Chapter 8
If they wouldn’t feed her here, she’d have to find her own food. Cynda spied the moldy potato in a bin behind a pub. It had black spots on it, but she didn’t care. She dug the worst parts out with her fingers and ate it slowly. It tasted grainy, but was better than nothing.
She’d felt safe in the crazy place. The Mouse Lady had watched over her. There was no Mouse Lady here. Maybe the not brother who threw her in the river would find her. Throw her in again. She looked up, panicking at the thought.
When a portly man walked out of the rear of pub, Cynda shrank back, hiding herself behind a pile of planks. He belched and then unbuttoned his pants. A stream of urine hit the board fence. When he finished, he shook himself and went back inside.
Once the potato was gone she rose. In the distance something caught her eye. It was red, moving in the sooty breeze.
“Pretty,” she said, clambering over the low fence. She heard something rip when her skirt caught. Looking back, she saw a small section of cloth trapped in the boards. She pulled it off and put it in her pocket, not sure why she did it. Her hand touched something else. She unfolded the handkerchief like it was a treasure.
The paper inside was still damp. “Jacynda.” That was who she was. That was all she knew. She hid it away again and set her sights on the red shawl hanging on the line in the next backyard. A quick tug made it hers. It smelled clean. She wrapped it around her shoulders and continued on.
When someone brushed against her on the street she jerked away, anxious. Just an old woman with a basket of apples. They looked so good. Maybe she could take one and the old lady wouldn’t notice.
“Hey, girl,” a man called out. “Pretty shawl ya got there.”
“It’s mine,” she declared, looking around for a means of escape.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” the man replied with a toothy grin. “Why don’t we go into the pub? Have a drink and a laugh.”
“No,” she said, backing up. The leer on his face frightened her.
“Ya hungry?” he asked, moving in closer. “I got some food.” He stretched out his hand, displaying a half loaf of bread.
Not right.
She fled before he could reach her.
~??~??~??~
Keats moved closer to hear the man’s voice, he spoke so softly.
“It was that warehouse there.” The watchman pointed, then spat on the ground. “Heard about Effington. Good riddance.”
Clancy snorted his approval.
“Were you there the night Dillon was hurt?” Keats asked.
“Yeah.” The watchman pursed his lips. “I never seen nothin’ like that. Just hit him, no warnin’. Left him bleedin’ like ya would a dog. Couldna cared less.”
“Dillon asked about a particular load. Did you see it?”
The man nodded. “I saw the casks. Somethin’ odd about them. Got no notion of what was in them boxes.”
“Boxes?” Keats repeated, his pulse picking up like a hound sighting a hare.
“Yeah. Didn’t have no markin’s on ’em.”
“I’d like to see them.” As well as Ramsey’s face when I deliver them to Chief Inspector Fisher.
“They’re gone. Left a few nights ago with the casks.”
“Flaherty took them?” Keats pressed.
“Don’t know. I wasn’t on duty that night.” The man spat again.
“Can we see inside the warehouse?”
The fellow frowned. “Why do ya care about all this?”
“’Cuz of Dillon,” Clancy replied. “He’s bad off now.”
“Yeah. I heard that,” the man noted with a small shudder. “I’ll take ya inside, but I don’t want nothin’ to do with that Irishman. That’s pullin’ the devil’s tail, it is.”
Keats took his time searching, though clearly the watchman wanted to be somewhere else.
“Ya think all of it was here?” Clancy asked.
“Not likely.”
“I heard he had two loads of the gunpowder.”
“He did, but I got half of it that night in Whitechapel. And a lot half load of rum,” Keats replied. “It’s how he hid it—rum on top of the load, gunpowder casks on the bottom.”
“So what’re we lookin’ for?”
“Fenian fairy dust,” Keats told him. That earned him a confused look.
It wasn’t until they moved some barrels around that he found what he was looking for. Keats knelt and ran a finger through the black spot on the warehouse floor and smiled. Gunpowder. A bit farther away he ran his hand over something else and sniffed it, then hastily wiped his hand on his coat.
When he stood, he wavered, dizzy.
Clancy grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong with ya?”
“Dynamite. It gives you a headache if it’s leaking. The nitroglycerine does it.”
His companion frowned. “That’s not good, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
Clancy’s frown transformed into a smile. “It’d be a right shame if Flaherty blew himself up, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would.” He’d take my alibi with him.
~??~??~??~
Cynda stood on the shoreline, hands on her hips. Across the water were the gray walls. Inside of those was a tall white tower. Maybe it was like the other place. Maybe they had a Mouse Lady and someone would feed her. But how would get she get there?
She pulled the shawl tighter, puzzling as to why she had thought she could cross here. There were only two stubby piers in the middle of the river. Something was missing. She scratched her head, trying to make sense of the jumbled images floating through her mind.
A boat glided by and a waterman called out, asking if she needed a ride. That confused her. There should be two of them in the boat, like last night. She shook her head and continued to stare at the open air above the piers. Her mind came up with something stone, really tall. But what was it? Looking back up the way she’d come, she saw what was missing.
A bridge. Someone had stolen it.
“Miss?” It was a man dressed in blue with a tall helmet. He had a kind face, or she would have run away. “Are you ill, miss?”
Cynda shook her head and pointed toward the far shore. “I need to go…there.”
“To the castle?”
She didn’t think she wanted a castle. “Do crazy people live there?” she asked.
“Sometimes. Years ago, I heard.”
“Not now?”
He shook his head and then pointed. “There’s a subway over there, miss. It’ll take you to the other side. Just mind your step on those stairs.”
“Thank you.” She set off in the direction he’d indicated. The longer she studied the white tower, the more it didn’t seem right. It didn’t have any of those white columns like the other place. Still, across the water felt right so she kept hunting for the subway the blue-suited man had talked about.
To her surprise the subway looked like a little hut. When she stepped inside, she realized that inside the hut was a hole in the ground. A man came out of it, then another. Subway. Did she like those? She didn’t know. This one had a stairway that spiraled deep into the earth. She started down. Each step increased her anxiety. Her heart sped up, her mouth went dry. A headache started up behind her eyes, thudding with each increasing heartbeat.
At the bottom of the stairs, she peered into the giant iron tube that stretched in front of her. It wasn’t very wide. Though there were lights, it was hard to see because of the haze.
Under the river.
Condensation rippled down the walls as echoes assaulted her ears. Voices. Footsteps. She shivered, clutching the shawl tighter. She froze as a figure emerged from the mist. It was a man carrying a bag. Up the stairs he went, humming to himself. Then another man, this one limping with a cane. Then two women, their high voices resounding off the metal walls.
As she edged into the tube, the flooring flexed beneath her feet. She shrieked and fell against a damp wall. She could feel the wall bending toward her. Fear gripped her and she began to cry. The iron tube would smother her, drown her, or crush her to death. She could feel its menace, hear the water searching for a way to get to her.
She flew up the stairs, tripping on her skirts as she went.
Once outside, she sped away as if something would snatch her, hurl her back into the subway’s mouth. Only when she was a safe distance did she sink to her knees, her chest heaving in panic.
Subways were bad. Very bad. There had to be another way across the river. If not, she’d swim it. No matter what, she had to get to the other side.
~??~??~??~
Fortified by a couple of pints of ale, Keats’ headache had eased but not the problem of how to find Flaherty.
“How’d ya know about the dynamite?” Clancy asked him in a low voice as they exited the pub.
“Worked for the railroad. Learned how to build tunnels.”
“I guess if ya still got all yer parts, ya did all right.”
“Wouldn’t want to do it again. I was young and foolish.”
“Like now?”
“Not so young, still foolish.”
Clancy laughed. “Flaherty could have moved the goods anywhere.”
“I agree. I think we might start on the second problem.”
“Which is?”
Keats told him about Flaherty’s daughter, how someone had taken her.
Clancy looked amazed. “Ya think maybe he’s being forced to do this?”
“Yes.”
“That’s enough to make a man piss his trousers.”
“Why?”
“Someone messin’ about with Flaherty. I always thought he was the nastiest bastard in all London. Goes to show…” Clancy chuckled. “Ya got company, Sean.”
“Rozzers?” Keats asked, looking around.
“No, it was yer girl. I didn’t recognize her right off. She was headed toward the pub. Told ya she was a goer.”
Keats turned, searching the street for Jacynda. “What is she doing here?” he grumbled, heading back the way they’d come.
Clancy shook his head. “If ya have to ask that question, Sean, I worry about ya.”
Cynda stood in the doorway, drawn by the sound of people and the smell of food. The aromas made her stomach ache, but the noise was too much so she didn’t go in. Why had she come here? Where was someone who could help her?
Outside, she found the stairs. These didn’t plummet into the earth, but stopped at the river. The tide was coming in. Cynda gingerly descended to the water’s edge and tried to judge the distance to the other side.
A wide stretch of dark water lay between her and her goal. At her feet were broken pots, pieces of rusty metal, a bottomless pail. Tying her shawl around her, she edged her way out across the short mud flat to the water. In the distance, she heard the solemn tolling of bells and the chug-chug of a steamer heading downriver.
As she walked, the river wormed its way into her boots. She shook her feet, first one and then the other, like a cat who hates getting wet. The ground was uneven, treacherous. The water dragged on her skirts and petticoats. Behind her she heard someone shout, but she ignored it, keeping the far shore in view.
The first shiver shook her thin body like a baby would a rattle. The image of cold water closing over her face came unbidden. She stopped for a second, wanting to turn back. The shivering intensified.
No. I have to go there.
As the water reached her waist, she knew this was wrong. The current was too strong, pulling as the wet garments made each step harder. Cynda tried to turn, but something had caught one of her bootlaces. She pulled hard, but it wouldn’t give way. Frantic, she tried to wiggle the foot loose. When it came free, the current caught her and she flailed to regain her balance.
A hand appeared near her, and she grabbed it.
“Jacynda?”
She stared at the man. He was like the others, but his eyes looked familiar above the heavy beard.
“My God, what are you doing?” he asked.
She found her voice. “How do you know my name?”
Shooting a nervous glance at the growing crowd of onlookers, the man lowered his voice. “Why wouldn’t I know your name? What’s wrong with you?”
“Who are you?” she asked, still grasping his hand to keep from being pulled away by the current.
“I’m…” Another glance toward the onlookers. “a friend. Let’s get you out of here. We don’t want a constable bumbling into this.”
She allowed him to put his arms around her waist and lead her to the shore. He seemed to know her, seemed to care. Not like the man in the carriage, the one who had said he was her brother.
“That one’s not right in the head,” someone said as they came ashore.
“If the rozzers get her, they’ll send her to Bedlam.”
No! She tried to pull free, but her rescuer held her hand firmly.
“I won’t let them take you there,” the man told her. “I promise.”
She looked into his eyes and believed him.