And there were cane marks around the Professor’s body, right?”
“I dunno,” Wild Boy replied. “They looked like cane marks. . . .”
“Anything else, Master Wild?”
Wild Boy cast his mind back to the fair. The images were frozen perfectly in his memory. He closed his eyes and studied them for clues.
“The killer’s cloak,” he said. “There were creases in the leather. That means he crumples it up to store. But he doesn’t fold it, so he must take it off in a rush and hide it. And the hood had marks from where it had brushed a low ceiling. There were lots of them, so he brushes that ceiling often. Could be where he lives — a low-roofed place, small and cheap.”
Clarissa looked at Wild Boy, astonished by his recall. Then she shrugged, made another note on her list, and shoved it in her pocket. “Well then, you do the clues and I’ll think about how we catch him.”
Sir Oswald clapped his hands. “I suggest you begin at the house of this second victim, Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin. Perhaps you will find a clue there to track down the killer.”
Clarissa sprung up. “Let’s go!”
“I fear it won’t be that easy, Miss Everett,” Sir Oswald warned. “The Doctor was killed at his college in Southwark. That is over a mile away, and half of the city is after you.”
A chill ran through Wild Boy that had nothing to do with the cold. Southwark — he knew that place. That was where his old workhouse was, a grim brick building that overlooked the Thames. He’d sworn he’d never go back there. Only now he had no choice.
“The sewers,” he said. “We can go underground until we get near the river. Then we’ll be close.”
“It’s a damned risky go,” Sir Oswald said, “but I smell adventure. I shall travel overground and scout for danger. We shall begin at first light.”
Wild Boy had no idea when first light was. Down here everything was black or brown. He pulled his coat around him and curled up beside the fire as the dying embers pulsed orange and red in the draft.
But he couldn’t sleep. Spying on people at the fair was one thing, but this was something bigger, and much more dangerous. Scared as he was, though, he was excited too. The details in the newspaper report about the locked house intrigued him. It was that same feeling that had led him to Professor Wollstonecraft’s caravan at the fair. A puzzle waiting to be solved. Only, could he really solve it?
He had to. Because if he couldn’t, he and Clarissa were as good as dead.
Wild Boy crouched beside the drain cover, ready to dive back into the sewer at the slightest hint of danger in the street. Somewhere close, a dog barked. Glass broke. A woman screamed. And then silence, except for the sound of his filthy coat dripping onto the greasy cobbles.
He reached to help Clarissa up from underground, but she swatted his hand away as she climbed from the drain. They’d been on the move for hours, hacking and retching through the stinking darkness. Only when they’d climbed a drain shaft and seen a sign for Tooley Street did they know they’d reached Southwark, where the hooded man�
��s second victim had lived — Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin.
A thick brown cloud swept along the street. Wild Boy remembered fogs like this from when he’d lived at the workhouse. These sickly brews of coal smoke and factory fumes shrouded the riverbank nearly every night, bringing confusion and fear. But as the clouds swirled around them, Wild Boy and Clarissa grinned. Thanks to the fog the streets were empty — for now.
As they looked at each other, their smiles turned into laughs that echoed around the thick fumes. Partly they were relieved to have made it this far. But also they both looked so revolting. Brown slime dripped from Clarissa’s hair. It was all over Wild Boy too — sliding down his coat and soaking the hair on his face and body. They looked like monsters risen from a swamp.
“Over there,” Clarissa said.
They rushed to a horse trough and dunked their heads in the water, then tore off their coats, splashed their arms, and rubbed their faces. Soaked through, Wild Boy shook himself like a dog, spraying mucky water over Clarissa.
“Hey!” she cried.
She grabbed the trough bucket, about to hurl more water over him, but she froze mid-swing. A curtain of fog parted long enough to see the wall behind the trough. It was covered with posters, each with the same printed announcement:
Clarissa dropped the bucket. “Fiend,” she said. “Is that like a ghost?”
Wild Boy heard voices. Quickly he pulled Clarissa into an alley between two buildings.
Slowly they dared a look. Through the fog, they saw several men silhouetted against the jaundiced light of a streetlamp, dressed identically in high-collared coats and stovepipe hats. At the base of the lamp was something ragged and black, like a crow.
“Sir Oswald’s cravat,” Clarissa said.
They’d agreed that Sir Oswald would go ahead and tie his cravat around the lamppost nearest to where Doctor Griffin had lived and worked. The house he’d signaled rose higher than those around it — four floors of brick and glass covered in so much soot and grime from nearby factory chimneys that its entire face seemed to drip with darkness. Wrought-iron railings ran along the front, like prison bars guarding the ground-floor windows.
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