The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow (6 page)

The poor young man had vanished from the step now – probably off somewhere buying buns with her shilling, she thought grudgingly. The store was shrouded in darkness, with only a few lights gleaming from the very top of the building, where Mr Sinclair had his own luxurious private apartments. The staff entrance was locked, but as she had hoped, the door that led into the shop from the stable-yard was still open. Hoping to slip in and out without being noticed by anyone, Sophie made her way back inside.

It was strange being in the store after hours. The ground floor was completely silent and still and yet there seemed to be a faint humming sound in the air. The shapes of the counters and chairs looked unearthly in the dark, and little bits of light from the street outside caught and shimmered in the looking-glasses, casting piercing silvery gleams through the shadows. For a moment or two she hesitated, but then she roused herself to hurry forward towards the back staircase the staff used. She wished she had used one of the main staircases instead when she saw how dark it was, but she hastened onwards anyway, trying not to jump at every creak or rustle. It was a relief when she reached the Millinery Department. Rummaging through the hat-boxes, she at last found the one containing the jacket, took it out and bundled it up quickly in a bit of brown paper. On her way back she took the main stairs, running down two steps at a time.

The staircase brought her down into the Entrance Hall, and here she stopped short. Last time she had been here, the doors to the great Exhibition Hall had been closed; now they stood wide open. She could see a great, shadowy room beyond, and down each side of the room was a row of glass cases, gleaming in the shadows. In spite of herself, she tiptoed a little way through the doors to peer inside.

Approaching the first case, she caught her breath in astonishment. An array of exquisitely beautiful objects was laid out on a white velvet cushion, neatly labelled. Forgetting all about wanting to hurry home, she gazed at a sparkling diamond tiara, then a rich purple gemstone the size of a hen’s egg, and then at a tiny, ornate golden bird, beautifully enamelled and glittering all over with gold and precious stones.
The Clockwork Sparrow
, she read. It was so small, so richly jewelled, so perfect. She bent to look at it more closely, and for a moment, in the dim light, it seemed almost as if it were looking back at her. Its jewel eye glinted, as if it were winking.

A hand fell heavily on her shoulder, as sudden as a thunderclap. She started up and gave a little yelp of terror, but fell silent when she saw Mr Cooper’s face looming out of the dark.

‘Miss Taylor – what are you doing here?’ he demanded, frowning sharply.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I left something behind and I wanted to run up and get it before everything was shut up for the night,’ she said quickly, pink flooding her cheeks. She clutched her parcel close to her, hoping that he wouldn’t ask what was inside it. ‘I thought it would be best not to trouble anyone.’

‘Get on home,’ said Cooper sternly. ‘Quick, quick, be off with you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sophie. She fled in relief through the darkened store, and then out into the stable-yard.

‘Well, well, and what have we here? Why, it’s the high and mighty Lady Sophie, running around after hours. And all alone without your
friend
this time, I see.’

It was Bert Jones, she saw in surprise, standing half-concealed in the shadows. He seemed different out here in the dark: there was a look in his pale eyes that she didn’t like. What was he doing here, so long after all the others had gone?

‘Excuse me, please, I’m going home,’ she said briskly, but Bert just laughed and stepped in front of her, blocking her way. A sudden prickle of fear ran over her.

‘Always in such a hurry to get away, aren’t you? Well there’s no need. Whatever it is you’re up to, you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t split on you. I’m good at keeping secrets, me.’

He laughed again, as if the thought pleased him, and Sophie’s heart began to beat more rapidly. What would Lil do, if she were here? ‘Let me pass at once,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. If only Mr Cooper would come out of the door!

But he didn’t come and Bert still stood there, grinning at her. Then he reached towards her and instinct took over. She darted past him as fast as she could and ran, not stopping to look back. In a moment, she was out into the street and away, still clutching the bundled jacket.

Left behind, Bert smirked to himself as the distant sound of Sophie’s feet skittering on the cobbles faded to nothing in the settling dark.

Sophie kept running, her feet clattering, her heart bumping. She was conscious of attracting curious looks from passers-by: after all, young ladies didn’t generally go racing down the city streets. But at that moment, Sophie didn’t care in the least about what young ladies generally did.

It had begun to rain, and everything seemed darker now. The last few shops were shutting, and the bursts of music and voices that spilled out of the public houses seemed louder and more menacing. As she turned the corner she ran blindly into a young man carrying a big portfolio, which at once crashed to the ground, spilling out papers. ‘Hey! Look where you’re going, can’t you?’ he demanded, but too agitated even to pause and apologise, Sophie kept her head down and ran for home, leaving him calling angrily after her.

By the time she reached her lodgings, pink-cheeked and out of breath, she had missed supper. The lodging house was not an attractive place, and as usual the hall smelled like overcooked cabbage. As she started up the creaking stairs towards her room, a trio of girls spilled out on to the landing. Edith was at the centre of the little group and gave her a sneering look, taking in her red face and damp hair, which was now most definitely coming down. There was a bubble of laughter and then they breezed past and the door slammed abruptly behind them.

Sophie trudged upwards to her room. It was small and shabby. There was a damp patch on the ceiling, and the sound of a baby crying could be heard through the thin walls, but at least it was her own. There wasn’t much in it: only a narrow, iron-framed bed, a washstand squeezed into a corner, and a chair wedged in the space between the bed and the tiny fireplace. But her old china doll sat on the chair smiling a glassy-eyed welcome, and on the mantelpiece were a few treasures she had been able to save from Orchard House: a jug with cowslips on it, one or two books with pretty morocco bindings, and a walnut box that held keepsakes – a hatpin shaped like a rose that she wore often, a string of green beads that had once belonged to her mama, and her papa’s medals. Most precious of all was the photograph of Papa, which she kept at the very centre of the mantelpiece. It was a rather stiff, formal portrait in which he stood very upright and gallant in his military uniform, and yet somehow he seemed to be looking at her with the barest hint of a smile. It gave her a strange sort of comfort to fancy that he might almost be watching.

She dropped the parcel containing Billy’s jacket on the floor, lit the lamp and then sank down on to the bed to ease her boots from her aching feet. In the warm glow of the lamplight, everything troubling – the dark streets, the empty store, the girls’ laughter, and even the looming figure of Bert – seemed to fade away. There would be no buns for supper, but bread and butter would do just as well, she thought decidedly, pulling the shabby curtains firmly closed against the darkness outside.

He sat still in the shadows of the stable-yard, watching. It was a risk staying here after that lad had spotted him earlier, but he felt it was a risk worth taking. He’d stay tonight and be on his way again tomorrow. It was a shame, for this was a good place, safe and quiet. He felt sure that no one would ever think of looking for him here. Besides, he was fond of horses, always had been, and they were fond of him.

There was a light burning high up in one of the top windows of the big shop building – a little point of yellow light in the grey dusk. It made his thoughts flash suddenly back to that awful night, to looking in through the misted window as the watchmaker held up a pocket watch, like a gleaming gold star in the dark. He remembered how still the old man had been, motionless, but for the delicate movements of his long fingers as he bent over the bench, all scattered with the parts of clocks and watches. Something about the way he sat there had made him think of his old grandad. Suppose the watchmaker had been someone’s old grandad too? He had known then that he couldn’t do what they wanted. He couldn’t do it, and so he’d have to run.

He pushed the memory away and wiped the rain off his face. He had to forget all that. He had to stay sharp, concentrate on the here and now. He’d been watching since the store closed. Soon, he’d be able to find a quiet corner to kip for the night, well away from the nightwatchman’s beat. Not that he’d been getting much sleep since he left the Boys behind. The wound from Jem’s knife ached, and the pain left him wakeful. Besides, what little sleep he managed to snatch was tormented by dreams. He dreamed of his own treacherous hands, shaking as they gripped the blade; the small, defenceless figure of the watchmaker behind the window; Jem smiling his jagged smile; and always the unknown figure of the Baron, lurking somewhere beyond, a faceless monster from a child’s nightmare. ‘Know why they call him the Baron?’ he remembered Jem saying to him once. ‘Cos he’s the tops when it comes to villainy. There’s no one who can touch him for that.’ He’d heard some people say that the Baron was no more than another tall tale surfacing from the slums of the city, but he knew they were wrong. The Baron’s Boys and the things they did were real enough, that was for sure.

There was hardly anyone left in the store now. The big fellow with the black moustache had long gone, heaving himself on to his bicycle and pedalling strenuously off into the evening. One or two others had followed, but still the thin young fellow remained, standing just beside the door smoking a cigarette. He wished that young fellow would sling his hook. There was something about him that he didn’t trust – the curl of his lip, the glint in his eye, or perhaps just the way he’d tried to bully that girl, the one who had given him the shilling. It had been a relief to see her dart past him and hurry away.

A shilling, that was something. For the dozenth time, he felt for the reassuring circle of it in his pocket. Once or twice before he’d got a penny or two, but he didn’t set himself up to go a-begging. The old fellows and the kids, they might do all right, but he didn’t reckon that anyone would want to give a farthing to someone like him. But that girl, she’d just given him that coin, right out of nowhere. A whole shilling, just like that.

His ears pricked at a new sound. The door was opening and someone else was coming out. Another man, his collar turned up, a cap pulled well down over his eyes. The young fellow looked surprised, but then an expression of interest broke over his face and he opened his mouth as if to speak. Somewhere, close by, there was the splintering tinkle of glass shattering, and the yowl of a cat.

Then all at once, as if the sound had sparked it off, everything happened very fast. There was a glint of metal in the dim light; a sudden, heart-stopping explosion of sound. He started and shrank back into his corner, but the thin young fellow had fallen. He was on the ground. His body was crooked, slumped face-down. The other man turned smoothly, soundlessly away, and a moment later he had melted into the dark.

The yard was empty but for the black shape of the young fellow’s body. He stole forward and hesitated, seeing the dark pool blooming on the ground. The young fellow had been shot.

There was a crumpled piece of paper lying beside the body. He picked it up instinctively and shoved it into his pocket with the shilling. Already he could hear the sound of a whistle: the police, the nightwatchman? He couldn’t stay to find out which it was. He had to get away.

He slipped into the shadows by the wall, where he blended with the darkness and became invisible. It was something he knew only too well how to do. Silent and swift as a fox in the night, he padded away down the alley. Once again, he had to disappear.

This elegant crinoline straw, with velvet on the crown and bunches of violets under the brim, is a smart choice for spring. Bringing elegance and grace to even the most modest costume, it will serve excellently for any town occasion – from a tea party to a tour of the shops . . .

A
new day was breaking over London. It was Tuesday morning, and chimneys were puffing out smoke again; boats were surging up and down the river and the church bells were sounding out the start of another day.

Sophie walked along the Embankment, the air rushing cold and clear against her face. She clutched her hat as the wind whirled against her skirts and set her ribbons streaming out behind her. Above her, birds dipped and soared, and below, the river sparkled, transformed by the clear morning light to glitter as brilliantly as any of the jewels she had seen in the Exhibition Hall last night.