Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins Read online

  ‘He runs a high-class prize-fighting team,’ she said with pride. ‘Might have taken your boy as an apprentice. I’ll keep my ears open, Mr Wasp. I don’t hold with being unkind to youngsters.’ Another pause. ‘If you can get Phineas out of Newgate, I’d be obliged. I don’t want him hanged. I’ll leave a note at his place if I’ve news of your youngster.’

  That evening I went to John’s Hill but there was no sign that Mrs Snook had been to Phineas’ lodgings. Too soon, I comforted myself. Then I had to face going back to Hairbrine Court, which was worse. Here I was doing nothing with no idea of where to turn next. Ned could be anywhere — on a ship to China or just around the corner. Even Kwan-yin wasn’t singing anymore, and without her song the loneliness was even worse.

  All I could do was wait, in the hope of Mrs Snook finding a clue to where he was. I’m not good at waiting. I need to sweep a chimney until it’s clean. That made me realise I was leaving one flue unswept. The main flue leading to getting Ned released. The missing Tarlton play was stuck in it, so I’d have to do my best to climb it.

  *

  It was nearly two weeks since Mr Harcourt’s murder and I couldn’t see why Lairy John or Flint appeared still to be hunting for the Seven Deadly Sins. Even so I had to fix my mind on its being the key to ending this black nightmare, and dismiss the fear that even if I put the Tarlton play in their hands they might not release him.

  My first plan was to talk to Phineas again. I wouldn’t be allowed into Newgate without another pass, which meant another visit to Constable Peters early on Tuesday morning. It was up to me to find Ned, and I clung to the hope that visiting Phineas would solve the mystery of where the script was. Had he passed it to a friend or hidden it too carefully for Slugger or me to find in his room? Or would he confirm that he’d given it to Slugger who had sold it elsewhere?

  Constable Peters said he’d arrange for a pass, but at first he was uneasy about it, as Newgate is so particular about visits from anyone at all and the City of London police might also object. When I explained about Ned he agreed immediately though. No harm would come of it, I assured him. I wasn’t going to take a hacksaw or blunderbuss with me to free Phineas by force. Such passes take time to arrange, however, and several hours went by while I fidgeted, tormented by the thought of Ned all on his own — even dead.

  Tuesday evening found me outside Newgate at last, where I then went through the same routine as before. This time, though, I was sitting in my wooden box cabin before Phineas was brought in from his cell.

  I was shocked. He looked diminished, smaller and his usually merry face was drawn, as though songs and smiles were forgotten things of the past.

  ‘That play manuscript of yours, Phineas. The one your father gave you. The one you went to collect at Mr Harcourt’s bookstore with Joe that night. Where is it?’

  At first Phineas didn’t seem to know what I was talking about but at last he showed interest. ‘Yes. In a cover marked Seven Deadly Sins. Mr Harcourt came to see me and I told him I’d take it to him on Wednesday afternoon. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘It is, Phineas,’ I said with relief. Now at last I might be on the path to freeing Ned, but first I had to finish cleaning the chimney. ‘Hetty’s upset, because it was she who told Mr Harcourt about the manuscript.’

  ‘Upset?’ Phineas looked astonished. ‘Why? She’s my darling bud of May.’

  That reassured me. ‘What happened to the Seven Deadly Sins, Phineas?’

  ‘After Mr Harcourt’s death, Joe said my mother wanted it back and he would take it to her. It still belonged to me, he said, because Mr Harcourt hadn’t paid me for it. I didn’t like Mr Harcourt and I knew that he often bought stolen property from one of Joe’s friends. That’s why I asked you to tell Mrs Pomfret about his behaviour to Hetty. I couldn’t complain to Mr Harcourt about that myself because I wanted him to buy the play first. I didn’t want to sell it, but I did want to marry Hetty.’

  Phineas paused for breath. The words were tumbling out now. ‘I had wanted to surprise her by calling at Dolly’s with flowers to tell her we could get married. When Mr Harcourt said he wouldn’t give me the money until he’d sold the play, I had to tell her immediately — but I met Jericho and William first.’

  My hopes sank again. I understood now what had happened with Hetty and Mr Harcourt, but I still didn’t know any more about the Seven Deadly Sins. Minutes and hours were ticking away while Ned suffered. I had to go on.

  ‘You said you didn’t think Joe had what he wanted when you both left the bookstore, so what happened to the Seven Deadly Sins folder?’

  ‘I gave it to Joe to give to my mother as he asked. He was delighted when I showed it to him and pointed out the name Seven Deadly Sins on the cover. He grabbed it from me.’

  ‘And that’s the last you saw of it?’

  He nodded, looking pleased that he had helped me. Or so he believed.

  I felt I was whirling around in a jig, like Phineas or Tarlton himself. If Slugger did have the Tarlton play, what had happened to it? I was back where I had begun and my only hope for finding Ned with or without the script lay with Mrs Snook.

  This soot was getting too hard even for me to scrape off. I decided to go to Phineas’ lodgings once again, although I was losing hope that the Widow Snook would prove my saviour. The next morning found me knocking on Mrs Tutman’s door to assure her the next rent would be paid on Friday and then I walked round to the steps to Phineas’ room, still not knowing where to turn next. Even if I could beard Slugger in his den he wasn’t going to tell me anything about the Seven Deadly Sins, or, more importantly, about Ned.

  My hopes were whittled down even further as there was, as I’d feared, no sign that anyone had visited Phineas’ rooms since my last visit — the small window was still open and the door closed. Nevertheless, I hurried inside in case I was wrong and I’d find either Mrs Snook or a note from her. I found neither, but there was something waiting for me and my heart lifted.

  Perched on Phineas’ armchair, glaring at me, was Cockalorum

  XIV

  Lost

  Cockalorum? His ghost? A twin cat? I blinked twice, had another look and there he was. No doubt about it. I was receiving his special glare. Somehow or other he had escaped from that sack, because compassion for cats wasn’t likely to be a quality highly rated by Slugger Joe. Cats and kittens have a hard time of it in this part of London, being pinched for their skins, drowned at birth or even eaten. Cockalorum did not look in fine fettle. It was nearly a week since he had been taken; his fur was standing on end and he looked thinner. The hunter in him was plainly to be seen, the cat that had purred for Phineas and Ned was absent. He must be hungry, even though his hunting instinct would surely have meant that he didn’t starve. I’d have to provide something tempting, though.

  He watched me carefully and jumped off the table to greet me, yowling loudly. I didn’t think I was going to get the same treatment as Slugger Joe and stroked him affectionately, admiring his endurance.

  ‘You and me are stuck in the same chimney, Cockalorum,’ I informed him. ‘We both want Phineas and Ned back with us. Trouble is, the chimney’s toppling fast. What are we going to do about it?’

  As he rubbed himself against my trouser legs there was a smell of stale fish, which seemed to come from all over him, as though he’d been lying in it. As I bent down to stroke him again I could sniff it even more strongly. Had Slugger or his men taken him down Billingsgate fish market way, or had he just passed through it to keep himself alive on the way back home? Then a thought came to me: perhaps he was dumped there in the sack. There were plenty of warehouses and wharves around Billingsgate and so …

  Could Ned be there?

  This notion was like a flue with a right-angle bend, but I’d nothing else to go on, so I grasped at it eagerly.

  ‘Mr Wasp!’ A now familiar voice summoned me from outside. It was Mrs Snook herself panting up the steps towards me, skirts rustling with the effort and bonnet askew. She
stopped short when she saw what awaited her inside.

  ‘You said Joe had croaked that cat.’

  ‘I thought he had. But here he is.’ I was about to add ‘stinking of fish’, but I stopped, just in case she was in Slugger Joe’s pay.

  ‘Billingsgate,’ she said grimly. ‘Joe were stinking of fish Sunday night. Where you been? I asked him. None of your business, said he. Oh yes, it is, says I. I told him that’s my bed you’re sleeping in,’ — she blushed modestly — ‘so it’s my business too. And what did he say? Bloke he knows has a couple of warehouses down by Billingsgate. So all I says to him was next time you bring a tidy bit of cod back here, but it set me thinking.’

  ‘And what next?’ I pressed her, seeing a glimmer of light at last.

  ‘He says to come ’ere darling, and give me a hug,’ she tittered.

  Slugger Joe’s endearments weren’t of interest, but that warehouse was. If Cockalorum had been taken to a warehouse might not my Ned be there too? Slugger did not seem the kind of man to be adventurous in his dealings.

  ‘My thanks to you, Mrs Snook,’ I said, seizing my hat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, as I raised it to her and hurried past.

  ‘To find my Ned,’ I threw over my shoulder. ‘He might be there.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she shouted after me. ‘I don’t hold with kidnapping children. Bad enough pinching their clothes. Ain’t right.’

  Coming from Slugger Joe’s woman this was a screamer, but I solemnly agreed with her.

  ‘And what you doing about that cat?’ she threw at me as we hurried down the steps. ‘Looks as if he hasn’t eaten in a month of Sundays.’

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but I climbed quickly back to reassure Cockalorum (and Mrs Snook) that he hadn’t been forgotten.

  ‘And next time we come,’ Mrs Snook said grimly, ‘you make sure my Phineas is back too.’

  *

  Billingsgate is to fish what Smithfield is to meat. Smithfield remains Smithfield for all it’s been reborn as the Metropolitan Cattle Market, and Billingsgate will always be Billingsgate. Every fish in the whole wide world must be sold here, some fresh, some dried, some pickled. Every morning at five o’clock sharp it opens for trade with costermongers, fishmongers, country dealers and hotel keepers, all yelling their heads off.

  Mrs Snook was several inches taller than me and several inches wider too, so we made an odd couple as we struggled our way through the noisy crowds. By this time, I was already tired of her telling me what a gentleman Slugger Joe was and how good at heart. There are many people already past St Peter’s Gate to eternal rest who wouldn’t agree, but today I needed allies and Mrs Snook was one.

  ‘I’ll give Joe a wigging after we find this lad of yours,’ she said. ‘I don’t hold with it. No, I don’t.’

  On Tower Hill we passed Enoch, who thrust a broadsheet at us but we had no time to stop. ‘Later, Enoch,’ I shouted at him. ‘It’s my Ned. He’s been nabbed by Slugger and shoved in one of those warehouses Billingsgate way. Know which of them?’

  But he just stared at me with his watery eyes and I despaired. I remembered the penny I owed him, found one in my pocket and handed it over. He stared at that, too. ‘Toff’s murder,’ I heard him calling. ‘Toff’s murder …’ but I was already on my way, catching up with Mrs Snook as she strode ahead.

  The smell of fish was all around us outside the market as we passed the Custom House. This is a most respectable establishment and it was hard to believe that Flint’s mob was operating anywhere near that. But that’s Flint all over. I realised I was still assuming that Ned’s kidnapping was tied up with Flint’s racket and the murders and not one of Slugger’s own ventures, but I had to cling on to my own instinct.

  There are so many ships and boats moored near London Bridge and in St Katharine’s or London docks that you can hardly see Old Father Thames beneath them. He’s there, though, flowing in his stately fashion as he has done for thousands of years. There are ships from all over the world arriving here, all flying their bright flags, only to be greeted by the sight of London’s chimneys belching out their smoke. That brought back the fearsome thought that Slugger might have put Ned on one of those ships, just as in the bad old days boys were kidnapped for manning the vessels. I had to be nippy about finding him in case he was about to be shipped off to Australia.

  ‘These warehouses of Joe’s — know where they are?’ I panted as we hurried along.

  Mrs Snook didn’t, and so we had to work our way along the wharves — Nicholson’s Steam Packet, Cox’s Quay, Fresh Wharf — all the time avoiding huge stacks of merchandise and sailors and dockers. They were swarming around us carrying out their daily work, while here we were, a sweep and lady trying to rush by them hunting for one small boy amidst this lot.

  The huge warehouses presented a different picture. No one hurried here, everyone walked in stately fashion, being landlubbers who kept the stores and records. Mrs Snook seemed as daunted as I was at the prospect of finding Ned. Had I made a mistake coming here? I took hold of myself. I must not think that way.

  We tried Fresh Wharf first for warehouses, this being nearer London Bridge; the first warehouse had a gatekeeper, a most imposing gentleman who eyed us up and down and then asked haughtily: ‘Where’s your orders?’

  Explaining we were in search of a lost boy availed us nothing. ‘No one comes in here, especially ladies, without an order!’

  ‘Where do we get that?’ I asked desperately.

  ‘London Dock House of course. No ladies allowed until after one o’clock.’

  Mrs Snook took exception to this. ‘I am,’ she said imperiously. ‘I’m looking for Joe Higgins.’

  That shook even this stately gentleman. ‘Not here,’ he barked and there was fear in his face.

  ‘Where then?’ I barked back.

  ‘Next one along.’

  Oddly enough the gatekeeper there said exactly the same thing, and so did the next, and the next. It seemed to me that whether or not we plodded back to the London Dock House for our orders, they had little to do with this matter and much to do with the fact that Mrs Snook mentioned Slugger Joe. Just when I was thinking we didn’t stand a chance, however, there was a change in response.

  ‘Never heard of Joe Higgins,’ was the answer. There couldn’t be a trader this part of London who hadn’t heard of Slugger Joe, so I was suspicious right away. That didn’t help us to get past this gatekeeper, but the next warehouse presented a different problem. There was no sign of a gatekeeper or anyone else, and the door was locked.

  ‘Here,’ I cried out, almost choking with anticipation. ‘I know he’s here!’ I had to believe that or hope would vanish for good. I could feel the tears on my cheeks as I tried without success to ram the door. The stink of old fish around this place made me retch but the windows were too small to climb through even if we smashed them.

  ‘Round the back,’ cried Mrs Snook. ‘There may be another door.’

  My respect grew for her; she wasn’t going to give up and she was ignoring the smells like a true docker. It was hard even reaching the rear of the building thanks to all the piles of rubbish in the form of old boxes and sacks — and, yes, evidence in the form of fish bones. When we managed to reach the back of the building there was at least a clear path through the piles, but Mrs Snook took a dim view of it.

  ‘This is no place for a lady,’ she snorted. ‘Look at my shoes. Covered in fish guts. We’d better find your boy here alive, or I’ll have words with Joe.’

  ‘There’s a door,’ I cried, as though this in itself was proof we were on the right track. It was locked, and the windows were just as small. ‘I’ll try ramming it,’ I shouted, but my puny weight got us nowhere.

  ‘I’ll give it a wallop,’ Mrs Snook offered. ‘I’ve learned a trick or two from Joe.’

  The tricks didn’t work, and by now I was convinced that Ned was inside. What to do? Only one way now. ‘I’ll look for a peeler,’ I said.
r />   ‘No, you won’t!’ she yelled at me. ‘Joe would have me guts for garters.’

  I wavered but help arrived in an unlikely form; we’d been so intent on the door we hadn’t noticed that we had company. Jericho Mason and William Wright were watching us. How or why they were there, I didn’t enquire, I didn’t care. Such mysteries could wait. I just wanted Ned back — if he wasn’t already dead.

  ‘Have you got my boy in there?’ I hurled at them.

  No answer, but Jericho marched towards me. I thought he was going to wallop me but he pushed me aside, then rammed the door with his sturdy shoulders. I heard the locks give and my spirits rose. One more try, and to my joy it burst open.

  He stood aside and motioned us in. William made no move and Mrs Snook and I looked at each other, each suspecting that these men might be Ned’s gaolers. Once we were inside we would be in for it. A woman and a puny chimney sweep weren’t going to stand a chance. Sometimes decisions are quickly made.

  ‘You stay here,’ I told Mrs Snook. ‘I’m going in now.’

  ‘Don’t talk twaddle,’ she snapped, then turned to Jericho and William. ‘You first,’ I heard her say to them grimly. I had already rushed in and was scanning the ground floor by the time I heard the door slam behind her.

  The place was dank and dark — and the smell of fish from ages past hit my nostrils. Empty packing boxes piled high filled every space, and I began to push them aside, my arms flailing. Then Jericho seized me by the shoulder and fear struck through me as he pushed me towards an old rickety staircase.

  ‘Up,’ he ordered me. Could Ned be up there or was this to be my deathbed? Did he want us conveniently out of sight before he and William croaked us?

  ‘Up!’ Jericho shouted again, but this time he must have been calling William as I was halfway up by now.

  ‘You stay there,’ I shouted back to Mrs Snook, as her skirts weren’t going to like these stairs.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she yelled and was up there in a jiffy.