‘The lost boy!’ she cried. ‘Arran! Yes! We have to find him before the flood-water comes – the whole country is going to tilt sideways – ’
Then she realised that she had been talking nonsense, related to her dream, and stopped, much abashed. But the unknown white-haired gentleman was staring at her with a strange fixety.
‘You know this, my child? About my lost boy?’
‘N-n-no, sir,’ she stammered. ‘Your lost boy?
No – I was having a dream about my cousin Arran – ’
‘Arun? She is looking for a boy called Arun?’
Now the white-haired stranger was even more intent.
‘Ay, my – sir. She is that.’
‘There are not many boys of that name.’
‘Not that I ever come across,’ agreed Wally.
‘My Davie had a friend of whom he sometimes spoke. Not a school friend. A lad that he had met in – in London. Arun was the name. A boy, he said, who sometimes made up songs – ’
Songs? Is pricked up her ears. Now it was her turn to look intent. Uncle Hosiah had told of his boy singing songs, rebelling against the Holy Silence.
‘She is seeking her lost cousin,’ Mr Greenaway said gently, above her head. ‘She made a promise to her dying uncle to find him – a promise that she feels she must hold to . . .’
There was a long silence, which puzzled Is, while the two men and Wally looked at one another. Then Wally said, as if someone had argued with him:
‘She’s so little.’
‘That’d be in her favour, I reckon,’ said his father. ‘Nobody’d suspicion her. Special if she’s a-hunting for her cousin.’
The white-haired man said thoughtfully, ‘She is the sister of Dido Twite?’
‘So we understand, sir.’
Now all three of them were smiling, though the smile on the face of the guest passed away quickly, like the last gleam before a storm.
‘That says much in her favour,’ he remarked, but then added, ‘Just the same, it is a heavy burden to lay on a child.’
‘That’s what I say!’ struck in Wally. But his father said patiently, ‘No one but a child will do.’
‘Ay – that’s so, indeed,’ sighed the white-haired man. ‘And yet, my mind misgives me sair – ’
Now Is became impatient. ‘Beg parding, but what the clunch is all this about? You talking about me? Then will you kindly tell me what’s up? You know summat about Arun? Is that his name? Arun Twite?’
‘Not about him, no, my dearie,’ said Mr Greenaway. ‘Except that he perhaps was a friend o’ this gentleman’s son. But, ye see, there’s other boys been lost as well. And gals, as well. And his m – this gentleman here, his own boy has gone missing, and he’s grieved to death about it, as ye may well guess.’
‘That’s too bad, mister,’ said Is with ready sympathy. ‘I’m right sorry for ye. But – I reckon boys is allus liable to take a fancy to cut and run.’
‘But, you see, my child,’ said the white-haired man heavily, ‘it is worse than that. More than just my own son, though that is like to be a mortal blow to me, since his mother – ’ He stopped, took a firm grip of his voice, and began again. ‘There are too many boys lost. Altogether too many.’
‘In fact,’ explained Wally, ‘more’n half the kids in Lunnon town is missing.’
‘You’re gamming!’ Is gaped at him in disbelief. ‘You’ve gotta be!’
‘No. ’Tis so,’ confirmed Mr Greenaway gravely.
‘And,’ went on Wally, who seemed to have decided that he was the best person to explain matters to Is, ‘besides naturally wanting to get the kids back, besides his m – the Baron’s own trouble about his boy, he’s afeered that a panic might soon start – if folks get putting their heads together and counting how many’s gone.’
‘Where?’ demanded Is. ‘Where can they all have gone?’
‘Ah. That’s the puzzle. We can guess. But we don’t know for sure. Nor how they go.’
Is remembered a story – one of the hundreds that had been told her by Penny – about a wonderful piper, who lured all the children away from a town . . .
‘Hanover,’ she murmured.
‘No, ducky,’ said Wally. ‘Not Hanover. Hanover and this land is friendly these days. Ever since King Richard married Princess Adelaide of Thuringia – ’
The white-haired man flinched. Wally went on quickly and gently. ‘Everybody was right sorry when she died. ’Twas a dreadful pity. Anyhows, the Hanoverians are our pals nowadays. They wouldn’t nab our young ’uns. Though Simon Battersea has gone over there, just to make sure young Davie didn’t take a fancy to cross the German Water just for a caper, like. But what’s more likely is that those coves up in the Northlands of this country – ’
‘Northlands.’ Is recalled her uncle Hosiah referring to another uncle in the north country, in Blastburn.
‘In the north,’ she repeated slowly.
‘You know?’ said Wally. ‘You been hearing the news, living hid away in those woods, in Kent? You heard that the folk in the Northlands have cut loose and made theirselves into a separate kingdom? And won’t have naught to do with us no more? You heard that?’
‘Yus. We heard summat about it, from pedlars and such,’ said Is. ‘But – would King Richard let them? Couldn’t he stop them?’
She felt the white-haired man flinch again.
‘He couldn’t, duck,’ Wally said quickly. ‘He’d a peck of trouble himself at the time, acos of the death of Queen Adelaide and the Chinese wars, and a row of bad harvests. And then, they are rich, up in those northern parts – most o’ the coal mines and all the iron foundries and potteries are up there. So ’twas a blow when all the north-country shires banded together and said they wouldn’t have no more dealings wi’ the south. And now they call theirselves the Kingdom of Humberland. And the town what used to be Blastburn has had its name changed to Holdernesse.’
‘Blastburn,’ murmured Is. ‘That’s where my uncle lives. Or did live. So t’other uncle said.’
A quick look of interest flashed over the faces of her listeners.
‘Your uncle? Would that be your father’s brother?’
‘Reckon so,’ said Is. ‘Ma – if Mrs Bloodvessel was my ma – had no kin. But I never met this cove. Don’t even know his name. My uncle Hosiah spoke of him – the cove what died. Arun’s father.’
‘If she were attempting to visit an uncle in those parts – that would lend plausibility . . .’ murmured the gentleman.
Is wanted to know more about the northern shires.
‘Who’s boss up there, then?’
‘They have a leader called – so we understand – Gold Kingy.’
‘Gold Kingy!’ Is exclaimed. ‘Well I never! What imperence!’
A faint wry smile flitted across the face of the visitor.
At that moment a knock was heard on the warehouse door. Wally made haste to answer it, and Is heard him mutter to the would-be-caller:
‘Not tonight, Sam. Baron Renfrew’s here.’
The door shut again and Sam, whoever he was, went away.
By the time that Wally returned, Is had been putting two and two together.
‘What you think is, those coves up there, in the northern parts, are waylaying the young ’uns from hereabouts, or ’ticing and snatching ’em?’
‘That could be so,’ said Mr Greenaway cautiously. ‘It’d be one explanation.’
‘But you got no clue at all?’
‘Ne’er a clue,’ said the gentleman called Baron Renfrew. ‘Our police agents have made countless inquiries – so have the Bow Street Runners – we have placed detective officers all over London, but a’ to nae purpose at a’. One of our canniest agents believed he was on to something at last – but he was found, puir fellow, last month, stabbed and dying in Kingsway. All he could gasp out was Euston Green.’
‘Croopus,’ said Is quietly.
A thoughtful silence fell, then the Baron began, ‘So you see, my bairn, why I fee
l this is no ploy for a young lass to get imbrangled in – ’ when he was interrupted by Is.
‘Begging your parding, sir, mister, but that’s jist what it is. Now I twig your lay,’ she said to Mr Greenaway. ‘Now I see why you sez no one but a young ’un ’ud do. If a grown feller ast too many questions, he get a shiv through the gizzard. Like the cove that was found in Kingsway. But if I was to ast – for instince – I’d jist get took off to where the others was took.’
‘Ay, that’s it,’ said the Baron unhappily. ‘And you might then vanish and share their fate, whitever it be – and we cannot but fear sairly for them.’
‘Ah, but,’ said Is in triumph, ‘I’d have all me wits about me, wouldn’t I? And I ain’t no gull, nor no greenpea, I can tell you that! I’ve cut me wisdoms! Anyone who lived around Farden Fields and Shadwell Docks when they was a kinchin – let alone old Ma Bloodvessel – is up to all the jigs. Now I see why you reckons I was Sent,’ she said to Mr Greenaway, ‘and I reckon you wasn’t wrong, neether, mister. I can look for me cousin Arun and this gent’s boy at one and the same time. Might I ask, sir, what was your boy’s name?’ she politely addressed the white-haired gentleman, who gave a slight start, and after a moment’s hesitation, answered,
‘He – that is to say, we used to call him Davie. But, of course, who knows . . .’
‘He might’ve changed his monacker? Call hisself summat else up there?’
‘Perhaps. Yes.’
Is sat brooding, staring into the fire, elbows on knees, chin on fists. The other three sat watching her in silence.
At last she said, ‘The okkard business, as I see it, is how, once I’ve been ‘ticed off, how I’m to get word back to you. Nobody comes and goes betwixt here and Humberland no more?’
‘No, my dearie. ’Tis all closed off, like as if ’twas a foreign land. They’ve builded a great wall, and where there’s rivers, they’ve blown up most o’ the bridges, and the others is guarded. But there are boats, ships, that still ply along the coast. And many sailormen are my friends,’ said Mr Greenaway. ‘Contraband goods will allus find a market.’
‘Ah, that’s a thought,’ agreed Is. ‘If I could get a missidge to a jack tar on a boat . . . What kind of kids is missing?’
‘Kind?’
‘Yobs or toffs? Rich or poor?’
‘Since his – ’ began Wally warmly, but the visitor interrupted in his soft Scots voice.
‘Every kind, my child. Of the poor children who throng the streets we do not know how many are gone; but we do know that now many from weel-kenspeckit families are missing.’
Maybe they got a monster up there, reflected Is, recalling one of Penny’s tales about a glass dragon with three heads which needed to be fed a victim every day. She did not mention this theory, however, for fear of upsetting the poor Scottish gentleman. She was busy, too, trying to work out why his voice seemed faintly familiar. Had she heard it before? Where could she have heard it before?
‘You will undertake this task, then, my lassie? You will search for these boys?’
‘I was a-going to anyways, wasn’t I?’ retorted Is.
The visitor rose to his feet, and the Greenaways instantly jumped up.
‘Will you remain with good Mr Greenaway another night, my bairnie? I’ve a notion to give ye a token by which my boy – should you chance to come across him – will ken for certain that ye come from me.’ His voice wavered, then strengthened. ‘Also – also it may perhaps help you in trouble.’
‘Or may do jist the opposite,’ Wally muttered, but only Is heard him. Next moment he was carefully piloting the visitor to the outer door amid friendly goodnight greetings.
When Wally returned, ‘Who was that feller?’ demanded Is. ‘Somehow – I dunno why – his voice put me in mind of Mr van Doon, what used to lodge with me and Penny.’
The two others looked at one another.
‘She’ll have to know,’ said Wally.
‘I reckon so,’ agreed his father. ‘Daughter, that was his majesty.’
‘The king himself!’ breathed Is. ‘Old King Dick! Well I never!’
‘Since his wife died he don’t have no heart for public doings,’ explained Wally. ‘But he’s took a rare shine to my da, likes to come around every week or so for a chinwag. And – now his boy’s run off too – there ain’t much heart left at all in the poor cove.’
‘Reckon he’s just pining away,’ agreed Mr Greenaway, sighing. ‘So you see, my dearie, there’s a rare need to seek out that young rapscallion. First, to keep his poor da from dying – ’
‘And ’cos he’s the prince? The next king? Croopus, I should justabout think so. You’d think his dad’d have all the army out searching – offer half his crown, – summat like that.’
‘No, child. He daren’t. He daren’t let it be known that the prince is lost. For then there’d be threats, once it’s out – demands for ransom, real or false.’
‘But how could he jist go?’
‘He always liked to dress as an ordinary boy, go to an ordinary school, have friends who weren’t lords or princes, but just boys he met in the street.’
‘Same as his dad,’ commented Is. ‘I get it. The poor gemman’s in a real fix. Can’t even stand asking at Charing Cross, like Uncle Hose.’
‘But if the boy is not found soon – and suppose his majesty should die of grief, which I reckon could happen . . .’
‘What did the queen die of?’ Is demanded.
‘Oh, she died of measles, poor lady, before the boy vanished. She was a deal younger than the king – he was very fond of her. He’s a lonesome chap.’
‘Lucky he can doddle round here for a bit of cheer,’ remarked Is, and gave a great yawn. Suddenly she felt lonely herself, and missed Figgin dreadfully.
‘You’re fit for bed, daughter,’ said Mr Greenaway kindly, and Wally expertly prepared her a nest of tow, packed into a sail slung between two joists. ‘Where’, as he explained, ‘the rats won’t bother ye.’
Journal of Is
Well fancy me bein ast to find His Nab’s boy. Fat ol chans, I rekin. Like lookin fer a woodlows in a timber yard. Wally an his Da seem rite desint coves too bad I kint stop here but Seems I gotto go on Northards. Wonder how? on a ship mebbe. Hope Figin don’t pine & Pen feeds him enuf. That poor king lookt reel sad.
3
Boys and girls come out to play
The moon is shining as bright as day
Up the ladder and over the wall
A halfpenny loaf will serve us all . . .
Is, next day, was eager to set out on her journey to the north country, and somewhat irked that both Greenaways, father and son, insisted that she must remain with them until the king had sent round his token.
Meanwhile, though, it was agreed that she might as well roam the streets of London, keeping her eyes and ears wide open, dropping questions here and there about her cousin Arun, picking up any hints or clues that might possibly come her way relating to the unknown fate of the missing children.
As Uncle Hose had done, she began at Charing Cross. There she loitered for several hours, studying all the people who hurried by, on foot, on horseback, in cabs, or in coaches.
One thing struck her at once, and this was how very, very few children there were to be seen, in comparison with the days when she had lived in London. She recalled then, that on her household errands through the streets, children had been everywhere, swarming like ants: ragged sharp-eyed brats, the active ones earning pennies by holding horses, or sweeping the mud from street-crossings, running messages, picking pockets, shouting their small shabby wares, bundles of matches or bunches of cress; and sick, shrunken, starved ones sitting listlessly on doorsteps or curled under bridges, waiting for death to come and solve their problems.
But now all these seemed to have vanished altogether. In London there were hardly any children visible; the hurrying crowds in the street were all adults, going about their adult affairs.
Croopus, where have all the kinchins
got to? Is asked herself. It sure is a mystery! Funny no one’s wondered about it sooner. Nobody cares above half, I reckon. Streets look tidier without kids all about. Some folks likes it better that way, I daresay.
‘You seen a boy called Arun Twite, mister – missis?’ she demanded, over and over, but very few people even troubled to reply.
Asking, listening, watching, Is drifted northwards, up Charing Cross Road, up Tottenham Court Road. Near here, in a small public garden by Whitefields Tabernacle, she found a street fair; if two or three meagre stalls and a shabby Punch and Judy could be said to constitute a street fair. Dingy flags and bunting hung between the stalls, and a doleful-looking man played alternately on a set of pan-pipes and a tabor. The stalls offered a few playthings for sale: whistles, tops, hoops, balls, one or two dolls and toy animals. None of them so well-made, Is noticed with a critical eye, as those produced by Penny and herself. But she remembered, now, Penny’s recent grumbles about the fall in the sale of toys. And no wonder, thought Is, if more than half the young ’uns are missing.
The Punch play was drawing to a close; Punch had murdered most of his family and was singing a loud boastful song of self-praise:
‘Ha ha ha, hee hee hee,
Oh Mr Punch, what a clever boy you be!’
Is recognised the tune as one made up by her father: ‘The Day Before the Day Before May Day’. Many of his songs were still to be heard about the streets and countryside, sung or whistled or chanted. Funny how tunes can stop in folks’ heads long after the person who made them up is dead and gone, thought Is; and funny how he could make up such gladsome tunes when he hisself was such a no-good.
At this moment, under cover of the music, she heard a voice whisper sharply in her ear: ‘How about a trip to Playland? Kids gets a real good time in Playland!’
Startled, Is glanced back over her shoulder. A crowd of twenty or so people had collected in the little space; which of these could have spoken to her? It had sounded like a man’s voice. Several men stood near her. Was it the merry little character with black curls and whiskers, a velvet waistcoat and kerseymere breeches? Or the tall, lugubrious fellow in a striped jacket who looked like a waiter from a tavern? Or the man in a leather apron who offered to grind people’s knives and scissors at the top of his lungs, as he wove among the crowd? Or the thin white-haired man who stood near Is with a bundle of books under his arm?