Silhouette (7 page)

Clara thought about it. Should she go alone? But finding Jenny in the smog wouldn’t be easy, and goodness only knew where the Doctor had got to. If he was still with Silhouette he might not take kindly to being interrupted.

Oswald had pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and was checking the time. ‘I really should be going, I’m afraid,’ he said, running his hand through his dark hair.

‘Then let’s find a cab on the way,’ Clara decided. ‘And you see if you can negotiate a stay of execution on the lesson.’

The smog continued to thin as Jenny made her way round the Frost Fair. Several of the stallholders and sideshow attendants remembered her from the previous day.

‘Still can’t find a man, eh?’ the chestnut seller remarked with a laugh. ‘I can help you there if you want, know what I mean?’

‘I know exactly what you mean, and I ain’t interested,’ she told him. ‘So you seen this Milton bloke, or what?’

‘Can’t say as I remember seeing a gent like that. I probably would remember. Sounds like a proper toff.’

Others that Jenny had spoken to didn’t even seem to remember her asking similar questions the previous day – which suggested that they weren’t going to be a lot of help in recalling any details about Milton. But she kept at it, gathering the occasional snippet of information. He might have passed by here; might have made a purchase there; could have been speaking to a man – or maybe it was a woman – just over there. Possibly …

She peered into the smog as she left the candyfloss stall behind. A gust of wind cleared the air for a moment. Was that Clara, heading out of the Frost Fair and up towards the Embankment? Frowning, Jenny set off after her. The air closed in again, and she couldn’t see Clara – if it was Clara.

As Jenny neared the edge of the Fair, a figure appeared suddenly from the heavy air and collided with her, sending her staggering back.

‘Oh my goodness, I’m most terribly sorry.’

The man she had bumped into caught hold of Jenny’s arm to steady her.

‘I’m all right,’ she assured him.

‘Can’t see any distance at all in this,’ the man said, smiling.

Jenny smiled back. At least he was polite, even if he didn’t look where he was going. Though he was right, it probably wasn’t his fault. The young man was wearing a plain suit with an equally plain hat. Fair
hair poked out from beneath it in a slightly unruly manner. He looked about the same age as Jenny, slim build with high cheekbones and pronounced eyebrows. Quite attractive, really, she thought.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘now I’m delaying you.’

‘Oh that’s all right.’ She couldn’t see any sign of Clara now. It probably hadn’t been Clara at all. ‘I’m not going anywhere, really. Just sort of wandering.’

‘Well, perhaps you’d like to wander with me? If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition,’ he added quickly. ‘My name’s Stone, by the way.’ He lifted his hat slightly, allowing more of his fair hair to escape before he jammed it back down on his head. ‘Jim Stone. Friends call me Jimmy.’

Jenny introduced herself, and Jimmy laughed. ‘My sister’s called Jenny, what a coincidence.’

Jimmy was also in service, it turned out as they made their way through the Frost Fair. He worked in the kitchens of ‘a posh house out in Mayfair,’ he told her. ‘It’s my afternoon off, and I managed to get away early to have a look at the Fair before finding some lunch.’

‘Shame you can’t see much of it today,’ Jenny told him.

The police sergeant who had promised to keep Strax up to date on the investigations was as good as his word.

‘Found another one last night, they did,’ he explained as the two of them sat in a quiet corner of one of the local hostelries. ‘Just like the others, it was. Nothing but a dry husk.’

‘And where was the victim found?’ Strax demanded. ‘I shall need the exact coordinates calculated from galactic zero centre.’

‘Dunno about that,’ the sergeant told him. ‘But the poor woman was in Little Haber Street.’

‘Does this Little Haber Street have strategic significance?’

The sergeant frowned. ‘It’s just off Alberneath Avenue, if that’s any help.’

Strax considered. ‘It might be.’ Bellamy’s body had also been found in a passageway that connected to Alberneath Avenue. ‘Thank you for the information, primitive. It has been most helpful.’

‘You got any idea who or what is killing these people then, Mr Strax?’ the sergeant asked as Strax stood up.

‘No,’ Strax told him. ‘But I have a comrade who tells me that once one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must also be eliminated. Good day to you.’

Despite Oswald’s assurances that it was not far to Alberneath Avenue, the journey seemed to take a long time. Sat in the small hansom cab, most of Clara’s view of the journey consisted of the rear end of the horse and the smog above it. She felt a little uneasy, sat on the bench seat with nothing to stop her pitching forwards and out if the horse stopped suddenly. The driver was above and behind her, completely out of view. She only knew he was there from the twitch of the reins, and the occasional words of encouragement aimed at the horse.

The suspension, Clara thought, could do with some work too as they clattered over cobbles and rattled down side streets. She thought she knew central London quite well, but with the restricted view and the absence of many of the landmarks she could have recognised on the admittedly rather logical grounds that they hadn’t been built yet, she was soon completely lost.

The cab finally came to a halt with a drawn out ‘Whoa’ from the driver. Oswald had insisted on paying the man in advance. Clara did have some money the Doctor had given her, but she was glad to be spared having to worry about sorting through unfamiliar currency.

‘Alberneath Avenue,’ the driver said, touching his hat as Clara clambered down.

They were at the end of a long street. There was no need to ask where Milton’s factory was. Even in the smog, Clara could see that while there were terraced houses down one side of the street, there was only one building on the other. It was a huge, monolithic, unforgiving brick façade. What windows there were seemed blank and opaque.

‘Where’s the best place to find another cab?’ she asked, just in case Oswald failed to join her.

‘Best to try down there.’ The cabbie pointed back the way they had come. ‘Turn left at the end and that’ll bring you to Motherton Street. You should get a cab there.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Not that way, though,’ the cabbie warned, pointing down past the factory. ‘You won’t find nothing good down there, miss. Mind how you go now.’

As if to emphasise the point, the driver turned his cab in the road and headed back the way they had come. Clara could hear the wheels rolling over the
cobbles long after the cab was swallowed up by the smog.

Clara had thought – as much as she had thought about it at all – that there would be somewhere to wait for Oswald. A bench perhaps. Maybe even a small tearoom or coffee shop. But there was nothing. Just the faceless factory, the houses opposite – which all seemed to be empty and about to fall down now she looked at them more closely – and nothing else. Nothing except the smog.

She walked slowly down the street. There was no sign of anyone else. Also, surprisingly, there was no sound from the factory. Surely she should be able to hear equipment, machinery, people? Or was it so solidly built that no sound escaped. There were windows – high in the walls, and dark. No light inside, unless they were shuttered … Was she even in the right place, Clara wondered? The cab driver had seemed friendly and helpful enough, and he had to know his way round London.

Clara made her way back to where the cab had dropped her at the end of the street. Sure enough there was a sign attached to the end of the factory: ‘Alberneath Avenue’ it said in faded lettering. This was the right place. But there was no sign of life, and no sign of any way in to the factory either. The entrance must be on another street. Maybe that was why it was so quiet – this part of the factory simply wasn’t in use.

In which case, it made sense to walk round the building and see what she could find–people, activity, a way in … It made sense, another part of Clara’s mind told her as she set off down a narrow side alley, to wait for Oswald. But he could be ages yet. She didn’t know how long it would take him to excuse himself from his tutorial duties. Or if he couldn’t, then how long would he be? Better if she’d cased the joint already and at least found the way in.

The alley was dark and claustrophobic, the smog making it seem even narrower and the walls either side closing in oppressively. Clara hurried along, her heels echoing on the cobbles. A darker patch of the wall resolved itself into an opening. Heavy wooden doors set back into the wall must lead inside. Clara tried them, but they barely moved – locked or bolted firmly. She gave them a frustrated kick and moved on.

Maybe the whole place was shut down. She didn’t know how long ago Oswald had been here. Perhaps Milton had closed the place since then. Even so, she thought, there might be some clue inside. Something to tell her who he really was and what he was up to.

Another alcove with more wooden doors – also locked. It was as easy to keep going as to turn back. The alley turned abruptly, still following the wall of the huge building. Soon Clara arrived at another set of doors. But these were different – larger, and flush with the brickwork. It was the closest she had so far
found to a main entrance. There was a sign above the doors, but it was so faded that she couldn’t make out the words.

The doors, predictably, refused to budge when Clara pushed and pulled at them. But there was a smaller door set into one of the large ones. Not expecting any more encouraging results, Clara tried the handle. And the door creaked open.

She stepped inside. The building was a shell. A huge, empty space. Smog had crept inside, curling through cracks in the dusty windows where light struggled to follow. Looking up, Clara could see the rafters, high above. The far wall, all but lost in shadows and the misty air, must be on Alberneath Avenue. She had walked down the other side of it. No wonder she had heard nothing.

Even as she contemplated the silence, there was a sudden fluttering, beating, high above her. A bird, probably, trapped inside. She walked slowly across the solid floor. There were the remains of fixings and holes where machinery had stood. Probably not that long ago, Clara thought. There was a smell of oil a well as dust and damp. The remains of the metal brackets gleamed in the dim light. If they’d been left for long surely they would have gone rusty – like the metal edges of the windows.

Further in, and she could make out something else on the ground. It looked like snow, but she couldn’t
see where it might have blown in. A scattering of white. As she approached it resolved itself into small shapes, like confetti. She crouched down as she reached the first, and picked it up. A piece of paper, folded into the shape of a small bird …

Behind her, the door slammed shut. Clara turned abruptly at the sound. The wind? She hadn’t felt a breeze. With rising anxiety, she ran back to the door. It was locked. But there was no key. No keyhole. What there was, she saw, was a small plastic keypad fitted to the wall close by. The sort of security lock she might find in her own time with no surprise at all. But here, in the 1890s it was totally and frighteningly out of place.

Her fingers trembled. Something tugged at them. She held up her hand, and saw that the paper bird’s wings were moving as it struggled to break free of her grasp. She let go in surprise, and the creature fluttered away, dancing up through the air like a large moth.

Behind it, the whole floor was coming to life. Pale paper shapes lifted into the air. A mass of tiny folded stylised birds rising up. Swarming. Suddenly hurtling towards her across the factory.

In moments, Clara was enveloped. A blizzard of paper beating at her. The sharp edge of a wing sliced across the back of her hand as she tried to defend herself. Tried to beat away the creatures that battered at her. She ran, but they kept pace, swirling round her
head, blocking her vision. Smothering everything in a whirl of white, scratching and scraping at her.

Her foot caught on a metal bracket set in the floor and Clara crashed to the ground. Her head cracked down and she closed her eyes, knowing it would smash hard into the floor. But the impact never came. She opened her eyes and saw that she was lying with her head over the edge of a pit – a wide opening in the ground. So deep she couldn’t see the bottom. Another few steps and she would have gone over the edge and fallen to her certain death.

She struggled back to her feet. Plucked a paper bird out of the air. Ripped it to pieces even as it struggled to escape. The torn paper danced away like snowflakes.

The whole world was white. Driving at Clara, forcing her back, towards the pit behind her. She was off balance, couldn’t see, her face and hands scratched to pieces. She dropped to her knees. Maybe she could crawl out of here.

But the birds were everywhere, crawling over her, pecking at her face with their sharp paper beaks. Tangled in her hair. Scratching their wings against her cheeks. Clawing their way into her mouth. Scraping at her eyes.

She did the only thing she could – Clara screamed for help. Screamed and screamed.

And knew that there was no one to hear her.

The Shadowplay tent was closed up. A signboard outside informed the Doctor that the next performance would be this afternoon. He could sneak inside and have a nose round, but there were probably people about. And he wasn’t sure what he’d find anyway – really he wanted to talk to Silhouette. Did she remember Hapworth? Had they spoken? What had intrigued him? And where did he go after the shadow puppet show?

The Doctor walked all round the large tent. He called. He walked all round the large tent again, but in the opposite direction. Then he went for a brisk walk round the rest of the Carnival while he decided on the best course of action.