Crow Boy (15 page)

‘There now,' he said. ‘I trust his Majesty will be comfortable for the night.'

‘You . . . you can't keep me in here!' protested Tom. ‘There . . . there are laws about this kind of thing!' He grabbed hold of the bars and shook them hard, but they held firm. ‘Let me out, now!'

‘What's the matter? This is very grand accommodation. This was where I used to keep Bertie, my bull mastiff. Best bear-baiting dog in Edinburgh, he was. Very valuable. You should be honoured. If that last bear hadn't been too quick for him, he'd be living here yet.'

Tom shook the bars, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Let me out!' he screamed. ‘Please! I'll eat the meat; I'll do whatever you tell me. Just don't leave me here.'

But The Doctor was shaking his head. ‘Too late,' he said. ‘Kitchen's closed. The customers weren't grateful enough for my poor mother's efforts.'

Tom started crying, pummelling his fists against the iron bars.

‘And if you carry on making that racket,' added The Doctor, ‘I'll be back out with my cane. And you will not enjoy that one little bit.'

With that, he turned and strode back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Tom was abruptly plunged into darkness. He lay there, sobbing, alone, hoping against hope that something would happen to take him out of here, off to some other reality. No matter how crazy, no matter how dangerous, anything would be preferable to this.

But though he lay there in the stinking straw, sobbing and shaking for what felt like hours, no salvation came – and it was only much later, when the house had fallen silent, that he finally found some sleep.

Nineteen

He was standing in front of a mirror, wearing a long, leather cape. On a table beside him was The Doctor's mask, the curved beak pointing upwards. Tom looked at it for a moment, then reached out and picked it up. Lifting it, he slipped it over his own head, until the edges settled over his shoulders and he was staring through the eye holes. He stood there, gazing at his reflection and wondered why he suddenly felt so powerful, so
alive
. Behind him, he heard a clamour of voices and, turning, he saw that his class from Edinburgh, dressed in their maroon blazers, were milling in through an open doorway, staring at him in total amazement. One of the girls, Jenny, pointed at him.

‘Crow Boy!' she shrieked. ‘He's a Crow Boy!'

He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her she was mistaken, that he'd just been trying the outfit on for a laugh, but all that emerged from his mouth was a high-pitched, rasping shriek, the sound an angry bird would make.

Now the rest of the class joined in with Jenny, chanting the two words over and over. ‘Crow Boy, Crow Boy, CROW BOY!' Their jeering faces seemed to swirl around him in a blur of colour.

Tom raised his arms to try and quieten their shouts, and his leather-clad arms dissolved into a flurry of black feathers. Then he was powering himself up into the air, hovering over the class and staring intently down at them, ready to take his revenge . . .

He woke suddenly, aware of a soft noise from somewhere nearby. He lay in a foetal position, half in, half out of the dream, breathing hard, aching in every joint because he was so cramped in the narrow confines of the cage. Darkness pressed around him like a shroud and, for a moment, he thought the sound was being made by a rat or something, snuffling at the bars of the cage. Gradually he became aware that it was the sound of somebody breathing.

‘Who's there?' he murmured.

Beside him, a spark was struck, and another and finally, a bit of kindling ignited and was held to the wick of a candle. The flame burned steady and a glum face peered through the bars at him – the last face he expected to see.

‘Cameron?' he whispered. ‘What are you . . .?'

Cameron waved him to silence and held a finger to his lips. He moved closer to the bars. ‘Keep your voice down,' he hissed. ‘The Doctor's asleep in the kitchen, smashed out of his head on brandy. But I don't know what's happened to the old woman. She could be a light sleeper.'

Tom shook his head. ‘But what are you doing here?' he whispered back.

Cameron frowned. ‘Don't think I haven't asked myself the same question,' he murmured. ‘But Morag said she'd never speak to me again if I didn't get you back and Missie Grierson . . .' Cameron frowned. ‘She was not happy with me,' he concluded. ‘So what choice did I have?'

He was moving the candle around the cage, trying to find how the door was secured. ‘Ah,' he said, at last. ‘Got it. Hold tight.' He began to pull at an unseen bolt, which let out a creaking sound that seemed incredibly loud in the dark hallway. Cameron winced and glanced around, before continuing, trying to move the bolt in small increments, so it would make less noise.

‘How did you get in here?' asked Tom, still trying to get his head around what was happening.

‘There's a loose window out on the street,' said Cameron with a grin. ‘I was waiting when they brought you in, but I had to hang around for hours before I had a chance to try the window.' He made a final effort and the bolt came free. Cameron gently opened the barred door and Tom dragged himself out, his arms and legs clumsy with cramp. Cameron gave him an arm to lean on and they got themselves upright. ‘Now,' he murmured. ‘Follow me, as quiet as a mouse.'

He led Tom through an open doorway into another room at the front of the house and indicated a casement window that he had left ajar.

‘This way,' he said. He set down the candle and clambered expertly through the narrow opening, then reached back to lend Tom a hand to squeeze through. It was an effort. Pins and needles were shooting through Tom's arms and legs but he somehow managed to scramble through the narrow opening and, a few moments later, he dropped to the ground and followed Cameron away from the house and along the deserted street beyond.

They walked for quite a distance before Tom spoke again. His mind was racing. ‘How did you know where to find me?' he asked.

‘Saw you today on the High Street,' explained Cameron. ‘I'd gone out to get vegetables from the market and I saw you and The Doctor and this other fellow with a brazier.You all got out of a coach and went off into the Close together.'

‘Yeah. We sorted out some plague victims there,' said Tom. ‘Or at least, I think we did. I don't remember any of it.'

Cameron sighed, shook his head. ‘Well, you haven't changed,' he observed. ‘You still make as much sense as a raving lunatic.'

‘Thanks,' said Tom, grinning.

‘Anyhow, I got talking to the coach driver, didn't I? Asked him if he always took the famous Doctor Rae around the city and he said yes, but it was funny, because the doctor never seemed to go back to his own house, but to this place off Fleshmarket Close, not the kind of house you'd expect to find a rich doctor. I asked him for the address and he said he couldn't possibly remember, but he did have a powerful thirst and maybe a tankard of ale would loosen his tongue.' Cameron scowled. ‘Bloody liar,' he said, ‘it took three tankards and cost me all the money I had left in the world.'

Tom looked at Cameron with new respect, realising how hard it must have been to spend those three precious pennies, all earned emptying Mr Selkirk's chamber pot. ‘It was good of you to do that,' he said. ‘Really, I appreciate it.'

‘I hope you do,' said Cameron. ‘Cos believe you me, I thought long and hard about leaving you to it. But I didn't much like the idea of never speaking to Morag again, so . . .' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘In the end, the coach driver told me where the house was, so I made my way up here and waited for you. I stood around for ages. I was just about to give up when the coach arrived and you went inside. I was watching through the window.' He glanced at Tom. ‘I wouldn't say you enjoyed that dinner much.'

Tom frowned. ‘Rotten bully,' he muttered. ‘They're all the same. Once you stand up to them, they melt away like snowflakes in a microwave.' The words had come automatically to him and he couldn't remember where he'd heard them first. Then he remembered. Shona – the girl who was a younger version of Missie Grierson.

Cameron gave him a blank look. ‘What's a microwave?' he asked.

‘Never mind,' said Tom.

‘Well, all right, there's something else I don't understand. Why would a great man like Doctor Rae treat somebody like that?'

‘Because he
isn't
Doctor Rae,' said Tom. ‘Just some crook pretending to be him. He charges all of his patients money; that's how he makes his living.'

‘But how come nobody ever realises he . . .' Cameron's voice trailed away as he thought about it. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘It could be
anyone
behind that mask.'

Tom nodded then lifted his head at the sound of wheels clattering on cobbles. He turned and saw a coach coming slowly along the street from the other direction. He lifted a hand and hailed the coachman. The man pulled on the reins and the coach rumbled to a halt. He sat there, looking doubtfully down at the boys.

‘What do you two want?' he asked them and eased back his cloak to show the pistol in his belt.

‘We want to go to Lord Kelvin's house,' said Tom.

‘Do we?' grunted Cameron.

‘Yes, we do,' said Tom. He looked up at the coach driver. ‘Do you know where that is?'

The coachman grinned. ‘Aye, of course I know. He's one of the richest men in Edinburgh. Don't know about taking a couple of bairns like you there, though. Is it some kind of joke you're playing? Only I was just about to go on home for the night.'

‘It's no joke,' Tom assured him. ‘We need to go there now.'

‘And you have money for the fare?' asked the man. ‘It's quite a way.'

Tom looked hopefully at Cameron, but he shook his head. Tom pondered for a moment and then an idea came to him. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled out his five pound note. He handed it up to the coachman.

‘There you go,' he said.

‘What's this?' asked the coachman.

‘That's five English pounds,' Tom assured him.

The man grunted. ‘Who's the sour-faced old biddy?'

‘It's the Queen of England.'

‘Henrietta? It's a poor likeness of her. I heard she was in France, hiding away from the Civil War.'

‘Yeah, but don't worry, that money's good, anywhere you go. It's worth ten Scottish pounds.'

The man shook his head. ‘I've no change,' he warned Tom.

‘Not a problem. You can keep it. And when I've spoken to Lord Kelvin, I wouldn't be surprised if he has even more money for you.'

‘You reckon?' The man looked at Tom doubtfully and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘I must be going simple in my old age,' he muttered. ‘All right, I suppose you'd better get in.'

Tom threw open the door and he and Cameron clambered inside. The coachman lashed the horses and they took off at speed.

‘What's all this about?' demanded Cameron. ‘Why are you going to see that mean old bugger?'

Tom looked at Cameron. ‘Why do you say that?' he asked. ‘It sounds like you know him.'

‘Of course I know him. He's the one Missie Grierson sent the letter to, asking him to be patron of our orphanage. Do you not remember? You read it out, the first day you arrived on the Close.'

Tom slapped a hand against his forehead.
‘Of
course!'
he said. ‘I knew I'd heard the name somewhere before. Oh man, that's weird. Everything . . . everything seems to slot together, like a jigsaw puzzle or something.' He sat back in his seat. ‘Anyway, Lord Kelvin's granddaughter has the plague and Doctor Rae . . . or whoever that guy is back at the house, he sold him my pills for a thousand pounds.'

‘A thousand!' Cameron sat back in his own seat, his eyes wide. He seemed to be trying to imagine what such a vast sum of money might look like. ‘But . . . they were your pills. He stole them from you. That money should be yours.'

‘It's not about the money,' said Tom. ‘I don't want anything for them, but I sure as hell don't want that robbing scumbag to have it, either.'

The coach raced along through the darkness. It was moving out of the city now and onto the country roads beyond. Tom leaned out of the window and stared at the way ahead but could see little, save for the dappled moonlight filtering down through a swaying canopy of trees.

Fifteen minutes later, the coach slowed as it clattered up to the main gates of Lord Kelvin's house – but the gates were closed and, as Tom and Cameron clambered down from the coach, they were met by a brawny-looking man who emerged from a small sentry box beside the gates, accompanied by a fearsome-looking dog on a length of chain.

‘What's your business here at this time of night?' he demanded, his hand on the handle of a sword that hung at his side.

‘Please, Sir, we need to see Lord Kelvin,' said Tom.

The man glowered at them. ‘You must be joking with me!' he exclaimed. ‘Go away and come back at a more respectable hour.' The dog, hearing the note of threat in the man's voice, emitted a deep growl.

‘We can't,' said Tom, defiantly. ‘We have to see him now.'

‘Aye,' said Cameron.

The man laughed. ‘If you think I'm going to wake Lord Kelvin at the behest of two snot-nosed kids, you've another think coming,' said the man. ‘Now shift yourselves, before I set the dog on you.'

‘This is . . .' Tom thought for a moment. ‘A matter of life or death.'

‘Aye,' said Cameron. ‘It concerns Lord Kelvin's granddaughter.'

‘Annie,' added Tom.

The man looked doubtful. ‘What about her?' he muttered.

‘I was here yesterday with Doctor Rae,' said Tom. ‘He gave her medicine for the plague. Now he's sent me with urgent instructions. If Lord Kelvin doesn't act on them right away, his granddaughter could die.'

The unexpected sound of a whiplash made them all jump. The coach lurched around in a tight circle and headed back the way it had come. Clearly, the very mention of the word ‘plague' had persuaded the driver to make a hasty exit. Tom returned his attention to the guard.

The man swallowed and Tom saw that his expression had changed to one of fear. Tom could imagine what was going through his mind. Did he really want to risk being responsible for the death of Lord Kelvin's granddaughter? After a few moments, he seemed to come to a decision. He removed a big ring of keys from his belt and unlatched the gate. Then he ushered Tom and Cameron inside and he and the dog followed. ‘This had better be genuine,' he warned them.

‘It is,' Tom assured him. They strode along the drive and up to the front door. Tom pounded the brass knocker, the noise of it seeming to reverberate throughout the silent house. They waited. After what seemed an age, the glow of an oil lamp showed through one of the glass panes and the maid appeared at the door, dressed in her nightgown. She took some convincing before she finally agreed to go and wake ‘the Master.'

Tom and Cameron were shown into the library – a huge room, the walls of which were lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books. Tom took it in his stride, but Cameron kept gazing around in awed amazement as though he'd never seen anything like it in his life – which, Tom reflected, he probably hadn't. More time passed, slowly, maddeningly, before the door opened and Lord Kelvin came into the room, wearing what looked like a silk dressing gown. His wig was gone and he was wearing a nightcap with a long tassel hanging over his shoulder. Without the powder and rouge on his face, it was plain that he was, indeed, much older than Tom had imagined, his face lined and wrinkled. He stared at the two boys in indignation.