Lies, Damned Lies, and History(10)

The crowds were thinning. They’d probably headed towards the river, because who wouldn’t want to see a herd of wooden elephants being propelled up the Thames? I’d looked forward to that myself.

I set my back against a wall, fanned myself, got my breath back, and said quietly, ‘Where are you?’

‘I must be about a hundred yards ahead of you. He’s turning into an alley. There’s a barrowman selling something or other on the corner. I’ve got him now.’

‘For God’s sake be careful. Hunter gets really upset with me when I take you back in pieces.’

No reply.

Again – bollocks.

I set off, keeping my eyes peeled for trouble.

I found the barrowman easily enough, skidded around a corner, and stopped dead, because I’d just entered another world.

The wide streets, stone buildings, well-dressed people, all the signs of a prosperous metropolis, had disappeared as if they had never existed. Even the sunshine had vanished. The sights and sounds of this special day died away. Here was darkness and silence.

This little lane was no more than ten feet across at its widest point. Buildings – I couldn’t call them houses – rose up on either side. They weren’t tall but they leaned across the narrow space like old ladies putting their heads together for a bit of a gossip. They cast long, deep shadows across the lane, which despite the summer heat, was a quagmire. The ground had long since been covered over with filth, sewage, household waste, animal waste, mud and rotting straw, all of which had built up over the years, making the street level now considerably higher than the doorways. Every time it rained, all this evil smelling sludge must have run straight back into the houses again. Probably to a considerable depth.

And being upstairs wouldn’t be much more pleasant. Few roofs were tiled and none looked waterproof. Or even safe. Windows were tiny and many were shuttered tight. There was no glass. The walls were covered in damp, slimy stains that streaked down from the broken gutters, with similar stains working their way up from the swamp in which the houses stood. When the two united, the buildings would probably fall down.

The smell was awful. Industrial London was just kicking off, but the infrastructure lagged far behind. Living conditions for the poor were appalling. There was little access to clean water and no sewers. The rivers of London ran brown with filth. For many people, disease, poverty, and despair were the only things not in short supply.

I heard a noise nearby, pulled my stun gun out of my reticule, and moved silently along one damp wall.

There they were. Two dim shapes struggling in a doorway. I opened my mouth to shout ‘Hoi’ and wade in to help – literally – when someone grabbed me from behind and tried to seize my reticule.

I said piteously, ‘Oh pray sir, do not rob me,’ spun around and zapped him.

I heard Markham shout, ‘Max,’ and then there was the sound of another body hitting the ground. I panicked all over again because although Hunter could get very nasty when I took him back injured, it was nothing to what she would do if I took him back dead.

I was worrying unnecessarily. He strolled out of the shadows, holding my battered recorder.

‘Amazingly, it still works.’

I took it from him. ‘Thank you. You all right?’

‘Just a small knife wound.’

‘What?’

‘It’s fine,’ he said, breezily. ‘It’s literally just a scratch, and truthfully, Max, I’m wearing so many layers of clothing, you’d have to fire a siege weapon at me to penetrate this lot.’

He was bleeding from a long, shallow scratch on the back of his hand. I pulled out a handkerchief and bound him up, enquiring when he’d last had a tetanus shot.

‘No idea,’ he said, ‘but Hunter’s always sticking me with something, so I’m not too worried. Don’t forget to tell her how heroic I was, will you.’

We emerged from the alley, straightening our clothing as we did so, and a passing clergyman in his gaiters and wide-brimmed hat got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick, threw us an accusatory stare, and slowed down. Oh God, we were going to be Saved.

We all stared at each other. I couldn’t think of anything to say. The clergyman was rummaging through his pockets. Were we going to be Pamphleted as well?

It was Markham who, as he said afterwards, saved the day.

Thrusting me forwards, he said, ‘Very nice girl, yer honour. Very clean. Very skilled. And, already up the duff, so no problems with any little members of the clergy knocking on your door in years to come, if you take my drift. Now then, sir, always happy to oblige the clergy, so for you today, special prices. For services involving manual dexterity and …’