The Magnificent Lizzie Brown and the Devil's Hound (4 page)

“I'm sorry,” Lizzie said, meaning it.

“That's awful,” Erin added. She looked guilty for having mentioned Becky's scars in the first place.

Nora gave Becky's shoulders a quick squeeze. “You poor, poor thing.”

Becky fell silent, keeping her downcast eyes on the road. Lizzie could tell she was crying, but she didn't want to call attention to it.

“It's not easy, losing someone you love,” Lizzie said gently. “I lost my mum not long ago. She was sick too.”

“Did you have to look after her yourself?” Becky asked without looking up.

“Every hour of every day,” Lizzie said. “My pa . . . well, he wasn't much use, to tell you the truth. I had to do everything. You feel so lonely, don't you?”

“I do,” Becky said, sniffing. “My mother's long gone. Now my father's gone too. It's like everyone in my life just gets swept away.”

Lizzie wished there was something she could do or say. Poor Becky was more miserable now than before she'd picked them up.

But to her surprise, Becky turned to her with a smile. “I'm glad I met you, anyway. Dr. Gladwell's a good man. I'm sure he can help your friend.”

* * *

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Erin whispered nervously.

Lizzie stood at the end of the gravel driveway, looking up at the house. It reminded her of one of the Kensal Green tombs. Narrow peaked rooftops loomed against the stormy sky. An immense growth of ivy was gradually strangling the gray flint walls, and the door was dark with iron studs, like a medieval castle. It even had a ring instead of a door handle.

“Of course,” Becky said. “It's a big old house, but the doctor's an important man.”

“I don't want to go in,” Erin declared. “Let's go somewhere else.”

“Stop being such a baby!” Nora told her sister.

“Come on, Erin.” Lizzie grabbed her friend by her good hand and dragged her, patiently but firmly, up to the door. Becky wrung her hands, looking this way and that, as if she was embarrassed.

“He probably isn't in,” said Erin.

“Erin, for the last time, will you stop your whining?” Nora grabbed the metal ring and gave three hard knocks. “There. Now remember your manners and wipe your feet, or Ma will be furious with us.”

From inside the house came the sound of shuffling. Something slid back. There was a pause. Whatever it was slid back again.

That's a spyhole
, thought Lizzie.
Whoever's inside wants to know who's knocking so loud.

The door creaked open. Lizzie, Nora, and Erin all gasped as a straggly-haired head craned around to peer at them.

“What do you three want?” the old woman said. An old black bonnet sat on her head. There was only one tooth in her lower jaw, and it stuck up like a tombstone on a hill.

“We wanted to see Dr. Gladwell, if you please, ma'am,” said Lizzie, bobbing in a curtsy.

“Is that so?” the woman said nastily. “You look like you don't have two pennies to rub together. The doctor's a very busy man. He's got no time for ragamuffins and freeloaders.”

“Right, we'll be off then.” Erin turned around, but Lizzie held onto her arm.

From further inside came the sound of hearty laughter. “What are you doing, Mrs. Crowe, scaring the wits out of children?” It was a pleasant-sounding voice.
Rich
, Lizzie thought,
but the sort of rich you can talk to.

“It's one of the farm girls, Doctor,” Mrs. Crowe called back, “and some others I ain't never seen before.”

“Then let them in, my dear woman, let them in! Whatever the matter may be with these poor creatures, it won't be helped by leaving them out in the rain, now will it? They'll get all soggy!”

Mrs. Crowe scowled at them. “In you come. Don't waste his time.”

They found Dr. Gladwell sitting by his fire in a huge room. His bald head was as shiny as a glass paperweight with two puffs of white hair at either side, and he smiled as wide as any of the clowns at Fitzy's Circus. He stood up, revealing himself to be a little man with a round middle. “Hello!”

Lizzie looked around in shock at all the objects sitting on shelves and in cases. There were stuffed animals, a globe, old medical instruments, more books than you could count . . . and there, on the desk, a human skull. A real one, missing its lower jaw.

“We'll have a pot of tea, please, quick as you can,” the doctor told Mrs. Crowe. The old woman scurried off with a sour backward glance.

The doctor shook hands with Lizzie, Becky, and Nora. His hands were warm and smooth. “Dr. Josiah Gladwell, at your service. Pleased to meet you all.” Stopping in front of Erin, he asked, “And who's this? Too shy to shake hands?”

Erin held out her swollen wrist by way of apology.

Dr. Gladwell took it very gently in his hands. “I see. And how did this happen?”

“A horse fell on me, Doctor.”

Just for a second, the smile fell. “Careless. We can't have that. I'm afraid the police will need to have words with the horse's owner.”

“No, it wasn't like that!” Erin said quickly. “She's my horse. I'm with the circus. My sister and I, we're the Amazing Sullivans.”

“Well, I never!” The doctor let out a burst of delighted laughter. “I've never had a patient from a circus before. Now, listen, there will be no charge for my time today — a ticket to the show will do! You must tell me all about it.”

With a big smile — Fitzy would be pleased there would be no doctor's bill to pay — Erin did so. She talked excitedly while Dr. Gladwell examined her arm, poking and prodding and asking if it hurt. Finally, he unrolled a length of bandage and wound it around her arm and shoulder. Even Mrs. Crowe coming in with a tray full of tea things didn't stop the chatter.

“You're in luck, my dear,” the doctor said as he stirred his tea. “Your wrist is badly sprained, but it isn't broken.”

“So I'll be able to perform again soon?” Erin asked.

“You will, although I can't say I entirely approve. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but the circus sounds like a very dangerous way for young girls to make a living.”

“There's worse out there, Doctor,” Lizzie said. “I would have ended up working in a match factory if my dad had had his way. I'll take the circus anytime.”

The fire was making Lizzie feel sleepy. It would be so easy to curl up in the armchair and doze off. She had to get up and do something. The tea was finished, so she picked up the tray and went out to find the kitchen.

The hall was much colder, with black and white tiles and a towering grandfather clock ticking loudly. Which of the doors led to the kitchen? Lizzie started down the hall, heading for the door that seemed most likely.

“Come away from there, girlie!” snapped a sharp voice. Mrs. Crowe snatched the tea tray out of her hands.

As Mrs. Crowe touched her, Lizzie felt a dark shadow sweep over her. A deep chill went through her whole body. Just like the time with JoJo! She clutched at the banister to steady herself.

“I'm afraid nobody is allowed in that part of the house,” said Dr. Gladwell, coming out of the parlor. “The equipment in my laboratory is worth a lot of money.”

“Laboratory?” echoed Lizzie.

“I'm studying something called bacteria,” the doctor explained. “Tiny beasties that make us ill. The better we understand them, the more diseases we can cure. I'm hoping to get smallpox beaten, myself.”

“Could you have made my pa better?” Becky choked out. Lizzie saw tears rolling down her face. “He died of smallpox.”

“Did he?” the doctor said. “I'm so sorry. When did he pass away?”

“Two days ago,” Becky replied. “He's buried up at Kensal Green.”

Dr. Gladwell sighed and patted Becky on the shoulder. “Dear girl, I'm afraid there is nothing I could have done. We can vaccinate against smallpox, but if it's already taken hold, then one can only pray.”

“Do you think he's in a better place?” Becky whispered.

“I'm sure of it,” the doctor said. “And I promise you, I will not rest until that filthy disease is wiped out.”

“Doctor,” Mrs. Crowe croaked, “your next appointment is here. Waiting. Very patiently, I might add.”

“Right! Now, Miss Erin, you must rest your arm for at least two weeks. No fooling around. Understood?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Erin said with a wide smile. “Thank you.”

As they bustled to the door, with Mrs. Crowe all but pushing them out, the doctor waved. “Just leave my ticket at the box office, and I'll make sure I come to the show! Cheerio, all!”

The doctor's next appointment — two men in canal workers' clothes — sat outside on a garden bench. Their caps were pulled down against the bright sunlight.

Sunlight?
Lizzie looked up, saw blue sky, and laughed in happy relief. “Finally. It's about time it stopped raining!”

“Well,” sighed Erin, looking down at her sling, “that's one less thing to worry about. But two whole weeks! What are we going to tell Fitzy?”

To Lizzie, who had grown up in a London slum called Rat's Castle, the countryside was like a foreign country. Right now it looked like something out of a fairy tale, glittering in the bright sunshine. Drops of rain glittered like diamonds on every leaf and bloom. She had a crazy urge to go running through the fields, trampling the long grass down and leaving a wake behind her.

“Come back to my farmhouse,” Becky suggested hopefully. “Our cow, Tilly, gives lovely fresh milk, and it's on the way.”

“We should get back to the circus,” Nora said. “Fitzy's expecting us soon.”

“Just one cup of milk?” Becky pleaded. “It won't take long.”

Lizzie suspected that Becky didn't often have the chance to ask visitors back. “We'd love to,” she said firmly, answering for all of them. That settled that.

Becky drove them to her farm. Some of the fences were in disrepair. Chickens ran to and fro in the yard, pecking at the muck between the cobblestones. “Oh, no,” Becky moaned. “The hens got out again.”

It looked half abandoned for a working farm. “Isn't anyone else here?” Lizzie asked.

“There's only me now that Pa's gone,” Becky said.

“You take care of a whole farm by yourself?” Lizzie asked incredulously. “You must be exhausted!”

Becky shooed the chickens back into their enclosure as Nora and Erin ran around helping as best they could. Lizzie made sure the captive hens didn't get out again.

Once they were all caught, Becky pushed the loose panel back into place with her elbow. “Right,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Let's get that milk.”

In the welcome shade of the cowshed, Lizzie watched in fascination as Becky's strong, scarred hands milked Tilly into a tin bucket.

“Haven't you ever seen a cow milked before?” Becky teased.

Lizzie laughed. “I'm a city girl!” she said. “There were no cows in Rat's Castle.”

Jets of milk squirted into the bucket, making a rattling sound. It looked delicious. Once there was plenty to go around, Becky passed them all cups. Lizzie felt a bit odd drinking something that had been inside an animal moments before, especially as it was still warm, but she soon found herself gulping it down greedily.

“You're really good at that milking,” she told Becky. “I wouldn't know which end to start with.”

“My pa taught me everything I know,” Becky said, sighing sadly. “I miss him so much.”

“You must, you poor thing.” Lizzie hardly knew what to do. What could she possibly say to a girl whose father had only passed away two days before? Becky couldn't even be used to it yet.

Becky wiped her eyes. “I do stupid things. Last night I laid the table for two, just like I used to. I wasn't even thinking. And this morning, just after the rooster crowed, I lay in bed and wondered why Pa wasn't shouting at me to get up. I forgot he was dead. How can that happen?”

“Well, I think he'd be proud of you, running the farm all by yourself like this,” Lizzie said. Erin and Nora nodded, milk mustaches on both of their upper lips.

Becky shrugged. “What else can I do? The animals need me. My father didn't keep this place running just for me to let it go to waste, did he?”

“But it must be so hard!” Nora said.

“There's no sense in feeling sorry for myself,” Becky said, though tears were rolling down her cheeks. “That won't get the milk to market, will it? You needn't feel sorry for me, neither. I deserve . . . I deserve this.”

Lizzie grabbed Becky's shoulders and gave her a hug. “That's a load of nonsense!”

“It's not,” Becky said, crying into Lizzie's sleeve. “You don't understand. Pa caught the smallpox from me. He'd never have been ill if it wasn't for me.”

“That's not your fault!” Lizzie protested.

“But I got better . . . and he . . . he died!” Becky wailed.

Lizzie held the girl tightly as she wept. Nobody else had done this for her, that much was obvious. Nora and Erin looked on with sympathetic faces.

“I just wish I could speak to him again!” Becky said. She pulled back, wiping away tears.

Nora suddenly leaned in. “If you could speak to him, what would you say?” she asked.

A little startled, Becky thought for a moment. “I'd ask him to forgive me. For the smallpox. And I'd tell him I love him. But I'll never get to speak to him again, will I?”

Nora was giving Lizzie a strange look — bright-eyed and excited. “Maybe Lizzie could speak to him for you.”

“What?” Lizzie spluttered.

“Lizzie's a psychic,” Erin said casually. Lizzie half wanted to shove her off the hay bale she was sitting on. This was horrible. What if they gave Becky false hope?

Becky stared at her, dumbfounded.