by Annie Dalton
“Mel, just ask yourself how two kids from a well-off family came to end up on the streets,” Brice said angrily.
“Stuff happens,” I said. “You of all people should know that. Anyway, you heard what the uncle said. Georgie’s father squandered the family fortune. Maybe he was a gambler. He obviously had mental problems.” The spiteful words just came out of my mouth. I had no idea why I was defending this guy, especially since I had secretly decided he was a psycho too.
Brice made a sound of disgust. “That’s just what Uncle Noel wants people to think. I can’t believe you fell for it.”
“Even if their dad was a gambler,” he said, turning to Lola, “which I doubt, it’s likely some of the money was put in trust for them. I have a feeling that nice, caring Uncle Noel used his legal eagle know-how to divert their inheritance to his own personal bank account. Maybe he got himself made executor, so he could ‘look after’ Georgie and Charlotte’s dosh until they come of age. If they come of age,” he added darkly.
“You mean, Uncle and Auntie Scrivener would prefer it if neither kid survived?” Lola’s eyes widened. “Do you think he’s psycho enough to kill them?”
“I think he’s been hoping they’d just die naturally of hunger and neglect. Sounds like the aunt got impatient and tried to have the kids put in the workhouse. Charlotte wouldn’t last two minutes in there.”
This is so unfair, I thought. I was supposed to be the big Sherlock Holmes fan, not Brice. How come he got to play the great detective? And how come he and Lola were talking to each other over my head as if I wasn’t even in the room?
“Well, I think an angel should always give a human the benefit of the doubt,” I said prissily. “Plus you two seem to have forgotten this is only meant to be a field trip. We’re not supposed to get involved.”
Uncle Noel had finished writing his letter. He slipped it into an envelope, sealing it with a blob of melted sealing wax. Then he reached into a money bag hidden at his waist and extracted a shiny silver sixpenny bit. At last, he went to wake Georgie.
“I want you to take another letter to our old friend in Newgate Gaol. Here is money for a cab and sixpence for yourself. You are to hand this personally to Mr Godbolt as usual. Can you remember the message from last time?”
“I am to tell Mr Godbolt that you have not forgotten about him or his sister,” Georgie echoed blearily. He was still half-asleep, but his uncle must have been scared his wife would come back because suddenly Georgie was outside on the doorstep, still struggling to fit his arm into his torn coat sleeve.
He hailed a passing horse-drawn cab and the four of us rode all the way to Newgate Street in unusual style. Obviously familiar with the drill, Georgie just marched up to the prison door and tugged the bell pull.
I’ve never seen such an ominous door in my entire existence. The wood was studded all over with iron nails and bound with huge iron bands. The massive bolts were iron too. And this was just the door!
For a moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe. We’re angels, I reminded myself bravely. We can leave any time we like.
I heard heavy footsteps and the jangling of keys. It was a horribly claustrophobic sound which totally explained why Victorian prison warders used to be known as ‘turnkeys’.
A metal grating slid open. “State your business,” growled a voice.
“I’m to take a letter to Mr Edwin Godbolt,” said Georgie.
‘“I’ll see as he gets it.”
“It’s from ‘is brief.” Georgie had quickly switched back to his street voice. “I’m to put it in ‘is ‘and myself, or I don’t get paid.”
The bolts rasped back, and the weary looking turnkey let us in to a grim stone hallway. The only source of light came from the glimmering oil lantern in his hand. He was just a tired bloke in a shabby black suit and an equally shabby broad-brimmed hat, but you could tell that having those keys made him feel seriously in charge.
The turnkey led us down steps and along twisty passages and through a dizzy series of yards, each one guarded by gates with iron gratings. We had to stop at each one, while he put down his lantern, hunted for the right key, unlocked and then relocked the gate after us. The further we went into the prison, the more stale and smelly the air became, as if all the gaol’s actual oxygen had been used up years ago.
At last we came to an immense dank stone room, a cellar basically, with dripping sounds and slimy stuff growing on the walls. The smell was so gross I had to hold my breath. Unbelievably, there was just one toilet bucket for twenty plus convicts to share between them. Some convicts were trying to sleep on thin mats on the floor. The rest paced like caged animals or leaned blankly against the walls. One made coaxing noises to Georgie, as if he was a cute little pet. “Come over here, laddie.” He leered at the little boy, exposing broken yellow teeth, and Georgie hastily backed away.
The turnkey held up his lamp. “Message for Edwin Godbolt from ‘is brief,” he said in a bored voice.
An elderly man moved forward into the light. He was pale and painfully thin, but he had the sweetest expression I’ve ever seen on a human adult. “Georgie, how kind of you to visit me in this fearful place.”
“My uncle sent me. He has written you a letter, sir,” Georgie explained.
I saw a flicker of emotion in the old man’s eyes. “Oh, yes, I should have realised one was due,” he sighed. “I haven’t received one of your uncle’s communications for some time. Thank you, child.” Mr Godbolt quickly slipped the envelope inside his thin shirt.
“Don’t you want to read it?” asked Georgie in surprise.
The old man smiled. “I have all the time in the world to study its contents. But you are here in person, you precious child, and it does me a world of good to see your face.”
‘“E looks a bit young to be a brief though,” someone joked.
Georgie grinned. “It’s my uncle who is a lawyer, not me!”
“No offence to your uncle, nipper, but ‘e can’t be up to much,” said the same joker, “or this old darlin’ wouldn’t be languishing here along with us villains. I’ve been banged up with real forgers in my time and this one don’t have the look, know what I mean?”
‘“E’s like our dear old Granddad, Mr Godbolt is,” said a young inmate unexpectedly.
“Yes, yes, he’s a regular Saint Francis,” said the turnkey gruffly, “and all the mice do little tricks for him on Sundays. Have you finished your business, lad, because I’ve got a nice lamb chop going cold in my office.”
“Oh, just one more thing,” Georgie remembered suddenly. “Mr Godbolt, my uncle says I am to tell you that he has not forgotten about you or your sister.” He smiled at the old man, clearly proud of his uncle’s generosity.
The old man closed his eyes and took a shaky breath, and when he opened them his voice was almost steady. “Thank you very much, child. Take care of yourself, won’t you, until we meet again.”
It should have been a relief to hit the streets, but no matter how fast I walked I couldn’t shake off that icky prison vibe.
No-one in this city is free, I thought. Victorian London is just one big fogbound prison. Normally I’d have squeezed Lola’s hand for comfort, but Brice was in between us. So we just kept walking in grim silence until we’d walked all the way back to Whitechapel.
Then I heard Brice say softly, “I can totally understand you being upset. Newgate kills me every time.” And the creep put his arm through Lola’s.
I’d had about enough of being invisible, so I grabbed Lola’s other arm and started wittering about how the fog was making my hair frizz.
With a swift movement, Lola pulled herself free. “Stop this, both of you!” she blazed. “You haven’t even noticed that Georgie’s upset!”
I’m ashamed to say that at that precise moment I couldn’t have cared less about him. I was totally not in angelic mode. Lollie had just yelled at me, ME, her best friend! Plus she’d bracketed me unforgivably with Brice.
I glowered resentfully
at Georgie. He had come to a total standstill under a street light. For the first time I saw that he was clutching a silver locket. He was peering at it in the flickering light with a weirdly intense expression. I’m ashamed to say I automatically assumed that he’d stolen it from his uncle, because of needing money for Charlotte. Then I noticed that Georgie had his back to an alleyway, and I thought, this kid’s way too savvy to check out stolen goods in public. And then I saw a tear tracking down his face, and I thought; Lola’s right. I never even noticed.
The little boy shut his eyes and reverently pressed the cold silver to his lips. That’s when I knew for sure that the locket had to be his. His hand shook slightly as he opened the locket, and when he saw the picture inside, a sob burst out of him.
“I’m trying to be strong, Mama,” he whispered. “I try, but I get so scared.”
At that moment someone came out of the alley and went hurrying past. For an instant I saw a blurred figure, sharply outlined in the gaslight. Then it melted back into the darkness.
Afterwards, the others asked me to describe what I’d seen. Had I seen a surgeon’s bag, or an exotic gold-topped cane, that might have concealed the lethal knife? Did I notice an overpowering scent of lily of the valley? But all I remembered was the shadow of a hat and cloak flowing along the wall, monstrously distorted in the gaslight, and the sensation of something soft and slithering brushing against my energy field.
I immediately reared back. I remember that, but it was pure instinct. I wasn’t consciously paying attention to the stranger in the cloak. I was angry with myself because Lola was right about me, plus I was angry with her for exactly the same reason.
I put my hand to my face. Something was wrong.
Something had disturbed my energy field so badly that I thought I might actually faint.
“Lola,” I began. “I need to sit d—”
Bloodcurdling screams came from the darkness. A girl shrieked, “Get the police!”
Scared faces appeared at windows all along the street. Someone blew several blasts on a whistle and I heard the pounding of feet as Victorian bobbies ran to the scene. There was a babble of voices, inarticulate with horror.
Georgie’s face was suddenly deathly pale in the gaslight. “He walked past me,” he whispered. “Jack the Ripper just walked right past me.”
Chapter Seven
When a defenceless kid has just bumped into Jack the Ripper, the question of breaking cosmic rules doesn’t really apply.
“There’s a pub down the road. The Three Cripples,” said Brice urgently. “It’s a dive but the landlady’s sound. She’ll probably let Georgie stay the night.”
We clustered round the traumatised Georgie, and told him firmly and clearly to get himself to Brice’s dodgy pub right away.
“You need to be where there are lights and people, kiddo,” said Brice.
I felt a zing of angel electricity inside my heart as Georgie got the message. He looked wildly up and down the street and I could hear him thinking, “Lights, people!” He spotted a faint gleam from the pub across the street, and set off at a trot. I heard him repeating Brice’s instructions out loud. “I’ve got to be where there are lights and people.”
The pub door stood slightly open, leaking smells of mice and old beer and stale cooking. Inside a man with multiple tattoos was telling some equally scary men about the latest killing.
Georgie slid around the customers, edging as close to the fire as he dared. He was shivering uncontrollably by this time. A bald-looking dog came to sniff at his hands. “Good dog,” Georgie said shakily. “Who’s a good dog.”
“You all right, nipper?” called the tattooed guy. “You looks a bit green around the gills, me old mate.”
A tremor ran through Georgie. “I seen Jack,” he said in his street voice. “But I never knew I seen ‘im, if you know what I mean. That’s why I come here where there was lights and people. I couldn’t stand it out there alone in the dark.” Georgie buried his face in his hands, and the ugly dog tried to lick him through his fingers.
The landlady had heard Georgie’s distraught explanation.
“You stay where you are, littl’un,” she said. ” It just ‘appens that I’ve got some left-over victuals need eating up, and, well, if you happens to fall asleep by the fire, I’m so rushed off me feet, I probably won’t notice till morning.”
Lola gave a sigh of gratitude. “You’re right, she’s a sweetie. It’s so great you knew about this place, Brice.”
“Yeah, well, any time you need a criminal hangout, just ask Brice,” I said sarcastically.
I could see Lola inwardly counting to ten. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“So why do you reckon Uncle Noel is blackmailing Mr Godbolt ?” Brice asked Lola over my head.
“Hello!” I said. “You have absolutely no evidence for that accusation. For all you know, Georgie’s uncle genuinely wants the guy to know he hasn’t abandoned him, even though he’s a convicted criminal.”
“Hello!” Brice mimicked. “That message about the sister sounded like a nasty little threat to me.”
“Not everyone is a nasty little double-crosser, you know, hint hint,” I told him.
Lola shook her head. “There’s no need to be mean, Mel. And actually I agree with Brice.”
“Oh, there’s a surprise!” I was practically spitting with rage.
“I’m just telling you what I think, Melanie! Georgie’s uncle knows something he’s not saying. And that sweet old guy in the prison KNOWS the uncle knows something, and he isn’t saying either, but for a totally different reason.”
I stared at her. “Lollie, I have NO idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, there’s a surprise!” Brice imitated my voice again. “Our cute little airhead hasn’t a clue what’s going on!”
My soul-mate suddenly went ballistic. “Will you two just stop!” she yelled. “I have totally had enough of being fought over like a bone!”
She glared at Brice. “You are driving me nuts!”
I felt a smug grin spreading over my face but my friend turned on me in a fury. “As for you, carita, you seem to have forgotten what angels are actually for.”
“But I just—” I began.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Lola shouted. “We’re professionals, Boo. We can’t let our personal business get in the way.”
“But I just—” Brice began.
“I’m still talking!” she snapped. “Now here’s the deal. You two go back to Uncle Noel’s house to do some serious investigating. That should give you a chance to sort out your differences. I’m going to stay with Georgie. Is that clear?” she demanded.
“Crystal,” we said nervously.
Brice and I beamed ourselves sulkily to Portman Square. We arrived just as Uncle Noel was going out for the evening, looking seriously spruced up and spiffy. He hailed a cab in Baker Street.
“Take me to Boodles in Marble Arch,” he told the cabbie.
I was convinced this was some kind of Victorian strip joint, plus Brice and I were grimly ignoring each other, so I had a really nerve-wracking journey. I was seriously relieved when Boodles turned out to be a respectable gentleman’s club, though personally I thought it could do with some major refurbishing. The walls and ceilings had gone the colour of old tea from the constant puffing of cigars, and the rugs were so faded you couldn’t even guess what colour they’d been when they were new.
We followed Uncle Noel upstairs into a smoky room full of Victorian gentlemen all going “haw-haw-haw”, like those depressing debates in the House of Commons. Some of the members had pulled their leather chairs into huddles to make it easier to chat. Others were lounging about with their feet on tables, or blatantly warming their backsides at the fire. They were all really old, like in their forties and fifties. And judging from the conversation about crown courts and plaintiffs and whatever, most of them were barristers like Georgie’s uncle. I think a couple were even judges.
This was so outrageous that I couldn’t help catching Brice’s eye. To my relief he didn’t look away.
“They should put these guys in a museum for boring old bigots,” he said.
“It’s a shame we’re not ghosts,” I sighed. “We could at least play noughts and crosses on the mirror.”
I know! Those old buffers were so vile that Brice and I were actually bonding!
He gave me a grudging grin. “So how does Uncle Noel strike you, now he’s in his natural habitat?”
“I think he seems totally ill at ease.,” I decided.
“That could be why he’s drinking too much,” said Brice.
“And have you noticed how that old guy with the bushy side-whiskers always pretends not to hear what he says?” I pointed out.
Brice looked thoughtful. “I have a feeling Noel is a self-made man. In their eyes, that makes him an upstart and a bounder.”
The man with the side-whiskers had started thumping the table. “The urban poor are breeding like rabbits and we’ve got to put a stop to it!” He went into a long rant about the poor spreading their disgusting diseases, and pushing up crime rates. “By the end of the century we’ll be overrun!”
Georgie’s uncle seemed increasingly uncomfortable. “You all speak as if the poor are incapable of feeling as we do, as if they have no dreams or ambitions.”
“That’s true,” I hissed to Brice. “What he said about their attitude, I mean not what they said about the poor,” I added hastily.
But old Side-whiskers completely ignored Uncle Noel’s outburst. “This so-called Whitechapel murderer is a prime example,” he said. “The man’s obviously a complete degenerate. I’d be very surprised if he even knows who his father was!”
I don’t know if it was the old buffer’s words or the approving haw-hawing that upset Georgie’s uncle so much. Plus remember he’d been knocking back the booze. Suddenly he exploded with rage.