Fogging Over (10 page)

“There’s a pub down the road. The Three Cripples,” said Brice urgently. “It’s a dive but the landlady’s sound. She’ll probably let Georgie stay the night.”

We clustered round the traumatised Georgie, and told him firmly and clearly to get himself to Brice’s dodgy pub right away.

“You need to be where there are lights and people, kiddo,” said Brice.

I felt a zing of angel electricity inside my heart as Georgie got the message. He looked wildly up and down the street and I could hear him thinking, “Lights, people!” He spotted a faint gleam from the pub across the street, and set off at a trot. I heard him repeating Brice’s instructions out loud. “I’ve got to be where there are lights and people.”

The pub door stood slightly open, leaking smells of mice and old beer and stale cooking. Inside a man with multiple tattoos was telling some equally scary men about the latest killing.

Georgie slid around the customers, edging as close to the fire as he dared. He was shivering uncontrollably by this time. A bald-looking dog came to sniff at his hands. “Good dog,” Georgie said shakily. “Who’s a good dog.”

“You all right, nipper?” called the tattooed guy. “You looks a bit green around the gills, me old mate.”

A tremor ran through Georgie. “I seen Jack,” he said in his street voice. “But I never knew I seen ‘im, if you know what I mean. That’s why I come here where there was lights and people. I couldn’t stand it out there alone in the dark.” Georgie buried his face in his hands, and the ugly dog tried to lick him through his fingers.

The landlady had heard Georgie’s distraught explanation.

“You stay where you are, littl’un,” she said. ” It just ‘appens that I’ve got some left-over victuals need eating up, and, well, if you happens to fall asleep by the fire, I’m so rushed off me feet, I probably won’t notice till morning.”

Lola gave a sigh of gratitude. “You’re right, she’s a sweetie. It’s so great you knew about this place, Brice.”

“Yeah, well, any time you need a criminal hangout, just ask Brice,” I said sarcastically.

I could see Lola inwardly counting to ten. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“So why do you reckon Uncle Noel is blackmailing Mr Godbolt ?” Brice asked Lola over my head.

“Hello!” I said. “You have absolutely
no
evidence for that accusation. For all you know, Georgie’s uncle genuinely wants the guy to know he hasn’t abandoned him, even though he’s a convicted criminal.”

“Hello!” Brice mimicked. “That message about the sister sounded like a nasty little threat to me.”

“Not everyone is a nasty little double-crosser, you know, hint hint,” I told him.

Lola shook her head. “There’s no need to be mean, Mel. And actually I agree with Brice.”

“Oh,
there’s
a surprise!” I was practically spitting with rage.

“I’m just telling you what I think, Melanie! Georgie’s uncle knows something he’s not saying. And that sweet old guy in the prison KNOWS the uncle knows something, and he isn’t saying either, but for a totally different reason.”

I stared at her. “Lollie, I have NO idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh,
there’s
a surprise!” Brice imitated my voice again. “Our cute little airhead hasn’t a clue what’s going on!”

My soul-mate suddenly went ballistic. “Will you two just stop!” she yelled. “I have totally had enough of being fought over like a bone!”

She glared at Brice. “You are driving me nuts!”

I felt a smug grin spreading over my face but my friend turned on me in a fury. “As for you,
carita
, you seem to have forgotten what angels are actually
for
.”

“But I just—” I began.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Lola shouted. “We’re professionals, Boo. We can’t let our personal business get in the way.”

“But I just—” Brice began.

“I’m still talking!” she snapped. “Now here’s the deal. You two go back to Uncle Noel’s house to do some serious investigating. That should give you a chance to sort out your differences. I’m going to stay with Georgie. Is that clear?” she demanded.

“Crystal,” we said nervously.

Brice and I beamed ourselves sulkily to Portman Square. We arrived just as Uncle Noel was going out for the evening, looking seriously spruced up and spiffy. He hailed a cab in Baker Street.

“Take me to Boodles in Marble Arch,” he told the cabbie.

I was convinced this was some kind of Victorian strip joint, plus Brice and I were grimly ignoring each other, so I had a really nerve-wracking journey. I was seriously relieved when Boodles turned out to be a respectable gentleman’s club, though personally I thought it could do with some major refurbishing. The walls and ceilings had gone the colour of old tea from the constant puffing of cigars, and the rugs were so faded you couldn’t even guess what colour they’d been when they were new.

We followed Uncle Noel upstairs into a smoky room full of Victorian gentlemen all going “haw-haw-haw”, like those depressing debates in the House of Commons. Some of the members had pulled their leather chairs into huddles to make it easier to chat. Others were lounging about with their feet on tables, or blatantly warming their backsides at the fire. They were all really old, like in their forties and fifties. And judging from the conversation about crown courts and plaintiffs and whatever, most of them were barristers like Georgie’s uncle. I think a couple were even judges.

For the first hour or so, Uncle Noel circulated making polite chit-chat like agony aunts always tell you to do at parties. Then someone said, “Ah, Scrivener, tell us what you think about the stinking masses? Haw-haw-haw!”

This was so outrageous that I couldn’t help catching Brice’s eye. To my relief he didn’t look away.

“They should put these guys in a museum for boring old bigots,” he said.

“It’s a shame we’re not ghosts,” I sighed. “We could at least play noughts and crosses on the mirror.”

I know! Those old buffers were so vile that Brice and I were actually bonding!

He gave me a grudging grin. “So how does Uncle Noel strike you, now he’s in his natural habitat?”

“I think he seems totally ill at ease.,” I decided.

“That could be why he’s drinking too much,” said Brice.

“And have you noticed how that old guy with the bushy side-whiskers always pretends not to hear what he says?” I pointed out.

Brice looked thoughtful. “I have a feeling Noel is a self-made man. In their eyes, that makes him an upstart and a bounder.”

The man with the side-whiskers had started thumping the table. “The urban poor are breeding like rabbits and we’ve got to put a stop to it!” He went into a long rant about the poor spreading their disgusting diseases, and pushing up crime rates. “By the end of the century we’ll be overrun!”

Georgie’s uncle seemed increasingly uncomfortable. “You all speak as if the poor are incapable of feeling as we do, as if they have no dreams or ambitions.”

“That’s true,” I hissed to Brice. “What he said about their attitude, I mean not what they said about the poor,” I added hastily.

But old Side-whiskers completely ignored Uncle Noel’s outburst. “This so-called Whitechapel murderer is a prime example,” he said. “The man’s obviously a complete degenerate. I’d be very surprised if he even knows who his father was!”

I don’t know if it was the old buffer’s words or the approving haw-hawing that upset Georgie’s uncle so much. Plus remember he’d been knocking back the booze. Suddenly he exploded with rage.

“Are you saying that a man has no right to better himself?” he burst out. “Must he then stay in the situation he was born to, no matter how degrading?”

“Dear, dear, we seem to have touched a raw nerve,” someone muttered.

“Yet with education and a sincere desire to improve himself, a poor man can change beyond recognition!” Uncle Noel was almost shouting now. “Such a man might even come and mingle with you gentlemen in your precious club and you would be none the wiser!”

And dashing his glass to the floor he stormed downstairs and out into the street. We had to hurtle after him.

“I thought all Victorian guys were supposed to go in for stiff upper lips and repressing their feelings,” I panted.

Georgie’s uncle was barging drunkenly into other passers-by. He was so pickled that his thoughts were jumped out at us. I’m twice the man they are. No-one ever gave me so much as a helping hand. My father grudged every paltry penny he gave my mother. I was his by-blow, his bastard, so I had to make do with second best; a second-best school while my brother went to Eton, living in that poky house while they lived in luxury.

“Why is he so obsessed with his parents not being married?” I asked Brice. “Loads of my mates’ parents weren’t.”

“It’s different in these times,” Brice explained. “If a Victorian was born on the wrong side of the blanket, he was considered disreputable, a really bad lot.”

Georgie’s uncle flagged down a passing hansom cab. We climbed into the high unsprung vehicle, with its smells of leather and horses, and went clipping through the foggy streets.

‘Try harder, Noel,’ Mama kept saying. Uncle Noel was still fuming to himself. ‘Pass your exams, show him how clever you are, and you’ll make your father proud of you yet.’ There was no money to send me to university, so I worked as a legal clerk by day, and sat up all night studying for the bar. Papa will be proud of me when I get my articles, I thought.

“Don’t you feel just a tiny bit sorry for him?” I whispered.

Brice shook his head. “I think Uncle Noel is quite sorry enough for himself.”

When we got back to Portman Square, Georgie’s uncle went straight to his study and poured himself a generous glass of booze. Then he stumbled to a curtained alcove and pulled back the curtain. Behind it was a painting of a young fair-haired woman in a white dress.

“Haven’t we seen her before somewhere?” Brice said, puzzled.

“It’s the woman in Georgie’s locket!” I gasped.

We stared at each other as this sank in. Then Brice gave an evil chuckle. “Well rock’n’roll, whaddya know! Uncle Noel had the hots for Georgie’s mama!”

“Second best, I was always second best in everything.” Uncle Noel was really working himself into a state. “Then I met you, Marguerite, and I thought my luck had changed.”

He went on rambling drunkenly about how he’d loved Georgie’s mama at first sight, but he was poor and illegitimate so he hadn’t dared to approach her.

“You could have grown to love me in time,” Uncle Noel sniffled. “But before I could pluck up the courage to speak, my half-brother stole you away from me.”

Brice’s eyes widened. “That sounds like a motive to me!”

The uncle opened a drawer and took out a framed miniature of the widowed Marguerite with her two small children. I was startled to see they were both wearing dresses!

“Oh my poor darling,” he groaned. “Little Georgina gets more like you every time I see her.”

My mouth dropped open.
Georgina
! NO way!

Tough, streetwise, cigar-smoking Georgie was really a girl!!!

I saw Brice’s smug expression and realised he’d known all along.

I thumped his arm. “You rat! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” he grinned.

The door opened and a tiny woman came in, wearing a full-length nightdress and a prim little bed-cap with trailing ribbons. “
Do
try to control yourself, beloved,” she said sharply. “The servants will hear.”

Uncle Noel’s wife might have been pocket-sized, but she was totally deadly. The room was suddenly crackling with ruthless vibes.

Her husband guiltily went to cover the portrait, but Aunt Agnes smiled. “I am not jealous of your Marguerite,” she said with poisonous sweetness. “For she is dead and I am very much alive.”

“You are indeed a formidable woman!” He tried to embrace her but tiny Aunt Agnes ducked neatly under his arm.

“Formidable, some might even say ‘frightening’,” she quoted.

“My love, I didn’t mean - have you been spying on me, Agnes?” he asked in dismay.

“You bet your sweet life she has,” Brice muttered.

“Purely for your own good,” Aunt Agnes said calmly. “You lack the necessary steel to follow our plan through to its conclusion. Luckily I am strong enough for us both.”

“But when I think of Marguerite’s daughter ending her days among drunks and pickpockets,” he blubbered. “I have such nightmares, Agnes…!”

“It’s only seeing her that upsets you,” she interrupted swiftly. “Once the brats are out of harm’s way, you’ll feel better.”

I heard Brice inhale sharply.

“I bet she’s got a fur coat made from baby Dalmatians, don’t you?” I whispered.

Aunt Agnes poured them both a drink and mockingly raised her glass to the portrait.

“Silly girl!” she said in musing voice. “She might still be alive if she had married you. Indeed, dearest, she would have married you, if it hadn’t been for your half-brother’s selfishness. Wasn’t it enough that he stood to inherit the law firm and all your father’s money? Did he have to break your heart too?”

“He was so cold and cruel that he left me no choice. I had to become cruel just like him, or go under,” Uncle Noel sniffled.

Aunt Agnes gave a low chuckle. “But what a sweet moment it must have been, when you saw that proud old man standing in the dock like a common criminal.”

I was shocked. She was shamelessly manipulating him, constantly reminding him how he’d suffered, making him feel like the money he had stolen from these kids was actually owing to him.

Uncle Noel gave her a watery smile. “Yes, yes, a very sweet moment.”

“And the ripples go on and on. First your father’s public shame, then your brother discovering that the father he so worshipped was a liar and a thief. They both died broken men, Noel. They tried to destroy you but you broke them!”

“But my brother suffered for so many years before he died, and then Marguerite—” he began.

“Don’t interrupt, beloved,” she snapped. “The force of your revenge has reverberated through three generations of Hannays. It needs only one more act of courage, and they’ll be gone forever. Then your father’s fortune will all be ours.”