A Lady in the Smoke (23 page)

Vanishing for twenty-four hours was quite simple, really.

I told my aunt that I was returning to Anne's to keep her company for the night, and I sent a message to Anne to explain that I had to go to London and why. Then I slipped into an unused bedroom across from my own. In a closet full of old clothes, I found a plain gray servant's dress, a black cloak that was frayed at the hem, and a dowdy bonnet with a thick net to cover my face. I put everything into a small valise such as I had taken to Anne's dozens of times before, and I put some coins into a purse.

As I left my room, I had a moment of misgiving. What if my aunt discovered I wasn't at Anne's?

Then again, what was the worst thing she could do?

With the Great Southeastern line closed, the nearest station was Bonwell, a little over an hour away.

I arrived at the station at a quarter till eleven, changed my clothes, and found a boy to take the gig to the station stables for the night. The veil over my face helped conceal my features as I paid for a third-class ticket. Then I stood on the platform, like any servant taking the train to London to carry out an errand for her mistress.

I heard the train before I saw it—the clacking on the rails first, then the scream of the iron wheels as the brakes labored to slow the engine. Despite the coolness of the air, I felt the sweat at the back of my neck and under my arms where the dress was scratchy.

As the train stopped at the platform, I had a moment of panic. The stench of burning coal and smoke recalled the accident so strongly that I felt the bile rise to the back of my throat, and I had to put a hand to my mouth and force myself to swallow. For a moment, I wasn't sure I would be able to get on.

I let myself be swept forward with the other passengers toward the third-class carriages. I hit the toe of my boot on a step and stumbled into the car. But I managed to make my way to a wooden bench, where I wedged myself between two other travelers and all their packages.

The train started to move, and I sat rigidly until we reached the next station without incident. Only then did I raise my veil and begin to breathe normally as I looked about me. None of the other travelers seemed at all nervous. There were mothers with their children, men reading newspapers, a woman knitting, boys with their caps pulled low, a priest, and a girl holding a basket in her lap. When I heard the mewling of a kitten, I couldn't help but smile; she broke into a return grin and patted the top of the basket.

“This your first time travelin' by train, then?” asked the woman beside me. She was a buxom matron of about forty, with dark hair, a round pale face, and small dark eyes, like raisins in a dumpling.

I shook my head.

“You look a bit peaked. Be you nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted. “I can't help thinking about the disaster at Holmsted.” That much was the truth.

She nodded briskly and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “ 'Twas 'orrible, I'm sure. But I ride this train every week and ain't nothin' 'appened yet, so I think it's a good train.”

“I hope so.”

“D'you want a biscuit?” She opened a box to offer me one.

“No, thank you,” I said.

She gave me a curious look. “You needn't be putting on fine airs with me, when you be a servant same as me, anyone can see.”

I felt a flush rising to my cheeks.

“Or be you a governess?” she persisted. “Like another girl I met on the train, not a month ago. She said 'er family had come down in the world, and she went from 'aving a governess of 'er own to bein' one. That's 'ow come she talked like a lady.”

I feigned surprise and then smiled. “You've guessed it exactly.”

She nodded smugly. “I knew it. I kin alwus tell the truth about folks.”

As we approached London, every stop seemed to take longer, and just outside Liverpool Street Station, a dozen trains converged on the tracks around us, and we were forced to wait our turn. Gray clouds and smog made the city feel very dark. An enormous clock stood outside the station, and as we inched along, I watched the iron hands ticking away the minutes past five o'clock. When we finally drew to a stop, nearly two hours beyond our scheduled arrival, I was feeling desperately impatient; and after bidding a hasty goodbye to the woman beside me, I made my way out of the carriage onto the crowded platform.

The dozens of noises and voices and smells were even more overwhelming than I remembered. Porters blew their whistles, waving impatiently: “Boy! Bring that trolley over here!” The hawkers shouted, “Baked kippers, three pence! Get 'em hot!” Small boys slipped through the crowd, their hands moving furtively, and I held my purse firmly inside my cloak. A patterer, with a tray of pamphlets slung around his neck, cried, “Read it now! The true and turrible story o' how Tom Mansfield strangled Clara Bowen and stuffed 'er in 'is forge! Look at the bones, burnt to bits!” He grinned around his missing teeth. I shuddered and hurried toward the exit, hoping that I'd find a hansom cab unengaged when I reached the street.

I needn't have worried; there were dozens of them lined up and being hailed by well-dressed gentlemen. I marshaled more confidence than I felt, approached a cab, and raised my hand. The driver slouched forward, staring heedlessly ahead of him, the reins loose in his bare hands.

“Good afternoon,” I called. “I need to be taken to the offices of the
Falcon
.”

He didn't even turn his head.

“Excuse me!” I shouted. “I need to be taken to the offices of the
Falcon
!”

His eyes shifted sideways, and then his head jerked toward me. “What?”

I repeated my request in a firm voice.

He only stared at me.

“The newspaper office,” I said impatiently. “Do you know it?”

He spat tobacco, and wiped at his chin with his sleeve. “Where is 'em?”

I froze. I had no idea of the address. I had never had to provide an address to anyone—and I had assumed, as the
Falcon
was one of London's larger newspapers, a cab driver would know where it was.

“I'm not sure exactly. Don't you know?”

He scowled and shouted to the driver behind us. “Hey, Driggers! Where's the
Falcon
offices? Fleet Street?”

“Nah! That's for the loikes o' the
Times
!
Falcon's
t'other way, in Whitechapel. Take Houndsditch down to Minories, cut east on Prescott.”

Whitechapel.

Home to the infamous Spitalfields Market, where butchers sold all cuts of animal meat and men traded wives.

“Up from St. Katharine's Docks?” my driver shouted back.

“Yah, it's in that pa'sel of streets before you get to Weymouth! You ca' miss it—it's a big ugly building, with a sign.”

My driver turned to me. “It's a ways. You got money to pay? I ain't takin' you all the way out there and gettin' stiffed o' my fare.”

I stared, affronted at first, but then realized that a maidservant—or a governess—whatever I was—would in all likelihood be asked that before she was allowed into the cab. “How much?”

“Three bob, plus three, 'cause I won't get a fare back from there.”

I plucked out my little bag of coins and jingled it. “I've enough.”

“What be sum'un like you doing at a news office?” He squinted at me, showing his rotten teeth.

“That's not your concern, is it?”

He gave a shrug. “All right, then.” He jerked his head. “Get in.”

I'd never climbed into a carriage unassisted in my life. I reached over and tugged at the door handle. It didn't budge. I yanked harder, but it held firm. Frustrated, I pulled downward, and to my relief, the panel swung open. Awkwardly I climbed inside and sat down, dragging the door closed behind me.

I'd made it this far.

The cab started forward, rattling across the cobblestones. The sudden movement jarred me, and I winced as my spine hit the back of the seat. If there had ever been a thick pad of stuffing in that cushion, it was gone now. I groped about, found the remains of a leather strap attached to the wall, and grasped it tightly. Then I planted both my feet on the floor to keep my balance, and looked out the side window.

From the hook on the cab's left side hung a lantern that cast its light in wavering arcs against the dusk. We were on a broad street, wide enough for other cabs to roll past in the opposite direction with room to spare. The streetlights looked like sets of twin moons, with their pairs of lit spheres glowing atop iron stands. We passed shops closing up for the night, half a dozen open pubs, a gin palace with a shining tin façade and music emanating from the windows, and St. Botolph's church, with one of its windows boarded shut. We turned down the next street. Here, some of the lamps were unlit, leaving long stretches of darkness between. There were no cobblestones anymore, and after a quarter of a mile, the cab swung left into a narrow lane. With each zig and zag, my misgivings grew.

I wished I could be sure we were even heading in the proper direction. What if that other driver was wrong? I tried to remember if, in any of our conversations, Mr. Flynn had ever mentioned where the
Falcon
was. Was it in fact near the Thames? I swallowed hard, my lips and mouth suddenly dry.

We turned again, into yet another narrow alley. On either side were houses, cheaply built and crowded together, the rooflines overlapping. The smell of night-soil was stronger here, and in the light from the lantern I could see filth, debris, old newspapers, and bits of metal and wood thrown up against the sides of the buildings. Above the creaking of the cab's wheels, I heard sounds I couldn't decipher. Was the clanking metal a door banging, or a pail knocking against a trough, or something else? Raised voices came from inside the houses, but I couldn't make out the words. A dog yelped—but whether in pain or welcome, I couldn't tell. At the corner three swarthy men stood together over a ringed fire, watching the cab approach.

Fear snatched at my spine like a claw.

What if the driver were taking me somewhere to be robbed?

Or worse?

We passed a woman not much older than I leaning in a doorway, her thin face yellow in the light from the fire, her dress askew so that her bosom showed. A prostitute.

I pressed my gloved hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.

Not a soul on earth knew where I was. No one but Anne even knew I was in London, much less in this narrow street in Whitechapel whose name I didn't know. I pressed back against the seat as hard I could and sent up fumbling, frantic little prayers that I'd arrive safely, that I'd live. The carriage turned into an alley lined with crooked buildings, where lights flickered through broken shutters. I'd read about such places in the papers—rookeries, they were called—in Seven Dials and Devil's Acre where even the police didn't dare to go—

And then the cab stopped.

I leaned toward the window, my eyes searching for any sign of the
Falcon
offices. But there was none. I couldn't help it; tears sprang to my eyes.

I'd been a fool, and I was going to die.

“Ho there!” my driver called out. “I'm looking for the
Falcon
—the newspaper office. Y' know where it is?”

A night-soil man lifted his shovel to point ahead of us. “Next street, go right and a ways. You'll see it.”

I sank back, feeling weak with relief.

The right turn took us to a street wider than the alley through which we'd come. The cab slowed, finally drawing up in front of a tall square building with a decently bright lantern on either side of the front door. Above a window hung a sign that declared, in plain metalwork:
OFFICES OF THE FALCON
. A yellow light shone out of half a dozen windows on an upper floor, and I saw the silhouettes of people moving about.

“Here 't is,” called my driver. “There's a black bird up on that sign. Now, pay up.”

I turned the door handle, stepped down onto the filthy street, and fumbled some coins out of my purse. He grunted, turned his weary horse about, and started back the way he came without another word to me.

Now that the danger was past, I felt ashamed of having mistrusted him, and I couldn't help but notice his horse. She was a plain brown mare, with a dull coat, and her head hung low in the traces. She wasn't terribly thin, but she looked tired—and something was wrong with her right fore.

“Wait!” I called.

He looked back, his scowl impatient. “What? Be ye changin' your mind now, after all that?”

“No.” I crossed to the horse, put my hand on her right fetlock, and she lifted it. In the dull light from above, I could see what the problem was. “Come down here. She's picked up a stone.”

He got down with a grunt, took up her foot, pulled a metal hook from his pocket, and pried the stone out.

I drew out some extra coins. “Here. Buy her some extra oats, would you? She needs them.”

He looked at me strangely. “Well, ain't
ye
a queer one.” Then he pocketed the coins, climbed onto his box, and chucked to his horse to move on.

“I'm a queer one all right,” I muttered under my breath as I knocked on the front door. I could hear noises inside, but no one came. I made my hand into a fist and pounded, but to no avail. I tried the handle; it was locked solid.
Why
didn't anyone come?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two men emerge from the shadows of an abandoned warehouse down the street.

I forced myself to remain calm. Hadn't I just lost my head for no reason in the cab? The men could be laborers or dustmen or rivermen on their way home; there was no reason to suspect them of ill intent.

I hammered at the door again. As I waited for a response, I stole another look at them.