The Society of Thirteen Page 7

‘When I’ve got money. Money can get you anything you want.’

  ‘If it’s money you want you’ll help me get that book off Hardy.’

  ‘Can’t we just forget about that stupid book now? You don’t believe it’s actually magic, do you?’

  ‘It’s not important what I believe. What’s important is that Ringmore believes it.’

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘You want money and Ringmore will do anything to get the book back. He’ll pay anything to get it back.’

  Tom looked at her and, for the first time since they had set off, smiled. ‘You think he will?’

  ‘Real, make-a-difference money, Tom. No matter what I believe, it’s worth it for that, ain’t it?’

  ‘But Hardy’s got it in his coat pocket and I’ve never even seen him take that coat off. Maybe we should buy the book back off him.’

  ‘No. He mustn’t know how much we want it. He already thinks there’s something up with it because of what happened back at Bloodstone’s. We need to get it from him without him knowing it was us what took it.’

  ‘I don’t fancy pickpocketing Hardy.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea. We’ll swipe it right from under his nose.’

  ‘He’ll kill us if he catches us.’

  ‘This idea I got, he won’t even know it was us.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Friday’s collection day,’ said Esther. ‘Except this Friday it won’t just be Hardy who’s collecting.’

  Chapter 18

  Investigations

  Lord Ringmore was impressed with Clay’s skills of detection. He had an uncanny ability to extract information from his interviewees, often without them knowing they were the subjects of an interrogation at all. By the end of the first day, having mixed with some of London’s most despicable characters and visited some of the city’s most deprived areas, Clay had established that Tom and Esther had begun life at an orphanage in Southwark by the name of St Clement’s Catholic School for Waifs and Strays.

  Lord Ringmore had been most insistent that they conduct the investigation together, even if he had so far done little more than observe. As the two men walked briskly across London Bridge, Clay explained how he’d first discovered his natural flair for investigation.

  ‘A couple of years back, I was touring America; working the backwaters, you know, the small towns,’ said Clay. ‘I was in one of these towns when I read in some local rag about an abduction of a young girl. Reading the details, it occurred to me that if I were able to discover the culprit myself then I could use this information in my performance.’

  ‘Use it how?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  Clay adopted a distinctly sheepish demeanour. ‘I was still doing the medium stuff back then. I thought that if I knew the whereabouts of this child I could appear to draw the answer from the spiritual world as part of the act.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Like a dream. It wasn’t so hard to discover the truth of the abduction. In fact, she had run off with her cousin. That night, I made it seem that the mysterious forces of the universe revealed her whereabouts to me. The young girl was recovered and I was proclaimed the hero.’

  ‘All this from Harry Clay, the scourge of false mediums.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ve all got skeletons, haven’t we, Ringmore? Besides, my methods may have been questionable but my conclusion was sound. So I started doing the same in every town I visited. It made for an excellent aspect of the show, but more importantly it made the newspapers.’

  ‘And of course, you solved these crimes,’ added Lord Ringmore.

  ‘And that, yes,’ replied Clay, dismissively. ‘In Connecticut, I even got a murder inquiry reopened and the guilty party arrested, tried and hanged. That made it all the way to New York. Journalists everywhere picked up on it. It was well worth the death threats from the relatives of the culprit. Well worth it. I was dining out on that one for months.’

  In spite of their differences of background and opinion, conversation always ran easily between Lord Ringmore and Harry Clay. But both men fell silent when they reached the imposing red-brick orphanage in Southwark.

  ‘You began life in a similar institution, did you not, Harry?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  Clay nodded. ‘It’s different when you look back on it,’ he said. ‘You can remember the details – you know, the smells, the sounds – but you forget the despair. It’s like pain. You can remember that you felt it but you can’t bring to mind exactly how it felt.’

  ‘Then you should be grateful that the pain has subsided,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  A pug-faced nun opened the excessively bolted door. Clay explained that they desired a brief interview with the prioress, regarding funding, and the nun led them down a corridor that smelt of boiled cabbage and body odour. In her office, Mother Agnes, the prioress, greeted them unsmilingly, demonstrating no recognition of Clay’s celebrity when he gave his name.

  ‘And what can I do for you two gentlemen?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘We are in search of a pair of orphans,’ replied Lord Ringmore.

  ‘We have more than our fair share of those,’ said the nun.

  ‘They go by the names Tom and Esther,’ he explained.

  ‘I would have to check our ledger. We have a good many orphans through these doors with a good many names. What, may I ask, is your interest in them? If you claim parentage, I should warn you that it will prove costly to extract them from the system. We are a sanctuary for lost souls, not a pawnbroker for children.’

  Clay placed a hand on Lord Ringmore’s arm, indicating that he should let him take the lead. ‘Mother Agnes, I grew up in an institution like this,’ he said. ‘And since becoming a man of means, I have gained something of a reputation for generosity in supporting such places … financially. Sometimes I am too generous. My friend is here to ensure that I don’t write a cheque so big as to ruin myself.’

  The meanest of smiles broke out on the nun’s pale face. It sat there both unnaturally and, if the pained look in her eyes was anything to go by, uncomfortably.

  ‘The Lord knows this charitable institution needs all the financial help it can get. You are a Catholic yourself, Mr Clay?’

  ‘By inclination if not by birth,’ replied Clay, vaguely. ‘Will you check your ledger?’

  ‘Now I think about it, I believe I do remember these two you speak of. Sadly, they are no longer here. They were taken.’

  ‘Taken?’ said Lord Ringmore.

  ‘By the devil. He leads many of our children away. He tempts them into lives of thieves and vagabonds. We try to steer them along the correct path, but Lucifer can be far more enticing to young minds. And I’m sorry to say that these two always had him in their hearts. Thomas had potential but he was led astray by the girl, who was born with Satan inside her.’

  ‘You think a child can be born with the devil in its heart?’ said Clay.

  ‘I have seen it many times. The boy, he was weak. He had an unhealthy belief that one day his family would return for him.’

  ‘What was he doing here if he had family?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  ‘His parents were both dead. He was brought here by an aunt. He was convinced that she would return for him one day, but they never do. It was not hard for the girl to lead him from this sanctuary into the world of sin.’

  ‘How long ago did they leave?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Six months ago.’

  ‘Do you know where they are now?’

  ‘Paying rent to the devil, no doubt.’

  Clay reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a cheque book. ‘I would like to make a contribution,’ he said, ‘but I do need to find these two orphans. Any ideas where I might look?’

  The nun met his gaze. ‘You might want to try Holborn. They wouldn’t be the first of our former pupils to end up running those streets. But please, can you tell me why you are seeking them?’

  Neither man answered, not wanting to add credence t
o this foul woman’s beliefs. ‘We seek their salvation,’ said Lord Ringmore at last.

  ‘Then I fear a hopeless quest lies ahead of you,’ said Mother Agnes. ‘Some are beyond saving.’

  Chapter 19

  Swiped

  On collection days Hardy would extract money from the shopkeepers of Holborn in exchange for protection from the many nefarious types who operated in that area. He liked interacting with honest business folk and, on the whole, they dealt with him respectfully. No one wanted to make a fuss. For one day a week, Hardy felt like he was a part of the community. He always left the other boys outside the shops when he went in, but they were on hand if there was any trouble or if the shopkeepers needed reminding of what exactly they were paying to be protected from.

  Hardy stepped into Mr Pryce’s bakery and was instantly hit by the delicious smell of warm bread. It was warm inside so he undid the two top buttons of his coat. It was crowded too, with customers queuing up in front of the counter, jostling for position, but Mr Pryce clocked Hardy as soon as he entered and immediately broke off from serving a tall lady in a bright blue coat.

  ‘Hey, there’s a queue here,’ said one of the customers.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the lady in the blue coat. ‘Mr Pryce was taking my order.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied the baker, ‘but this is an urgent matter. My assistant will finish off your order.’

  ‘More urgent than a paying customer?’ proclaimed the lady, turning her head to see the cause of this interruption.

  Hardy smiled, revealing his brown teeth.

  Some of the customers recognised him and looked away but this lady obviously had no idea who he was.

  ‘I’m sure this young man won’t mind waiting his turn,’ she said.

  Hardy hated people talking about him like he wasn’t there.

  ‘This gentleman is collecting a pre-order for his master,’ said Mr Pryce, hastily. ‘It won’t take a moment and, in the meantime, my assistant will continue to serve you.’

  Hardy did not appreciate the demotion to servitude in Mr Pryce’s invented story. The blue-coated lady scowled at him. Mr Pryce pulled out from under the counter a batch of rolls, in which the payment was secreted. He attempted to hand it to Hardy, but another voice piped up. ‘He’s pushing in.’

  ‘Yes. There are others here, you know,’ said someone else.

  ‘Quite,’ said the blue-coated lady, who seemed more interested in Hardy than in the assistant who was desperately trying to help her with her order.

  More faces turned to look at him in anger and disapproval. Hardy didn’t like the odds. In his experience people were easy to intimidate one to one, but standing together, united against him, he was vastly outnumbered. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work.

  He pushed his way through the disgruntled rabble to grab the batch of rolls from Mr Pryce but, as he did so, he failed to notice a passing boy who was carrying a large bag of flour above his head and had his cap pulled over his face. As Hardy collided with the lad, the bag went flying upwards, spraying its powdery contents into the air. Hardy felt the lad tug at his coat to steady himself and angrily batted him away. He snatched the rolls from Mr Pryce and left the shop.

  Outside, Brewer, Worms and Stump were standing with their backs to the window. They turned to face Hardy, who was now covered in white powder.

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked Brewer.

  ‘If you’d been doing your jobs you’d know exactly what happened to me,’ said Hardy.

  ‘Why are you all white?’ said Stump.

  ‘It’s flour, you idiot,’ snapped Hardy. He threw the batch of rolls at him. ‘Come on.’

  They started to walk away, but behind them the bakery door opened again and the lady with the blue coat cried, ‘Thief! Stop that man. He stole my purse!’

  Hardy turned around. ‘Listen lady,’ he began, but as he did so he sunk his hands into his pockets and felt something unfamiliar. He pulled out the lady’s purse.

  Hardy would have thrown the blasted thing in her face except that the lady’s hysterical cries had attracted the attention of a nearby policeman, who was now running towards them, sounding his shrill whistle.

  ‘Run!’ said Hardy.

  The others did not need to be told twice. They turned tail and fled as the copper charged after them. The usual procedure was to split up, so Brewer and Stump headed towards Holborn Viaduct, while Hardy and Worms ran down Southampton Row, but the trail of white flour from Hardy’s coat meant the copper stayed with them.

  When they took another corner, a second policeman caught on to the commotion and joined in the chase.

  ‘Come on.’ Hardy booted over an applecart to slow down the coppers and dragged Worms into an alleyway.

  ‘Give me your coat,’ Hardy said, hastily removing his own.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t argue. You’re a faster runner than me. Swap coats.’

  Hardy was not going to wait for permission. He yanked Worms’s coat and handed him his own, ordering him to put it on. With the coats swapped, they continued to the end of the alleyway. The two coppers had got past the applecart and had them in their sights again.

  ‘You go that way,’ ordered Hardy. ‘Meet back at the usual place.’

  As the two coppers emerged from the alleyway, they paused a moment but, seeing the trail of flour, took off after Worms.

  Worms picked up his pace. With his long legs and lean figure, he could outrun the best of them. It wasn’t long before he could hear the two coppers panting. Worms took a route through the middle of Bloomsbury Square Gardens. He leapt over the surrounding fence and sprinted across the grass, but caught his foot on something and tripped, tumbling over and landing on his back.

  ‘Quick, get up.’ Tom’s face loomed over him. He held a hand out and pulled him up.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Worms, confused but grateful for the help. He sprang to his feet then continued on his way. Even with the setback of a fall, it only took another couple of corners for him to lose the coppers. Once he could no longer see them, he slowed to a walk and took cover behind a wall to check behind him and ensure they weren’t still nearby, as Hardy had always told him to. Finally, sure he had lost them, he headed back to the gang’s current meeting spot, a secluded alleyway off Museum Street.

  The other three were already there when he arrived. Hardy had removed Worms’ coat and was holding it at arm’s length.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Now give me back my coat. Yours stinks.’

  Worms reached to take his coat but Hardy dropped it on the ground. It landed in a puddle. The others laughed. Worms picked it up and handed Hardy’s back to him.

  Hardy dusted it down. ‘I’ll have to get this cleaned now it’s been on your sweaty back,’ he grumbled, pulling it on and doing it up. ‘Hey, where’s the book?’

  ‘What book?’ asked Worms.

  ‘The one in the inside pocket,’ replied Hardy. ‘The one that orphan girl wanted. Where’s the book?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about no book,’ replied Worms.

  ‘It was there when we swapped coats.’

  ‘I suppose it could’ve fallen out when I tripped.’

  ‘Where did you trip?’

  ‘In the park back there. Tom helped me back up.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ snarled Hardy. ‘Come on.’

  Chapter 20

  Creation

  Tom and Esther had agreed to head straight back to Rotherhithe as soon as one of them had retrieved the book, but Tom lingered for a moment under the tree in the centre of Bloomsbury Square Gardens, ensuring that none of Hardy’s gang was still in the vicinity. The plan had involved Hardy ditching his coat altogether. When he had swapped it instead, Tom had been forced to trip Worms and take the book from him, but now he was worried that Hardy could too easily connect Tom’s appearance with the missing book.

  While he waited, he opened the book and looked at the intricately drawn sha
pes that filled its pages, wondering what they meant. A movement in the tree caught his eye and he saw he was not alone. A magpie hopped along the branch, looking at him, twitching its head. Its tattered feathers revealed patchy, pink skin underneath. One eye hung out of its socket.

  ‘Clear off,’ said Tom.

  The magpie swooped down to the ground and picked up a twig in its beak. It walked forward then dropped it at Tom’s feet. Tom had never seen a bird act in such a way.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Tom.

  The magpie hopped back. Tom picked up the twig. The bird flapped its wings excitedly, causing feathers to come loose and flutter to the ground.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Tom.

  The disgusting creature flew at him. Tom recoiled in revulsion and dropped the book while trying to bat it away. The magpie landed in front of the book and tapped its beak on the back cover. On it was a circle within a triangle within a larger circle. The magpie tapped its beak on the shape, nodded at Tom, then tapped the ground.

  ‘You want me to draw this shape in the ground?’ Now he was talking to a bird. Tom wondered what the chances were that he had gone mad.

  The magpie nodded. Tom knew perfectly well that magpies did not nod in response to questions.

  ‘Can you understand me?’ said Tom.

  Again, the magpie nodded.

  ‘And you want me to draw this shape on the ground with this twig?’

  The magpie flew up to the branch again and tapped its beak on the bark. Mad or not, Tom understood that the bird wanted him to break off a larger branch. He dropped the twig and chose a good, sizable branch about the same length as his own arm. He jumped up and pulled it from the tree. It came free with a clean break. He pulled off a couple of smaller offshoots while the magpie impatiently tapped the ground.

  ‘Hold your horses, will you?’ said Tom. He peered down at the book and studied the shape then dug the twig into the ground and did his best to recreate it.

  ‘There,’ he said.

  But the magpie was not happy. It flapped its wings and flew round and round his head, its disgustingly grubby wings brushing against his face.