by Paul Stewart
I didn’t add that, even if I did have some ailment, there was nothing on this earth that would tempt me to drink some quack’s concoction. I glanced at the label before handing it back: Dr Theopholus Cadwallader: 27 Hartley Square …
Hartley Square! The place was famously opulent, with great marble-stepped mansions forming a square around an exclusive park. Those who resided there were the richest, choicest and most well-connected medical practitioners in the entire city. Most had made fortunes tending to the ailments – real or imaginary – of the wealthy; few ever ministering to the very real illnesses that ravaged the poorer quarters of the city.
Perhaps this doctor was the exception to prove the rule; perhaps he had taken pity on Old Benjamin. Why else would he have given him a cordial that, by the look of it, was far too expensive for an old coachman to afford?
Then again, it wasn’t unheard of for the less reputable practitioners to test their patent potions on the poor and desperate in case of side effects. But perhaps I was being uncharitable.
I examined Old Benjamin more closely. There was colour in his cheeks and a twinkle in his eye. In fact, he looked like a new man. Certainly his cough had cleared up. Maybe he had struck lucky – and if that was the case, then good luck to him, I thought as I tipped my hat and set off again for the offices of Bradstock and Clink to get paid for my day’s work.
It had been raining earlier that day, I remember, and the cobbles and tiles were more slippery than usual – not that the rain had done anything to dispel the pall of pale-brown smoke that always hung over the city. I headed down Turbot Alley, swordstick tucked under my arm, over the wall of Davis’s ironworks, across the yard on the other side, before shinning up a rusty drainpipe at the far end and hoisting myself up onto the roof.
As I eased myself up over the guttering and onto the tiles – disturbing a small flock of chattering sparrows as I did so – I found myself grinning involuntarily. Truth be told, this was when I was happiest – high above the city streets, clambering over the rooftops from chimney stack to chimney stack.
Highstacking, it’s called – and it’s not for the faint-hearted. A tick-tock lad called Tom Flint taught me to highstack when I was first getting started. Good old Tom … A couple of years older than me, he was the best highstacker in the business – until he broke his neck in Coneyhope Lane. Hugh Shovel crippled himself shortly afterwards, and Shorty Clough fell and drowned in the Union Canal. There aren’t many of us highstackers left any more. Still, I didn’t let that bother me that night, up on the rooftops, as I highstacked above the city, leaping from gutter to gable, pillar to pediment – roof to roof – with the arrogant agility of a courting tomcat.
The full moon had already risen and I was heading south-west, orientating myself through the shadows first by the needle-like spire of Pargeter’s Mutual Bank, then by the tall, soot-stained brick chimney of Greville’s glue works. Not that I gave either of them too much thought. Having come this way dozens of times before, the route – like so many others that crisscrossed the city – was absolutely familiar. As I made my way across the patchwork of rooftops, it was the week ahead that was uppermost in my thoughts.
Leaping from gutter to gable…with the arrogant agility of a courting tomcat.
I remembered Professor Pinkerton-Barnes and the research into the behaviour of bullfinches that he’d asked me to help him with. I mulled over a request I’d had to deliver a consignment of vipers to the Blackchapel Herpetological Society – they’d be dangerously active if the weather got any warmer. And I made a mental note to return the library books on Mayan hieroglyphics I’d borrowed from Underhill’s Library for Scholars of the Arcane, or face a hefty fine …
Glancing up, I saw the domed turret of Bradstock and Clink’s chambers nestling in a soft haze of indigo. The full moon had crept up into the sky behind it. Pigeons flapped through the smoky air, their wings clapping like muted applause.
The huge brick chimney of Greville’s factory was to my left now. I could feel the heat radiating from the furnace below; I could smell the rank, sickly odour of the glue being boiled down. The air shimmered.
I was making my way along the parapet that formed the edge of the flat-roofed building, my arms raised to balance myself and taking care not to slip, when I suddenly became aware that something was wrong …
The sparrows that had been following my progress abruptly flapped away, cheeping and chirruping as they went. The sky looked unnaturally curdled as dark swirling clouds swept in across the moon, and there was something particularly rancid about the air. All at once, as the wind dropped, I became acutely aware of a movement behind me.
I looked round.
At first, everything seemed to be just the way it should be. Was it my imagination playing tricks? I asked myself. Was the foul smell of the glue getting to me?
But then, just as I was about to continue, I glimpsed something in the shadows that made my heart miss a beat. There was something there. No doubt about it. Something large and solid-looking, hunkered down in the shadowy recess at the bottom of the brick wall.
I heard a hiss. Then a low, menacing snarl. And as the clouds cleared again and the moon shone down, I found myself staring into a pair of blazing yellow eyes.
Trembling, I backed slowly away. As I did so, the snarling grew louder and the dark silhouette rose against the skyline and tensed.
It – whatever it might be – was getting ready to pounce …
Up in the sky, the scudding clouds swept across the great silver orb of the full moon, sending its rays fanning out across the rooftops. And in the crisp, silver light I saw the glint of dripping fangs and polished claws. I drew the sword from my ebony cane, my mind racing.
Whatever it was staring back at me from the roof-ridge opposite was huge, malevolent, and clearly out for blood. As I levelled the point of my blade between those two blazing eyes, my mouth drier than a stonemason’s bench and my heart hammering like a bailiff’s fist, I was nevertheless intrigued.
As a tick-tock lad and a seasoned highstacker, I was no stranger to the savage feral creatures that haunted the darker recesses of the city. I’d fought rats the size of tomcats, been attacked by sea eagles in the Eastern Quay, and even trapped a pair of blue-faced baboons that had escaped from J. W. Pettifogg’s Exhibition of Wild Beasts.
But this creature was different. There was something unnatural about its huge size and hideous stare. Something unspeakably evil …
And then it pounced.
One moment I was standing there, sword raised, knees trembling. The next, in a blur of fur and fury, the hellish creature was flying towards me, its huge front paws extended and savage claws aiming straight at my hammering heart.
All I could say with certainty in those heart-thumping seconds was that it was large – far larger than I’d expected. With its long legs, massive head and monstrous barrel-chest, it was clear that this was no ordinary animal.
The creature was silhouetted against the full moon…
At the last possible moment I stepped sharply to the left and jumped down off the parapet onto the flat roof below. Above me, I heard a clatter of claws and an angry snarl as the creature landed on the very spot where I’d been standing a moment before.
I turned and found myself staring once more into those fiendish yellow eyes. The creature was silhouetted against the full moon, a menacing black shape moving towards me.
I backed away, my sword still held out before me. The black shape came closer. Across the roof we moved – me backing up, the creature advancing – as the moon came and went with the passing of the scudding clouds …
All at once I was aware of a searing pain at the top of my right arm – my sword arm – of such intensity that I couldn’t help but cry out. I glanced round to see that I had reversed into a metal chimney. It was so hot that it had burned through the material of my jacket and branded my skin. The sweet, pungent odour of my own burning flesh filled my nostrils, making my head swim and my legs go
weak – but I knew that if I fainted, I’d be lost.
I stepped carefully round the smoking chimney and glimpsed a skylight glowing in the rooftop just beyond. It was my only hope.
I inched my way back towards it, slashing and stabbing at the shadowy creature all the while, keeping those great slavering jaws at bay. Then, as my heels reached the edge of the skylight, I paused for an instant and lowered my sword.
Just as I hoped, my monstrous pursuer took the bait. With a hideous snarl, it pounced once more – only for yours truly to step aside like a matador dodging a charging bull. The great black shape flashed past me and hit the glass of the skylight, which shattered into a thousand jagged pieces beneath its weight. Moments later, there came a loud gloopy splat! from the chamber below.
I leaned forward and, taking care not to slip, looked down. Beneath me, a vast cauldron of glue was boiling, twists of steam dancing over the viscous brown liquid as it splattered and plopped. The next instant, a great glue-coated head broke the surface, its jaws open, emitting an agonized, blood-curdling scream before disappearing back into the depths of the cauldron.
At first I just knelt there, frozen to the spot, trying to clear my head and collect my thoughts. Not easy, I can tell you, what with the pain in my shoulder and the overpowering stench of the glue. It was only when the glue-sloppers and vat-paddlers on the factory floor below started shouting up at me that I was brought back to my senses.
‘Oi, you up there!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
It was no time for explanations. Pulling back from the broken skylight, I retrieved my ebony cane, returned my sword to its sheath and beat a hasty – if shaky – retreat. The sound of angry voices soon faded as I continued to the edge of the factory roof and took a flying leap across the yawning gap beneath me, over to the jutting colonnade of the neighbouring building. Less than ten minutes later, I arrived on the roof of the tall gothic building that housed the chambers of Bradstock and Clink.
To my right was a tall thin drainpipe with a cough-candy twist that ran from the roof down to the pavement below. Normally I’d have grasped it and slid quickly down. But not that night. The pain at the top of my arm had become intense. It throbbed fearfully, and each time I moved my arm, the pain grew worse.
I had no option but to pick the lock of the door that led from the roof to the stairwell and take the stairs – and even that proved difficult. A task that would normally have taken me under a minute took me the best part of five. Eventually, though, the telltale click came, and I entered the stairwell of the tall building.
The offices of Bradstock and Clink were situated on the third floor. As I emerged from the staircase, the door – with the lawyers’ two names etched in gold lettering on the glass panel, one beside the other – was before me. I collected myself as best I could, knocked and entered.
Young Mr Bradley Bradstock and old Mr Aloysius Clink were sitting in their usual places, at desks set against the wall on either side of a small grimy window. They both looked up.
‘Ah, Barnaby,’ said old Aloysius Clink, leaning back in his chair. He pulled his fob-watch from the pocket of his threadbare waistcoat and examined it ostentatiously. ‘Come for your wages, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘All the summonses have been delivered and signed for.’
Young Bradley Bradstock had climbed to his feet, picked up a sealed envelope from the top of the filing cabinet behind him and was crossing the room in my direction. With the envelope containing my wages in one hand, he extended the other hand towards me – only to recoil in horror.
‘My dear fellow!’ he exclaimed. ‘What in the name of all that is sacred have you done to yourself?’
‘Oh, this,’ I said, trying to sound dismissive. Certainly I had no intention of telling the two gentlemen about my encounter with the wolf creature. ‘Bit of an accident. I ran into the glue works chimney. It’s nothing, though. Just a little burn …’
But Bradley Bradstock wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He handed me my wages and then turned his attention to the burn beneath the ripped and scorched material of my jacket.
‘But this is awful,’ he said. ‘Take a look, Mr Clink.’
His business partner was beside him a moment later, tutting sympathetically.
‘It does look nasty, Mr Bradstock,’ he murmured, shaking his head.
‘You’ll need to see a doctor,’ said Bradley Bradstock. ‘Get something for it …’
‘And in the meantime, Mr Bradstock, perhaps young Barnaby here would benefit from a spoonful of my own curative cordial.’
Mr Clink strode back to his desk and pulled out a small blue bottle with a glass stopper and a black and silver label that I recognized at once.
‘Doctor Cadwallader’s Cordial,’ Mr Clink beamed, preparing to pour me a spoonful. ‘It’s done wonders for me, dear boy. Haven’t felt so good in years.’
I held up a hand to stop him. ‘Thank you, Mr Clink’ – I smiled weakly – ‘but I haven’t been a clerk errant all these years without picking up my fair share of cuts and scrapes. I’ll take care of this myself, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Whatever you say, Barnaby. Whatever you say. But you could do worse than consult the good Doctor Cadwallader in person – and have him send me the bill.’ Mr Clink smiled. ‘You’re a fine tick-tock lad and I wouldn’t want to lose you!’
He handed me a small gilt-edged card. At the top left-hand corner was a small disc, like the sun, with rays fanning out across the rest of the card. I read the words, written out in neat black italics:
I thanked him kindly and, with the envelope containing my day’s wages tucked away in an inside pocket of my coat, I bade farewell to Messrs Bradstock and Clink and set off for my rooms.
While I had no intention of visiting some high-priced quack, I was touched by the old gentleman’s concern for my health. All I needed, though, was a cold compress and a good night’s sleep.
My injured arm made it too risky to attempt highstacking across the rooftops – particularly as a soft drizzle was starting up again, making the stacks and tiles slippery. And so it was that I took the more conventional route home along the streets, heading up from the south-west quarter to my attic rooms in the north of the city.
As fate would have it, I found myself passing the corner of Water Lane and Black Dog Alley, which is where I saw it, outside the wedge-shaped building on the corner. It was scratched and battered, with one leg splintered and the arms and back splattered in blood – but it was unmistakable.
I stopped in my tracks. My jaw dropped and my heart started thumping furiously in my chest. For there on its side, abandoned in the gutter, was Old Benjamin’s chair.
I crouched down and inspected the overturned coachman’s chair more closely. It’s amazing the wealth of information that can be gathered from seemingly innocuous objects if they are examined carefully enough.
The worn groove on the casing of a pocket watch, the soot on a footman’s glove and a trailing thread on the hem of an elegant gown can all speak volumes to a careful observer. They can tell, for example, of a mine-owner’s beautiful daughter stepping from a carriage held open by a footman with a jagged thumbnail; of tragic love, of bitter betrayal and the bloody consequences that almost broke a certain tick-tock lad’s heart …
Like I said, it’s amazing what objects can tell you, if you examine them carefully enough.
Looking over Old Benjamin’s chair, I found deep gouges in the smooth wood at the armrests. The long curling splinters suggested they had been made by a sharp, curved instrument. A carpenter’s knife, perhaps. A jemmy or a bradawl. Or perhaps, I thought as I saw where the gouges were parallel to one another, a pronged tool, like some kind of rake?
Or – my heart started thumping all over again – might they have been made by claws?
The left leg was broken. Probably, I thought, as a result of the chair being toppled into the gutte
r with some force. Droplets of blood had soaked into the upholstery and stained the material from the armrests to the high back of the chair. And stuck to it in numerous places were thick black hairs. Several of these I carefully removed, folded up in a piece of scrap paper and placed in the breast pocket of my poacher’s waistcoat.
I stood up and tutted softly. A picture was beginning to form in my mind: a picture of Old Benjamin dozing in his coachman’s chair beneath a silvery full moon …
Suddenly a huge creature with blazing yellow eyes and a thirst for blood bounds round the corner. Before Old Benjamin knows what’s hit him, the creature is upon him, clawing and biting. The coachman’s chair crashes into the gutter … The hellhound dashes off … Through an open doorway it runs, into a stairwell and up onto the rooftops to howl at the moon – which is where I encountered it. Meanwhile outside his building – a stone’s throw from the glue factory – Old Benjamin, shocked and bleeding, crawls off to get help …
There are a thousand and one ways to meet your end in this city. According to statistics I’ve read, drinking unclean water or falling asleep beside a faulty gaslight are the most common, if least dramatic, ways. I’ve certainly seen a few grisly deaths in my time, I can tell you. Everything from out-of-control mill engines to the bloody flux. But being ripped apart by a savage beast would certainly count as one of the more unpleasant ways of departing this earth.
There was only one problem with my theory. If Old Benjamin had been ripped apart, there would have been far more than the few spatters on the chair, and surely a trail of blood leading away from it. But though I examined the surrounding pavement closely, I could see nothing. Not a trace. Old Benjamin, it seemed, had simply vanished.
‘Vanished!’ came a screechy, coarse-sounding voice, as if echoing my thoughts.
I turned to see Old Benjamin’s ratty landlady, Mrs Endicott, standing in the doorway of her building, her arms folded belligerently.