The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  Yes, yes. That made sense.

  I disposed of the indignity in my makeshift chamber pot, washed, and dressed in the clothes that were least offensive to my nose. I took the History with me as I did, even to the bathroom where I sat it on a chair within arm’s reach. I took appropriate precautions. I wrapped the History first in cloth and then in a binding of leather I fashioned from ripping the pages out of a notebook in Will’s room. I then placed the book in my briefcase, a hardy thing made of solid dark leather, fastened with two brass clasps that featured a locking mechanism. It’d been a gift from Will long ago when I was devoid of the many scars that scored my face and body. My initials, both actual and mischievous, were monogrammed on its side: A.M. I hadn’t always been Archibald Barrie. I smiled at it as I bathed, remembering Will’s disappointment when I got the job at the museum and expressed how I intended to use the briefcase in my new appointment: ‘All the better to steal books with, my dear.’

  Happy memories brought me back to my old self. I concluded that the History’s damage had wrought some damage on me. A day of suffering for each lost entry, and a little extra for the waterdrop experiment, perhaps. No matter. I wouldn’t allow a headache, some nightmares and a few blood noses to entomb me in my own home again. There was no better protector for the History than I, a guardian (and occasional pilferer) of the British Museum’s printed books, the finest collection since Alexandria. The sinister smudged page at the back of the book was forgotten again.

  Let my thief do her worst.

  Will arrived back late. The sight of him made me laugh. His nose and cheeks were burnt pink from the cold. He wore so many layers his arms stuck out from his sides. He looked like a ruddy penguin.

  I told him as such. He smiled at me, good-natured fellow that he was.

  ‘At least I’m not a grumpy old bear,’ he said, tugging on my beard.

  ‘I’ll shave tomorrow, before work,’ I promised.

  ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, you daft old thing.’

  ‘The shave can wait then.’

  ‘It cannot. We have a dinner engagement tomorrow.’

  I cursed Will’s inability to say no to dinner invitations.

  ‘You have an engagement. I have work to do.’ I motioned at my briefcase as if to supply the evidence.

  Will snatched my briefcase. He darted out of my reach as I tried to grab it back.

  ‘That’s not funny, Will.’

  He wiggled it at me childishly. ‘I’ll confiscate this till after our dinner. You understand.’

  I tried to grab him and he dashed out of the room. I pursued, furious at being taunted with the same trickery that had haunted me for days.

  ‘Will!’ I snapped, half-bark, half-growl.

  He laughed as he ran. ‘Exit, pursued by a bear!’

  Her words from his mouth. Suddenly I saw not Will, but my thief. I shoved the air, and my mischief pushed him in the back. He hit a doorframe face-first and dropped the briefcase. I snatched it.

  His nose bled. It bled more than should be possible for such a small appendage. I told him as much as he fussed in front of the mirror. He told me I was lucky it didn’t break and that I was a right old pain in the arse.

  I said sorry.

  He said I was bloody well coming to dinner.

  I said yes, very well then.

  I mused on how like children we still were together.

  It was insufferably cold when we stepped out for our dinner engagement. Puddles were fringed with ice. We got a cab heading to the Tower. Will was obsessed with the new Tower Bridge and said he wanted to go for a walk along the river before dining with our hosts.

  ‘It’s too cold for a stroll, for goodness’ sake!’ I objected.

  ‘I have a surprise. It’s worth the cold, I promise.’

  I hate surprises. I turned every puddle and slick of water to ice, the slippery roads making our cabbie and his horse nervous and, as a result, rather slow. But Will wouldn’t be deterred.

  ‘We have plenty of time,’ he assured me. ‘Dinner’s at seven. I only said six because I know what you’re like.’

  We disembarked at London Bridge and began our intolerable walk along the Thames, the Tower Bridge looming ahead of us. The bridge, completed the year prior, was gargantuan, its two towers dominating the river. The turrets of the towers were so tall, the fog hanging over the city blocked them from view. A walkway was suspended between them and rope-like steel suspensions draped down on either side. The bridge was one-part suspension, one-part bascule, and indeed it was the bascules that were the most remarkable, though unassuming, parts. They could swing up in a matter of minutes due to some ingenious hydraulic engines, allowing all manner of river traffic to pass under them. The bridge was many things: gaudy and elegant, excessively decorative and eminently functional. A symbol of the best and worst of Britain.

  I was so distracted by the majesty of the bridge, I failed to notice the river itself. Will touched my arm and gestured to the water below. Here and there, chunks of ice floated down the rapids. Ice sloshed at the river’s edge, broken up and jostling on the surface. This was the surprise, it seemed.

  What a miserable anticlimax.

  ‘I miss Scotland when it’s this cold,’ Will said.

  ‘I miss our residence when it’s this cold.’

  He ignored me.

  ‘The Thames froze solid up in Oxford. Don’t you miss when the lochs froze and we’d spend all day skating?’ he said as we trundled towards the bridge. ‘Grandpa took me to a fair on the ice when I was little. Carriages were driven over the loch and they even roasted a lamb right there on the ice. It tasted different somehow. I wish you could’ve tried it.’

  The cold condensed our breath into water vapour, smoke-like wisps spilling from our lips as we spoke. I let it come streaming out in an annoyed sigh.

  ‘I fear I’m losing my accent,’ Will said quietly.

  ‘You are. It would make things a great deal easier if you lost it completely,’ I responded.

  He sighed. ‘I just thought it was a magical sight, these little icebergs floating down the Thames. This way. Our hosts live off a lane near Fenchurch.’

  Fenchurch was a decent walk in this weather. I stifled my annoyance at this unnecessary detour, all for the sake of a few bits of ice bobbing under Tower Bridge.

  ‘Who’s the patient this time?’

  ‘Not a patient, a new friend. Mr McKenna and his niece. She fell into the Thames and I happened to be on hand to fish her out. She’s visiting London at the moment. I showed her the museum the other day when you were sulking.’

  ‘Why are you the one to play host?’

  ‘I’m being polite, Archie.’

  ‘She has an uncle to show her the sights.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s busy and she’s rather lovely, to be honest. I enjoy her company.’

  Rather lovely? ‘I thought you’d given up wife hunting.’

  Will put his head down, embarrassed. ‘She doesn’t look it but she’s made a few comments about being as mature as myself. Her disinclination towards marriage seems clear.’

  Thirty-five was hardly ‘mature’ in a man such as Will but for a lady seeking marriage, it certainly was. I was grateful the good lady was aware of this.

  We stopped outside a terrace house, slim, two storeys and with stone pillars above its station.

  ‘You are not to steal any books,’ Will warned as he lifted the doorknocker and glanced at my briefcase.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Will banged the knocker. We were welcomed by a maid who showed us through to the parlour. Will introduced me to our elderly host and his niece but all I could do was stare. It was her. My thief.

  I hugged my briefcase. ‘You!’

  Confused stares, the lot of them. She glanced at her uncle, frightened, and then back at me. Will muttered an apology and said something equal parts threatening and pleading to me.

  ‘This is my thief! This is her!’

  ‘What thi
ef? What are you talking about?’ Will demanded. ‘Mr McKenna, I’m so sorry, my brother’s not in his right mind.’

  Will clasped my arm. I shook him free. ‘She,’ I stabbed an accusatory finger at her, ‘robbed me! I apprehended her but she damaged a most invaluable thing.’

  My thief looked terrified. ‘Sir, you must’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

  Scottish accent this time. What a master of disguise my thief was. She was dressed far more demurely, yes, but it was her. Her freckles were gone, no doubt disguised under some tricksy woman’s paint, and her eyes were brown … why had I thought them blue?

  ‘What did you do to the History?’ I demanded.

  ‘Sir, this is outrageous!’ Mr McKenna exclaimed. Was the old man in on it? I didn’t care. My fury stayed on my thief. She burst into tears.

  A woman’s tears can ruin anything. Once they were released, a series of events was set in motion. Will begged her forgiveness, begged our host’s forgiveness, delivered a blistering tirade on me, and then bowed and offered a thousand meek apologies as he manhandled me out the door. The dinner, needless to say, did not go ahead. No explanation would suffice for Will. We made it back to the residences separately, Will so angry he chose to walk home and risk losing his toes to frostbite than share a cab with me. Very well. I only heard the slamming of doors when he returned home a few hours later.

  I met her in my dreams again that night.

  ‘Isn’t it cold?’ yet again.

  Will didn’t entreat me to come to church, as was his tradition every Sunday morning (as was my refusal). He stayed out the entire day. I couldn’t help thinking he was with her. No doubt she was graciously accepting apologies, saying how very sorry she felt for the poor unhinged brother of her new friend, and all manner of female flattery and thief cunning.

  A day of reflection made me realise how stupid I’d been, showing my hand. It’s difficult to know thine enemy when one cannot get close enough to study them. My thief now had Will’s ear and no doubt his protection. But I had something she didn’t: his heart. When he came home, I caught him in the hallway.

  ‘Trust me, Will. It was her.’

  Will sighed, conflicted. ‘I trust that you were robbed. I trust you think it was her. But it couldn’t have been. The same day you accuse her of stealing from you, I was with her. I told you she fell in the Thames. She was horribly shaken from the event. I was afraid hypothermia would set in. I cared for her the whole day.’

  That shook my confidence a little. ‘What time did she fall in the Thames?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Archie! Around midmorning, I suppose.’

  Hmm. The robbery occurred in the afternoon. She could not be my thief. Perhaps the Scottish accent was genuine. The woman who had robbed me was French. Yet, something about her still felt uncertain, dangerous even. I felt like a foolhardy boy, making his way across the thinning ice of a frozen pond. I played it safe, retreated.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I offered.

  ‘Forgiveness can only be sought from the good lady you’ve dishonoured.’

  ‘I shall seek it.’

  Will was suspicious, but smiled and offered a terse ‘good’ as a warning.

  Monday morning. Briefcase in hand. Hair brushed, somewhat.

  I made my way to the Reading Room, my workplace at the centre of the British Museum. There was no finer treasure in the museum than the Reading Room’s dome. No drawing, photograph, or literary account could capture its vastness. It eclipsed the desks, the patrons and the books we all coveted. The dome itself was blue, with ribs of white and gold. Tall windows encircled the base, taller than the bookshelves beneath them, and flooded the room with light. The very top of the dome was a brilliant circular window, a rooftop of glass. Below it was the Superintendent’s desk, raised so Percy could glower at our readers.

  My normal role was assistant to Richard, the Keeper of the Books. Richard often sent me on missions into the stacks or across Britain and Europe to retrieve things. It was Richard, unwell at the time, who insisted I take the Abyssinian manuscript to Windsor, thereby putting me on my path towards the History.

  For now though, I was an attendant, a fetcher of books, under Percy’s dictatorship. I was on loan, like a fine exhibit, for six months. Richard had tasked me with reducing waiting times for patrons’ book requests. I was to train the attendants, as my colleagues were uninventive, unable to consider where a book might’ve been housed if shelved even a few spaces down from its intended position.

  Tedious colleagues aside, I enjoyed my new employment. The Reading Room stacks were a fine place to call home. Several storeys encircled the dome. Affectionately known as the Iron Library, the floors of the stacks were made of perforated iron so the sun from the glass ceiling could filter down even to the lowest level.

  As the day passed, the dome darkened. The hum of the newly-installed electric glow lamps sizzled a little louder. The Reading Room was one of the first public buildings to experiment with electrical lighting, but a small explosion the year before meant that no risks were taken with the stacks. Once the sun had set, they were thrown into complete darkness. I tasked an attendant with lighting the enclosed oil lanterns and helping me find a few requests. A Russian fellow wanted something on land taxes. I shadowed Jeffery, our youngest but brightest attendant, as he tried to implement my methods. Took him fifteen minutes. I sighed and told him he was still the smartest of a dull bunch.

  ‘Mr Barrie,’ Percy greeted me as Jeffery and I returned with the Russian fellow’s books.

  ‘Percy,’ I responded.

  ‘Could you find this immediately?’ he said, handing me a request slip. ‘The patron’s been here since morning. No need to show us how you do it.’

  I resisted the urge to tell Percy to ‘say please’, took the request and a lantern, and off into the stacks I went.

  The author of the requested book was a G. Davis. No doubt a thousand books had been written by such a common name. Indeed, the stacks were full of them. I couldn’t find the request at first, but then I took a few books out of the overburdened shelves. Yes, a common mistake. Two small books, eclipsed by larger volumes, had been squashed to the back, hidden from view. One of them was that desired by the patron. The other? I couldn’t help a little look. I smiled when I saw the title page.

  FROSTIANA :

  or

  A History of

  THE RIVER THAMES,

  In a Frozen State;

  with an account of

  THE LATE SEVERE FROST;

  AND THE WONDERFUL EFFECTS

  of

  Frost, Snow, Ice, and Cold,

  in England,

  and in different parts of the world; interspersed

  WITH VARIOUS AMUSING ANECDOTES.

  To which is added,

  THE ART OF SKATING.

  Charming! The book claimed to be ‘printed and published on the Ice on the River Thames, February 5, 1814, by G. Davis’.

  I thought of Will: his childhood fair upon ice, our years skating across every manner of pond, loch or river that froze in our old home. How we laughed back then.

  So, yes, I took the book. Unlocked my briefcase, slid it inside against the History. I took our patron his request, some small tome that was not ‘interspersed’ with the promised ‘various amusing anecdotes’ of the one I stole.

  She was there when I got back, sitting by the fireplace of a lounge Will had cleaned as best he could. I promised him a reconciliation. I supposed he was intent on having it. She stood at my arrival. We eyed each other cautiously.

  ‘Archie, this is Miss Chloe McKenna,’ Will said.

  My thief came forward and offered me her hand. I dutifully kissed it, bowed as a gentleman does, and smiled through gritted teeth.

  ‘Miss McKenna, I must apologise for my rudeness of a few nights ago. I was not myself.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she offered. Still Scottish. ‘Will tells me of your terrible ordeal with the thief. I’m aghast that one of my sex would par
ticipate in the petty crimes of boys.’

  Clever words. A small voice reminded me that Will had rescued the lady from the Thames and cared for her during the time of my theft, that this polite but careful creature couldn’t be my thief. But my thief she was, I was certain.

  We sat. A tray of tea rested on a table whose surface I hadn’t seen in years. Where did Will put my papers? God help him if he lost any on account of her.

  ‘I hope Mr McKenna can also be so forgiving,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. My uncle appreciates it was a misunderstanding.’

  I nodded. I found women difficult to engage in conversation. What should I say now? Luckily, she continued.

  ‘We’re both so grateful to Will. I’d be frozen at the bottom of the Thames if it weren’t for him. Has he told you the full story of his bravery?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. My brother is a humble man.’ Dear God, please don’t bore me with a tedious tale of heroics.

  She told her story of falling into the Thames and Will jumping in after her. Will. She keeps saying his name. That was all I could think. Not Dr Barrie, not even William, but Will.

  Only I called him Will.

  ‘My brother, the hero,’ I said, realising I hadn’t spoken in some time.

  She went on, complimenting Will, complimenting London. Asking questions of me, enquiring into my work, on and on and on.

  ‘Mr Barrie, you hold your briefcase with such care. It must contain something precious.’

  My expression soured. She noticed.

  ‘Forgive me for prying. I only assumed it was some fine book, given your work. I’m a keen reader.’

  Of course you are.

  ‘There’s always some kind of wonder in Archie’s briefcase,’ Will said. ‘What do you have in there today?’

  I thought of our Russian patron. ‘Some manuscripts on land taxes. Nothing to bore our guest with.’

  ‘Maybe next time then,’ she offered sweetly.

  ‘Next time,’ I said, smiling back at her.

  The night went on much like this, tedious politeness after tedious politeness. Thankfully, she didn’t stay for dinner. Will insisted on taking her home. As she left, she took my hands in hers and said how very happy she was that we were now friends. I could have sworn I saw a flash of blue go across her brown eyes as she glanced once more at my briefcase.