by Paul Stewart
I glanced across at Mr Cripps. From the glint in those watery blue eyes of his, I had the feeling he intended to teach me a lesson. As referee, he wouldn't find it hard.
A hush descended as the pitcher stepped forward on the playing field. The farthest target from me would give me three bases before the tacklers could move. It was my best shot.
I nodded, and the pitcher lobbed a nasty-looking screwball my way. I stepped back, giving it air, then swung the bat in a graceful arc with all my might.
I stepped back … then swung the bat in a graceful arc with all my might.
THWACK!
The bat and ball connected sweetly, and the crowd oohed! then aahed! as the ball flew over the target keeper and thudded into the three-base target. Flinging away the bat, I was off round the bases at a nervous trot as the tacklers, rooted to their field positions, waited like chained lurchers eyeing a mad March hare.
Peeeeep!
Cripps's whistle sounded as my foot hit third base. A trifle early, I thought – but I wasn't about to complain. Not with five tacklers tearing towards me from the four corners of the field, waving their mallets at knee height.
Whoosh!
I jumped over the first mallet and swerved past a second. The third and fourth tacklers collided with the fifth in their eagerness to get at me. The home base was in front of me as, on the sidelines, the members of Ibis House cheered wildly and threw their tasselled caps in the air. I was going to score a home dodge, and an eagle's eye at that!
All at once, out of nowhere – like a brick wall or a fog-smothered chimney stack – Mr Cripps rose up in front of me, his red, snarling face bearing down and his great ham-like hands outstretched. It was obstruction, plain and simple, but since he was the referee, there was no point appealing. Instead, at the last moment, I dropped into a perfectly executed Peabody Roll, straight through the great oaf's legs, and up again.
Crash!
The schoolmaster bit the dust behind me with a shout of rage as I trotted on to home base and the congratulations of my teammates!
I left them to enjoy the victory and took off before old Cripps started asking awkward questions, and was back in the bustling heart of the city as the newspaper hawkers were hitting the streets with the late editions.
‘Read all about it!’ they were shouting above the babble of voices and clatter of carriage wheels. ‘Ghost ship found on mudbank!’
Tired as I was, and ready for my bed, that got my attention all right. I stopped one of the newspaper hawkers and bought a copy. As I stood beneath the gaslight on the corner of Ox Bucket Lane, it was all I could do to keep my hands from shaking when I read the inky black newsprint.
The Ipanema, a merchant sailing vessel, was found grounded on the mudbanks just south of the Spruton Bill lighthouse this morning by a party of fishermen. The ship was deserted, apparently abandoned by its entire crew. Their hasty and chaotic departure was indicated by upturned tables, meals left half eaten and, most singular of all, a blood-stained boat-hook pinning a banknote to the door of the captain's cabin …
eedless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night in my attic rooms, and what little I did get was disturbed by dreams of ghostly ships, wild-eyed captains and bloody cargo hooks. When at last I tumbled out of my bed and dashed some water in my face, I knew I had some decisions to make.
Should I go to the authorities and inform them of my visit to the Ipanema? Or should I return to Archimedes Barnett and tell him of my experiences? The more I thought about it, the less point there seemed to be to either course of action. After all, what had I seen? A half-crazed captain and a bloodstained cargo hook. Where the captain and his crew were now was anybody's guess.
If I – a humble tick-tock lad – went to the harbour authorities with a story like that, who knows how they might twist it round? I might even be seen as a suspect. And for what? A small crate containing an emerald bird.
As for the headmaster, if he read the report in the paper, he could go to the powers that be if he wished, but somehow I didn't think he would. He had his precious specimen and seemed happy enough. I've seen my fair share of strange and terrible things in this great heaving city – from sewers infested with flesh-eating salamanders to rooftops haunted by blood-crazed night wolves. By comparison, a crew deserting its ship seemed pretty unremarkable.
Yet there was something about that abandoned ship and the disembodied voice in the fog that kept playing on my mind. In the end I resolved to research ghost ships and mysterious portents on my next visit to Underhill's Library for Scholars of the Arcane. First, though, I had to pay a visit to my good friend Professor Pinkerton-Barnes, who had summoned me on a matter of some urgency.
I highstacked it across town to the tall university building where he worked. There was a fine drizzle falling by the time I reached the lofty slate turret. I slid down the thin, ridged drainpipe, landed lightly on a third-floor window ledge and climbed into the professor's laboratory.
Professor Pinkerton-Barnes – or PB to his friends – was at the far end of the laboratory, bent over his cluttered desk, one eye clamped to a microscope.
‘Morning, PB,’ I called.
The professor looked up, his shock of white hair quivering. ‘Oh, Barnaby, it's you,’ he said. ‘Is it really too much to ask you to use the door once in a while?’
He climbed to his feet, groaning slightly and muttering about his ‘aching old bones’ as he did so, and walked round the desk.
‘PB,’ I said as he approached. ‘Your eyebrow!’
The professor's hand shot upwards, and he rubbed the hairless ridge above his left eye.
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘A rather unfortunate accident with a Bunsen burner. But I dare say it'll grow back …’
I hoped it would. The professor's expression, fixed in a state of semi-surprise, was rather unnerving.
‘But this is all by the by,’ he went on, ‘and not at all the reason why I summoned you, Barnaby. I have a job of some urgency for you.’
I nodded. ‘Always happy to oblige,’ I said.
‘I have this theory …’ the professor began, and I had to smile.
If I had a mallard's egg for every time I'd heard those words, I could make an omelette the size of a duck pond. The professor was full of far-fetched theories – everything from the idea that water voles were learning to walk upright because of overgrown canal paths, to bullfinches attacking cats after eating the fruit of the oriental tilberry tree. Most of them proved without foundation, and I should know, because the professor employed me to test them.
But I shouldn't be too sceptical. Every so often the professor was spot on. Like the time he proved that the distilled gizzards of an arctic ptarmigan could cure a bad case of cerebral hives – one theory I was personally delighted to prove …
‘You do?’ I said, suppressing my smile.
‘Indeed, Barnaby,’ said the professor, squinting at me with his newly acquired quizzical expression. ‘My theory is that a week's worth of soiled lab coats will have been freshly laundered and expertly ironed, and will now be awaiting collection at the Lotus Blossom Laundry in Chinatown …’
He fished in the pocket of the admittedly grubby, not to say singed, lab coat he presently wore, and produced a crumpled laundry receipt.
‘Would you care to prove my theory correct?’ the professor said with a laugh.
‘It would be my pleasure, PB,’ I replied, plucking the receipt from his fingers and slipping out of the window. As I climbed up the drainpipe, I heard the professor call after me.
‘And remind me to acquaint you with my theory of doors and stairs some time …’
I highstacked it across town in no time, skirting the Wasps’ Nest quarter and crossing the theatre district. The rain had cleared, and I arrived in Chinatown in sunshine. Performing an ambitious leap from the end gable of a tall almshouse, I found myself on the roof of the Lotus Blossom Laundry, slightly winded, but otherwise in one piece.
I sat for a few
moments on the broad sloping roof with its glazed green slates, and caught my breath. Then, feeling rather hungry, I pulled a small bag from the left-hand pocket of my topcoat and a bottle of ginger ale from the right-hand one. The bag contained a hot wrapped parcel. I unwrapped the greaseproof paper gingerly. As I did so, the pasty it contained released its wonderful aromas – aromas so scrumptious my mouth watered. The pasty was a Stover's Special – especially designed for the men who worked at the great coal furnaces.
I'd had the foresight to pick one up on my way over to the professor's. After all, I reasoned as I took a bite, I had to keep my strength up, didn't I?
I took another bite from the half of the pasty that was decorated with a pastry leaf. That was the half that contained a savoury mixture of lamb, carrots and turnips. I took several more mouthfuls, wiping the salty gravy from my chin with my handkerchief. Then, when I reached the little dividing wall of pastry in the middle, I paused, unstoppered the ginger ale and took a swig. The second half of the pasty was filled with a sweet, spiced apple mixture, dripping with syrup and laden with plump sultanas.
‘Delicious,’ I muttered to myself. I brushed the crumbs from the front of my waistcoat, finished off the ginger ale and climbed to my feet.
It's strange that such a simple meal, eaten up on the rooftops under the warm mid-morning sun, should have proved so memorable. Yet it has. Perhaps because I associate it with one of the most remarkable episodes in my life, and a meeting with someone who would change me for ever. To this day, I only have to catch the smell of a Stover's Special to be transported back to the Lotus Blossom Laundry in Chinatown on that fateful day …
I climbed down from the rooftop into a side alley, hot and humid from the laundry steam vents, and turned the corner to enter the laundry by the front door. Great West Street, the main thoroughfare of Chinatown, was as crowded as usual. Shops of every type and description thronged with people, as did the myriad market stalls that lined the broad road.
Moneychangers, letter writers, bird sellers and silk merchants touted for trade alongside herbalists, fortune-tellers and firework makers. However many times I passed through Chinatown, I never tired of its sights and sounds – the brightly painted statues of its gaudy temples, the delicious odours wafting up from cellar dining halls and the glowing lanterns that decked every lintel and doorway.
Pausing to retrieve the professor's laundry receipt from my top waistcoat pocket, I pushed open the heavy rosewood door of the laundry and entered.
A large paper lantern cast a yellow glow over the high-ceilinged chamber, which was lined on three sides by huge shelves piled high with neatly folded laundry. Facing me across the tiled floor was a broad counter, at which sat an elderly Chinese man with a long, stringy white beard and a tall hat of folded paper perched on his head.
Behind him, a great glass window revealed the cavernous laundry beyond, teeming with an army of laundresses clustered round copper vats of boiling water, troughs frothing with soapsuds, and giant mangles that took five pairs of arms to turn. Beneath his tall paper hat, Chung Lee – the laundry's owner – didn't notice me come in. He seemed to have his hands full with a heavy, thick-set customer in a velvet jacket and green Epsom, who was jabbing a stubby finger into the laundry owner's chest to emphasize what he was saying.
‘My point is, Mr Lee,’ the jug-eared thug said with a jab that made Chung Lee's paper hat wobble, ‘you don't have till next month to pay up. Or next week. Or, for that matter’ – he jabbed again – ‘till tomorrow. You pay up now, understand?’
‘But your friend, the little one, he say, “Pay next month,”’ the laundry owner protested weakly. ‘I don't have money now …’
Jug-Ears pushed the brim of his green Epsom back on his close-shaven head with a stubby finger, then made a fist.
‘I'm beginning to lose my temper, Mr Lee,’ he snarled.
I'd seen this sort of shakedown a thousand times before, and it made my blood boil. Jumped-up strongman using his muscle to squeeze protection money out of tradesmen. The thug was even dressed for the part in his vulgar velvet jacket and felt-covered hard hat. Probably had a cosh and a knuckleduster in the pockets of his embroidered waistcoat. I wasn't taking any chances. I flicked the catch on the handle of my cane and unsheathed my sword, before tapping the thug lightly on the shoulder.
‘What the—?’ he grunted in surprise as he turned to find a steel blade pointed at his chest.
‘I'd be on my way if I were you,’ I said coolly, although inside I could feel my anger rising like steam in a linen press.
Jug-Ear's eyes narrowed and his lip curled. ‘A tick-tock lad!’ he sneered. ‘Are you old enough to be playing with sharp swords, sonny?’
In answer I gave a deft flick of my wrist, and my sword tip plucked the green Epsom from his shaven head, sending it clattering to the tiled floor. With a downward cut, I sliced the ivory buttons off his waistcoat – and sure enough, a leather cosh and iron knuckleduster fell out and clattered to the floor, to join the green hat.
‘Why, you—’ Jug-Ears began, but backed away when he saw, by the look in my eyes, that I meant business.
‘All right, sonny, no need to fight. I'm sure Mr Lee's got enough to pay us both off …’
He stopped, his eyes narrowed again, and then a big stupid grin spread over the thug's oafish face. If it hadn't been for that gap-toothed grin, I'd have been a goner. As it was, I managed to half turn when the attack from behind came. It caught me a glancing blow instead of staving my skull in.
I was sent clattering to the floor, where I lay dazed alongside the tools of the thug's trade. Looking up, I saw that Jug-Ears had been joined by a small, ratty-looking companion in equally gaudy clothes. He must have slipped in behind me and felled me with a coward's blow from the ugly-looking cudgel he grasped in both hands.
‘Can't leave you alone for two minutes, Fegg, without you getting turned over by a … a tick-tock lad!’
‘Sorry, but he snuck up behind me,’ Jug-Ears protested, retrieving his hat.
‘Well, now I've snuck up behind him, ain't I?’ said Ratface with an unpleasant smirk as he raised the cudgel above his head. ‘And he's going to get what's coming to him—’
‘And what would that be, gentlemen?’ came a soft, lilting voice from behind the counter.
I looked up to see a small, waif-like girl standing beside Mr Lee, her hands clasped at her front and head cocked demurely to one side. Despite the predicament I was in, I couldn't help noticing how beautiful she was. She had black plaits, milky skin, bright flashing eyes and the daintiest nose I've ever seen.
‘Run along, missy,’ Jug-Ears told her. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’
‘Oh, but I think it is,’ she replied sweetly.
‘Mei Ling, please,’ said Chung Lee.
But the girl simply smiled. ‘My grandfather and I are as close as’ – she held up her hand and crossed her first two fingers – ‘this! You have a problem with my grandfather, you have a problem with me! So I suggest that it is you two who “run along”.’
Suddenly Jug-Ears lost his temper completely. ‘I warned you!’ he snarled, picking up the leather cosh and swinging it at her head.
Mei Ling ducked, the smile never faltering for a moment. Jug-Ears swung the cosh again. This time Mei Ling jumped up onto the counter and stepped daintily to one side as the oaf brought the cosh smashing down onto the polished wooden surface. He howled with pain as the impact of the blow jarred his shoulder. Mei Ling looked down at him, smiling that broad, beautiful smile of hers.
‘I really think you should just leave,’ she said.
Mei Ling looked down at him, smiling that broad, beautiful smile of hers.
For a moment he stood there, a mixture of rage and confusion plucking his face in all directions. The girl winked. Outraged, the thug tried to grab her ankles. Instead, she leaped up, performed an effortless double-somersault in midair, and landed behind him.
Jug-Ears spun round, slashing and swiping a
t her with the cosh, joined this time by his rat-faced companion. Mei Ling avoided the blows of the cudgel and the cosh with another effortless leap, high in the air, over the glowing paper lantern, before landing silently at my side. I reached for my swordstick, but Mei Ling stopped me with a slight shake of her head and a delicate frown.
Instead, she turned and confronted Ratface and Jug-Ears, who were lumbering towards her, both red in the face and panting from their useless exertions. Mei Ling stopped them in their tracks with an unblinking stare and a raised finger. Then, from between her beautiful lips, came a soft, lilting hum – like the drone of a dragonfly. She moved her finger from side to side and, like salivating guard dogs eyeing a bone, the eyes of the two thugs followed it.
‘Now, you're not going to hurt my grandfather, are you?’ she said softly.
‘No,’ they grunted in unison, ‘we're not going to hurt your grandfather.’
‘You're going to leave, and never come back, aren't you?’
‘Leave and never come back,’ they intoned, their heads nodding as she raised and lowered her finger.
‘Excellent,’ said Mei Ling, lowering her arm and clapping her hands together like someone wiping dust from their palms.
The two of them climbed slowly to their feet. Then, as meek and mild as a pair of whipped dogs, their tails between their legs, they laid their weapons down on the floor and shuffled across the room to the door. Ratface went out first, with Jug-Ears closing the door quietly behind him as he brought up the rear.
As the catch clicked shut, it was as though a spell was broken. I turned to Mei Ling.
‘That was absolutely incredible,’ I said. ‘Amazing … How on earth did you do that?’
She smiled that beautiful smile of hers. ‘Grandfather doesn't approve. He calls it “showing off”,’ she said with a giggle. ‘He prefers it if I hand them an empty purse and tell them it is full.’