by Avi
“Steps down,” she cautioned.
We entered a low room at basement level: Dirt floor—lit by one small, smoky lamp. If I had been any taller, I’d have had to stoop. The air was dank, smelling of too many bodies pressed into too small a space, of tobacco, of filth. I counted some twenty people, appearing no different from those on the streets: a thoroughly wretched lot of old and young, men, women, and children.
A few looked up with glazed eyes.
“Brought me friend John!” Sary announced. “John, this is me family.”
“Pleased …,” I managed to say, though I wasn’t, “to meet you.”
No response. No greeting. Whether they were not pleased or, more likely, not caring, I didn’t know.
Sary took up the lamp with her free hand and, pulling me along by my jacket, guided us over many a body. At the far side of the room we entered an alcove, which had a ragged curtain drawn across its front.
“’Ere we are,” Sary said, “me’ome’ sweet ’ome.”
A cubicle, hardly more than four feet by four, with something like a shelf against an oozing back wall. In one corner a bunched coverlet. A bed, I guessed. Nothing else.
“Pretty good,” said Sary, “ain’t it?”
“Is this where you … live?” I asked.
“I only pays sixpence a week for it,” she said, “so it’s all mine ’cause I make the most money in this place.”
“Does someone own it?”
“Some say it’s Lord Silverbridge. Might be Prince Albert for all I care. I pays it to an agent who comes regular as the full moon, ’cept there are plenty o’ times I can’t see the moon—but I always sees ’im.”
“Sary, are those people out there truly your family?”
“Naw. Just call ’em that. They likes me well enough, an’ it’s better to feel near somebody, I suppose. Go on,” she said, “sit down.”
I did. She sat next to me and blew out the lamp.
“Why did you do that?”
“Saves the odd penny,” she said, “an’ most pennies I get are odd.”
Settling into the dark, she drew the coverlet round both our shoulders. Snug then, she said, “All right, we got to make a plan ’bout what to do.”
“I need to know something first.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you still working for Brigit O’Doul?”
“Nope.”
“Even if she asks you to?”
“Least not till this ’ere business is done with. I’m sneakin’ just for you now. You’re me bloke. And you don’t even ’ave to marry me.” It was dark, but I was sure she was grinning.
“I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“Didn’t yer lady aunt say she’d get you work?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Don’t sniff at it. First thing tomorrow mornin’, go to it. From the sound o’ things, you’re bound to make a bit. We can share, right?”
“Of course. And you?”
“I’ll go back to Whitecross Prison so as to keep me eye on that Brigit of yers. If she come out, I’ll sneak after ’er. See where she goes.”
“Is that the one you think is behind this all?”
“She or maybe ’er brother.”
“My father didn’t think so.”
“Who’d ’e think?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Don’t matter,” said Sary. “After we done our day, we’ll meet up an’ see what t’other ’as found. What we’ll be is our own inspector detectives.”
“I suppose I should go back to the prison,” I said. “They’re expecting me. I don’t want them to worry.”
“You’re free to go,” said Sary, “but it’s a long way.”
I thought of what I’d have to go through to reach the prison. “I’ll stay,” I said.
“Then be comfy.”
We talked more, she asking me what a school was like. What I did there. And very curious about Old Moldy she was too. But somehow I came round to telling her about The Tales of the Genii, and I told her my favorite story from it, “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”
Sary adored it. “That slave girl, Morgiana, she’s me!” she cried when I was done. “I love the way she outwits all o’ them fellas an’ goes on livin’ ’appy. That’s me for sure! That were the best story I ever ’eard.”
We slept back-to-back.
CHAPTER 34
I Meet Mr. Nottingham
The first thing Sary said when we woke in the morning was, “I kept dreamin’ of yer Ali Baba world, me bein’ that Morgiana.”
Teeth chattering, we emerged from Sary’s alcove into the basement. It was not quite as full of people as the night before, but it was crowded enough. I wondered if they would go anywhere that day.
But the scene on the street was much the same as the night before. Countless people milling about, almost shuffling, but this time moving away from the rookery. I presumed it was toward gainful labor, or at least the hope of employment.
Sary found a hot tea seller and paid a penny for a pint along with two slices of bread. Sharing, we consumed the fare on the spot. Then she led the way back out of the maze that was the rookery.
The night before, when I’d told her all I knew, she had only asked questions to help her understand my bewilderment. Now, clearly having thought more, she raised others.
“I think we best find out more about that Inspector Copperfield, shouldn’t we?” she said.
“But you said you didn’t have anything to do with him.”
“I didn’t, but ’e still is someone, ain’t ’e? You thought ’e was that Mr. O’Doul, tryin’to scare you.”
“I did think so, at first.”
She caught the indecision in my voice. “Not now?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m still puzzled about what this Inspector Copperfield knew and didn’t know.”
“What didn’t ’e know?”
“About Mr. Farquatt,” I said. “Because Brigit knows all about Farquatt. Doesn’t that mean O’Doul should have known? So perhaps Copperfield isn’t O’Doul but … someone else.”
“Who?”
I shrugged.
“But you’re sure ’e’s after the riflin’ secret too?”
“Ratchet thinks him a spy. But then, everyone seems to be.”
“Me?” she asked, grinning.
“Of course not.”
“I thanks you for that!”
Things were rushing forward so, I was reminded of one of those railroad trains. Though I had yet to ride one, a friend had. He said it went fearfully fast—fifteen miles to the hour! I imagined the sensation as something like what I was experiencing.
When we reached a parting point, I suddenly found myself anxious. For the first time ever I had spent the night away from my parents without their knowing my whereabouts. Now there loomed a day during which I was to find out what work had been secured for me.
I said, “I’ll meet you … at the prison … as close to six or seven as I can. I need to tell my family I’m all right.”
“I’d like to do that for me pa,” said Sary. “But ’e’s too far off, ain’t ’e? Australia. I do always wonder ’ow ’e be. Thinkin’ o’ me, ’is lovin’ daughter, I ’ope. Don’t know if ’e even knows Ma died.” There was sadness on her face. Next moment, with a shake of her head, she returned to her normal, cheerful grin. “Anyways, I’ll be keepin’ eyes on yer Brigit, then waitin’ at the prison for you ’less somethin’ else ’appens.”
Pleased to be her friend, I watched her go.
I went the opposite direction. By listening to the bells and noticing clocks as I walked, I arrived at Great Winchester Street close to my appointed time of seven thirty. When I knocked, William/Wilkie opened the door promptly.
“Good morning, Wilkie,” I said.
“Good morning, sir,” he returned quite civilly, his eyebrow suggesting that this time I was truly welcome. “And while I appreciate your use of my Christia
n name, Master John, I beg to remind you not to use it in madam’s presence.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I promise. Will I be seeing her?”
“Madam is not well.”
“Is she dying?”
William/Wilkie’s lifted eyebrow seemed to say, Are we not all tending that way? “If you please, sir,” he said, opening a door into one of the rooms off the main hall, “just follow me.”
“Whom will I be seeing?”
“Mr. Nottingham.”
My father’s enemy!
We entered a small room, the walls covered as elsewhere with flowery-patterned silk. Otherwise, it was furnished sparsely: A table behind which sat a chair and another chair facing the table. A very low coal fire glowed in the fireplace, providing barely enough warmth to make the room bearable.
“Please be seated,” said William/Wilkie, indicating the chair facing the table. “Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not wishing to say where I’d been. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Nottingham shall be with you shortly.” The butler bowed and started out only to hesitate at the door. “Master John, a word of advice: Mr. Nottingham can be … somewhat dramatic, what might be called ‘theatrical.’ He creates a performance where others do not.” His eyebrow seemed to say much more, but I could not decipher it.
Left alone, I sat down, wondering how I would deal with Mr. Nottingham when there was so much mutual dislike between him and my father. I was consoling myself with the thought that the solicitor could hardly be worse than Lady Euphemia when the door burst open and a man, top hat in hand, rushed in.
I jumped to my feet.
This man, tall, thin, and angular, all but sprang to the table, flung his hat upon it, set himself down in the chair, and clasped large hands before him. But his arms, legs, and fingers were in constant motion, like an erratic windmill. His face was long, high-cheeked, and sallow, with a large nose, thin lips, and eyes that fairly glowed with hostility. His jaws, moreover, were clamped tightly together, making an angry line of his mouth. Indeed, he leaned toward me, nose and jaw jutting forward, a posture that suggested that not only was he prepared to argue, he was prepared to win the argument. After glaring at me for a while as if to intimidate me—which he assuredly did—he jumped up, fairly danced around the table, then began to pace right and left before me. For my part, I could do nothing but remain where I was and watch him, absorbed by the oddness of his behavior.
“The defendant may stand at the bar!” he abruptly commanded.
Since there was no one else in the room, I gathered that I was the defendant. I stood stock-still.
“Are you aware,” he cried, pointing an accusatory finger at me, “that I am Lady Euphemia Huffam’s solicitor?”
Though taken aback by his peculiar question, I said, “Yes, sir, I am.”
“That my name is Connop Nottingham?”
“If you say so, sir,” I said, but I recalled my father’s jibe, “noncompoop.”
He paced some more only to suddenly swing around to confront me again. “Now then, are you then willing to admit to being John Horatio Huffam?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Are you capable of confessing that you are the son of Wesley John Louis Huffam?”
“It’s not a confession, sir,” I said. “It’s the simple truth.”
“The defendant will just answer the question,” he said. I began to grasp that his use of the word “defendant” suggested that he was playing at being a trial lawyer. The more so when I recalled William/Wilkie’s words: Mr. Nottingham can be … somewhat dramatic…. He creates a performance where others do not. That grasped, I relaxed somewhat.
“Is it within your limited powers, John Huffam,” he went on relentlessly, “to perceive that I am not in this room because of my own desires?”
“I thought as much, sir.”
“John Horatio Huffam, are you further prepared to acknowledge that your father, the aforesaid Wesley John Louis Huffam, is a man of poor judgment?”
“He is my father, sir.”
Mr. Nottingham gripped the lapels of his jacket. “The court requires explanations, boy, not excuses! So will you, John Huffam, finally admit that your father’s actions, as suggested by his current predicament, are not beyond reproach?”
“No, sir, I don’t wish to say that.”
He frowned. “But you are willing, are you not, to admit that, as Lady Euphemia has informed me, he is in dire straits?”
“He is that, sir.”
“In, I believe, a shameful debtors’ prison?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you not—the truth now!—John Huffam, residing in prison with him?”
I hesitated, wanting to say I was not in the prison, yet uncomfortable with admitting I had slept in St. Giles Rookery. “No, sir.”
“Ah! At the Halfmoon Inn. A notorious sponging house, then?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, that being the easiest to say.
“My lord,” he said to a nonexistent judge, “we approach the sordid evidence! You have heard the defendant admit to much. One can only hope he has told the truth.” He swung round and glared at me. “The penalty for perjury is severe.
“I shall proceed,” he said. “Now then, John Huffam, you are, are you not, the last of the Huffam line? You even look like the infamous Wesley John Louis Huffam.”
“It appears so, sir.”
“Given all that, are you, John Huffam, aware of the fact that I, Connop Nottingham, am here because—and only because—Lady Euphemia ordered me to be so?”
“I didn’t believe you’d want to help me out of kindness, sir.”
His face reddened. “The defendant will just answer the question! Do you, John Huffam, know that she insisted! I do something for you?”
“She’s most considerate, sir.”
“You may have every reason to think her considerate, but that has nothing to do with the case.” He turned from me. “Let the court know that I think my lady is wrong to aid the boy and have advised her accordingly. In truth, she has chosen to ignore my sage advice and has commanded me to act otherwise. Therefore, I have done so.” He turned back to me. “Did you know all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
From his jacket pocket Mr. Nottingham extracted a piece of paper. “Then I can inform the court that I have secured employment for John Huffam at a church. You are expected there—at this address—in one hour, at nine o’clock sharp. Be late at your peril. It is my hope—not my expectation—that the church may do you some good, spiritually and morally. When you arrive there”—he pointed to the paper that he had placed upon the table—“you will ask for Mr. Jeremiah Snugsbe. You will present my compliments to Mr. Snugsbe. If you do as he bids, you will be paid accordingly. Such is the wish of my lady. Can you accept all that?”
“Willingly, sir.”
“Now then, John Huffam, be advised that I shall do everything in my power—have already done all in my power—to dissuade Lady Euphemia from providing you or your family any further assistance. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Furthermore, if you fail to meet your obligations at this place of employment, I shall learn of it. Indeed, I shall investigate frequently and will inform Lady Euphemia of any dereliction of your duties. All your hopes shall be dashed then—as they should be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Therefore, my lord,” intoned Mr. Nottingham, turning back to the imaginary judge, “since the defendant agrees with me in all particulars, I rest my case. There is nothing left for me to say except good day. I trust the jury will find this Huffam boy guilty—exceedingly guilty.”
With that, Mr. Nottingham snatched up his top hat and set it upon his head—accentuating his great height—and bounded out of the room. I stood there for a moment, partly bewildered, partly bemused, then looked at the address on the paper:
CHURCH OF ALL HALLOWS BY THE TOWER OF LONDON
I was still st
anding there wondering what possible employment I might find in a church and why Mr. Nottingham had sought to place me there when William/Wilkie slipped into the room.
“Master John,” he said, “I gather your meeting is over.”
“I believe so,” I replied.
“Was it satisfactory?” asked the butler, indicating with his extended hand that I was to exit the room. “Mr. Nottingham rushed from the house without saying a word.”
“He certainly doesn’t like me,” I said. “Or my family. He acted as if I were on trial.”
“As I tried to suggest, sir, Mr. Nottingham is a man of feverish—not to say, theatrical tendencies.”
“He said he told Lady Euphemia not to help me.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Why did she not listen to him?”
“I advised her otherwise, sir.”
I looked at William/Wilkie in surprise. “Do you have more power over her than her solicitor?” I asked.
“My lady is not without some heart.”
Having reached the front door, I looked up at him. “Thank you, Wilkie,” I said. “Mr. Nottingham did secure some employment for me. At the Church of All Hallows—”
“By the Tower, yes.”
“Do you know why?” I asked.
“I believe,” said William/Wilkie, “he has a good friend there. A Mr. Snugsbe. Mr. Nottingham no doubt considers that man a collaborator.” His lifted eyebrow indicated: Be forewarned! “Here are three pennies for the omnibus,” he said, offering the coins. “You will need to be there soon. I wish you well.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the coins and realizing—for him to mention the hour—that he must have been listening to the whole conversation from behind the door. “Should I come back?” I asked from the threshold.
“Only if summoned, sir,” he said, and if I translated his eyebrow correctly that time, there was no indication as to when that time might be—if ever.