“Things we know about the killer. Got any paper?”
Wild Boy dug in his pocket, brought out the warning letter from Greenwich Fair. He and Clarissa looked at it for a moment, wishing they’d never seen the thing. But it was too late now. “Write on the back,” he said.
Clarissa dipped one of her lock picks in the muck on the wall and used it as a quill to compose her list. “First,” she said, “you thought the hooded man walked funny.”
“Yeah, but he’s fast and strong an’ all.”
“Master Wild,” Sir Oswald said. “Did you recognize the killer’s voice?”
“No. It was muffled by his mask. But he knew the Professor, called him Henry. Stole his ring too.”
Clarissa scribbled that on her list. “And there were cane marks around the Professor’s body, right?”
“I dunno,” Wild Boy replied. “They
looked
like cane marks. . . .”
“Anything else, Master Wild?”
Wild Boy cast his mind back to the fair. The images were frozen perfectly in his memory. He closed his eyes and studied them for clues.
“The killer’s cloak,” he said. “There were creases in the leather. That means he crumples it up to store. But he doesn’t fold it, so he must take it off in a rush and hide it. And the hood had marks from where it had brushed a low ceiling. There were lots of them, so he brushes that ceiling often. Could be where he lives — a low-roofed place, small and cheap.”
Clarissa looked at Wild Boy, astonished by his recall. Then she shrugged, made another note on her list, and shoved it in her pocket. “Well then, you do the clues and I’ll think about how we catch him.”
Sir Oswald clapped his hands. “I suggest you begin at the house of this second victim, Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin. Perhaps you will find a clue there to track down the killer.”
Clarissa sprung up. “Let’s go!”
“I fear it won’t be that easy, Miss Everett,” Sir Oswald warned. “The Doctor was killed at his college in Southwark. That is over a mile away, and half of the city is after you.”
A chill ran through Wild Boy that had nothing to do with the cold. Southwark — he knew that place. That was where his old workhouse was, a grim brick building that overlooked the Thames. He’d sworn he’d never go back there. Only now he had no choice.
“The sewers,” he said. “We can go underground until we get near the river. Then we’ll be close.”
“It’s a damned risky go,” Sir Oswald said, “but I smell adventure. I shall travel overground and scout for danger. We shall begin at first light.”
Wild Boy had no idea when first light was. Down here everything was black or brown. He pulled his coat around him and curled up beside the fire as the dying embers pulsed orange and red in the draft.
But he couldn’t sleep. Spying on people at the fair was one thing, but this was something bigger, and much more dangerous. Scared as he was, though, he was excited too. The details in the newspaper report about the locked house intrigued him. It was that same feeling that had led him to Professor Wollstonecraft’s caravan at the fair. A puzzle waiting to be solved. Only, could he really solve it?
He had to. Because if he couldn’t, he and Clarissa were as good as dead.
W ild Boy crouched beside the drain cover, ready to dive back into the sewer at the slightest hint of danger in the street. Somewhere close, a dog barked. Glass broke. A woman screamed. And then silence, except for the sound of his filthy coat dripping onto the greasy cobbles.
He reached to help Clarissa up from underground, but she swatted his hand away as she climbed from the drain. They’d been on the move for hours, hacking and retching through the stinking darkness. Only when they’d climbed a drain shaft and seen a sign for Tooley Street did they know they’d reached Southwark, where the hooded man’s second victim had lived — Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin.
A thick brown cloud swept along the street. Wild Boy
Wild Boy dug in his pocket, brought out the warning letter from Greenwich Fair. He and Clarissa looked at it for a moment, wishing they’d never seen the thing. But it was too late now. “Write on the back,” he said.
Clarissa dipped one of her lock picks in the muck on the wall and used it as a quill to compose her list. “First,” she said, “you thought the hooded man walked funny.”
“Yeah, but he’s fast and strong an’ all.”
“Master Wild,” Sir Oswald said. “Did you recognize the killer’s voice?”
“No. It was muffled by his mask. But he knew the Professor, called him Henry. Stole his ring too.”
Clarissa scribbled that on her list. “And there were cane marks around the Professor’s body, right?”
“I dunno,” Wild Boy replied. “They
looked
like cane marks. . . .”
“Anything else, Master Wild?”
Wild Boy cast his mind back to the fair. The images were frozen perfectly in his memory. He closed his eyes and studied them for clues.
“The killer’s cloak,” he said. “There were creases in the leather. That means he crumples it up to store. But he doesn’t fold it, so he must take it off in a rush and hide it. And the hood had marks from where it had brushed a low ceiling. There were lots of them, so he brushes that ceiling often. Could be where he lives — a low-roofed place, small and cheap.”
Clarissa looked at Wild Boy, astonished by his recall. Then she shrugged, made another note on her list, and shoved it in her pocket. “Well then, you do the clues and I’ll think about how we catch him.”
Sir Oswald clapped his hands. “I suggest you begin at the house of this second victim, Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin. Perhaps you will find a clue there to track down the killer.”
Clarissa sprung up. “Let’s go!”
“I fear it won’t be that easy, Miss Everett,” Sir Oswald warned. “The Doctor was killed at his college in Southwark. That is over a mile away, and half of the city is after you.”
A chill ran through Wild Boy that had nothing to do with the cold. Southwark — he knew that place. That was where his old workhouse was, a grim brick building that overlooked the Thames. He’d sworn he’d never go back there. Only now he had no choice.
“The sewers,” he said. “We can go underground until we get near the river. Then we’ll be close.”
“It’s a damned risky go,” Sir Oswald said, “but I smell adventure. I shall travel overground and scout for danger. We shall begin at first light.”
Wild Boy had no idea when first light was. Down here everything was black or brown. He pulled his coat around him and curled up beside the fire as the dying embers pulsed orange and red in the draft.
But he couldn’t sleep. Spying on people at the fair was one thing, but this was something bigger, and much more dangerous. Scared as he was, though, he was excited too. The details in the newspaper report about the locked house intrigued him. It was that same feeling that had led him to Professor Wollstonecraft’s caravan at the fair. A puzzle waiting to be solved. Only, could he really solve it?
He had to. Because if he couldn’t, he and Clarissa were as good as dead.
W ild Boy crouched beside the drain cover, ready to dive back into the sewer at the slightest hint of danger in the street. Somewhere close, a dog barked. Glass broke. A woman screamed. And then silence, except for the sound of his filthy coat dripping onto the greasy cobbles.
He reached to help Clarissa up from underground, but she swatted his hand away as she climbed from the drain. They’d been on the move for hours, hacking and retching through the stinking darkness. Only when they’d climbed a drain shaft and seen a sign for Tooley Street did they know they’d reached Southwark, where the hooded man’s second victim had lived — Doctor Charles Ignatius Griffin.
A thick brown cloud swept along the street. Wild Boy
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