by Paul Stewart
‘In the middle of the night!’ she ranted. ‘Done a moonlight flit without so much as a by-your-leave!’
She was a thin, shabbily dressed woman in a filthy cap that did not quite restrain her red tangle of dyed hair. A clay pipe protruded from her toothless mouth and wobbled above a bewhiskered chin as she talked.
‘Was Old Benjamin behind on his rent?’ I asked.
Mrs Endicott took a suck on her pipe. ‘Not any more than usual,’ she said. ‘But I knew something was up. He’d changed these last weeks. A new man, he was! Full of vim and vigour, just like someone half his age! Perhaps he went off in search of adventure.’ She sniffed. ‘Could have said something first, mind …’
‘When did you last see him?’ I asked, making a mental note to check out whether anyone had been admitted to the City Paupers’ Hospital or the Benevolent Hospice for Retired Coachmen at the back of Inkhorn Court.
Mrs Endicott scratched her hairy chin thoughtfully. ‘About an hour ago, ducks.’ She gave me a gummy smile, then her look became quizzical. ‘He was out here, sitting on this chair of his, gazing up at the moon and chuckling away to himself when I looked out of my window. I went to bed, and the next thing I know, I’m being woken up by a fearful howling and a loud crash.’
‘Howling and a crash,’ I repeated thoughtfully.
‘But when I looks out, the street’s deserted,’ Mrs Endicott continued. ‘I thought nothing more about it until a little while ago. I couldn’t sleep for fear that Old Benjamin had gone to bed with the gaslight not turned off properly. I’m telling you, it wouldn’t be the first time, neither. So I went down to his rooms and knocked, and, getting no reply, I went in, and Old Benjamin had … just … well, just sort of …’
‘Vanished?’ I suggested helpfully.
‘Done a moonlight flit!’ Mrs Endicott said firmly.
‘Message for Mr Benjamin Barlow!’ came an oafish voice just behind us.
We both turned.
There, ambling down the street as if he had all the time in the world, was an untidy, overweight tick-tock lad in an embroidered waistcoat and gleaming, wide-brimmed Kempton.
‘Benjamin Barlow’s not at home at present,’ I said smoothly. ‘But I’d be happy to pass the message on to him.’
The tick-tock lad yawned and scratched his head. ‘It’s all the same to me,’ he said.
He casually plucked an envelope from the hatband of his Kempton and handed it over with pudgy fingers, glistening with pie-grease.
I took the envelope with distaste between finger and thumb and looked at the bold, florid writing on the front.
Mr Benjamin Barlow
1 Black Dog Alley
URGENT
To be delivered by hand before lamplighting
‘But this is hours late …’ I began.
The oafish tick-tock lad just smiled and, yawning, turned on his heels. ‘Like I said, it’s all the same to me,’ he laughed.
As I watched him waddle slowly down the street in his ridiculous waistcoat and expensive hat, I permitted myself a wry smile. With tick-tock lads like that, I thought, too lazy to climb a wall, let alone a highstack, I’d always be in business.
‘Should we open it?’ Mrs Endicott whispered conspiratorially, her voice full of curiosity and more than a hint of greed.
Of course, as a tick-tock lad, I would never dream of opening any of the notes and messages entrusted to my care. But in this case … Well, I wasn’t just a tick-tock lad, was I? Not with Old Benjamin. I was his friend – and I was worried about him.
I broke the seal at the back of the envelope and pulled out the letter. As I unfolded it, I frowned. It looked just like the visiting card old Aloysius Clink had given me: stiff vellum, the borders edged with gold. At the top left-hand side was a sun-like disc, its rays fanning out across the paper, while at the top right was the name and address of the sender.
I fancy I must have stood there for some while, staring nonplussed at the familiar words. Then I heard Mrs Endicott’s voice breaking into my thoughts.
‘Read it out to me, there’s a dear,’ she was saying. ‘My eyes ain’t what they used to be …’
I nodded and cleared my throat.
‘Dear Mr Barlow,
Please present yourself at my consulting rooms this evening no later than sunset for the completion of the treatment that, I’m sure you’ll agree, has proved so efficacious.
I shall administer the final dose of my cordial by means of a syringe directly into the artery.
BE WARNED!’
These words were larger than the preceding ones, and underscored …
‘Failure to receive this final dose could result in side effects of the most unfortunate kind.
DO NOT BE LATE!
Yours sincerely …’
The letter was signed by the good doctor with a swirling flourish.
Theopholus Cadwallader
MD, MBs, RTL, FRCP
‘Pity,’ said Mrs Endicott, tapping out her pipe on the door frame and returning inside. ‘I was hoping for a banknote or two. Still, good riddance! That’s what I say.’
The door slammed shut.
I folded the letter and placed it in the hip pocket of my waistcoat. My shoulder was hurting badly and I was tired fit to drop. All I wanted was a peaceful night’s sleep. But one thing I knew for certain: the next day I was going to pay the good doctor a visit.
* * *
When the shafts of sunlight broke through the crack in the curtains the next morning, I discovered that, despite the cold compress, my arm was still painful. Having climbed from my bed, I changed the dressing and strapped the whole lot up with lint and a bandage. It was not ideal, but so long as I didn’t do anything too strenuous, I knew that it would hold up.
I dressed, crossed the room and threw open the windows, only to pause with a shudder. It was not, however, my shoulder that caused my momentary anxiety. No, that was going to be fine. It was the sight of the rooftop chimney stacks stretching away into the distance that made me tremble with foreboding as they brought back to me the full horror of the previous night.
Was what had happened to Old Benjamin connected to the note from Dr Cadwallader? I wondered. And if so, how?
There was only one way to find out. Picking up my swordstick and coalstack hat, I climbed out of the window and up onto the roof-ridge of my building. I glanced around, checking that the coast was clear, then darted off over the rooftop of the adjacent building.
Hartley Square was situated to the west, as were all the most opulent residences of the city. It meant that, since the prevailing winds came from the west for most of the year, the area remained free from the gut-churning stench belching from the breweries, glue factories, tanning yards, coal furnaces and gasworks that pockmarked the areas to the east. Orientating myself by the black, white and yellow city flag which fluttered at the top of the gothic Museum of Antiques, I headed off, highstacking across the rooftops, revelling in the sense of freedom as I jumped from building to building.
At a disused mission hall I scurried nimbly up a slate roof until I got to the ridge tiles at the top where, arms out at my side for balance, I sped along them – one foot directly in front of the other, taking care not to dislodge any mortar as I passed. I skirted a tall chimney stack, then skittered down the sloping edge to an ornate gutter. I leaped off the side of the roof of a tenement building, across an alley far below me, and onto the parapet of neighbouring office chambers, where I rolled over once, twice, before jumping back to my feet.
Nothing, but nothing, can compare with the exhilaration of highstacking across the teeming city on a brightly sunlit morning.
Older and grander than the tenements, the office chambers I had reached were decorated with rounded arches, turret-like pinnacles and jutting windows set into the pitched roof. I had crossed it and others like it many times before, and as I passed the windows, I glanced down at the rows of clerks and scriveners, thanking my lucky stars that I wasn’t one of them, scrat
ching my life away with a goose quill in one hand, an inkpot by the other and a piece of yellowed parchment inches before my nose.
By leaping from window gable to window gable, I soon reached the end of that building, where, for the first time, I hesitated. My normal route, I discovered, had been ruined by the sudden demolition of the surrounding tenements. It meant a detour.
As a tick-tock lad, you get used to the ever-changing patterns of the city. Neighbourhoods rise up, decay, turn to slums and are cleared – sometimes, it seems, almost overnight – only to be replaced by new buildings, rising even higher in their place. It’s what makes the highstacks so exciting – if, at times, dangerously unpredictable. As a rule, though, I didn’t highstack over buildings which were in the process of construction. I was experienced enough to know that that was asking for trouble. But once the rooftops were completed, they were all mine.
After all, as I said, there were very few of us highstackers left. There’s Black-Eyed John to the east, and Toby Martin in the dockside area – though, to be honest, I hadn’t seen him for at least a year and there were rumours going round that he’d retired. Most tick-tock lads were like the specimen I’d met the night before. Good-for-nothing cobblestone-creepers!
Glancing around, I saw I didn’t have to go far out of my way. A short dash, a small jump from a crumbling brick warehouse to a nondescript municipal building with lead guttering and a weather vane designed like a ship; a gilded campanile and a flying leap to the stepped parapet of a weigh station, and I was back on track.
Three large buildings and a row of shops later, I was almost at my destination. I knew I must be getting close. Even up here in the rooftops, it was clear that the buildings were both better built and far more ornately decorated. As ever, pigeons and sparrows were my constant companions as I highstacked it over this salubrious part of the city, flapping and squawking, indignant that a wingless creature should be invading their territory.
I performed what we highstackers call a Rolling Derby – a half-somersault followed by a one-legged standing pivot at the top of a vertical stanchion. It was a tricky manoeuvre but one that, once mastered, opened up even the highest rooftops as possible routes. Then, with a forward thrust of my arms, I took a flying leap off the edge of the pitched roof …
When I landed a moment later, I felt a sharp twinge at the top of my arm and winced with pain. I was above Hartley Square. I shinned down a series of drainpipes and pillars, before landing lightly on the pavement directly in front of the black railings of number 27.
I performed what we highstackers call a Rolling Derby.
Elegant, dangerous and very, very quick – I tell you, highstacking is the only way to travel!
I was so pleased with myself as I stood there, dusting myself off, that I felt like taking a bow – even though there was no one around to appreciate my skills. At least, that was what I thought …
‘’Allo, ’allo, ’allo,’ came a sarcastic-sounding voice, deep and rough. ‘Where did you spring from, eh? I hope sir hasn’t been …’ his top lip curled, ‘highstacking.’
It was one of the local policemen, as ornate and polished in his top hat and brass-buttoned topcoat as the neighbourhood he patrolled. Here in the poshest part of town they got touchy about a tick-tock lad tramping over their rooftops. The policeman glared at me accusingly.
‘No, no,’ I said, trying not to sound out of breath and hoping that he wouldn’t notice the telltale brick dust on my elbows and knees. ‘Only a fool would take to the rooftops rather than avail himself of our city’s excellent coach-and-four omnibuses.’
The policeman frowned. ‘Yes, well, perhaps sir would like to accompany me to the station, where he can give a statement to that effect, as well as explaining the exact nature of his business in Hartley Square.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have time, Constable,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster. ‘You see, I have an appointment with Doctor Cadwallader …’ I pulled the card old Mr Clink had given me out of the breast pocket of my waistcoat.
‘And what would a highstacking tearaway such as yourself want with an eminent Hartley Square physician?’ The policeman leered at me nastily.
‘Don’t you think that is my business, Constable?’ came a second voice.
The pair of us turned to see a tall, elderly gentleman descending the marble staircase of number 27. He had long white hair, parted in the centre, a pale, almost chalky pallor to his face and a pair of tinted pince-nez spectacles.
‘Can’t be too careful these days, sir,’ the policeman said, twirling his black moustache authoritatively.
‘Indeed, Constable,’ said the gentleman. ‘But the lad has told you he has business with me.’
‘That’s all well and good, Doctor,’ the policeman blustered, rapidly reddening in the face. ‘But he’s been highstacking – I can tell. Look at the brick dust, sir, on his elbows and knees …’
‘That is no concern of mine. What is of concern to me,’ said the doctor, removing the pince-nez from his long thin nose and fixing the policeman with his piercing grey eyes, ‘is what the chief constable’s reaction will be when he hears that one of his men has been hampering my medical duties. Did I mention what a very good friend I am of the chief constable …?’
The policeman visibly shrank. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just this once I’ll turn a blind eye.’ He glared at me, his eyebrows knitted together. ‘But let me catch you up on them rooftops again and I’ll throw the book at you, my lad. Understand?’
I smiled and nodded. Muttering under his breath, the policeman turned away.
‘Come,’ said Dr Cadwallader, taking me by the arm with a surprisingly firm grip and leading me up the marble steps to his front door. ‘Now tell me, what is so pressing that you had to climb over the rooftops to consult me?’
Dr Cadwallader locked the front door behind him and led me across the hallway to the sweeping flight of stairs. It was a magnificent place all right, with a black and white marble floor and a crystal chandelier overhead. And as for the staircase, its sumptuous carpet and ornate gold banisters wouldn’t have looked out of place in a palace.
As we climbed the stairs, I noticed the expensive brass plaques on each of the landings. DR THADDEUS GRACE – EAR, NOSE, THROAT AND SPLEEN SPECIALIST; DR FENG-LI – HERBALIST AND ACUPUNCTURIST; DR MAGDI-KHAN; DR SIBELIUS; DR P. J. DOOLEY; DR ASTLEY-SPUME – each one with some impressive-sounding speciality to do with ailments and parts of the body I didn’t even know existed: CIRCULATORY AND PULMONARY MYOPATHIES; SPECIALIST IN DISEASES AND DISORDERS OF THE SUB-ILIAL TRACT; HAEMATOMAS AND SUB-CUTICLE OEDEMAS …
Dr Cadwallader caught me looking at that last one and gave a wry chuckle. ‘Impressed?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘Yes, Doctor Astley-Spume is in fact a leading specialist in … pimples!’ He smiled. ‘The young ladies adore him.’
He strode on up the stairs with surprising agility for a man of his age. I trotted behind.
Dr Cadwallader’s chambers, I discovered, were right at the very top of the building and, fit as I was, what with the long journey over the rooftops I’d just undertaken, I have to admit I was getting slightly out of breath. Dr Cadwallader, on the other hand, was as cool and collected as a fishmonger’s cat.
‘Here we are,’ he said smoothly, removing a brass key from the pocket of his waistcoat and inserting it in the lock.
I glanced at the plaque beside the door. It was smaller than the one it had replaced and there was a thin strip of old floral wallpaper remaining from a previous period of decoration framing the brass nameplate – a sure sign that it had only recently been screwed into place.
DR THEOPHOLUS CADWALLADER, it announced. PHYSICIAN.
I liked its simple modesty. Once again Dr Cadwallader caught my glance.
‘I have no need of florid titles, young man,’ he said, a trace of a smile playing on his lips. ‘I prefer my work to speak for itself.’
The doctor turned the handle and
pushed the door open. As I was ushered inside, I was struck by the smell of fresh paint.
‘How long have you had consulting rooms here in Hartley Square?’ I asked.
‘Not long,’ he said, the hint of an accent in his rich, throaty voice. ‘I have travelled widely in the East, and practised the healing arts in towns and cities, both large and small …’ Dr Cadwallader paused and then gave a dry little laugh. ‘But here, my dear young fellow, in this great, bustling city of yours, there are so many more opportunities for a simple physician such as myself.’
He motioned for me to follow him.
The shadowy, somewhat austere corridor led into a large chamber that I took to be a waiting room. There were six rather shabby red chairs with frayed gold piping and tassels standing with their backs to the wall, and one low table in the centre of the room, a selection of worn and faded periodicals upon it. I glanced at the titles. The Hightown Intriguer, the Weekly Journal for Ladies of Quality and The Swell – high-class fashion rags and scandal sheets the lot of them, though judging by the dust that covered their yellowing pages, they hadn’t been read in quite some time. Despite the swanky address, business appeared slow for the good doctor.
On the far side of the room was a second door, which opened to reveal Dr Cadwallader’s study.
‘Come on through,’ he said amiably. ‘And you can tell me the nature of your business with me, Mr …’
‘Barnaby, sir. Barnaby Grimes.’
‘Mr Barnaby Grimes, eh?’ he repeated. ‘Well, take a seat, Mr Grimes, and then let’s have a little chat about the nature of your ailment.’
I did as I was told, sitting down on the upholstered leather chair in front of the desk.
Now, I’ve seen the inside of a few quacks’ studies in my time – running errands and delivering prescriptions – and to be honest, this one was pretty typical of its kind. There was a tall brass oil reading lamp on the desk to the left of the blotter; two framed certificates hung on the wall behind it. To my right stood a padded examination table, a large print above it depicting the rudiments of a human body – bones to the left, muscles to the right.