Curse of the Night Wolf

by Paul Stewart

  I turned to see two figures emerging from a rundown sail yard.

  As they drew closer, I could see they had swordsticks of their own – one with a pewter hound’s-head pommel; the other with a wooden handle shaped like a beak.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the stockier of the two, stopping on the path just before me. ‘Look what we got ’ere, Ginger, me old cocklemonger.’

  The red-headed one giggled half-wittedly.

  I didn’t have time for this.

  ‘Skingle me, if it ain’t one of ’em tick-tock lads from the smoky.’ The stocky lad grinned. ‘Pockets bulging wiv notes ’n’ dockets, ’n’ all sorts of sparklers.’

  Ginger stopped giggling just long enough to ask, ‘Fink ’e’s got summat for us, do you, Ned?’

  ‘Let’s ask ’im.’ As Ned spoke – his voice soft yet menacing – the pair of them unsheathed their swords, which glinted in the low afternoon sun. ‘Fancy turning out them pockets, tick-tocker?’ he said.

  I eyed them both coolly. I didn’t want a fight, yet it was beginning to look as though I had no choice in the matter.

  ‘No need for roustabouts, my dear ink-chins,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you sheathe up your slicers, I’ll sheathe up mine – and I’ll be on my way.’

  Ned chuckled humourlessly. ‘’Ear that, Ginger? ’E don’t want no roustabout.’ His expression hardened. ‘We’ll see about that, milk-face.’

  Suddenly, as one, the pair of them lunged towards me, the tips of their swords aimed at my chest. With a resounding clash, I parried away both swords, stepped sharply to one side and, while the pair of them were momentarily off balance, launched an attack of my own.

  Ginger didn’t see me coming – until it was too late. He cried out with pain as the tip of my sword sliced through the sleeve of his oilskin slicker and drew blood. Howling, he fell to the ground. Ned was going to be more of a problem. Not only had his tough life left him hard as horse-tacks, but somewhere along the line he’d learned how to handle a sword. Sure enough, a moment later he lunged again.

  It was a fierce yet reckless blow. I parried it away easily enough, but the blow jarred through my arm, sending darts of pain through the half-healed burn. Seeing my wince of pain, Ned let out a triumphant howl and launched a brutal attack, raining down blow after blow. I suspected that this was how he usually won his sword fights, battering his opponents into submission.

  It wouldn’t work with me.

  Three, four, five times I parried his swinging blows, prodding him back with thrusts of my own each time. I didn’t want to hurt him – but then again, I needed to teach this East Bank bully a lesson. Behind me, I heard Ginger still squealing with pain. To hear his high-pitched shrieks, you’d have thought I’d sliced his arm clean off instead of merely pricking his skin. In front of me, Ned was just where I wanted him.

  ‘Waah!’ he cried out a moment later as his left foot stepped back to the very edge of the towpath.

  For a moment his arms flailed wildly as he tried to regain his balance. I stepped forward and, with the point of my sword, prodded him gently in that gaudy waistcoat of his. With an angry roar, he fell back off the jetty and landed with a loud squelch. I sheathed my sword and tipped my hat as I looked down at him lying spread-eagled in the mud.

  ‘I’ll be bidding you good day, me old cocklemonger,’ I said.

  As I set off, I saw Ned scrambling round desperately in the mud for his sword. Ginger – clutching his shoulder and still howling – jumped down to give him a hand.

  ‘I’ll get you, tick-tocker!’ Ned shouted after me, and waved a muddy fist. ‘Ned Silver don’t forget, and that’s a promise!’

  Deciding to give that part of the towpath a wide berth on my return, I continued along the river in search of the address on my list. It was only a few minutes later that I found it. The moment I did so, the reason the name had been written upside down suddenly became clear. The address where Ginger Tom Carrick lived was an upturned boat.

  Bowed and blistered, the hull was riddled with so many worms that the light shone through from the other side. A small window had been cut into the portside bow near the front – but it hadn’t been glazed. Instead, an awning fashioned from a broken umbrella had been nailed into place to keep out the worst of the weather. The door – low and warped so badly it was standing proud of the frame – was at the stern.

  I knocked.

  There came the sound of clinking china, a scraping of wood on wood – and the door opened. A man stood there, ruddy-faced, blue-eyed and with the reddest ginger hair I had ever seen.

  ‘This is for you,’ I said, peering inside as I handed over the letter.

  The man scanned the envelope. ‘Ginger Tom Carrick,’ he said. ‘Aye, that’s me. And you are?’

  ‘Barnaby Grimes,’ I told him, ‘tick-tock lad. I’m on a job for Doctor Cadwallader.’

  ‘Oh, Doctor Cadwallader, God love him!’ Ginger Tom exclaimed. ‘The man’s a miracle worker, so he is. Taken away all my aches and pains … Why, not a month since, I was confined to my bed most of the time, arthritis so bad I was scarce able to walk. And now look …’

  He threw his arms up into the air and did a passable jig as I watched, a grin on my face. Of course, it was little wonder that his joints were so bad, living in these conditions. What with the rotting straw and newspaper on the damp mud, the lack of heating and, from the looks of it, nothing to eat save what the river threw up, it was a wonder the poor fellow was alive at all.

  ‘Thank you for this, Barnaby Grimes,’ he said, retreating into the upturned Susie Lee. ‘And be certain to assure the good doctor that I’ll be there this evening for that final syringe.’ He grinned happily. ‘I can’t wait to be completely cured!’

  Dr Cadwallader was certainly popular with his patients, I thought as I stopped outside my next drop, a rundown rooming house near the tannery yards. Scobie Rathbone – a thin man with dark, haunted-looking eyes – opened the door and smiled delightedly as I handed him the letter. I got another glowing testimonial to the miraculous powers of Dr Cadwallader’s cordial from the old smoke-shed stoker, who had previously suffered years of ill-health, like so many in his line of work.

  A single man, out of work and down on his luck, he’d run into the doctor outside a wig-maker’s shop. Poor Rathbone had been reduced to selling the hair on his head to pay rent on his shabby room. Just like Old Benjamin, it was Rathbone’s cough that had alerted Dr Cadwallader to his plight, and the man was presented with a bottle of cordial on the spot.

  Was there no end to the good doctor’s altruism? I asked myself. One last injection and his patients’ miraculous cures would be complete. They would go happily on their way, with only their heartfelt thanks as reward. It all sounded too good to be true.

  I, for one, wasn’t buying it.

  I headed slowly back towards the city. It had been a long day. One final drop and my day’s work would be complete. At the far side of a line of warehouses I jumped up onto a low wall and scaled the side of the chandlery building to the roof. I glanced at my watch. The lamps wouldn’t be lit for another hour. I had until then to complete my drops. I took out the list …

  Mr A. Klynkowiczski, 21 Beale Terrace, I read.

  That was a little row of houses not a hundred yards from Edna Halliwell’s attic dwelling place on Seed Row. If only I’d noticed, I could have delivered this letter just after hers. It was an error worthy of an apprentice clerk, I told myself as I hurried through the streets back the way I’d come, passing the places I had seen earlier.

  As I re-entered the Wasps’ Nest, something curious occurred to me. All these streets and houses, which had looked so terrible earlier, suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad after all – not compared to the mudflats by the river or the bawdy taverns of Strap Street.

  I passed number 4 Seed Row, and turned right and right again onto Beale Terrace, stopping in front of number 21 and looking up. The house was tall and thin and it seemed that, unlike its neighbours, the whole lot was
owned by one family. I rang the bell and waited.

  From inside came the sound of footsteps running lightly down the flights of stairs. It was followed by the echoing thump-thump of someone crossing the hall to the front door. A bolt slid back. A latch clicked. The door opened and a face looked out.

  ‘You!’ I cried out, my jaw dropping with surprise.

  Aloysius Clink was, I must confess, the last person on earth I had expected to see here in the Wasps’ Nest.

  ‘Barnaby!’ exclaimed old Clink, evidently as surprised to see me as I was him. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

  ‘This,’ I said, pulling the final envelope from my waistcoat and handing it over.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, a slightly sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Klynkowiczski. Yes, that’s me. Shortened my name to Clink in the office. My reminder for the final consultation at Doctor Cadwallader’s surgery, eh?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m honoured to have it delivered by the best tick-tock lad in the city,’ he chuckled. ‘Tick me off your list. I’ll be there presently – just as soon as I finish my tea.’

  ‘I had no idea you lived in the Wasps’ Nest, Mr Clink,’ I replied.

  The old man smiled. ‘I might be a successful lawyer, but I never forgot my roots, Barnaby. I was born in this house,’ he said. ‘An only child. My father was an honest tailor, and worked himself into an early grave to make sure I got a good education. I stayed on to look after my dear mother at first, but when she passed away, I just didn’t have the heart to leave – even though, by then, I was a successful lawyer. Perhaps I might have if I’d married …’

  His expression took on a wistful, faraway look. Then, as if remembering I was there, he focused on my face, his watery eyes twinkling.

  ‘But that wasn’t to be. I was always sickly,’ he said. ‘Coming down with one thing or another. But then I met Doctor Cadwallader, right here in the Wasps’ Nest, and tried his cordial. And … Well, you know how miraculous it is!’

  I nodded. The old lawyer had never looked so healthy, despite the worn and patched clothes that in his offices seemed an eccentricity, but in these surroundings looked perfectly in keeping. No wonder, I thought, that Dr Cadwallader had mistaken him for a pauper and presented him with a course of his precious cordial.

  ‘Doctor Cadwallader …’ I ventured, as casually as I could. ‘Has he ever asked for payment for his cordial? Or a final fee perhaps when the treatment is completed?’

  Mr Clink shook his head. ‘No, never,’ he replied with a beaming smile. ‘Of course, I, like you, Barnaby, was suspicious at first, but the good doctor said that his only wish was to bring relief from suffering, and that his good deeds should remain secret, and as you see’ – the old lawyer jigged about before me in delight – ‘Doctor Cadwallader’s cordial does exactly what it says on the bottle.’

  I left Mr Clink waving to me from the doorstep of his rundown house and promising not to be late, set off for Dr Cadwallader’s consulting rooms – and a handsome fee for my day’s work.

  Whatever the miraculous properties of the cordial, I was more convinced than ever that there was more to the doctor’s do-gooding than met the eye. But at that moment all I had were questions – questions, and the increasingly rancid smell of fish-head stew in my nostrils!

  A while later I presented myself at Hartley Square. As I handed Dr Cadwallader my list, I noticed that he seemed a little distracted. Eddie Dobbs, Scobie Rathbone, Ginger Tom Carrick and Edna Halliwell were already there, and he was ushering them through his office to a chamber beyond.

  ‘This way, this way. The syringes are ready, but first’ – he smiled at them – ‘a nice cup of tea …’

  He guided them through the door, pulled it to, then turned to me. From his manner, I got the distinct impression that he was eager to be rid of me.

  ‘Ah, Mr Grimes,’ he said. ‘Excellent work. I shall be needing your services again next month.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So that’s agreed.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘Two more patients and I can get started … That will be all, Mr Grimes.’ He flashed me a brittle smile as he handed over a crisp banknote, and gently pushed me out into the corridor. ‘Goodnight, Mr Grimes. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Doctor,’ I called back casually over my shoulder as I made plenty of noise stomping down the stairs.

  Once outside, I made sure to slam the heavy front door and headed down Hartley Square and into Broad Street, with its fashionable shops. There, I planned to find a convenient drainpipe and shin back onto the rooftops. I needed a concealed vantage point where I could observe the doctor’s consulting rooms unseen.

  I was just sizing up the possibility of a deserted side alley to my right when I was stopped dead in my tracks by a pair of beautiful dark eyes staring out at me from a shop window. They belonged to the pretty young assistant I’d seen with Madame Scutari in Dr Cadwallader’s consulting rooms.

  I glanced up at the shop sign as I crossed the street. MADAME SCUTARI, it announced. BESPOKE GARMENTS FOR PERSONS OF QUALITY.

  Sure enough, the shop dummies in the window were dressed in clothes that only the wealthiest men and women in the city would be able to afford. Elegant suits. Dresses of satin and toile. Embroidered silk blouses. And tailored overcoats, each one made of the finest cloth and finished off with exquisitely lustrous fur – the much-sought-after Westphalian trim.

  The bell chimed as I entered the shop.

  ‘You look familiar. Do I know you?’ the pretty shop girl asked, her cheeks colouring charmingly as she emerged from the window display.

  ‘Barnaby Grimes,’ I said with a small bow. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced, but I do the occasional job for Doctor Cadwallader. I saw you in his consulting rooms.’

  She seemed to flinch at the sound of the doctor’s name and grew pale. But then, pulling herself together the next moment, she smiled sweetly.

  ‘Ellen. Ellen Wicks,’ she said.

  ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Wicks,’ I said formally, and offered her my hand. I looked around. There were more coats on display, all decorated at the cuffs and collars with the gleaming Westphalian trim – the very height of fashion that season among ‘persons of quality’. ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Very nice. Business must be good.’

  ‘Ellen. Ellen Wicks,’ she said.

  ‘That depends on Doctor Cadwallader,’ said Ellen, looking away.

  Before I could ask her what she meant, Madame Scutari herself flounced into the shop, talking loudly to a well-known society dowager.

  ‘Step this way, my dear Mrs Ducressy,’ Madame Scutari said, her voice ingratiating yet shrill. ‘I want to show you this jacket. Cut on the bias and edged with a very rare auburn Westphalian trim. Absolutely to die for—’ She caught sight of the two of us, and paused.

  ‘Miss Wicks?’ Madame Scutari’s lip curled in a dismissive sneer. ‘Does this … this … clerk have business in our establishment?’

  ‘Just passing,’ I said. I smiled, tipping my coalstack hat to all three of them, and stepping outside into the street – but not before giving the pretty Ellen a wink that had her blushing all the more.

  I crossed back to the other side of the street and approached the alley I’d spotted earlier. A stout iron drainpipe rose up to the rooftops, and I was about to scale it when a hand clasped my shoulder. Fearing the worst, I spun round, expecting to see the reddened face of a constable.

  ‘Barnaby Grimes!’ Professor Pinkerton-Barnes’s friendly face greeted me. ‘I thought it was you. Just the man I was looking for.’

  ‘You were, PB?’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m in the middle of something right now—’

  He smiled absentmindedly. ‘Indeed, lad,’ he said. ‘I have a new assignment for you.’

  ‘Can we discuss it later, PB?’ I said. But the professor’s hand remained firmly clamped on my shoulder.

  ‘Won’t take a moment, Barnaby,’ he said good-natur
edly. ‘Let’s walk a while.’

  Before I knew it, we had turned the corner of Broad Street and were heading towards Cutler’s Gap.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘the notes you made on the bullfinches were most compre hensive. Absolute proof that my theory concerning the oriental tilberry trees was completely wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, Professor,’ I told him.

  ‘Not at all, dear boy,’ said PB. ‘As I’ve told you before, scientific theories must be tested if any progress is ever to be made. Now, take these bipedal water voles, for example—’

  ‘Water voles?’ I repeated. ‘Bipedal?’ I really didn’t have time for this.

  ‘Precisely, Barnaby. Precisely.’ His face was flushed with excitement. ‘I have recently noticed,’ he said, ‘that down by the river there are extremely unusual water-vole footprints that indicate the little creatures are learning to walk on their back legs.’

  We turned into Wharf Street and continued on towards the theatre district.

  ‘So that’s what bipedal means, is it?’ I asked, intrigued, despite myself.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the professor. ‘My theory is that they are adapting their behaviour to the thick undergrowth of the riverside towpath – unusually tall, due to the recent fall in barge traffic—’

  ‘And you’d like me to make observations?’ I said.

  ‘I would, Barnaby. I would,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘There are some excellent vantage points – high walls, tall overhanging trees – from which to observe the little creatures. And talking of creatures …’ The professor reached into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Those rather singular specimens you presented me with the other week—’