close by, I heard the bells of St Angela’s toll. It was midday – though as far as visibility went, it might as well have been midnight. At the far side of the graveyard, I thought I was going to get spotted as the doctor abruptly doubled back – but instead of returning the way he’d come, he squeezed through a gap in the fence where one of the upright rails was missing, then stumbled down the steep slope on the other side.
I held back a minute, waiting for the sounds of slipping and sliding to subside, before going after him. At the bottom of the slope, I looked round me, trying to see which way he’d gone. His footsteps trailed across the wet mud, then disappeared in the direction of the great sewer mouth of Gatling Sump.
Head down, I crossed the upper shoreline.
The tide was out and I could see the shadowy figures of mudlarks scratting out on the flats. Scuffle-hunters and long-apron men were roaming the quaysides, taking advantage of the fog to search for any unattended goods; and in the distance I saw the flashing light of a wrecker trying to lure a passing barge onto the mudflats. Ahead of me, the doctor’s bowed body was next to the sewer tunnel, his head and shoulders swathed in shadow. I crouched down behind an upturned crate.
The doctor was inspecting what at first glance seemed to be a fallen tree trunk that the ebb and flow of the tide had buried, then revealed in the mud. But as I peered through the gloom, I saw that it was in fact some sort of primitive boat or canoe, fashioned from a single tree. The doctor studied it carefully, from blunt stern to rough-hewn bow which, on its underside, bore tell-tale impressions, seemingly seared into the grain of the wood.
I have to confess that bile rose in my throat at the sight of what I knew to be the bite marks of none other than the black-scaled lamprey - that fearsome sea serpent I had battled in the harbour. At last, the doctor seemed to be satisfied. He rose from his crouching position and returned along the mudflats.
Anticipating his movements, I darted up the bank and vaulted over the railings. I hurried back through the graveyard, hardly daring to look at the gravestones on every side. One thing was for certain, I told myself as I reached the gates, just visible in the freezing fog: there’d be no more highstack carriage-chasing for me. When the mysterious doctor got back to his fine two-wheeler and twitched the reins, there’d be an extra passenger coming along for the ride.
Reaching the carriage, I ducked down and employed a neat trick I’d picked up from the street urchins of Hightown. ‘Cobble-grazing’ it’s called, and involves grasping the wheelsprings beneath the chosen vehicle, and hanging on for dear life. In some of the potholed streets in the rougher districts, it’s a recipe for disaster, but on the smooth thoroughfare of Hightown and Carriage Way, it can be exhilarating, believe me.
Grasping the curved springs behind the wheel axle, I wedged my toes into the iron brace of the carriage frame and made myself comfortable. A few moments later I felt the carriage buck and sway as its occupant climbed inside.
The carriage leaped forward, skidded round the corner at the end of Adelaide Mansions and hurtled on down the Belvedere Mile. I glanced down at the bumpy dark-grey road surface speeding past in a blur beneath me. I held on as tight as a barnacle on a barge-hull and tried to determine which way we were going. We turned left, then left again, then right … and before I knew it, I’d completely lost my bearings. Once, I fancied I caught thewhiff of chestnuts roasting on a brazier, which suggested we might be passing through the Theatre District. A while later, I thought I heard the great Bowman bell toll the hour. If I was right, we were heading due north.
I wedged my toes into the iron brace of the carriage frame
.
A few miles and a lot of arm-jarring potholes later, the carriage clattered over an iron grid and onto the
I held back a minute, waiting for the sounds of slipping and sliding to subside, before going after him. At the bottom of the slope, I looked round me, trying to see which way he’d gone. His footsteps trailed across the wet mud, then disappeared in the direction of the great sewer mouth of Gatling Sump.
Head down, I crossed the upper shoreline.
The tide was out and I could see the shadowy figures of mudlarks scratting out on the flats. Scuffle-hunters and long-apron men were roaming the quaysides, taking advantage of the fog to search for any unattended goods; and in the distance I saw the flashing light of a wrecker trying to lure a passing barge onto the mudflats. Ahead of me, the doctor’s bowed body was next to the sewer tunnel, his head and shoulders swathed in shadow. I crouched down behind an upturned crate.
The doctor was inspecting what at first glance seemed to be a fallen tree trunk that the ebb and flow of the tide had buried, then revealed in the mud. But as I peered through the gloom, I saw that it was in fact some sort of primitive boat or canoe, fashioned from a single tree. The doctor studied it carefully, from blunt stern to rough-hewn bow which, on its underside, bore tell-tale impressions, seemingly seared into the grain of the wood.
I have to confess that bile rose in my throat at the sight of what I knew to be the bite marks of none other than the black-scaled lamprey - that fearsome sea serpent I had battled in the harbour. At last, the doctor seemed to be satisfied. He rose from his crouching position and returned along the mudflats.
Anticipating his movements, I darted up the bank and vaulted over the railings. I hurried back through the graveyard, hardly daring to look at the gravestones on every side. One thing was for certain, I told myself as I reached the gates, just visible in the freezing fog: there’d be no more highstack carriage-chasing for me. When the mysterious doctor got back to his fine two-wheeler and twitched the reins, there’d be an extra passenger coming along for the ride.
Reaching the carriage, I ducked down and employed a neat trick I’d picked up from the street urchins of Hightown. ‘Cobble-grazing’ it’s called, and involves grasping the wheelsprings beneath the chosen vehicle, and hanging on for dear life. In some of the potholed streets in the rougher districts, it’s a recipe for disaster, but on the smooth thoroughfare of Hightown and Carriage Way, it can be exhilarating, believe me.
Grasping the curved springs behind the wheel axle, I wedged my toes into the iron brace of the carriage frame and made myself comfortable. A few moments later I felt the carriage buck and sway as its occupant climbed inside.
The carriage leaped forward, skidded round the corner at the end of Adelaide Mansions and hurtled on down the Belvedere Mile. I glanced down at the bumpy dark-grey road surface speeding past in a blur beneath me. I held on as tight as a barnacle on a barge-hull and tried to determine which way we were going. We turned left, then left again, then right … and before I knew it, I’d completely lost my bearings. Once, I fancied I caught thewhiff of chestnuts roasting on a brazier, which suggested we might be passing through the Theatre District. A while later, I thought I heard the great Bowman bell toll the hour. If I was right, we were heading due north.
I wedged my toes into the iron brace of the carriage frame
.
A few miles and a lot of arm-jarring potholes later, the carriage clattered over an iron grid and onto the
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