Julius and the Soulcatcher (7 page)

Mrs Trevelyan's head slowly turned to face Emily—the simple movement made Emily close her mouth, leaving her with an expression of angry innocence.

Clara wiped flour from her blinking eyes, smearing her powdery mask.

‘Er, I think I can explain, Mrs Trevelyan,' said Mr Flynn. ‘You see…er…'

‘I gave it to Emily,' said Julius. ‘But, I swear, I didn't know it would do this.'

‘That was kind of you,' said Clara.

Julius smiled an embarrassed thank you to her.

Mrs Trevelyan smoothed out her skirt, and then
turned to the girls in the doorway. ‘Back to your books, ladies, and send Nell down here,' she commanded. Then she turned to Clara. ‘And I suggest we get this mess cleaned up. We have supper to prepare, do we not?'

Then she turned to Emily. ‘And you, young lady, will help.'

‘But I can't, Mrs Trevelyan. I 'ave to go wiv Mr Flynn. Mr Tock's the cove wot gave it to me. We 'ave to find 'im and sort 'im out.'

Mr Flynn put the jar in his overcoat pocket.

‘You're staying here,' he said. ‘And when I come back we'll be talking about diaries that don't belong to you.' He tipped his hat to Mrs Trevelyan and walked out the back door.

Emily glared disbelievingly at Julius.

‘He guessed,' he said.

Emily continued to glare.

Julius hesitated under the eyes of everyone. Then he turned to go.

‘Goodbye, Julius,' said Clara.

‘Oh, yes, goodbye.'

He ran to catch up with Mr Flynn who was slapping flour from his sleeves.

‘That girl will be the living death of me,' he said.

‘I think we should put some feelers out at the bare-knuckle bout tonight,' said Julius. ‘Somebody's bound to know about Tock, or Rapple and Baines, at least.
What do you think?'

Mr Flynn did not reply.

Later that evening, after supper of honeyed ham, baked potatoes and boiled beef with Mr Higgins, Julius and Mr Flynn arrived at a vacant warehouse on the southern bank of the Thames.

The babble of the bare-knuckle crowd rose to a cheer—someone had landed a punch. Julius and Mr Flynn were late, and the first bout was already in its final blows as they entered. Julius wedged himself in the corner of the ring to watch.

The smaller man, Giles ‘the Gentleman' Farnsworth, was hunched behind his fists. His opponent, Jimmy Knottley, reeled back, throwing up a fin of blood and sweat. He fell against a dandy, who dropped his opera glasses. The lord shouted something into his ear. Knottley ignored him and rebounded into the fight just as the Gentleman sidestepped and rolled his left shoulder to prepare the right. The crowd saw what was coming. Their roar instantly changed to a shared intake of breath. The next second would be talked about for years to come and it seemed everyone knew it. Giles Farnsworth landed an exquisite knockout punch to the side of Jimmy Knottley's jaw. A gob of saliva shot out of Knottley's mouth as he
crashed, unconscious, to the ground. The crowd erupted, and the warehouse walls quaked.

Julius looked through the haze of cigar smoke at the fallen boxer. After many nights like this he still could not bring himself to cheer, even though he knew the clamour was almost as much for the fallen boxer as for the victor, at least among the aficionados.

Crimper McCready was in the stands. Julius could see him cheering loudest of all, jumping up and down as if his ecstasy was too great to contain.

Knottley woke with a jolt when the smelling salts were waved under his nose. The crowd cheered again. His coach poured a tot of brandy between his bloodied lips. Gentleman Giles accepted the pats on the back and pumping handshakes from his supporters. Knottley rose to his feet, with the help of his seconds, bloody and sand-caked from where he had fallen. He took a few staggering steps toward Giles who embraced him like a long-lost brother. The crowd cheered again. The two pugilists spoke a few quiet words into each other's ears and then went out of the arena, arm in arm, to clean off the blood and celebrate the fight with tankards of ale and fat cigars.

When the noise died down Mr Flynn tapped Julius on the shoulder. ‘I'll make some enquires,' he said. ‘Here's a few shillings for a drink. But only one, mind.'

‘Thank you, Mr Flynn. I'll meet you at the door in half an hour.'

Julius squeezed through the crowd to the makeshift bar. Everyone knew he was a friend of Danny Flynn, the champion bare-knuckle boxer of all London, so no one gave him any trouble.

‘What's up?' said Crimper, slapping Julius on the back, slightly less hard than he had that morning.

‘Want a drink?' asked Julius.

‘Jolly decent of you, old man,' said Crimper.

Julius held up two fingers to the barman who responded with two tankards of foaming porter—Baxter's Brew, better known in the area as Badger's Piss. Julius dropped a shilling on the counter, and he and Crimper retreated to a barrel that served as a table.

‘Cigar?' said Crimper.

‘No, thank you,' said Julius. He had turned green and vomited the last time he tried one.

The two boys took a sip from their tankards and tried not to gag at the vile taste.

‘Did you tell Mr Flynn about last night, Higgins?' said Crimper.

‘Yes.'

‘Did you tell him I was going to steam in if they caused any trouble?'

‘No, I forgot.'

Just as Crimper was about to protest, Mr Flynn appeared. ‘I hope I find you well, Master McCready,' he said.

‘Yes, Mr Flynn, very well, thank you,' spluttered Crimper.

‘Julius, you'll never guess who I've just met. You last saw him in St Paul's Cathedral.'

Julius looked up.

Not Jack Springheel?

‘He has information about Rapple and Baines and he's eager to sell it. What do you think?' said Mr Flynn.

Jack Springheel's back. Cripes, Higgins.

Julius felt the Badger's Piss chill and shift in his stomach.

A familiar face came through the crowd.

‘Julius Higgins,' said the man.

‘Clements?' said Julius.

CHAPTER 6

Friday 19th January 1838

10:12 PM

‘The very one,' said Clements. ‘How are you, my boy? My goodness, you've grown a full three inches since I saw you last. Clements clamped his cigar between his teeth, freeing his hands to vigorously shake Julius's.

‘I'm very well, thank you,' said Julius, relieved and astonished at the same time.

He noticed Clements's frayed shirt cuffs. His suit was the same one he was wearing when he stood at the doors of St Paul's Cathedral with a pistol in his hand when he was working for the time-criminal Jack Springheel. He looked as if he had been living in it ever since.

‘Mr Flynn tells me you're involved in another case,'
said Clements. He appeared to be genuinely pleased to see Julius. He had changed sides and helped bring Springheel's downfall by putting a bullet in the villain's shoulder that day at St Paul's. He was one of the few people in London who knew about the realities of time-travel and the Guild of Watchmakers—the band of gentlemen sworn to protect the timeline.

‘Yes, er…you're looking well, Clements,' said Julius, somewhat amazed by the exuberant greeting. His nose twitched. He sniffed, trying to identify the odour lingering malignantly amid the cheap cigar smoke.

‘Well? Couldn't be better, Higgins,' said Clements. ‘I see by the crinkling of your nose that you're onto the secret of my success. Ha, ha.'

‘Er…'

Clements chuckled at Julius's confusion.

Mr Flynn slapped Clements on the back. ‘I'm glad to see that your unfortunate acquaintance with Jack Springheel hasn't dented your spirit,' he said.

Julius took a sip from his tankard of Badger's Piss to distract his senses from the disagreeable smell that was setting up home in his nose.

‘It takes more that the likes of Jack Springheel to put a good man like me down, Mr Flynn,' said Clements.

‘And on the subject of putting good men down, tell young Julius here what you told me.'

‘I know where Rapple and Baines are hiding, Higgins.'

‘He's agreed to take us there for a small fee,' said Mr Flynn. ‘Master McCready, you're welcome to join us. We're going to call on those two bruisers who came to the bookshop. Julius and I are going to sort them out.'

‘Er, thank you, Mr Flynn but, er…I must get home to do some schoolwork, I'm a bit behind,' said Crimper.

‘Oh well, maybe next time,' said Mr Flynn.

‘Sure thing, Mr Flynn,' said Crimper with relief. He sucked on his cigar and doubled over in a coughing fit.

‘Julius, it looks like it's just the two of us,' said Mr Flynn. ‘Finish your pint and we'll be off.'

‘It's all right,' said Julius. ‘Crimper can have it, I'll need a clear head.'

Outside the warehouse, the biting cold lifted Julius from his cigar-smoke torpor. ‘We're not really going to sort Rapple and Baines out, are we?' he said.

Mr Flynn laughed. ‘No, we'll do a bit of nosing around. See what we can see.'

Julius sniffed to try to clear the mysterious smell from his nose.

‘My beat is in the area, you see—the tanning yards near the Bermondsey rookery. I see all the comings and goings at night,' explained Clements, as they walked along Bermondsey Street. A London fog had descended. It hung illuminated around the lamps like spectres.

‘Your beat?' said Julius.

‘Yes, I'm in the purefinding trade, my boy. I have a nose for pure. I harvest it at night when the roads are clear.'

‘Pure?' asked Julius.

‘That's dog poo to you and me, Julius, It's used in the tanneries to cure leather,' said Mr Flynn.

‘Correct,' said Clements. ‘Brown gold, littering the streets of this great metropolis. Think of it, Higgins, the leather on your next pair of boots might be tanned using the very pure that I pick up tonight. How many people can say that?'

‘Not many,' said Julius.

Clements laughed. ‘Don't know why I didn't go into the business years ago. Urban agriculture, I call it—the agrarian idyll among the cobblestones. But I'm just doing it to get my foot in the door, you know.'

‘Foot in the door, where?' asked Julius.

‘At the tanneries, of course,' said Clements. ‘My name has been bandied about by those in the know: “Clements is a reliable fellow.” “Clements knows pure.” “Clements is a force to be reckoned with.”
Those are but a selection of the many things being said of me in Bermondsey. This time next year, I'll be smoking cigars as long as your arm. Ha, ha.'

Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn walked on. A smell like festering sewage wafted through the fog. ‘That's the tanning yards,' said Clements. ‘You get used to it.' He led the way, appearing to navigate by scent alone.

They passed the workhouse on Great Russell Street and turned into a narrow street. It was lined by tenements, rising up and leaning out over their heads. Unseen dogs barked, and babies cried.