Wild Boy (24 page)

“The dock’s too busy, sir,” one of the Gentlemen said. “We can’t get close.”

Frustration boiled inside Wild Boy. He turned to kick one of the wooden seats, but stopped himself. Getting angry wouldn’t help Clarissa. He needed to think.

He turned and rushed to the side of the boat. Upstream, a rickety tavern leaned over the river, propped up by beams that jutted from the bank. The mouth of a large sewer stuck out beneath, trickling brown slush into the swirling water.

“Steer over there!” Wild Boy said. “We can get to the fair underground.”

The Gentleman hesitated, reluctant to take orders from a boy. He looked to Marcus, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible, nod of his head. “Do what he says,” he ordered.

With a belch of smoke, the boat turned. The paddlewheel churned through the murky water as they drew nearer to the bank. The men maneuvered the vessel so its bow poked beneath the tavern’s overhang, kissing the mouth of the sewer.

Wild Boy leaped into the tunnel from the boat and signaled for the others to follow. “Hurry!”

One by one they came across. Crouching low, they followed Wild Boy into the reeking dark. Marcus limped behind him, one hand on his cane, the other pressed against the tunnel wall. “You know this fair well?” he asked.

Bartholomew Fair. Wild Boy knew it well enough. Through a grille he saw the dense mass of people cramming the street above. It was like a glimpse into hell — everyone pushing and barging, screeching and swearing. A man spat blood into the gutter. Medicine men sold potions from trays. A fire-eater belched flames into the driving rain.

Around a dozen traveling fairs came together for this last and largest show of the season. Shops, stalls, and stages filled every available space from the river to West Smithfield, the square where Wild Boy’s fair usually pitched. That, he knew, was where he needed to reach. That was where he’d save Clarissa.

Ahead, a slant of gray light broke the dark. An island of bricks rose from the sewage where part of the tunnel wall had collapsed.

“We can get up through here,” he said. “We should come out close.”

He crawled through the hole and into a dingy chamber. It was some sort of cellar, with rotten walls and crumbling stone stairs. It reminded Wild Boy of the place where he’d hidden with Clarissa and Sir Oswald. That seemed like a long time ago now.

Strengthened by the memory, he climbed the stairs to an abandoned shop — a shell of smashed glass, cracked mirrors, and broken brick. Light shone in thin streams between the wooden planks of the boarded-up entrance.

Outside, the rain was coming down hard, but most people were too drunk to care, dancing arm in arm through the downpour. Over their heads Wild Boy saw the peak of Mary Everett’s circus tent. That was where he needed to be, but it was a hundred yards away across the square. There was no way he’d get through these crowds, not with the reward on his head.

Marcus emerged from the stairway. Wild Boy saw the man’s fingers tighten around the top of his cane, and he knew the pain in his knee had grown worse.

“We’re too far out,” Wild Boy said. “We’ll have to go back down, find another way.”

“What is that over there?” Marcus said, peering between the boards.

Halfway across the square, a line of policemen struggled to clear a path for a marching band and a golden stagecoach that rode slowly through the crowd.

“That’s the Mayor’s carriage,” Wild Boy said. He remembered how each year the Lord Mayor paraded to the circus tent to officially open the fair.

“If we can reach those police officers,” Marcus said, “they will escort us to the circus tent.”

“Coppers?” Wild Boy said, horrified. The only place they’d escort him to was prison.

“Believe me,” Marcus explained, “the police will do exactly as I tell them. We are a
very
powerful organization.”

Wild Boy was beginning to believe that. He was keen to learn more about these Gentlemen, who could order the police about, take over the Tower of London, and fill its cells with condemned criminals. But he could think about that later.

Marcus turned to the other Gentlemen as they came up the stairs. Even though their trousers dripped with filth from the sewers, the five men still looked sharp and focused.

“Gentlemen,” Marcus said, “you must go ahead to the circus tent. I shall follow with Wild Boy. Have everything ready. We stick to his plan.”

“Find Sir Oswald Farley,” Wild Boy added. “He’ll help you.”

The Gentlemen hesitated, still flustered that Wild Boy was in charge. But a glare from Marcus stirred them into action. Four of them brought out their pistols and loaded the plates with powder. The other yanked away some of the panels from the shop entrance. And then they set off, pushing through the mass of bodies toward the big top.

Wild Boy’s plan was underway. But it relied on him and Marcus reaching the circus too. “So how we gonna get to them coppers?” he said. “Fight our way through?”

“Fighting, Wild Boy, is not always the solution. I should think you know that by now.”

Marcus gripped his cane and drew the thin steel sword from inside. “We are simply going to give them a scare,” he said.

“Well, I know these types, and there ain’t much what scares them.”

Marcus looked at him, and another hint of a smile danced across his face. “There is
one
thing,” he said.

“L
adies and gentlemen, please stay calm and stand away.”

Startled faces stared. Frightened bodies stepped back. Someone screamed. Someone laughed. The whole crowd watched as Marcus Bishop emerged from the shop, one arm wrapped around Wild Boy’s neck and gripping a pistol. The Gentleman’s other hand swept his sword in a wide arc, clearing a path to move forward.

“I have captured the Wild Boy of London,” he declared. “And I claim the reward. I intend to deliver him to the officers in the parade. Anyone who tries to stop me will receive a bullet in the neck. Now, please, let me pass.”

Some of the crowd scoffed, thinking it a prank. This ragged, filthy boy
was
covered in hair, but surely someone so short and slim couldn’t be the Wild Boy of London, monster and murderer of two men. Marcus’s sword, though, was no joke. As one, the crowd edged back farther, making way for the Gentleman.

“Back!” Marcus said. “You, fat lady, stand aside!”

The fat lady stood aside. Everyone stood aside, parting like the Red Sea to let them through. As the crowd pressed back, the chain of policemen struggled to keep them from spilling into the route of the Lord Mayor’s coach parade.

Wild Boy struggled to breathe in Marcus’s powerful grip. He was amazed by how well this was working. It wasn’t just the weapons that held the mob back. It was Marcus — the force of his words. He’d never seen someone in such complete command.

But he knew it wouldn’t last. The reward on his head was too high.

Some of the crowd edged closer. Clammy hands reached for him. Hot faces leered. Marcus cracked one man on the head with his pistol, but still they came.

“Get the freak!” someone yelled. “Split the reward!”

Wild Boy kicked another man, who lunged at him. But there were too many. They grabbed his arms, dragging him from Marcus’s grip.

“Shoot!” Wild Boy yelled.

“What?” Marcus said.

“Shoot your bloomin’ gun!”

It was their last chance. Raising his pistol, Marcus fired into the sky.

The crowd reeled back, tumbling into one another. The police couldn’t hold them any longer. The blue line broke and bodies sprawled past. They collided with the marching band, sending tubas and trombones clattering.

“Now!” Wild Boy cried.

Bursting forward, he ran over the backs of the crowd and into the path of the parade. He pelted toward the circus tent, between the two lines of police. The officers saw him but they couldn’t break their chain without letting the rest of the crowd swamp the procession.

“It’s the Wild Boy of London!” someone shouted.

“He’s after the Mayor!”

But the Mayor was far behind. Wild Boy’s lungs burned and his legs strained. As he got near the big top, he saw a familiar figure waiting at the entrance. Sir Oswald hopped on one hand and waved urgently with the other.

“Master Wild!” he said. “Thank the heavens you are safe. But where is Miss Everett? And what is this business? These gentlemen ordered me to bring Mr. Finch to the circus. They said it was upon your request. Surely he is the last person you would wish to see right now.”

Wild Boy leaned against the circus pay box, catching his breath. Now that he was here, he was more scared than ever about what he had to do. He looked at Sir Oswald, wondering if he should tell him what he knew about the killer. But he decided to stick to his plan. “I don’t have much time,” he gasped. “I’ll explain inside.”

Even in the spluttering light of the gas chandelier, the circus tent was dark and dank. Rainwater leaked through holes high in the canvas, turning the sawdust into slush. The other Gentlemen were here, guarding two prisoners in the middle of the ring — Augustus Finch and Mary Everett.

The showman and ringmaster looked almost amused by the Gentlemen’s pistols. Both of them were well used to run-ins with the law. But when they saw Wild Boy, their faces changed. Mary Everett’s mouth curled from a sneer into something like a snarl, the crust of powder makeup cracking across her cheeks. Finch glared at Wild Boy, stroking the deep-purple scar that ran over his nose. His other hand slid toward his waistcoat, inside which Wild Boy knew the showman kept his favorite knife.

Marcus came up behind Wild Boy, breathing hard. He gripped one of the chandelier’s guy ropes and winced from the pain in his knee. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” he said.

Wild Boy nodded, although suddenly he wasn’t sure at all. Ever since the Tower he’d been running on anger and adrenaline, barely stopping to think. Now he felt sick with fear — of the mob behind him and of the killer, who was just yards away from him now, in this tent.

“Well then,” Marcus said. “This is your show, Wild Boy. Shall we begin?”

A
ugustus Finch and Mary Everett.

Seeing them together, Wild Boy didn’t know who presented the more grotesque figure — Finch, with his black and white hair and his scars all shiny across his face, or Mary Everett, who watched him from behind her thick white makeup. They would have made a fine couple. Both, he thought, were quite capable of murder.

Mary Everett lit a cigar and blew smoke into the face of her Gentleman guard. If she was worried by the man’s pistol, she didn’t show it. “So, freak,” she growled at Wild Boy, “you’re in charge now, are you? You gonna tell us what this is about?”

Wild Boy stepped closer, trying not to show his fear. He looked the ringmaster straight in the eye. “You know what this is about,” he said. “Murder.”

“Ha! You ain’t pinning no murder on me.”

“You pinned one on
me,
” Wild Boy said.

“That was Showman’s Law. It was right and proper.”

Showman’s Law,
Wild Boy thought. It was her twisted idea of justice that had allowed the killer to escape undetected. Until now.

He brought out the list of clues. The page trembled in his hands as he read it again, making absolutely certain that he’d got this right.