Sherlock’s whole body seemed to freeze in horror and disbelief, then a white heat of rage passed through him. Stepping forward, he punched his fist hard into Denny’s groin. The thug folded up, choking. As he collapsed, Sherlock stepped back and kicked him in the jaw. Something cracked. The man screamed through a mouth that suddenly seemed to have locked in place, and was twisted to one side.
The woman — Bill’s companion — screamed as well, a high, piercing shriek that cut the air like a knife.
The other four men looked at each other in disbelief, then moved forward and reached out their grimy hands for Sherlock. Every detail was etched into Sherlock’s mind: the dirt beneath their nails, the hairs on the backs of their hands, the blood pooling on the ground, the shriek of the woman and the scream of Denny melding into one continuous whistle of pain. The world seemed to slow to a halt, freeze, and then shatter into pieces around him. He turned to the woman, his mouth dry. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Then he was running again. Two of the men followed, leaving Denny behind, collapsed on the cobbles beside Bill. The woman just stood there, looking down at them both, her scream gradually fading into choking sobs.
Turning a corner, Sherlock saw a massive domed building ahead of him. It looked entirely out of place in the middle of a cleared area of ground which had been planted with bushes and trees. Several roads — wide roads, not alleys — led away from it, and there was a constant bustle of people and horses swarming around outside. Beyond it Sherlock could see a stone wall and, further away, the churning grey surface of the Thames.
Sherlock ran towards it. Where there were people, there was likely to be safety.
Sprinting, he swerved past well-dressed men and women and ducked beneath the shafts of a carriage, heading all the time for the building. As it grew closer he could see that it was decorated with statues and tiled mosaics. A large entrance loomed up ahead of him, and he diverted his course slightly to head straight for it. Behind him, curses and shouts indicated that his pursuers hadn’t given up.
The entrance led into a circular hall, lit by the sun shining through a myriad of coloured glass windows in the domed ceiling. The light gave a clownish, harlequin air to the place. In the centre of the building was a hole ringed by a balcony. People were lined up along the balcony, gazing down at something. Over to one side, a wide stairway spiralled round the edge of the pit, into the depths of the earth.
Sherlock dashed across, pushing through the throng of people, and reached the top of the stairway. Turning, he glimpsed the two men shoving their way through the crowd. One of them was a bald man with deformed ears and nose, leading that small part of Sherlock’s brain that wasn’t frantically trying to work out ways of escape to think that he might have been a boxer. The other was painfully thin, with sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. They were obviously set on catching him, no matter what. Perhaps before he had broken Denny’s jaw they might have given up, but they were driven by a purpose now. One of them had been humiliated, and so Sherlock would have to pay.
He turned, and started down the staircase.
The stairs spiralled around the sides of a tremendous shaft, levelling out every now and then on a balcony but then continuing down into the abyss. A smell rose up out of the shaft: a stench that combined damp, rot and mould into a single foetid odour that made his nose tingle and his eyes water. Sherlock’s steps fell into a repetitive routine as he pounded round the sides of the cylindrical shaft. He had no idea what was at the bottom, but a single glance across the shaft told him what would await him at the top. Two of Baron Maupertuis’s men were racing down the steps towards him.
He sped up. Whatever was at the bottom of the shaft couldn’t be as bad as the certain and probably slow death that was chasing him.
He seemed to have spent much of the past few days running or fighting, and even as his feet clattered against the stone steps and his hand burned as it scraped against the banister there was a part of his mind that wondered frantically what exactly Baron Maupertuis thought he knew that was so important he had to die for it. What exactly was the Baron planning to do, and why was Sherlock an obstacle to his plans?
He was at the bottom before he realized, feet stumbling on the level surface. He was in a gas-lit hall. Two arched tunnels led away from the hall, both heading in the same direction. The arches were fully four or five times the height of a grown man, and made of brick, but the brickwork was wet everywhere he looked. Judging by the direction taken by the tunnels, he knew why. They went straight out under the Thames, and presumably ended at a similar shaft on the north side.
If he could make it to the other side, he might just escape with his life.
He stumbled on into the left-hand tunnel. There were people ambling along as if walking beneath the surface of a river was nothing special. There were even horses down there, being led calmly along. They obviously had no idea about the uncountable tons of water just a few feet above their head, kept at bay by crumbling brickwork and plaster.
There were times when being too logical was a curse. This was one of those times. Sherlock knew the kind of pressure that was being exerted on the tunnel walls. One slight crack and the water would pour in, drowning them all.
But he kept on running. He had no choice.
Or did he? As he hurried on, he noticed that the two tunnels ran in parallel, and were linked by smaller side tunnels every ten yards or so. In each of the side tunnels enterprising Londoners had set up stalls selling food, drink, clothes and all kinds of bric-a-brac. If he could just worm his way through one of the side tunnels, he could go back down the other main tunnel to the shaft, return to the warehouse and find Amyus Crowe.
He veered right, towards the side of the main bore, and nipped into the first side tunnel he came to. A man turned towards him, illuminated by an oil lamp that hung from a nail on his wooden stall. His skin was grey-white and moist, like something that had lived underground for too long. He was wrapped in an old blanket that had become stiff with dirt over time, like some bizarre armour. His eyes seemed to be all black pupil, and he peered at Sherlock for a moment.
“You want a clock?” he said hopefully. “Good timepiece. Always right. Always correct. Grandfather clock, grandmother clock — whatever you want, I got.”
“No thanks,” Sherlock said, pushing past the stall. It occurred to him that time was meaningless beneath the Thames. No sun, no moon, no day and night. Time just passed. Why would you need a clock?
“What about a nice pocket watch? Never need to ask the time if you got a watch. Young gent like you, impress the ladies with a hunter on a chain. Real silver. Etched as well. You could keep a picture of your sweetheart inside.”
Real silver, etched, and certainly stolen property. “Thanks,” Sherlock said breathlessly, “but my father has money. He’ll be coming through in a minute. Tell him I want a clock, and don’t let him go without buying one.”
The stallholder smiled, reminding Sherlock of some predatory crustacean lurking beneath a stone, waiting for its unsuspecting prey to pass by.
Sherlock peered round the edge of the side tunnel, back towards the shaft he had entered through, and cursed. His pursuers must have split up. One of them had followed him down the left-hand tunnel, but the other had headed down the right-hand one. He was pushing his way through the crowd, glancing suspiciously at every male who was younger than twenty, just in case. They obviously knew the area better than he did.
He decided to wait for this man to go past the side tunnel entrance, then he would double back. But his plan was dashed straight away by a sudden commotion behind him. Turning, he saw the stallholder trying to thrust a small carriage clock into the hands of the thug who had followed Sherlock into the left-hand tunnel — the bald man with ears like cauliflowers and a squashed nose. The thug pushed him away with a curse, but the stallholder scuttled back, looking more and more beneath his dirt-encrusted blanket like some hard-shelled creature that lived at the bottom of the sea. He thrust the clock back at the thug, screeching, “You buy for son! You buy for son!" The ex-boxer pushed him away again, harder, and this time he stumbled against the oil lamp and knocked it against the wall. The glass smashed and the oil spilt over the stallholder’s blanket. The wick, still wet, fell on to the blanket as well, setting it alight.
The flames took hold quickly as the stallholder stood there. Then, thrashing his arms around, he scuttled out into the left-hand main tunnel. People backed away in horror. The stallholder bumped into a passer-by, and the fire jumped on to the man’s frock coat. The man staggered to one side, brushing at the flames, but succeeding only in setting alight the billowing crinoline skirt of a woman next to him. A horse, being led down the tunnel, bolted at the sight of the flames, dragging its owner along behind it.
Within a few moments the tunnel was seething with flame. Clothes caught light quickly, cloth coverings on stalls followed, and even the wood of the stalls themselves caught fire, despite being damp. Smoke and steam filled the tunnel in a choking mist. Horrified, Sherlock backed away from the smoke and the fire into the right-hand main tunnel, which was mercifully flame-free.
But it still had one of his pursuers in it.
A hairy hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Got you, scum,” the man spat. The underarms of his jacket were so blackened with old sweat patches that they had become waxy and stiff. The smell of the man’s clothes was indescribable.
Sherlock struggled in his grip, but it was useless. The man’s fingers dug hard into his shoulder.
“Denny’ll want a word wiv you,” the man whispered, bringing his face close to Sherlock’s. His breath smelt like something had died inside his mouth. “An’ I don’t think you’re gonna like what he has to say.”
Sherlock was just about to reply when he noticed that the floor of the side tunnel was heaving underneath the smoke, undulating as if it were alive. And then he realized it was alive. Alive with rats. Frightened out of their holes and burrows by the fire, they had all headed in the same direction — to safety. A living carpet of ragged brown and black fur swept along the floor of the tunnel. People and horses backed away in horror from the mass of hair and teeth and tails. A small child being dragged away by its parents lost its footing and fell. The rats swarmed over it, covering its face.
The man holding Sherlock’s shoulder relaxed his grip as the rats swirled about his ankles, biting at him with their tiny teeth. Cursing, he swatted at them with his spade-like hands. Sherlock pulled loose from his grip and dived into the mass of living creatures, grasping for the child who had vanished beneath the seething tide. Tiny claws pattered over his arms, his back, his legs and his scalp. He could smell a rank, dry odour, like old urine. His fingers closed over a small arm, and he pulled hard. A little girl emerged from the flood of rats, eyes wide and mouth already opening to scream. “You’re safe,” Sherlock said, thrusting her back into the arms of her parents, who were batting and kicking to keep the rats at bay. They snatched the girl from him and hugged her tight.
And then the tidal wave of rats was gone, apart from a few weak and lame stragglers. Sherlock could see them rushing off in both directions, away from the smoke which continued to pour from the side tunnel. The thug who had grabbed hold of Sherlock was still brushing desperately at his clothing, beneath which Sherlock could see moving lumps where rats had run for safety and then become trapped. Sherlock turned and was about to run back towards the south side of the river when he remembered the other two ruffians. They would undoubtedly still be waiting at the top of the shaft. No, his best bet was to head the other way. He ran down the tunnel, towards the north side of the river. There were bridges across the river, and boatmen. He could find his way back. Eventually.
Sherlock headed along the tunnel, moving further and further away from the fire. Men in uniform with buckets of water ran past him, a ragtag fire brigade charged with the safety of the tunnel. He ignored them, and moved on.
Eventually he got to the north side of the Thames. The shaft there, with its spiralling stairway, was the mirror image of the one on the south side. He trudged up the stone steps, energy almost spent. He had to stop at each balcony level to catch his breath.
Emerging from the darkness into the afternoon light was like emerging from Hell into Paradise. The air smelt sweet, and the breeze was cool against his skin. He stopped for a moment, eyes closed, to appreciate the feelings. So simple, and yet so perfect.
The area around the north side of the tunnel was more upmarket than the south side. Wharves were occupied by ships of all sizes, with goods being run up and down gangplanks by burly stevedores. Sherlock walked along the side of the Thames, past the ships, looking for a bridge that he could use to cross back to the other side. He knew there were bridges over the Thames; he just wasn’t sure where they were in relation to Rotherhithe and the tunnel. But logically, if he walked for long enough he would find one. Assuming he was walking in the right direction of course — towards the centre of the City rather than away from it — but he knew that if the tunnel was in East London, which it was, and if he had traversed it south to north, which he had, then if he turned left out of the tunnel entrance he would be heading in the right direction. The Sarbonnier Hotel, where Amyus Crowe had booked their rooms, was just about on the Thames, and on the north side as well, so if he walked far enough then he would probably find it, but what he really wanted was to cross back over and find Amyus Crowe and Matty Arnatt.
After half an hour or so he did find a bridge: a massive affair, with twin towers of grey stone linked by a covered roadway which was lined with shops and stalls. He crossed it wearily, ignoring the cries of the various vendors who tried to sell him everything from a whole ox to a loaded pistol. London appeared to him to be a place of almost infinite possibilities, if you were prepared to pay for them.
At the south side of the towered bridge he turned left again, walking along roads, streets, alleys and in some cases the tops of thick walls in order to keep heading towards the warehouse at Rotherhithe where he had lost Amyus Crowe and Matty. The masts of ships projected high into the air along the side of the river, forming a forest of slender wood. The smell of the Thames was an ever-present odour of human excrement. If Mycroft worked every day in this place then he deserved some kind of medal just for survival.
A mile or so downstream from the towered bridge, Sherlock came across a ship that was being loaded by a gang of stevedores. They were sweating and cursing, trying to manoeuvre bulky boxes up gangplanks without dropping them into the river. Something about the size and the shape of the boxes intrigued him, and he moved closer, keeping in the lee of a nearby building.
A burly man in a navy-blue jacket stood to one side, consulting a sheaf of papers that were pinned to a board. Every now and then he made an annotation with a pencil, licking it first.
The boxes were identical to the ones that Sherlock had seen in the gardens of the manor house in which he had been kept captive — the beehives with jagged, slatted sides. And nearby were piles and piles of the wooden trays that he had seen slotted underneath the hives. Now they had been wrapped in waxed paper, but their shape was unmistakable.
He had inadvertently stumbled across Baron Maupertuis’s operation. This was why Denny and his gang had been here!
Sherlock moved closer, watching. Some of the beehives were being loaded on to a pallet which was pulled up on ropes by sweating stevedores and then dropped into the hold of the ship. Heaven alone knows how the bees were being kept from attacking the men, as they had done to the two unfortunates in Farnham. Perhaps the Baron had some method of quietening them down.
As Sherlock watched, a rope holding one of the corners of a pallet that was being swung towards the ship snapped. The pallet dropped sideways, and four beehives slid off. They fell, turning slowly, and smashed into wooden splinters on the stones below.
Men ran in from the side carrying tin buckets with nozzles attached. Something inside the buckets was producing smoke, and the smoke seemed to be lulling the bees into a soporific state. A few escaped, but most of them stayed near the smashed hives, weaving around like drunks. Tarpaulins were thrown across the remains of the hives, and everything was slid across the cobbles and dropped into the foaming torrent of the Thames. Sherlock supposed that it was almost impossible to rebuild a hive after it had been smashed.
“Sherlock?”
A voice called his name softly. He glanced around from his place of concealment. It didn’t sound like Amyus Crowe. Or Matty Arnatt.
“Sherlock?” The voice was more urgent now. He scanned the area, and suddenly became aware of another figure, hidden like him behind a pile of crates. A female figure.
“Virginia?”
She was wearing her riding breeches and a jacket over a plain white linen blouse. She glanced across at him, and her eyes were wide. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Sherlock scooted over to join her. “It would take too long to explain,” he said.
She looked him up and down. “What have you been doing?”
He considered for a moment. “Swimming in rats,” he said eventually. “Amongst other things. What’s your story?”
She looked away, unexpectedly embarrassed. “I wasn’t going to be left behind while you guys had all the fun,” she whispered, “so I got changed into my riding breeches and followed you.”
“We went down the river. In a boat. How did you follow us?”
She stared strangely at him. “In another boat, of course. I just told the boatman to follow you. He got a bit funny about it, but I had some money that my father had given me, and that seemed to calm him down. While you were watching the warehouse, I was watching you. Then I saw some of the men come this way, and you all seemed to be staying put, so I followed them here.”
“I saw nothing of you,” Sherlock said lamely.
“Dad taught me all his tracking skills,” she said proudly. “If I’m following you, then “nothing” is exactly what you can expect to see.” She paused, and reached out to touch his arm briefly.
“What you did was incredibly dangerous,” Sherlock said, “but I’m pleased to see you.”
She shrugged. “It was better than waiting in the hotel for you all to come back.”
“But why follow me? Why not find your dad and tell him what had happened?”
“I was following you,” she said simply, “not him. I lost track of where he went.”
“But a girl... alone... in the East End of London...” He trailed off, not sure how he was going to finish the sentence. “There are some very bad people around here...” he started eventually, and then went on to explain exactly what had happened that afternoon, including the stabbing and the fire in the tunnels. It was a relief to talk about it, but at the same time Sherlock knew that his life had been in mortal danger, and that he still didn’t know why.
“They can’t be allowed to get away with it,” Virginia said when he had finished. “You’re just a kid. They could have killed you.”
“You’re just a kid too,” Sherlock protested lamely.
Virginia smiled. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “I meant we shouldn’t be mixed up in something like this.”
“But we are,” Sherlock pointed out. “And whatever’s going on, we have to stop it.”
“Well, I’m prepared. I’m in disguise as a boy. I found a hat,” Virginia said proudly, pulling it out from beneath where she crouched. It was a peaked cloth cap. She smoothed her hair up behind her head with one hand and slipped the cap on with the other. With her hair hidden and her coat buttoned up, Sherlock could see how she might have been mistaken for a boy. And she was wearing her riding breeches, of course. Girls wore dresses, not breeches. Nobody who didn’t know her would have any reason to suspect her.
“Since we’re both here,” he said, “we ought to take the opportunity to work out where this boat is going.” He looked around for the man he had seen earlier — the man with the sheaf of papers. “I think that man over there is the dockmaster, or wharfmaster, or something. We can ask him.”
“Just like that?”
“Your father gave me some good tips on how to ask questions.”
Looking around, and choosing a moment when nobody was facing their way, Sherlock led Virginia out of hiding and across the quay to a point where they could sit on the stone wall overlooking the Thames. He felt the back of his neck prickling, telling him he was being watched, but he suppressed the feeling. Denny was probably with a doctor or a surgeon by now, assuming his jaw really was broken, and the chances were that the other men hadn’t got a good enough look at him to tell him apart from any other kid — especially now, when he was covered in dirt, smoke, rat hair and possibly other things that he didn’t want to consider. They sat there, on the wall, for a good half hour, making desultory conversation and generally becoming part of the landscape. The dockmaster, or wharfmaster, or whatever he was eventually finished his business with the ship and started to walk in their direction. As he came past them, Sherlock looked up and said: “Hey, boss. Any chance of some work on the dock?”
The man glanced scornfully at Sherlock’s skinny frame. “Come back in five years, son,” he said in a not unkindly tone. “Get some muscle on those bones.”
“But I gotta get out of London,” Sherlock continued in a pleading tone of voice. “I can work hard, honest I can.” He pointed at the nearby boat. “What about them — they look like they’re short-handed.”
“They are,” the man said. “They’re three men down this afternoon. But I can’t see you filling in for any of them, and besides, that boat’s not going to take you far out of London.”
“Why not?” Sherlock asked.
“It’s just going to France and back. Quick turnaround, no stopping off for the crew.” He laughed. “You want to get away for a while, go join the Navy. Or hang around here long enough and they’ll come and take you.”
He moved off, still laughing.
“France,” Sherlock said, intrigued. “Interesting.”
“I hear you want to join our crew,” a voice called from the bows of the boat. Sherlock grimaced and looked away, but the voice continued: “Why don’t you and the girl come aboard? Yeah, we know it’s a girl. We’ve been watching you since you both turned up. What, you thought you were invisible?”
Sherlock glanced along the dock to where the dock-master had stopped and was looking back at them. The expression on his face was sympathetic but stern. He wasn’t going to be any help.
Sherlock took Virginia’s hand and pulled her upright. “Time to go,” he said, but when he turned he found that a loose semicircle of sailors and dockers had formed around them, materializing out of nowhere. Dragging Virginia with him he tried to run, but heavy hands caught him and pulled him away from her. He fought against them, but the hands held him firmly. He saw Virginia struggling as well, but then a hand holding a cloth clamped itself over his face. The cloth smelt medicinal, bitter and heavy. He nearly choked. And then suddenly he found himself falling into a bottomless pit that was exactly the colour of Virginia’s eyes, and for a while he slept, and dreamed of terrible things.