thickening fog had slowed the traffic down and as I pulled myself up onto the corrugated iron roof, thecarriage was just reaching the junction at the end of the street. The two great lamps shone through the fog like saints’ halos as the carriage swung round to the left. I picked my way along a long brick parapet wall, then cut back at an angle over the top of a pitched roof, finding myself directly above the cab when it arrived at the next junction.
All round me, the icy fog swirled, as yellow and sulphurous as a witch’s brew. It softened the edge to every building, blurring the rooftops and blotting out the chimney stacks. It smudged the lamplights and muffled every sound. It numbed my fingers, stung my eyes and left a rank metallic taste on my tongue. With the temperature still below freezing point, I needed to heed the advice I’d given Will earlier as I highstacked after the carriage, one eye on the treacherous ledges and drops, the other on those two fuzzy lamplights far, far below me.
At the junction of Gradely Street and WhitlowLane, I came to a jump that would normally have given me no problems, but that I simply didn’t dare attempt given the treacherous conditions. I quickly assessed the alternatives. There was a stepped gable to my left, but that would have taken me away from the road; there was a square chimney stack to my right, but I could see that the staple-like steps sunk into the mortar were treacherously rusty. Ignoring both, I lowered myself onto a narrow ledge and, with my back and palms pressed against the wall, edged myself along it until I came to the framework of scaffolding I’d spotted.
Manoeuvres involving scaffolding are called Hangman’s moves – there’s a Hangman’s Climb, a Hangman’s Descent, a Hangman’s Swing and a Hangman’s Grapple. Sometimes – when rotten beams of wood were used or when the scaffolders failed to knot the ropes properly – the sinister names of the moves lived up to their reputation. Pat Johnston, a tick-tock lad from the other side of town, hadbeen killed the previous month when he tumbled from badly erected scaffolding.
I eased myself gingerly down onto the upper boards, taking care not to skid on the frosty wood. From there, it was a simple matter to swing one of the planks round till it rested on the roof opposite. I balanced my way along it, arriving safely at the other side and congratulating myself on having invented a new manoeuvre.
I called it a Hangman’s Bridge.
A quick glance down confirmed that, below me, the carriage lights were still in view, bearing left onto a broader street. I followed them, keeping pace across the rooftops as the carriage and its mysterious occupant travelled through the fog-bound city, until at last I found myself atop the familiar ridged roof of Sunil’s tea warehouse and realized that we were on the Belvedere Mile.
A moment later, my heart sunk. We’d come to Gatling Quays!
To my right was the front of Adelaide Mansions, the light from Ada Gussage’s window hazy in the thick mist. The carriage pulled up in front of the building, and I saw the doctor jump down, wrap his cape around him and tether his fine carriage horse to a lamppost. I wondered whether Ada was watching him as well.
Under the cover of the swirling yellow fog that wound itself round me like a mortician’s shroud, I descended the building and followed the doctor. He crossed the road and went through the cast-iron archway into the graveyard. I hesitated, my heart thumping fit to burst in my chest.
Could I summon up the courage to enter that fearful place a third time? I asked myself. Was this doctor meeting his accomplices? I wondered, or simply returning to the scene of his ghoulish crime?
There was only one way to find out for sure. Swallowing hard, I forced myself toenter Adelaide Graveyard once more.
Darting along from yew tree to yew tree, I kept myself hidden both from the doctor and from anyone who might be passing. From somewhere
All round me, the icy fog swirled, as yellow and sulphurous as a witch’s brew. It softened the edge to every building, blurring the rooftops and blotting out the chimney stacks. It smudged the lamplights and muffled every sound. It numbed my fingers, stung my eyes and left a rank metallic taste on my tongue. With the temperature still below freezing point, I needed to heed the advice I’d given Will earlier as I highstacked after the carriage, one eye on the treacherous ledges and drops, the other on those two fuzzy lamplights far, far below me.
At the junction of Gradely Street and WhitlowLane, I came to a jump that would normally have given me no problems, but that I simply didn’t dare attempt given the treacherous conditions. I quickly assessed the alternatives. There was a stepped gable to my left, but that would have taken me away from the road; there was a square chimney stack to my right, but I could see that the staple-like steps sunk into the mortar were treacherously rusty. Ignoring both, I lowered myself onto a narrow ledge and, with my back and palms pressed against the wall, edged myself along it until I came to the framework of scaffolding I’d spotted.
Manoeuvres involving scaffolding are called Hangman’s moves – there’s a Hangman’s Climb, a Hangman’s Descent, a Hangman’s Swing and a Hangman’s Grapple. Sometimes – when rotten beams of wood were used or when the scaffolders failed to knot the ropes properly – the sinister names of the moves lived up to their reputation. Pat Johnston, a tick-tock lad from the other side of town, hadbeen killed the previous month when he tumbled from badly erected scaffolding.
I eased myself gingerly down onto the upper boards, taking care not to skid on the frosty wood. From there, it was a simple matter to swing one of the planks round till it rested on the roof opposite. I balanced my way along it, arriving safely at the other side and congratulating myself on having invented a new manoeuvre.
I called it a Hangman’s Bridge.
A quick glance down confirmed that, below me, the carriage lights were still in view, bearing left onto a broader street. I followed them, keeping pace across the rooftops as the carriage and its mysterious occupant travelled through the fog-bound city, until at last I found myself atop the familiar ridged roof of Sunil’s tea warehouse and realized that we were on the Belvedere Mile.
A moment later, my heart sunk. We’d come to Gatling Quays!
To my right was the front of Adelaide Mansions, the light from Ada Gussage’s window hazy in the thick mist. The carriage pulled up in front of the building, and I saw the doctor jump down, wrap his cape around him and tether his fine carriage horse to a lamppost. I wondered whether Ada was watching him as well.
Under the cover of the swirling yellow fog that wound itself round me like a mortician’s shroud, I descended the building and followed the doctor. He crossed the road and went through the cast-iron archway into the graveyard. I hesitated, my heart thumping fit to burst in my chest.
Could I summon up the courage to enter that fearful place a third time? I asked myself. Was this doctor meeting his accomplices? I wondered, or simply returning to the scene of his ghoulish crime?
There was only one way to find out for sure. Swallowing hard, I forced myself toenter Adelaide Graveyard once more.
Darting along from yew tree to yew tree, I kept myself hidden both from the doctor and from anyone who might be passing. From somewhere
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