Legion of the Dead (3 page)

She stepped back and her fluttering hand beckoned me in. I looked down the narrow corridor to the parlour at the other end. Even though it was approaching midday, a lamp was lit, casting a golden light onto a small table, its surface covered with the tools of her
strange trade – hammers, pliers, a soldering-iron and small anvil.

‘That’s very nice of you,’ I said, ‘but I’d best be going.’ I added cheerfully, ‘I’ve got lots to do and you know what they say – tick-tock, time is money.’

‘In that case, Mr Grimes, I’ll let you to.’ She jangled the box in her hands and smiled. ‘When you see him, tell Mr Frimley not to worry. Ada Gussage won’t let him down!’

I tipped my hat and bade her good day.

‘Goodbye, Barnaby,’ said Ada Gussage, stepping back into her apartment. ‘And take care out there on the cobbles.’

‘Oh, I shall, I shall,’ I assured her as I took my leave – though I had no intention of setting foot on the cobblestone streets of Gatling Quays.

On the fourth-floor landing, I disturbed a mangy ginger tom, that yowled indignantly and tore past me, puffs of dust thrown up into the shafts of light in its wake.

Back on the rooftop, the air had cleared. Setting off, I quickly left the neglected building behind me and was just getting into my stack-hopping stride over the chimneys, when I heard the sound of angry shouting from somewhere below. Stopping for a moment, I peered down over the edge of a rooftop, to see three great hoodlums clustered together in a triangle on the cobblestones below. They were dwarfing a fourth person, who was cowering in the middle.

‘These are
our
homestones, and
you’re
trespassing,’ one of the ruffians growled, thrusting his brutal features into the frightened individual’s face.

‘Looks like we’ve trapped a rat, Lol,’ said the second with a snarl.

‘And you know what we do with rats, don’t you?’ said the third, and there was a flash of metal as he pulled a knife from his belt.

The others did the same.

My stomach churned. Even though I was high up, from the tassel-sleeved overcoats that this lot were wearing, they looked to me like members of the Ratcatchers Crew. If I was right, I didn’t fancy the chances of the poor sap they’d just fingered.

At that moment, the said sap turned round to face the third of his thuggish tormentors. His clothes were more tattered than I remembered and his hair was much shorter, but I knew him at once.

His name was Will Farmer.

Like me, he was a tick-tock lad. But there the similarity ended. I was a highstacker; he was a cobblestone-creeper, stuck down on the ground. But he had spirit and ambition, and wanted to take to the rooftops like yours truly. I liked him and had promised to give him a couple of highstacking lessons when I had some spare time. That had been months ago, and I still hadn’t got round to it. If I had,
I realized, then perhaps Will wouldn’t be where he was now.

‘Go on, stick him, Lol!’ one of the ruffians snarled.

Without a second thought, I dropped down over the guttering and performed a speedy Drainpipe Sluice – praying the whole lot wasn’t about to come away from the wall – and landed with a slapped thud feet away from the three ruffians and their hapless victim. The Ratcatchers spun round, weapons raised.

I drew my sword.

They were on me in an instant. I lunged forward, knocking the dagger out of the first ruffian’s hand and sending it scudding across the road. Then I parried a blow from the second, before spinning round and pinning him up against the wall, the point of my sword pressed against the base of his throat.

Behind me, the heftiest of the three thugs bellowed furiously, ‘Let him go!’

They were on me in an instant
.

I turned to confront him, only to find that he’d grabbed Will and had his own knife pressed at the lad’s neck.

It was at that moment I realized Will Farmer wasn’t the only one I recognized. The thug before me was none other than Thump McConnell, skim-merchant and leader of the Ratcatchers.

Our paths had crossed a year earlier. I’d inadvertently helped him out of a scrape when a consignment of pungent spices I’d been delivering to the kitchens of Admiral McMahone had thrown the dogs of the Harbour Constabulary off his scent and allowed Thump to escape across the rooftops. At the time, he’d told me that he owed me one. It was time to call in that favour.

‘Thump McConnell,’ I said.

I saw him frown, the knife still pressed at Will’s neck. His two henchmen looked at him, puzzled. All three of them were wearing Ratcatcher clothes; black breeches, flat hard-peak
caps and short overcoats made from a patchwork of rat skins, the sleeves fringed with leathery tails.

‘Do I know you?’ he demanded, his gruff voice showing no sign of recognition.

‘Red madras curry powder,’ I said. ‘Last year on the Admiral’s roof. Pack of sneezing bull mastiffs in the courtyard and you on the roof with a sackful of silver plate. Ring any bells?’

Thump frowned. ‘Last year?’ he said, the rats’ tails on his coat sleeves swinging as he scratched his ear.

Slow on the uptake was old Thump. Too many blows to the head in the bare-knuckled fights where he’d earned his nickname. But slowly, the light dawned.

‘Not the tick-tock lad …?’ He smiled slowly. ‘The one who helped me down the guttering … Benjamin, is it?’

‘Barnaby,’ I corrected him.

‘Barnaby!’ he agreed, switching his knife
from right hand to left and sticking out a great paw of a hand. ‘Barnaby Grimes! I owe you one for that night, and no mistake.’

Sheathing my sword, I turned and shook the paw – my smile glazing on my face as my knuckles cracked. I nodded to Will, who was still in Thump’s knife-wielding grasp.

‘And this is a friend of mine,’ I added, taking back my hand and thrusting it safely into my pocket. ‘Will Farmer.’

‘Friend, you say?’ said Thump, looking down at Will, who was staring at me like a lapdog at a lost owner.

Abruptly, Thump let him go and re-sheathed his own blade. Will stumbled across the cobbles and stood beside me. The other two stepped menacingly towards us.

‘It’s all right Lol, Mugsy,’ Thump told them. ‘Leave ’em be.’ He looked at me, then Will; then, with a flourish, he reached into the pocket of his rat-skin jerkin and pulled out a fob-watch on a chain. He flicked open
the embossed silver cover and peered at the hands. ‘It’s ten after midday,’ he said, looking at his crew. ‘The truce has started.’

‘Truce?’ I said.

He turned to me. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said. ‘A forty-eight hour truce has been agreed between all the quays’ gangs. As a mark of respect.’

I looked around and noticed that the streets of Gatling Quays did look unnaturally quiet, even for midday.

‘The Emperor’s being buried tomorrow,’ said Thump grimly. ‘The twelve gangs had a big meet last night, and I was elected the new Emperor of Gatling Quays. It’s down to me to give old Firejaw a proper sendoff, with all the trimmings.’

Firejaw O’Rourke – or the Emperor of Gatling Quays as he was usually known – was the most powerful of the skim-merchants. For years, the Emperor’s crew, the Sumpside Boys, had run the biggest protection racket
of them all, skimming a percentage off every major business in the quays – and woe betide anyone who failed to cough up. Six foot six, and with a beard of flaming red, Firejaw O’Rourke cut quite a figure, even among the hardened gangs of the quays.

With his untimely death, the gangs had been thrown into disarray, with the leaders of all the gangs vying amongst themselves to be the new Emperor. Thump McConnell of the Ratcatchers had obviously come out on top. The leaders of the other gangs – Flob McManus of the Flour Bag Mob or Lenny Dempster, O’Rourke’s successor with the Sumpside Boys, for instance – were probably less than happy about it. Old Thump would have to earn their respect, and a successful sendoff for Firejaw would be a good start.

‘Nasty accident,’ Thump was saying, his thin lips taut. ‘Boatload of fireworks and a stubbed-out cigar …’ He shook his head grimly. ‘Half burned when they fished ’im
out of the water. Not a pretty sight.’ Thump McConnell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I take it you’ll be there to pay your respects, Barnaby Grimes,’ he said, and from his steely glare I knew I wasn’t being given a choice. ‘The funeral’s at the Adelaide Graveyard, down by the sump …’

As he uttered the name, I saw his two henchmen flinch and exchange glances. The one called Lol swallowed noisily. Thump McConnell rounded on him furiously and slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand, the rats’-tails fringed sleeve lashing his cheek.

‘If I hear one more word about phantoms and ghosts, and ghouls in red jackets, it’ll be your last. D’you understand? Truce or no truce!’

‘Didn’t say nuffin’,’ Lol muttered, tracing his fingers gingerly down the welts on his face, the raw lines where the rats’ tails had lashed him beaded with blood.

‘Didn’t need to,’ said Thump, and wagged his finger. ‘Just you make sure you don’t.’ He turned back to me, and continued speaking as though nothing had happened. ‘Now that I’m taking over as the new ganglord, it’s my job to make sure the funeral runs like greased clockwork. All the skim-merchants and their crews will be there, along with well-wishers …’ His face contorted into a thin-lipped smile, menacing and humour-free. ‘Such as yourself, Barnaby, and your friend here.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ I answered.

‘Good.’ He nodded sternly, then turned to the others. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘there’s still that little matter with the Fetter Lane Scroggers to attend to …’

With that, the three of them turned and left. Will and I watched them go – bulky Thump McConnell in the middle, flanked by his two heavies; the three of them swaying to the left and right in unison.

Will Farmer turned to me. ‘Oh, Mr Grimes,’
he said, ‘thank you, thank you. I was meant to be delivering a wagon permit when—’

‘Call me Barnaby,’ I told him. ‘Wagon permits! That’s a job for a dozen harbour constables, not a lone tick-tock lad.’

‘But the desk sergeant said it would be easy …’ Will began.

‘Yes, well, best choose your jobs a bit more carefully in future, Will. Still, no harm done.’ I clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Will, turning on his heels and heading for the drainpipe I’d shinned down.

‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ I called.

He stopped in his tracks. ‘I thought …’ He frowned. ‘You did mean it, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘When you said you’d show me how to highstack?’

I laughed. The kid was nothing if not enthusiastic.

‘Course I did, Will,’ I said, ‘but let’s not try to run before we can walk, eh? Besides, we’re going to have to put that lesson on hold for a little while longer,’ I told him. ‘You and me have got a funeral to go to.’