Wild Boy and the Black Terror (10 page)

“Wait…” he groaned. “Marcus…”

Wild Boy stopped tugging his arm. Did he say
Marcus
?

“God’s sake…” Lucien said. “Marcus … in danger…”

The fire fizzled out inside him and he slumped back to the ground. Wild Boy held onto Lucien’s hand, shaking it and then shaking his whole body.

“Oi! Oi, wake up. What did you say about Marcus? What danger?”

“Hey. Hey, you!”

A Black Hat marched from the drawing room. He saw Wild Boy crouched over Lucien, saw the blood in the snow. His face creased in horror. “Alarm!” he hollered. “Sound the alarm!”

Wild Boy turned to flee back into the library, but he knew he’d be trapped. Instead, he dived over the cloister wall and into the brambles that filled the courtyard garden. Thorns tore at his hair and scratched his face as he wriggled through the thicket. He heard a bell clang inside the palace – the Gentlemen’s alarm. The cloister filled with bobbing lights, frightened questions and frantic commands.

“What happened?”

“It’s Wild Boy. He attacked Lucien.”

“He’s still here somewhere, in the brambles.”

“Surround the garden. Find him.”

The Gentlemen were too wary of the thorns to come after him. Instead, they grabbed antique lances from the drawing room wall, and guarded the garden on all sides. They began to jab the weapons into the thick bushes.

“Give up, boy!” one of the men called. “You can’t stay in there forever.”

Snow sprinkled from the brambles, soaking the hair on Wild Boy’s face. His heart was going berserk with fear; for himself, and for Marcus. He’d seen Lucien’s eyes, heard the urgency in his voice. Marcus
was
in trouble, which meant Clarissa might be too.

He had to get to them. Somehow he
had
to.

Tearing his coat from the thorns, he crawled to the edge of the brambles. He was yards from the drawing room door, but one of the Gentlemen stalked closer. The man rammed his spear into the brambles. The blade shot past Wild Boy’s face, so close it sliced the hair on his cheek and dug into the ground.

The Gentleman yanked the weapon from the bush. “Anyone see him?” he said. “He’s here somewhere.”

Wild Boy burst from the brambles. He barged into the man, knocking him over, and charged for the door.

“There!” one of the other men cried. “He’s there.”

Wild Boy darted back into the palace, through the Drawing Room and along a hallway. Several Gentlemen charged towards him, rushing to investigate the alarm. Wild Boy screamed at them, waving his arms.

“Outside! A monster! It’s eating your pals.”

The men ran faster, right past him. Wild Boy kept going, past the Tapestry Room and down corridors, until he reached the Guard Chamber that led to the entrance courtyard and out of the palace.

He had to get to Marcus and Clarissa.

Through a window, he saw Dr Carew laying Prendergast’s corpse in a cart and covering it with a tarpaulin. Wild Boy turned, considering the antique rifles and flintlock pistols hanging in diamond patterns on the Guard Chamber wall.

He made a decision.

9

“
W
e have spoken before about controlling your emotions.”

Marcus’s fingers locked tighter over the top of his cane. The carriage jolted as it rode over cracks in the road, but somehow the Gentleman remained still, not one silver hair slipping out of place. “You must learn to think less with your fists and more with your head.”

“Can’t think with nothing at the moment,” Clarissa replied. She curled up more tightly on the seat, exaggerating a shiver. “Brain’s frozen solid.”

Marcus laid his coat over her, and she sank beneath its thick fur trim.

“Anyway,” she said. “All that stuff at the palace was Wild Boy’s fault.”

She bit her lip, fighting a smile. Although she had lived on the same fairground as Wild Boy for three years, she’d only really known him for four months. Even so, she’d never felt closer to anyone else. It was a strange relationship. She would stand beside Wild Boy in any fight – through anything – and yet they delighted in landing each other in trouble. She would never snitch on him for something he’d actually
done
, but she was quite happy to make up stories about things he hadn’t.

“It was all Wild Boy,” she said. “In fact, I think I saw him steal a—”

“Enough, Clarissa. You both need to learn restraint.”

Clarissa tensed. She didn’t take well to being scolded, even by Marcus. She sank deeper beneath the coat, hiding the flush she could feel spreading across her cheeks. “You ain’t my father,” she muttered.

The carriage jolted again, and a strand of hair slipped over Marcus’s golden eye. He brushed it back with a gloved finger. “You should not dwell on what happened with your father or your mother.”

“You don’t know nothing.”

Clarissa felt bad for snapping. The fact was, Marcus knew everything about her past. That was his business. But just knowing about things was different from living through them. He hadn’t been there when her father ran off with one of the freak show performers, and he hadn’t watched it drive her mother crazy, turning her into “Mad Mary Everett”, that bitter witch. He wasn’t chased by her hunting dogs. He had no idea how that felt.

Clarissa curled up even smaller on the seat. She couldn’t remember the mother she once loved. All she could picture were those raging eyes. She could still hear that hate-filled cry when her mother discovered her helping Wild Boy escape. “
Get them. Get both of them.”

“That woman’s dead to me,” she said.

Eager to change the subject, she threw back the coat and grinned at Marcus. “You and Wild Boy are much more fun anyhow, even though Wild Boy’s a thickhead.”

Marcus opened his mouth to disapprove, but she cut him off. “He ain’t as clever as you think, you know. I mean, he is, but he ain’t. He’s no cleverer than I’m good at circus skills, is he?”

She prodded her guardian’s knee, seeking a response. The smallest of smiles cracked Marcus’s stony face, but it was enough.

“You are equally talented,” he conceded. “That is why you
both
must learn to master your emotions. Your past is your past. That is where it should remain. If not, it will control you.”

Was it that easy for Marcus? Clarissa wondered. What did she really know about her guardian’s past? Even Wild Boy hadn’t been able to detect much. Eventually they’d given up trying to find out. They were both just happy he was on their side.

“I cannot protect you for ever,” Marcus said.

“Stop saying that,” Clarissa replied. “Course you can. Anyhow, once we crack this case for the Queen, you won’t need to. She’ll probably make us lords.”

“That is utter nonsense. But you are correct in thinking that solving this case would prove your value to the Gentlemen. That is why we are visiting Lady Bentick this evening.”

Clarissa sat up. “Eh? I thought this was some fancy dinner to teach me about society.”

The carriage slowed. With the end of his cane, Marcus parted the curtain to look outside. “Clarissa, I have no desire to teach you about society. Certainly a few manners would do you no harm, but on the whole, society is a dreary place for which you are far too interesting.”

“You mean we’re on the case right now?”

“We are following a lead.”

“Wild Boy didn’t say nothing about no lead.”

“It is not something of which he is aware. I wish it to remain that way until I have more information. There is a possible…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “A possible connection between the Queen’s story and Lady Bentick. It is a delicate matter that requires careful handling. I arranged this dinner to make enquiries. Wild Boy would have insisted on coming, and we both know that he could not.”

“He’d probably have jumped onto the back of this carriage if he knew.”

“Precisely.”

She laughed at the idea, but talking about Wild Boy was even more painful than Marcus’s probing about her past. This was the first time they’d been apart, even for a few hours. She had considered staying with him, but hadn’t wanted to let Marcus down. And, well, it felt nice to wear a posh dress, even though she’d never admit it.

Now she didn’t regret coming – not one bit. No way she was keeping this secret. Wild Boy would be
so
annoyed when he found out she’d investigated the case. She’d tell him the moment she next saw him, and she couldn’t wait.

The carriage stopped. The door swung open with a rush of cold air. Gideon looked inside, beady eyes peering from beneath a heap of snow-covered capes and coats. He bowed to one side, making it clear the greeting was only for Marcus. “We’re here, sir.”

They had arrived in a square of townhouses set around a private, railed-off garden. Most of the buildings looked the same – dark and stern, with polished marble steps, and stone columns guarding doors. Beyond tall windows, Clarissa glimpsed servants carrying silver trays and crystal decanters through hazes of cigar smoke.

One house was different. Scalloped arches at the front were carved with intricate floral arabesques, and lit by hanging brass lamps. The larger, central arch framed a brass-studded oak door with ivory elephants on either side.

“Lady Bentick’s house,” Gideon said.

A servant stepped from the door, dressed in a saffron turban and white tunic brocaded with gold. He looked like the Indian magicians Clarissa had seen around fairgrounds, but she didn’t need Wild Boy’s detective skills to tell her that the man wasn’t really Indian. He had white skin and seemed ill at ease with the turban, raising a hand to hold it in place as he dipped into a low bow.

“Mr Bishop,” he said. He nodded at Clarissa. “Fräulein Bishop. Her Ladyship is expecting you.”

Clarissa looked at Marcus. “Fräulein Bishop?”

“This evening,” he replied in a whisper, “you are my niece from Bavaria.”

“Bavaria?”

“So you do not have to talk. Lady Bentick has an old fashioned habit of being offended by foul-mouthed children. Remain silent and try not to steal anything while I make the necessary enquiries regarding our case.”

They were led into an entrance hall that was even more extravagant than the front of the house. Clarissa wondered if Lady Bentick had got a deal on white marble. Almost everything was carved from it. Marble arches led to corridors on either side, and a sweeping staircase rose from the centre, with a balustrade of carved arabesques. The floor was chequered marble – black and white squares all over – and stone thrones stood on either side of the door. Stuffed peacocks watched from recesses around the hall, with fanned tails and glaring marble eyes. Bronze lamps burned coconut oil, giving the air a sickly sweet smell that made Clarissa gag.

“Strange place,” she said. She tried to whisper, but it came out too loud and echoed around the bare walls.

The turbaned servant scowled at her as he sank into another bow. “Her ladyship will be with you momentarily,” he said.

The man retreated down one of the corridors. Clarissa watched as he issued orders to two other servants in Indian costume.

“What’s with the Indian stuff?” she asked.

“Lady Bentick and her husband lived there,” Marcus said. “They became obsessed with the place.”