A Conspiracy of Ravens (16 page)

They stepped outside, and he said, “Mr. Smith, I’ll need another bottle of gin.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“I imagine that rule gets broken. Here’s five bob. Buy a bottle and give it to the old woman. Use the rest any way you please. We’ll say nothing.”

Without a word Smith took the money and nodded.

The two left the prison, and when they got to the carriage they had not spoken a word. Finally Serafina burst out, “What a horrible place! Better to be dead than in a place like that!”

“You’re right about that.” He handed her into the carriage, walked around, and untied the team. “Well, we have a place to look. You’d better let me do the looking, Lady Serafina.”

“No, I want to go with you.”

Dylan shook his head, a stubborn light in his eyes. “Seven Dials is a rough place. They’d cut your throat for that ring on your finger.”

Serafina turned to him. “I’ve been there, remember? We went there when we were helping Clive. I’m going, Dylan. Let’s not argue about it.”

“There is a stubborn woman, you are! All right. We’ll have to get you some old clothes.”

“We went in disguise before. I think I still have the clothes.”

“They’ll do, then. Get up!”

The horses moved forward briskly, and they sat in silence for five minutes. Suddenly Serafina said, “We’ve got to find him, Dylan.”

“We’ll do our best. I’m going to ask God to help us.”

He knew this was not in Serafina’s plan, and finally she responded, “I can’t do that.”

“Someday you will.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Blind faith. That’s what it is. Sometimes you have to believe God and not facts.”

“That’s not logical. That’s not reasonable.”

“Finding God isn’t a matter of logic, my lady. It takes more than that.”

Serafina cut him off at once. “Pray all you want to, Dylan, but we’ve got to find that boy. Lord Darby and his wife are good people.”

“You don’t know what that boy will be like. He could be a murderer by this time. A few years in Seven Dials will make a beast out of any man—or any woman.”

David greeted them at the door to Trentwood House and peppered them both with questions.

Serafina hugged him then said, “Have you been a good boy, David?”

“No, ma’am.”

Suddenly Serafina laughed. “Well, you’re honest about it. I suppose I’ll hear all about your misbehaviour.”

“Dylan, come on. I want you to tell me a story.”

“I don’t think I can do that, David.”

“Why not?”

“Well—” Dylan looked over at Serafina. “Your mother doesn’t like the stories I tell.”

“Oh, tell him whatever stories you want. He’ll forget them once he gets older.”

“No, I won’t. I remember every story Dylan tells me.”

Serafina frowned then laughed. “All right. Tell him some of your wild, romantic stories, Dylan.”

Actually Serafina was beginning to enjoy Dylan’s stories, especially those about historical characters, such as Robin Hood or King John and his crusade to the Holy Land, or those about animals or birds that he had learnt in Wales.

The three went to the playroom, and Serafina sat down and watched as David pulled at Dylan’s arm. “Tell me a good one.”

“All my stories are good, son. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Well, make it a long one.”

“Well, it’ll be as long as it needs to be. Once there was a religious festival. This was a long time ago in the days when Robin Hood was still in Sherwood Forest or maybe even when King Arthur sat at the Round Table with his knights. In any case, every body was going to bring an offering to the Lord. There was a suspicion that when the best gift was made every year, the bell in the tower would toll.”

“Why did it do that?”

“Why, it showed that God was pleased with a certain offering, but it had to be a very good offering.”

“Were there rich people there?”

“Oh, many of them, and they started bringing their gifts to the altar. One very wealthy man brought a load of silver that took two men to carry in. Another brought gold coins stacked in heavy piles. One by one they put their gifts on the altar, and everyone listened for the bells—but none rang.”

Dylan saw the small boy was engrossed in the story, then glanced across at Serafina, who was also listening, so he continued.

“There was a man who had come to the festival. He was a poor man. He traveled around the country, and he only had one gift: he could juggle. Did you ever see anybody juggle?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Why, look at this, then.” Dylan went over and picked up three balls. He began to toss them in the air and said, “There, this is juggling.”

“Will you teach me to do that, Dylan?”

“If you are a good boy, I may do that.”

“What did the juggler have to bring?”

“He didn’t have anything, and he was very sad, David. He watched other people bringing their gifts, and he had not even a single coin. Well, the festival was about over. Everyone had brought their gifts, and the bell had not rung. There was talk going around, with people saying things like, ‘We haven’t pleased God. We just didn’t bring enough money.’ People were filing out, and then just before the king left, the bell started tolling. The bishop cried out and whirled around. ‘Somebody’s given God an offering greater than has been given by anybody here today.’ They rushed back into the large room, and guess what they saw?”

“What did they see?”

“They saw the juggler juggling his balls, eight of them at a time and gazing up at the cross that represented the death and resurrection of Jesus.”

David was quiet. Finally he asked, “But he didn’t give any money?”

“No, but he gave all that he had, and that’s what God expects of us, rich or poor, David, to give all that we have to Him.”

“Have you done that, Dylan?”

“I hope so, David.”

“Mum, would you give everything to Jesus?”

Serafina felt suddenly uncomfortable, and a flush came to her cheeks. “That’s just a story, David. People don’t do that anymore.” She glanced at Dylan and said, “Why do you make up stories like that?”

“Oh, I want to glorify the Lord, and I thought that little parable did it. It did for me. It made me want to give more to the Lord God.”

David said, “That was good. Tell me another one.”

Serafina rose suddenly. “I have to prepare a few things for tomorrow, Dylan. Be here early.” Dylan agreed, and Serafina said good-bye before leaving the room.

Dylan watched her go and then said, “You want to learn to juggle?”

“Yes. How do you do it?”

“You do it by dropping balls a lot then picking them up and starting over. Here now, hold these two in each hand, and this one you have to hold onto with your fingers. You have to toss them in the air just right.”

David began to toss the balls, and, of course, he could not juggle. “I can’t learn to do that.”

“Most things you don’t do successfully the first time. Tell you what. Let’s play a game of draughts and then we’ll practice some more juggling.”

“And tell me some more stories.”

“Maybe even that. A boy can’t hear too many good stories, I always say.”

ELEVEN

A
s the feeble light of dawn illuminated the window to Serafina’s right, she turned to face it. The night had been miserable. She had been unable to sleep and had gotten up sometime early in the morning and had tried to study. She had been unable to concentrate and finally had contented herself with simply lying in the bed and waiting for dawn.

When the first light touched her window, she rose from bed and dressed rapidly. After washing her face and dressing, she hurried downstairs. Going out on the front porch, she waited, and within five minutes she heard the hoofbeats of a horse coming. The sun was feebly illuminating the landscape, and she watched as Dylan drew the carriage up, a small two-place affair, and leapt to the ground. He hurried forward. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Dylan. I’m all ready.”

Dylan stared at her disguise and then nodded. “I’d venture you don’t wear such clothes very often.”

She had donned a shapeless grey dress that hid her rather spectacular figure well enough. The shoes had once been patent leather but now were little more than scraps which she had to tie onto her feet. A ratty-looking shawl was draped around her neck, and a floppy mob cap, such as those cleaning women wore, covered her head. She saw that the corners of Dylan’s lips turned upward in a smile that he tried to conceal.

Dylan, who was usually impeccable in his dress, was wearing a pair of faded, snuff-coloured trousers, baggy at the knees and too short for him, a pair of boots that were worn almost past use, a waistcoat with only one button to hold it together, and an outer jacket of some indeterminate colour. “This is the way we need to look,” Dylan said. “Nobody’s going to pay attention to a pair of swells like us.”

“Do you think I can pass for a poor woman?”

“Just exactly right. You look like a working woman. Just don’t let anybody see those soft hands. Here, get in.” He helped her into the carriage and then jumped in himself. He took the lines and said to the horse, “Get up, Methuselah.”

“What a strange name for a horse!”

“Well, it’s not exactly his name. He just looks pretty old like that. It reminds me of a dog I took for a while. He had one eye, no tail, and only three legs. He went by the name of Lucky.”

“You made that up.”

“No, I didn’t. He was a lucky dog. Kept him for a long time. Just about broke my heart when he died.”

“Are we ready, Dylan?”

“We’re off to Seven Dials, the worst section of London. But that’s where we start looking for Durkins.”

The journey to the Seven Dials district took Serafina and Dylan along the banks of the Thames. The stench was overwhelming, and Serafina held her handkerchief over her nose. “Why does London have to smell so bad?” she exclaimed.

“It’s the penalty for crowding enormous numbers of people into a relatively small space,” Dylan said. “Think how much human waste two million people can produce every day. And a lot of that waste goes into the Thames.” He warmed to his subject adding, “Human excrement is gathered by the night-soil men and sold to nursery gardens. The streets are used as a dumping ground for night soil, dead dogs, horse and cattle manure, and rotting vegetables. The rain washes some of it away, but not much.”

Serafina sat silently beside Dylan, realizing that she had never given this problem more than a casual wish that “someone would do something about it.” She realized how her life was shielded from much unpleasantness that the poor and middle classes could not escape.

“What are those children doing in the river?” she asked, noting that the banks of the Thames were populated with many people.

“They’re mudlarks, Serafina, sometimes called toshers. They wade through the banks at low tide, filling their pockets with copper recovered from the water’s edge. Look, some of them are wearing coats with oversized pockets to put their plunder in. And there—see that tosher? He’s got a lantern strapped to his chest to help him see in the predawn gloom.”

“Why is he carrying that long pole?”

“To test the ground. He could stumble into a quagmire and drown.”

“How awful for those children. What do they expect to find?”

“Lumps of coal, old wood, scraps of rope—anything they can get a few pence for.” He gestured toward another group of children on a slight rise. They wore robes made of old blankets that gave them the look of ragged wizards. “See those children? They’re pure finders.”

“Pure what?”

“That means dog manure.”

“What in the world for?”

“Tanners use it in curing leather. This is bad, Serafina, but there’s worse. Many of the poor are sewer hunters. They slog through the flowing waste of London, and every few months the methane gas in the sewers is ignited by one of the kerosene lamps. The poor souls are incinerated twenty feet below ground in a river of raw sewage.”

A sudden chill came to Serafina. “This is awful, Dylan!” she whispered.

He almost told her that the awfulness she was seeing for the first time had always been there, but he only said, “Yes, it is.”