Phantom of Blood Alley (9 page)

The waistcoat was a work of art. Made of light-brown canvas and lined with buttery silk, it had been decorated with tooled leather corner-pieces and ten polished mother-of-pearl buttons. There were six numbered pockets stitched to one front panel, and eight to the other, with hooks, rings and tags stitched between them, and two more deep pockets on the inside – in short, a place for everything I needed, and more besides. Keys, pencils and notebook, documents, dockets and calling cards; there was even a handy pouch for the grit I carried for long rooftop jumps on frosty
mornings. Best of all, the waistcoat fitted me perfectly.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said.

‘There’s no need for thanks, Barnaby,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I could do. We’re so grateful to you for rescuing Bobbin, aren’t we, Molly?’

But Molly hadn’t heard. She and Will were by the door, staring into each other’s eyes and giggling softly.

‘Come on, you two,’ I said, slipping my jacket over my fine new waistcoat. ‘I thought we were going wheelboarding.’

It was mid morning by the time the four of us reached Centennial Park. The russet leaves of the trees were stark against the deep-blue sky and, as we passed beneath the cast-iron arch entrance, I saw that the fine weather had attracted crowds. The place was thronging.

There were men with dogs, elegant couples walking arm in arm and clusters of nannies with sleek black perambulators. Young
children flew gaudy kites, rolled wooden hoops and prodded at sailboats which bobbed about on the ornamental lake. Half a dozen older boys were playing tag rounders, using their jackets for bases and tackling each other to the ground; while twin sisters, each in matching sailor suits, shrieked with delight as they rolled down a grassy hill – much to the annoyance of their over-protective governess.

Will dropped his wheelboard to the ground, jumped onto it and, scooting with one leg, propelled himself along the path towards the bandstand. Molly and I ran after him, while Kaiser, on the end of his leash, bounded along before us. Will skidded round, and brought the wheelboard to a standstill. His cheeks were red with a mixture of cold air and exhilaration.

‘Your turn, Barnaby,’ he said eagerly.

I handed Kaiser’s leash to him and stepped gingerly onto the board, which immediately shot forward, out of control, pitching me
down to the ground – and causing both Will and Molly to howl with laughter. Kaiser lowered his head and licked my face where I lay.

‘It’s all a matter of balance,’ Will told me, as I prepared myself for a second attempt. ‘Keep your legs flexed, your knees bent and arms outstretched. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

I persisted and, thanks to the balance that highstacking had taught me, before long I was managing rides of twenty, thirty yards or more. Will was right. Wheelboarding
was
fun. Lots of fun. What was more, not only were people pausing to watch us, fascinated by the curious wheeled contraption, but some were even stopping to ask Will where they could buy a wheelboard of their own. Maybe it would become all the rage after all.

‘I think you’ve got the hang of it, Barnaby,’ Will told me. He turned to Molly, a smile on his lips. ‘Do you think he’s ready yet?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Molly, her dark eyes flashing with amusement.

Will nodded and grinned at me. ‘We think it’s time you had a shot at Cheese-Chaser Hill.’

I swallowed nervously. Cheese-Chaser Hill was the steepest incline in the park. It was where, every July, a cheese-chasing competition would take place. At the blast of the alderman’s whistle, a round truckle of cheese would be rolled down the hill and dozens of the city’s most reckless young men would chase after it, running and tumbling down the hill in an attempt to get to the bottom first – and there were always several who ended up in St Jude’s Hospital with broken bones.

Still, pleased with my success so far, I decided to give it a go. I patted Kaiser and began the long tramp up the steep slope, the wheelboard clamped under one arm. I was about halfway up when an involuntary
shudder gripped my body, as though someone had walked over my grave.

I looked round nervously, but I was quite alone.

I continued climbing, but the feelings of unease persisted. The hairs at the nape of my neck were standing on end, and despite my new lined waistcoat I felt shivery and gooseflesh-cold.

Behind me, I heard Kaiser barking. I turned and peered down the hill. He was straining at the leash, desperate to break free, his anguished yelps and howls echoing round the park. Will and Molly were beside him, trying their best to calm him down, but the dog was inconsolable.

Whatever had spooked me was clearly unsettling Kaiser as well.

Reaching the top of the hill, I turned and placed the wheelboard at my feet and prepared myself for the descent. In the distance, Kaiser was struggling more frantically than
ever to break free, up on his back legs and barking furiously.

‘It’s all right, lad,’ I said softly. ‘I’m coming.’

With that, I leaped onto the wheelboard and propelled myself down the hill. I kept my legs flexed, my knees bent and my arms outstretched, just as Will had instructed. And as I gathered speed, I felt the wind tugging at my jacket and blowing through my hair. Apart from highstacking, it was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever done.

Ahead of me, Will and Molly were shouting encouragement and waving at me, their arms raised high above their heads. As for Kaiser, the poor creature looked petrified. His fur was bristling, his eyes rolled, and from behind his bared teeth there came a sustained, high-pitched snarl.

The next moment, there was a splintering crack, and the wheelboard flipped forward on itself, catapulting yours truly high up into the air. I somersaulted over and landed heavily on my back, where I lay, badly winded.

With that, I leaped onto the wheelboard and propelled myself down the hill
.

I opened my eyes to see Will and Molly staring down at me, a mixture of concern and glee on their faces.

‘Are you all right?’ said Will.

I pulled myself up on my elbows. ‘Nothing broken,’ I said.

‘You must have hit a bump or something,’ said Will. He handed me Kaiser’s leash and checked his wheelboard for damage. Finding none but a single bent spoke, he looked up. ‘Come on, Barnaby,’ he said, ‘I’ll treat us all to roasted chestnuts.’

The four of us crossed the path to the glowing brazier next to the bandstand, where a grizzled old man was selling chestnuts in brown paper cones. As we approached, the heat from the coals blasted in our faces. The old man looked up, the fiery glow gleaming on his silvery stubble and peg-like teeth.

‘Three bags, sir,’ said Will, handing over three copper coins.

Kaiser had calmed down, his fur lying flat at his shoulders and his tongue lolling as he sniffed at the chestnuts. We sat down on our jackets and set to work on the chestnuts, and the air filled with their rich, earthy smell as we peeled off the blackened skins. As my mouth filled with the sweet, pulpy flesh inside and I fed Kaiser a peeled chestnut in turn, the sunny park and its cheerful inhabitants banished all thoughts of spirits and phantoms from my head. It was a perfect Sunday in the park.

That night, with Kaiser curled up on his blanket, I plunged into a deep and dreamless sleep the moment my head hit the pillow, waking the following morning at seven o’clock with the light streaming in at my attic window.

Kaiser was already awake, gnawing softly at the mutton bone I’d given him the night before. When he saw that I was also awake,
he climbed to his feet and trotted over to me. I cupped his great head in my hands and tickled him round the ears.

‘I’m afraid it’s the kennel for you this morning,’ I told him. ‘I have to go to Whitegate Prison to pay Clarissa Oliphant a visit.’

The fine weather of the weekend had broken and, as I made my way across the rooftops that Monday morning, a light drizzle began to fall. I arrived at the prison gates shortly before ten o’clock. Visiting hours were between ten and twelve, and I joined the end of a desultory line of friends and relatives of the inmates awaiting trial and locked up inside. Convicted prisoners, following Jeremy Hobholt’s rules, were allowed no visitors at all.

At ten on the dot, a low door set into one of the huge, white gates swung open, and a bulky prison warder appeared from the shadowy interior, an open book clutched in red, beefy fingers. The line began to shuffle forward,
with the warder ticking off names on the page.

‘Inmate to be visited?’ he asked gruffly, without looking up, when I reached the front of the line.

‘Clarissa Oliphant,’ I told him.

He made a note in his book. ‘And you are?’

‘Barnaby Grimes. Tick-tock lad.’ Another note followed before I was allowed to enter.

A tall, heavily built warder with a jagged scar through one eyebrow led me silently into a small hall. It had a high vaulted ceiling, and a stone floor where a dozen square tables had been laid out in two rows. Most were already occupied, and the air buzzed with the low, intimate conversation forbidden in the rest of the prison. I was ushered to an empty table near the side of the hall and told to wait.

I shivered. The whitewashed walls and cold
stone floor combined with the vigilant prison warders to create an atmosphere of extreme oppressiveness. When the warder returned, he was accompanied by the stooped, shuffling figure of Clarissa Oliphant.

I smiled up at her, trying to disguise my shock at her appearance. Her face looked taut and drawn, her cheeks hollow and eyes ringed with dark circles. There were oily stains down the front of her dress, and I knew how the usually impeccably turned out woman must have hated my seeing her looking so dishevelled. The warder indicated the chair opposite me, and as Clarissa moved forward to sit down, there was a clanking of chains, and I realized her ankles were in manacles.

‘Oh, this is awful, quite awful, Mr Grimes,’ she said, her voice close to tears, the moment the warder withdrew. ‘I had no idea how punishing these so-called “model” prisons actually are.’

She looked round sheepishly at the warder,
aware that raising her voice above a whisper would terminate our visit instantly.

‘Thank you, Barnaby, for visiting me in this dreadful place. Needless to say, with the police convinced of my guilt, I’m in desperate need of your help.’ She looked at me beseechingly. ‘It goes without saying, I shall reward you handsomely for your efforts …’

I didn’t have the heart to tell the old governess that, since the robbery at her house, she was virtually penniless.

‘I’ll do whatever I can,’ I reassured her, taking my notebook from the second pocket of my new poacher’s waistcoat. ‘Now, did Laurence have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to see him dead?’

‘I’ve thought of little else since my incarceration,’ said Clarissa, struggling to keep her voice down, ‘and there are four names that I keep coming back to. Although, due to Laurence’s secretive nature, I know precious little about them …’

‘And they are?’ I urged, pencil poised above my notebook.

‘First is Sir Crispin Blears,’ said Clarissa. ‘The noted society portrait painter. I know Laurence approached him for funds, but then, for reasons I can only guess at, accused him of attempting to destroy his life.’

She shook her head.

‘Laurence was so highly strung, Barnaby, and his work only seemed to intensify his feelings of resentment … Then, of course, there was a chemist he seemed to blame for his unfortunate accident. Laurence actually claimed that this fellow had caused it on purpose, and was trying to kill him for some reason. A.G. Hoskins Industrial Chemists – I found a docket in Laurence’s fustian weave overcoat once …’

Clarissa’s eyes brimmed with tears.

‘And the third name,’ I pressed, aware that the warder was looking in our direction.

‘Yes, yes, the third name,’ said Clarissa,
gathering herself together with considerable difficulty. ‘That unfortunately is Miles Morgenstern, my brother’s former assistant. Laurence was ill, Barnaby,’ she pleaded, her voice raised. ‘And his accursed work was causing it …’

The warder was rapidly approaching our table as Clarissa continued, her voice now booming.

‘And the fourth is his tutor, Dean Henry Dodson!’ Clarissa exclaimed tearfully. ‘He started poor Laurence on this road to ruin! Go and see him, Barnaby,’ she begged me as the warder took her by the arm and forcibly dragged her away, ‘and demand that
he
explain himself!’