"All right. I promise."
"Well, that's something anyway. Jim, what are you going to do today?"
"Dunno. Hang about and annoy people, I expect."
"D'you want to see how to set up the camera and take a photograph?"
"Yes, please!"
"Come on, then..."
They went into the studio, and left Sally to herself. She turned to the newspaper, intending to look at the financial news. But her eye was caught by a headline; she started to read; and within a minute she was on her feet, white and trembling.
MYSTERIOUS ATTACK ON CLERGYMAN.
OXFORD BROTHERS IN MURDER MYSTERY.
An extraordinary series of events took place in Oxford on Saturday last, culminating in the murder of the brother of a local clergyman.
The murdered man, Mr Matthew Bedwell, was staying with his twin brother, the Reverend Nicholas Bedwell, Curate of St John's, Summertown.
The events began with a vicious and unprovoked attack on the Reverend Bedwell as he visited an elderly parishioner. Entering the lane which led to the invalid's cottage, the curate was set upon by a well-built man wielding a dagger.
Despite injuries to his arms and face, the Reverend Bedwell managed to fight off the assailant, who promptly vanished. Mr Bedwell repaired to a doctor, but meanwhile, a message had arrived at the Vicarage, requesting his brother to meet him by the river in Port Meadow nearby.
Thus lured out, Mr Matthew Bedwell left the Vicarage at three o'clock, and was never again seen alive. Shortly after seven in the evening, a waterman found his body in the river. His throat had been cut.
The victim of this desperate murder was a sailor, and had recently returned from a voyage to the East Indies. He and his brother were identical twins, and it is thought that this fact may explain the earlier attack upon the Reverend Bedwell; but the circumstances remain obscure.
Sally put down the paper, and ran to find Frederick.
They wrote at once to Nicholas Bedwell, and spent the rest of the day working quietly. No one had much to say, not even Jim. Rosa left for the theatre earlier than usual.
Jim had made himself so useful that they asked him to stay for supper. He went out with Trembler and Adelaide to the Duke of Cumberland, the public house around the corner, for some beer to have with the meal. Sally was cooking; they were going to have kedgeree, which was one of the only two things she knew how to cook.
Frederick had just come in from the laboratory, and Sally was preparing to lay the table, when the kitchen door flew open and Jim ran in.
"Mrs Holland!" he gasped, out of breath. "She's got Adelaide - she was hiding round the corner - she grabbed her and jumped into a cab - we couldn't stop her!"
"Where's Trembler?" said Frederick, dropping the knives and forks and reaching for his coat.
"The big man knocked him down," said Jim. "It was dark - we was just coming round the corner there by the pub, where it's in shadder - we couldn't see nothing! She suddenly come out the alley and grabbed her, and Trembler dropped the beer and grabbed her other arm, and the big bloke took a swing at him and flattened him - he's still there as far's I know - I saw 'em shove her into a cab and it set off at a hell of a lick--"
"Sally, stay here," said Frederick. "Don't go out, don't answer the door, don't let anyone in."
"But--" she cried, too late; for he had gone, and Jim had gone with him. "But what about Trembler?" she said to the empty kitchen. She looked at the steaming kedgeree, just ready to be eaten, and felt tears of frustration come to her eyes. Why should I stay here? she thought angrily. Isn't it my affair?
She flung herself into the big chair and chewed her lip. What she might have done next she didn't know; but there was a rattle as the door-handle turned, and she looked up startled to see Trembler, shaking and white-faced and bleeding from a cut on the cheek. She jumped up and helped him in, and sat him in the armchair.
"What happened?" she said. "Jim came running and said Mrs Holland had -"
"They got her, the bastards," he said. He was earning his name now: shaking more than her at her worst. "They grabbed hold of her, poor little scrap, and snatched her up into a bloody cab - and I couldn't even stop 'em - that big bugger hit me and I fell over... I tried, miss, God's truth I tried - but he was so big..."
"Fred and Jim have gone out after them," she said, wringing out a cloth and holding it to his face. "They'll get her, don't you worry. Fred won't let anything happen to her. She'll be safe back here within an hour..."
"Gawd, miss, I hope you're right. It's my fault. I didn't ought to have let her come. She's a lovely little thing..."
"Hush, don't blame yourself. Of course it wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's. Look - supper's ready, and there's no one to eat it but us. Are you going to have some?"
"I dunno if I can. I ain't hungry any more."
Nor was Sally; but she made him have some, and ate some herself. Neither spoke until they had finished. Then he pushed his plate away and said, "Very tasty. Very nice." It had only taken them five minutes to eat.
"How's your cheek?" she said.
His eye was closing. "Bloody useless, I am," he muttered, as she dabbed at it gently with a damp piece of flannel. "Can't do anything right."
"Don't be silly," she said. "This place would fall to pieces without you, and you know it. So stop feeling sorry for yourself."
She put down the flannel, and suddenly found herself in the grip of an idea. She had to sit down: she had begun to tremble.
"What is it?" said the little man.
"Trembler, will you do something for me?"
"What?"
"I -" She didn't know how to put it. "Trembler, you know what happened when I went to the opium den with Fred?"
"Yes. You told us. Why? You ain't planning on going there again?"
"No. I don't have to. I've got some opium here...When Mr Bedwell asked me to get some, I - well, I put a bit aside. I knew I'd have to go through it again. I've been steeling myself. I won't know what Mrs Holland is after unless I do. I'll have to bring on my Nightmare, you see. I was going to put it off and put it off and hope she just went away, but she hasn't. And it's all coming to a head and... I want to do it now. Will you stay with me?"
"What - you're going to smoke the stuff here?"
"It's the only way I'll ever find the truth. Please, Trembler. Will you stay here and look after me?"
He swallowed hard. "Course I will, miss. But supposing it goes wrong? What'll I do?"
"I don't know. I trust you, Trembler. Just... Hold me, perhaps."
"All right, miss. I'll do it."
She jumped up and kissed him, and then ran to the cupboard in the corner. The opium was wrapped in a piece of paper behind the Toby jug on the top shelf, and she had to stand on a chair to get it. She had kept a piece about the size of the tip of her little finger, and she had no idea whether that was too much, or not enough, nor how to smoke it in the first place, since she didn't have a pipe...
She sat at the table and pushed the plates aside. Trembler drew up a chair and sat opposite her, moving the lamp so that it shone clearly on the red oilcloth. The fire was banked up and the kitchen was warm; but to make it more secure she locked the door. Then she unwrapped the opium.
"Last time," she said, "I just happened to breathe in the fumes from someone else's pipe. Perhaps there's no need for me to actually smoke it... If I just set light to it and breathe the fumes, like I did before... Or maybe I ought to make sure. This is all I've got. What do you think?"
He shook his head. "I dunno, miss," he said. "My mum used to give me laudanum for the toothache when I was a boy. But that's all I know about it. They smoke it like tobacco, do they?"
"I don't think so. The people I saw at Madame Chang's were all lying on beds, and a servant was holding the pipe for them. And lighting the opium. Perhaps they couldn't hold it for themselves. If I put it on a plate..."
She jumped up and brought an enamel plate to the table, and then took the box o
f matches from the shelf over the fire.
"I'll just hold the match to it," she said. "Then if I fall asleep or something the match will drop on the plate and it won't matter."
She took a clean fork and pierced the sticky little ball of resin, and then held it over the plate.
"Here goes," she said.
She struck a match and held it to the opium. Her hands were perfectly steady, she saw. The flame curled up around the drug, blackening the surface; and then it began to fume and bubble. She leant forward and breathed in deeply, and was instantly overcome with dizziness. She blinked and shook her head and felt sick, and then the match went out.
She dropped it on the plate and reached for another.
"All right, miss?" said Trembler.
"Could you light the match for me and hold it under the opium?"
"Righto. Are you sure you want to go ahead with it?"
"Yes. I've got to. Just keep lighting matches - keep it smoking."
He struck a match and held it in place. She leant forward, resting her arms on the table and pulling back her hair so that it wouldn't catch on the flame, and then breathed in deeply. The smoke tasted sweet, she thought, and bitter at the same time; and then the Nightmare began.
Wapping in those days was very like an island. On one side was the river, and on the other side were the docks and their entrances. To get into Wapping, therefore, you had to cross a bridge - and they were not solid, imposing structures like London Bridge, made of stone or brick, but lighter ones of iron and wood. And they all moved: they were swingbridges, or hydraulic bridges, and from time to time they swung aside or elevated themselves out of the way of the ships moving in and out of the Docks. There were seven of these bridges: seven ways in, and seven ways out. It was an easy matter to put a man by each of them. There were plenty of people who owed Mrs Holland favours, and plenty more who were frightened of her.
Frederick's cab, with Jim clinging excitedly to the apron, rattled across the swingbridge over Wapping Entrance, the channel that led into the larger of the two London Docks. Neither Frederick nor Jim noticed the two men by the winch on the right-hand side.
"Where to, guv?" the cabman shouted down.
"Stop here," called Frederick. "This'll do - we'll walk the rest."
They paid the driver, and the cab turned and drove back the way it had come. Frederick wished that he had more money with him, so as to keep the cab there waiting, but he had only just enough to pay for the fare as it was.
"What are we going to do?" said Jim. "I know where her house is. I been spying."
"I'm not sure," said Frederick. "Let's go and see what's happening..."
They hurried along Wapping High Street, between the high dark warehouses and the overhanging gantries and pulleys that swung above them like the equipment for some multiple execution. After a minute or two they were at the corner of Hangman's Wharf, and then Frederick held out his hand to stop them.
"Wait," he said.
He looked around the corner, and tugged urgently at Jim's arm.
"Look!" he whispered. "Just in time - they're just arriving - she's getting out of the cab, and she's got Adelaide with her..."
"What are we going to do?" whispered Jim.
"Come on! Let's just grab her and run!"
Frederick leapt forward, and Jim followed at once. It was only a matter of twenty yards or so to the entrance of Holland's Lodgings, and Frederick ran lightly. Mrs Holland was still fumbling with her keys when he reached her.
"Adelaide!" he cried, and Mrs Holland turned in a flash. "Run! Go with Jim!"
Jim hurtled up, full pelt, and seized Adelaide's hand. He tried to drag her away, but she hung back, paralysed.
"Come on!" he cried, and pulled harder, and finally she went. They ran for the corner of the street, and vanished - and then Frederick saw why Mrs Holland had not moved, and why she was smiling at him; for standing right behind him, holding a short stick, was the big man, Jonathan Berry. Frederick looked around - but he was trapped. There was no way out.
The corner Jim had turned was not one Adelaide would have chosen: it led them into a blind alley. But she was dazed by panic, and went where he pulled her.
The place was called Church Court. It was curved, so Jim could not see the closed end, and in any case it was nearly in total darkness. When he got to the end he stumbled over a heap of refuse, ran his hands up the dark brickwork, and cursed.
"Where are we?" he said. "What's over this wall?"
"A church," she whispered. "Is she coming? Is she coming?"
"The guvnor'll hold her off. Let's get over this bloody wall..."
He cast around in the dimness. The wall was not high - six feet or so - but it was surmounted by spikes; he could see them in the dim light from the church windows, now that his eyes were accustomed to the gloom. He heard the sound of singing, and wondered whether a church service would be a good place to hide.
But they would have to get over the wall first. There was a barrel on its side in a corner; he rolled it to the wall and heaved it upright, and then had to go and shake Adelaide, who was crouched on the ground, whispering to herself.
"Come on, stupid," he said. "Get up here. We got to climb over the wall..."
"I can't," she said.
"Oh, get up, for Gawd's sake. Get up!"
He pulled her up and made her stand on the barrel. She was trembling like a nervous rabbit, and he went on more gently:
"If we get over here, we can get away and go back to Burton Street. See Trembler. But you gotta try, all right?"
He gripped the top of the wall and pulled himself up. The brickwork was thick, so there was plenty of room to stand once he had lifted himself carefully over the spikes; then he turned and leant over to help her.
"Tuck yer skirt up so's it won't catch," he said, and shakily she did so. Then she reached up and gave him her hands, and he lifted her up. She was hardly any weight at all.
Another second, and they were down in the graveyard. Dark leaning stones, rank grass, twisted railings spread out all round them, and the great bulk of the church loomed in front. The organ was playing; it looked warm in there, and friendly, and Jim was sorely tempted. They picked their way through the graves and round to the front, where a gaslight on a bracket showed him how filthy they were.
"Put yer skirt down now," he said. "You look ridicklus."
She did as he said. He looked to left and right; the street was empty.
"Best not go back the same way, I reckon," he went on. "It's only a step from her place, that bridge. Can we get through these bloody docks any other way?"
"By the Tobacco Dock there's a bridge," she whispered. "Up Old Gravel Lane."
"Come on then. You show me the way. Keep in the shadder, though."
She led him around the front of the church and then off to the right, past a disused Workhouse. These streets were narrower than the High Street, and edged with small terraced cottages rather than wharves and warehouses. There were few people about; they passed a public house, but even that was quiet, although lights blazed behind the streaming windows.
They walked quickly onwards, and Jim's hopes rose. They'd have to walk back to Burton Street, but that didn't matter; an hour and a half's trudging wouldn't hurt. It had gone very well, all things considered.
They paused at the corner of Old Gravel Lane, which was wider and better lit than the little street they were turning out of. It was starting to rain; Jim squinted ahead, his hand over his eyes, and saw the bulk of two or three tall warehouses at the end of the street, and then a bridge.
"Is that it?" he said.
"Yus," she said. "That's the Tobacco Dock."
Carefully, they went around the corner and set off towards the bridge. A cart trundled past, with a tarpaulin spread over the load, but it was gone before Jim could call to the driver and beg a lift. One or two passers-by looked curiously at the pair of them - the frightened little girl in a cloak too big for her, and the boy without coat or
hat on this wet night - but most went on their way, heads down against the weather.
They were almost at the bridge before they were spotted.
There was a night-watchman's hut on the right-hand side of the road, in front of which a fire was glowing in a brazier, hissing and spitting at the occasional raindrop which eluded the canvas awning hung roughly above it. A man - two men - sat in the hut, and out of the corner of his eye Jim saw them stand when he and Adelaide were approaching, and he just had time to think, "What are they doing that for?" when he heard one of them say:
"Come on - that's her! That's the one!"
He felt Adelaide shrink away beside him: paralysed again. He grabbed her hand as the men came out of the hut, and they turned and shot back the way they'd come. There were no side turnings: the walls of the warehouses rose sheer and dark on either side.
"Run, for Gawd's sake! Run, Adelaide!" he cried.
He saw an opening on the left, and flung himself into it, dragging her after him; and then round a left-hand corner, and then a right, until the men were out of sight.
"Where to?" he said, panting. "Come on, quick - I can hear 'em."
"Shadwell way," she gasped. "Oh, Jim, they're going to kill me - I'm going to die, Jim -"
"Shut up and don't be stupid. They ain't going to kill yer. No one's going to kill yer. She only said that to frighten yer, the ugly old bitch. She wants Sally, not you. Come on, how do we get to Shadwell?"
They were in a little place called Pearl Street - hardly wider than an alley. She looked to left and right, indecisively.
"There they are!" came a cry from behind them, and pounding footsteps echoed from the walls.
Once again they fled. But Adelaide was tiring, and Jim was short of breath; another corner, and another, and another, and still those heavy footsteps followed them.
In desperation Jim flung himself down a little court so narrow he could hardly squeeze through, thrusting Adelaide ahead of him. She tripped. He fell on top of her, and gasped, and lay still.
Something moved in the passage ahead of them - a quick, scuttling sound like a rat. Adelaide flinched, and pressed her face into his neck.
"Hello, matey," came a voice from the darkness.
Jim looked up. A match flared, and then Jim felt his face grinning for him, of its own accord.
"Thank Gawd!" he said. "Adelaide, it's all right! This is me mate Paddy!"
Adelaide had no breath left to speak with, and she was at such an extremity of fear that she could hardly move. She looked up and saw the face of a dirty, foxy boy of about Jim's age, clad apparently in sacking. She could say nothing, so she lowered her head again on to the wet stone.