Freaks (7 page)

At the show that night, Sheba half expected to see Till, back to tell her she had run away from her life as a mudlark for something better and less stinky. But there was no sign. And worrying about her made it hard for Sheba to put on a proper performance.

“You'd better start making an effort,” Plumpscuttle had warned her afterward, “or it's back to that dump at the seaside for you, missy.”

Now she had something else to worry about.

The next morning she lay in bed long after the others had arisen, staring miserably at the patches of damp, cracked plaster on the ceiling.

This isn't helping
, she finally said to herself.
I'm going to get up and try twice as hard to find Till today.

In one determined movement, she sat up and threw back her tattered blanket. She was just about to pull on her pinafore and go downstairs, when she noticed a large, rectangular lump in Gigantus's giant mattress. She recalled the way the big man was always scribbling away in his journal. Was it a secret diary, maybe? Or a manual on how to smash someone into a pulp?

The voice in her head told her to leave it well alone. It was a bad idea to pry into anyone's secret books, but if you did it to a strongman over seven feet tall, you were asking for trouble. The kind of trouble that required stitches afterward.

But she just couldn't help herself. The book-shaped bump seemed to cry out to her. Her fingertips itched at the thought of uncovering it.
Maybe just a tiny peek
, she thought as she reached under the bedding. . . .

It was indeed a book. A large, leather-bound one, much bigger than his journal. She picked it up and opened the heavy cover. On the first page she saw a series of little pictures. Portraits of people scratched out in pen and ink. Looking closer, she saw one that looked like Sister Moon, poised with her swords drawn. Another was clearly Monkeyboy, and there was Mama Rat, and even Sheba herself. She half expected the whole book to be a collection of sketches, but when she turned the page she saw a title, written in careful copperplate script. “
The Thrilling Escapades of Agnes Throbbington
by Gertrude Lacygusset.”

Agnes Throbbington? Gertrude Lacygusset? Sheba turned another page, listening all the while for footsteps on the stairs.

Sheba heard a creak from the stair floorboards. Her heart pounding in her chest, she shoved the book back under the mattress and tried to look as though she was just getting up from her bed. After a few seconds, when Gigantus failed to burst into the room, she got up and peeked down the stairs. They were completely empty.

Serves you right for being so nosy
, she thought. But she couldn't help feeling slightly disturbed as she padded down the narrow stairs to find the others.

They were in the yard, debating what course of action to take next.

“Maybe we go back to docks,” Sister Moon was saying. “Ask more questions.”

“What's the point in that?” Gigantus paused in his exercises. Today he was lifting the wooden caravan up and down off the ground. “Nobody really knows anything. We'll just hear more claptrap about monsters eating children in the fog. Morning, Sheba.”

Sheba looked at Gigantus with new eyes. Was he really Gertrude Lacygusset, romantic novelist? She tried to cover up her confusion by joining in the debate. “But if others have been taken,” she said, “then couldn't it all be connected?”

“Why would anyone want to kidnap a bunch of starving river rats?” Monkeyboy was perched on the privy roof, nibbling his toenails. “If you're going to nab children, you'd be best off taking ones that aren't going to pop their clogs in a month or two.”

“On the contrary,” said Mama Rat. “If you were taking children, then the lowest of the low is where you'd start. After all, apart from us, who's even noticed they're gone?”

“Maybe one of them doctors has taken them to peel open and look inside. Or something worse. I heard a story once about a butcher who chopped up people and made them into pies. Maybe he's decided to make Mudlark Muffins instead.”

“That's my
friend
you're talking about, Monkeyboy!” Sheba snapped, and was surprised to see him look ashamed.

The argument was interrupted by a fluttering and flapping of wings as something that almost resembled a bird dropped out of the sky and onto the fence. It sat there, blinking and attempting to coo.

“What is
that
?” said Monkeyboy, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“I think it a pigeon,” Sister Moon said.

It did have a beak, and some tatty things that might be feathers, but it didn't look much like a bird to Sheba. Not unless it was some new, London variety that had been crossed with a rat and nested at the bottom of a coal scuttle.

“Urgh, I flipping hate pigeons.” Monkeyboy clapped his hands and tried to scare it away. “Rats with wings, that's what they are!”

“Just be careful what you're saying about rats,” said Mama Rat.

“You leave that bird alone!” Gigantus stomped over from the caravan and plucked the pigeon from the fence with one hand. Sheba thought he might crush the little thing like an eggshell, but instead he held it tenderly between his huge fingers as he carefully removed a piece of paper from its leg.

“I wouldn't touch that if I were you,” said Monkeyboy, looking disgusted. “You'll catch something horrid.”

“What are you doing?” Sheba asked.

“It's a letter from an old acquaintance of mine,” Gigantus replied. “Sent by homing pigeon. I gave him this bird years ago. Never thought he'd actually use it.”

“Sneepsnood?” Mama Rat asked, and Gigantus nodded.

“He wants to see us today. Says it's urgent.”

Sheba noticed a wary glance pass between the two. Sister Moon also seemed to tense beside her.

“Who's Sneepsnood?” Sheba whispered.

“Man that Gigantus know. I only see him one time, but not trust him. Criminal, I think.”

“Well, we'd best oblige him, then,” said Mama Rat.

Sneepsnood's Reconstituted Metal Goods Emporium was a tiny shop on Whitechapel High Street. The mullioned windows that faced the road were covered in grime. If you peered really closely, you could just about make out display shelves crammed with metal goods of all descriptions. There were old music boxes, keys of every size and shape, tin cans stuffed with rusty nails, kettles, buckets, scissors, shears, knives, forks, and bits of machinery that had fallen off various steamers and ended up in the river. None of it looked particularly appealing, but then, it wasn't supposed to.

There was a tiny, muck-spattered sign hanging over the door, and when the Peculiars entered, a bell gave a dismal tinkle. The inside of the shop was just as cluttered as the window display. A range of dressers and tables, most with missing legs propped up by books and old bricks, filled all but the tiniest bit of floor space. Every shelf and surface was covered with more useless metal items, some of which had entirely dissolved into little piles of rust. There was a thick coating of dust over everything, broken only by the tiny trails of hundreds of mouse footprints.

At the sound of the bell, a man shuffled out from the back of the shop. He was extraordinarily lanky and wore a tight, threadbare suit. He looked like a cloth-wrapped beanpole. His thinning gray hair was plastered back from his scalp with lashings of pomade, and a pair of wire spectacles perched on the end of his hooked nose.

“Ah, you got my message, then,” he said.

“Good to see you again, Jeremiah,” said Gigantus. He carefully handed over the pigeon, which he had carried in a gentle cradle of his huge fingers all the way from Brick Lane. Sneepsnood grabbed it as if it were an old feather duster and rammed it, squawking, into a nearby cage. Gigantus's craggy face scowled.
I really am learning lots about him today
, thought Sheba as she looked on from beneath her hood.

“Come round the back,” said Sneepsnood, oblivious to how close he had just come to a pummeling. “I think there's room.”

The Peculiars followed him through a door at the rear, and there was a series of clatters as Gigantus dragged half the shop along with him. After much squeezing and maneuvering, they stepped through into the back room.

It was almost as cluttered as the shop, but instead of metal junk, it was full of silverware. Spoons, ladles, bowls, plates, goblets, and tureens: stacks of them on tables and benches all around the room. A big hearth filled one wall, and a fire was roaring inside. A blackened crucible sat in the middle, tended by a scruffy little boy. Every now and then he fed another piece of silver into the pot and watched it slowly dissolve into the thick, glinting soup of molten metal. On the workbench next to him were piled twenty or more bars of solid silver. Sheba realized what Sister Moon meant about the man being a criminal.

“Now,” said Sneepsnood, turning to face them with a knowing smirk. “Word comes to me you've been looking for someone down on the waterfront.”

Mama Rat raised an eyebrow. “Word travels fast, Jeremiah. How did you get to hear of that?”

“There aren't many . . . ahem . . .
groups
like yours in the city.” Sneepsnood smiled, showing gray gums and yellow teeth. “And you seem to have asked an awful lot of people. Caused quite a stir in the underworld, believe me. Folk thought the peelers had started some new kind of task force or something.”

“Well, it's nothing to do with the law,” said Gigantus. “We're just trying to find a missing girl, that's all.”

“I'm sure you are, I'm sure you are!” Sneepsnood flapped his gangly hands and smiled even wider. “Very honorable, too, I must say. Most public-spirited of you.”

“But what has this got to do with you?” Mama Rat asked. Sheba could see she didn't trust the man.

“Well, nothing at first,” said Sneepsnood. “Just an interesting snippet, I thought. Nice to know what my old friends are up to.” He gave another of his unsettling smiles. “But then, as you know, I have a range of
clients
, from all walks of life.”

“I know that very well, Jeremiah,” said Gigantus.

“Well, it so happens that one of my patrons, a very well-to-do lady who has sadly lost her own son, had already asked me to keep an ear out for this kind of thing.”

“So you told her all about us,” said Gigantus. His voice was a few shades short of a growl.

“Well . . .” said Sneepsnood, “I may have mentioned it. But only to help further your inquiries, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, this lady would like to meet with you, and asked if I would request your presence at Christ Church graveyard this very afternoon. At one o'clock, if you please.”

“Why the graveyard?” Sheba asked. In her curiosity she had forgotten herself, and now found she had drawn the unwelcome attention of Sneepsnood. His gaze was like being slowly covered in grease, and it was all she could do to meet his eyes without shuddering.