“If we do, will you give us our own cases to solve?” Clarissa asked.
“You know that is not possible.”
Marcus pulled two folded sheets of paper from his coat and dropped them on the bed. They were posters for plays, printed with the same picture of a werewolf attacking a top-hatted man and a ball-gowned lady.
Clarissa snatched one up and read it with the exaggerated horror of a showman at a fairground. “‘The Savage Spectacle of Wild Boy! The murdering boy monster that preyed on London.’” She picked up the next sheet. “‘The Wild Boy of London. The voodoo fiend who devoured his victims’ flesh and drank their blood.’”
“It ain’t fair,” she said. “People thought I was a monster once too. Now they’ve forgotten all about me. It’s all ‘Wild Boy killed this’ and ‘Wild Boy murdered that’. I should’ve bitten someone. Or howled like a wolf.”
She gave her best werewolf howl and fell back laughing on the bed.
The knot pulled tighter in Wild Boy’s gut. Four months ago he’d proven to the police that they were innocent of murder, but not to the public. He had become famous: the Wild Boy of London.
That was why he hid in the palace, why he couldn’t leave. Why he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d heard downstairs.
“Who’s the Principal?” he said.
The words came out before Wild Boy could stop them. Questions about the Gentlemen’s business were as forbidden as snooping around their laboratories.
Marcus looked at him. He seemed as if he was about to answer, then suddenly slammed a hand against the wall, grimacing. Clarissa stepped towards him, but he held out a palm, signalling for her to stay back. His eye scrunched shut as the pain grew stronger behind the other socket.
“Sir?” a voice called. “Sir!”
“Oh great,” Clarissa said. “It’s Gideon.”
It was hard at first to see much of the man who rushed up the stairs. Small and skinny, he was hidden by an oversize tricorn hat and a coachman’s coat that was almost twice his size, flowing behind him like a royal gown. Tripping on its train, the man tumbled into the attic. His hat fell off and a parcel slipped from his hands.
Clarissa grabbed the hat and hid it behind her back.
“Sir,” the man said, scrambling to Marcus. “Sir, your medicines.”
“No, Gideon. I am fine.”
The man whirled around. He had a tight, shrivelled face, like an old sponge, and beady black eyes. It was Gideon Finkle, Marcus’s coach driver.
“What have you done to him now?” he yelled, glaring first at Wild Boy, then Clarissa. “You’ll kill him! You’ll be the death of him.”
“Oh, it’s always us, ain’t it, Gideon?” Clarissa said. “Maybe it was your coach driving that hurt Marcus, eh? So bumpy he banged his head about.”
Gideon’s lips peeled back, revealing brown, peg-like teeth. He fingered a dirty cloth tied around his wizen neck. “I’ve been his driver for sixteen years,” he snarled.
“Should be better at it by now, then.”
“Give me my hat,” Gideon demanded.
“Ain’t got your hat.”
She tossed it to Wild Boy, who threw it back, trapping Gideon as a piggy in the middle.
“Sir!” Gideon squealed. “They’re doing it again.”
“Enough! All of you.”
Marcus’s voice boomed around the attic, and they all fell silent. He sighed a breath so heavy it clouded the air. “Can’t you just get along?”
“No fun in that,” Clarissa muttered. “What’s in that parcel?”
With his cane Marcus prodded the parcel that Gideon had dropped. He raised an eyebrow at Wild Boy. “Care to tell us?”
Wild Boy hadn’t been paying much attention to the quarrel with Gideon. His mind had still been on Lucien and the Principal. But suddenly it was here again, sharp and focused.
It was a test. He loved tests.
He crouched beside the parcel, wide eyes scouring the surfaces. “It’s a dress,” he said, looking to Marcus, “from a fashion shop on Bond Street. It’s for Clarissa, although you only got the idea to give it to her in the last half hour.”
A small smile cracked the corner of Marcus’s mouth. “Care to share your observations?”
Wild Boy rose. This was the bit he really liked, a chance to show off his skills. “Gideon gave it away,” he said.
“Sir, I said nothing. I promise.”
“No, your coat. The mud marks tell a story.”
Gideon glanced around at the back of his coat. “Ain’t no mud marks.”
“That’s the story. Means you only drove on metalled roads between here and the shop. You ain’t gone past Oxford Street to the north or Park Lane west, where it gets muddy. So you went east into Mayfair.
“Also, look at the parcel. See these dried spots on the top? That’s from snow. But it’s only snowed in the past twenty minutes, since midnight. What shop would open so late for you to collect a dress? Only the very poshest, the ones on Bond Street. And why pick it up so late? Cos Marcus only just got the idea of inviting Clarissa somewhere – somewhere she needs a dress.”
“How do you know it’s a dress? You didn’t even touch it.”
“If it’s from Bond Street, it’s either jewellery or a dress. Gideon didn’t go crazy when he dropped it, so it ain’t jewellery.”
“Well, how do you know it’s for Clarissa?”
“Cos I don’t wear dresses. Though neither does she.”
Gideon snatched the parcel from the floor. “That ain’t so clever,” he muttered. “I once saw a magician chop a lady in half. That was clever.”
“It ain’t magic,” Clarissa said. “Wild Boy’s a detective.”
“Freak, more like.”
Clarissa shot up. “What did you just say?”
“The parcel, Gideon,” Marcus said calmly.
Gideon dumped it beside Clarissa on the bed, and snatched his hat back in return.
Clarissa opened the box and took out the dress. Golden sequins shimmered on red silk. Wild Boy wondered if she realized how similar it looked to her old red and gold circus outfit, the costume she had worn to perform with her mother in the circus.
“What’s this for?” Clarissa asked.
“I thought you might accompany me to dinner tomorrow evening at Lady Bentick’s house,” Marcus said.
“I… Where?”
“Berkeley Square.”
“No, I mean why?”
“I hoped it might teach you a few manners.”
“What’s Wild Boy’s gonna wear?” Clarissa said. “He only ever wears that coat.”
Marcus looked at Wild Boy, and his Adam’s apple rose and fell. He didn’t need to explain. Wild Boy knew there was no invite for him. He was the Wild Boy of London.
“If I go,” Clarissa said, “can I steal something?”
“Only if you don’t get caught,” Marcus said.
Holding the wall for support, he began to descend the stairs. Gideon scuttled after him, pausing just long enough to glare at them again, shove his hat back on and slam the door.
Clarissa banged a fist against the other side. “You’re just jealous cos Marcus likes us more than you!” she shouted. She laughed, flopping back onto the bed. “What shall we do now? Wanna sneak around and steal stuff?”
A crow flew past the attic window, cawing loudly into the night. Wild Boy closed his eyes, tried not to listen, but still the dark memories came creeping back. Memories of showmen and freak shows.
The Principal was coming to kick them out of the palace. And they had nowhere else to go.
Clarissa sat up, brushing back her hair. “What’s up with you?”
“If I tell you something, do you promise to stay calm?”
4
“Clarissa, wait!”
Wild Boy scrambled after her across the rooftops, his bare feet slipping on the icy surfaces. He caught up with her on the roof of the palace chapel. Anger flowed off Clarissa in waves, as if it might melt t
he ice. Wild Boy wondered if she would punch a chimney-stack if she couldn’t get into the Gentlemen’s meeting with the Principal.
“You said you’d stay calm,” he gasped.
“I am calm. I’m gonna calmly punch all the Gentlemen in the face.”
“Clarissa…”
“Wild Boy, they can’t kick us out. They owe us. We helped them catch a killer, remember? Anyway, we can’t exactly stroll about on the streets. You’re the Wild Boy of London.”
Wild Boy knew that much. He’d been thinking about it all night. They needed to find out what was going on, but they couldn’t just storm into the Gentlemen’s meeting.
He gazed across the rooftops of St James’s Palace, squinting in the midday sun. He’d snooped around enough of the palace to have a map in his mind of its various staterooms, secret laboratories and hallways. He saw it now, laid over the snow-sheeted clutter of rooftops and attics that surrounded its four courtyards.
“Where are they all, anyhow?” Clarissa said.
“Lucien said they were meeting in the Tapestry Room,” Wild Boy said. He pointed to a weather vane several roofs away. “That’s under that black ship.”
Clarissa set off again, swinging around flagpoles and leaping skylights. Reaching the weather vane, she stood on the edge of the roof and looked over. Several black coaches were parked in the courtyard.
“Looks like the Gentlemen are here,” Clarissa said. “I could climb down and listen at the window.”
“You’ll get seen by the drivers,” Wild Boy said, catching up.
“So how we gonna listen in?”
Still struggling to catch his breath, Wild Boy slapped a hand against the roof’s chimney-stack. He remembered Marcus’s history lesson about the Tapestry Room. It was the oldest part of the palace, a banqueting chamber where kings and queens had once hosted lavish feasts. It had a huge open hearth and a very wide chimney.
“Don’t be a thickhead,” Clarissa said, realizing his plan. “We ain’t chimney sweeps.” She peered over the top of the stack. “Anyhow, I’m too tall to fit in there.”
“I can, just about.”
Wild Boy stood on tiptoe and looked into the sooty chute. A murmur of voices rose up the shaft. The Gentlemen were down there, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Was the Principal there too? He had to get closer.
“It’s a long drop,” Clarissa said. “You’ll break both your legs if you fall. That’s if you land that way up.” She grinned. “This is the best thing you’ve ever done.”
Usually Wild Boy was pleased if he impressed Clarissa. But all he felt now was fear. He wasn’t scared of the fall, but of what he might hear.
Gripping Clarissa’s shoulder, he sat up on top of the stack. His matchstick legs quivered as they dangled down the chute.
“Hey,” Clarissa said. “If you die, come back to haunt me.”
Wild Boy forced a smile and began to climb. Pressing his back against one side of the shaft and his feet hard into the other, he wriggled down the cramped space. The soles of his feet were as rough as pumice, perfect for gripping the coarse brick. But his legs shook from the effort, and soot sprinkled into his eyes.
“Can you hear anything?” Clarissa called.
The Gentlemen’s voices grew louder. Wild Boy could pick out a few words.
“… the Principal…”
“… Wild Boy and Clarissa … threat to security…”
He shuffled lower. A pigeon nested in a space where a brick had crumbled from the wall. It watched Wild Boy with unblinking eyes as he pressed his feet either side of its hole, wedging himself tighter into the shaft.
The words grew into sentences. Lucien Grant’s barrel-deep voice rose above the others.
“Perhaps you might explain to us what this is all about, Marcus?”
Marcus spoke. “As you know—”
“Know?” Lucien interrupted. “All we know is that the Principal is coming.”
“Then you appreciate how serious the situation must be. This case is … unusual. That is why the Principal proposes to involve Wild Boy.”
Wild Boy’s feet almost slipped from the wall. The Principal wasn’t coming to kick them out of the palace. He was coming to talk to them about a case!
Lucien scoffed. “I suggest, Marcus, that I handle this. It sounds as if it is beyond the boy’s limited abilities.”
“You would not think that, Lucien, if you knew him. Indeed, I am yet to discover a limit to his abilities. I am, however, inclined to agree. This should not be the children’s first case. It is a delicate situation. A dangerous one, perhaps.”
Clarissa whispered something down the chimney, but Wild Boy ignored her. He knew he should climb back up. This would definitely not be a good moment to get caught. But he wanted to hear more.
Clarissa’s whisper rose to a shout. “Smoke!”
He glanced down and his heart lurched.
The Gentlemen had lit the fire.
Smoke rose up the chute, choking him. He began to wriggle back up, but the pigeon – trapped beneath him – panicked and pecked his legs. He reached to swipe the bird away, but his feet slipped.
He dropped twenty feet down the shaft, screaming all the way, and landed in a cloud of ash and sparks.
Around the Tapestry Room, Gentlemen tumbled back from the table. Others rushed forward, drawing pistols from their coats. They watched Wild Boy roll from the hearth, spluttering and swearing and thrashing his arms to put out sparks.
Slowly, Wild Boy rose.
This ain’t gonna be easy. He looked around the Gentlemen and forced a smile. “You won’t believe this,” he said, “but I was just cleaning the chimney, and—”
“Wild Boy.”
Marcus rose from the table. Leaning on his cane, he limped closer. To the others his face was unreadable. To Wild Boy the message was as clear as if printed on a poster. The narrowing of his guardian’s good eye, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple and the slight clench of his jaw.
Not anger. Disappointment.
“I assume Clarissa is close?” Marcus asked.
“Get your stinking hands off me!” a voice screamed.
The door burst open and Gideon shoved Clarissa into the hall. He bowed to Marcus. “Discovered her outside, sir. She was about to smash the window. I warned you this would happen, sir. Only a matter of time with these two.”
Wild Boy guessed that Clarissa had planned to cause a distraction, giving him a chance to escape. He smiled gratefully, but at the same time an icy hand squeezed his heart. He’d really messed up now.
Lucien Grant pushed closer, barging several Gentlemen while making a big show of brushing soot from his coat sleeve. But the delight was obvious in his dark eyes, the triumph barely disguised in his voice. “The children must go,” he said. “We cannot tolerate this insubordination.”
The room filled with shouts of support, everyone agreeing that the incident could not be ignored.
“The girl and the freak must go,” Lucien demanded.
Clarissa launched forward and shoved him in the chest. “Who you calling a freak?”
She swung at punch at Lucien, but another of the Gentlemen yanked her back before it found its target. Wild Boy couldn’t stop himself now; no one started a fight with Clarissa and didn’t get in one with him too. Half the height of most of the men, he went in low, punching one of them in the groin, kicking another’s shin, and then biting a third on the thigh.
“Get your hands off her!”
Gentlemen wrestled them to the ground. There were grunts and groans, sounds of coats tearing, Wild Boy’s muffled swearing and Clarissa’s manic screams.
Then a quiet voice spoke.
“Gentlemen.”
The Gentlemen immediately released Wild Boy and Clarissa, springing up as if they’d been zapped by electricity. They neatened their suits and brushed soot from their faces.
Wild Boy and Clarissa lay on the floor, staring up at the person the Gentlemen had gathered to meet.
>
The Principal.
“Bloody hell,” Clarissa said. “It’s Queen Victoria.”
5
Around the Tapestry Room, the Gentlemen bolted up, stiff and straight, like soldiers. Each man bowed his head, lowering his gaze from the royal visitor. A few edged forward and a few shrank back, an unspoken pecking order asserting itself among their ranks.
Impatient hands shoved Wild Boy and Clarissa to the back of the group. Clarissa was happy to hide; she brushed her hair with her hands and neatened her crumpled clothes. She nudged Wild Boy to do the same, but he just stood there staring at the leader of the Gentlemen through gaps between the men. The Principal.
He’d seen paintings of Queen Victoria at fairgrounds around the time of her coronation five years ago. They had made her look beautiful, almost like a goddess. In person, though, she looked so normal. She was elegantly dressed, of course, in a gown embroidered with flowers, and her hair was tied in elaborate buns around her ears. But she was shorter than the paintings had suggested, dumpy even, with a plump face, pointed nose, and eyes so deep-set they sank into her skull. She carried a parcel, which seemed strange for a Queen with two footmen following so closely.
Still, she radiated authority, even in a room full of such powerful men. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that she was the sovereign of the largest empire the world had ever known.
Lucien came forward first, knocking over a chair in his eagerness and causing the Queen to step back with a start. He bowed so low that his grey whiskers brushed his knees – an impressive feat, Wild Boy thought, for a man of his size.
“Your Majesty,” Lucien said solemnly.
The Queen glanced at Marcus. For a second her polite smile changed into something more playful, childlike even. Then it was gone, replaced by the stiff formality of a monarch greeting her subjects.
Several other Gentlemen approached, although none dared compete with Lucien’s bow. Instead they tried to out-greet each other with increasingly elaborate salutes.
Wild Boy and the Black Terror Page 3