The Young City: The Unwritten Books Page 11

  Rosemary shuffled around the boxes, looking for the top of Edmund’s desk. She picked up a folder and flipped through an inventory list.

  “Cups, plates, watches,” she muttered. But no dollar values, and no return address. She set down the folder and reached for the desk drawer, staring when it would not budge.

  She knelt and peered at the lock. It was a firm bolt, little hope of picking it; not that she knew how. She couldn’t wrench open the drawer without a crowbar, and she didn’t want to be that obvious.

  She stood up, frowning. The ledgers were under lock and key. Edmund had been secretive before, but this ...

  She looked at the inventory lists, blinked, and looked closer. Cups, one gross. Plates, two gross. Watches, two gross. There was a long list.

  A gross was one hundred and forty-four items. Were they all in Edmund’s bedroom? No; Rosemary shook boxes at random: they were all empty. Could they all have been sold? She didn’t think it likely. So, where was the merchandise?

  Then she remembered Edmund bringing the great box into the kitchen. “Basement!”

  She strode into the kitchen, snatched a candle from the pantry, and lit it. She pulled open the door to the basement.

  Musty air drifted up to her, full of the odour of roots and water. The candle cast a halo as she clopped down the wooden steps, her hand on the rough brick wall. She bumped into a large crate at the base of the stairs.

  After she rubbed her shin, she ran her fingers along the wooden top. What was it doing right next to the stairs?

  She raised her candle above her head. The cellar lit up like a smuggler’s cave, filled with dozens of crates pushed against the walls or stacked on the floor with just enough space between them to squeeze past.

  She stumbled forward. “Oh, Edmund! What have you gotten yourself into?” She frowned. “And how did you get all this delivered without anybody noticing?”

  Holding the candle high, she crept into the gloom. In the back of the cellar, light gleamed off a boom and tackle suspended from the ceiling.

  “What the —.” Rosemary stepped toward it.

  Suddenly, she heard the distant jangle of the shop bell and the sound of Edmund’s voice. “Rosemary?”

  She whirled. The candle slipped from her fingers and snuffed on the damp floor. “Shoot!”

  Edmund’s footsteps clopped on the ceiling. Rosemary stumbled toward the stairs and ran full-tilt into a crate, scraping her knee. She fell face first on the stairs. “Ow! Damn! Ow!” She clawed her way upstairs. She might just make it in time ...

  She pulled open the basement door and stopped, staring. Edmund stood on the other side.

  Rosemary brushed the dust from her shoulders and straightened her skirts. She smiled brightly. “Hi!”

  Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

  Rosemary raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “You closed the shop,” said Edmund. “Then I see you on the basement stairs. Explain yourself.”

  “Bathroom break?”

  “On the basement stairs?”

  “I got lost?”

  Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saw the crates.”

  Rosemary folded her arms. “Yes, I did. So perhaps I’m not the one who should be explaining myself.”

  His eyes flared. “I rescue you from the street! I offer you room and board —”

  “And you lied,” Rosemary cut in. “You lied to Faith and you lied to me. I asked you if your business was in trouble, and you said everything was fine.”

  “Everything is fine,” said Edmund.

  “Smuggling goods is not fine,” Rosemary shouted. “Those crates down there — Aldous made you take them, didn’t he?”

  Edmund didn’t look her in the eye. “Yes, they’re his contraband: goods and alcohol smuggled in past the tax collectors. It was either that or lose the shop.”

  “But to turn to a criminal —”

  “I am not proud of what I’ve done! But Faith must still be put through school. She must have a roof over her head and food on the table until she can become a doctor! I did what needed to be done!”

  “Do you have any idea where those goods came from?”

  “No, and I do not want to know.” He gripped the basement doorknob, blocking her path into the kitchen. “For your sake, you should not try to learn.”

  “Edmund, you are not sweeping this under the rug.”

  But Edmund didn’t hear her. He was speaking to himself. “You canna stay here; that much is certain. Maybe ... maybe the church will take you. Peter is working; you could stay with the church until you can find your own place. Maybe ...”

  “Edmund, you’re not listening to me.”

  The front door jangled. Somebody shouted, “Mr. Watson? Are you in? Mr. Birge wants to see you.”

  Edmund winced. “Not again.” He turned to her. His grip on the doorknob tightened. “You’ll have to stay here.”

  “Edmund, listen to me!” Rosemary grabbed his arm, then gasped as he pushed her back. She staggered and fell against the landing wall, just catching herself before she tumbled down the stairs. She rushed the door, but Edmund pulled it closed. She piled up against it a second too late.

  “Open this door!” she shouted, thumping on the wood. “Edmund, open up!”

  “I am sorry, Rosemary.” His reply was muffled. A key turned in the lock. “I ... I am sorry.”

  “Edmund!” She could hear his footsteps retreat to the hallway, then clop along above the basement ceiling. She would have followed, but there was no way she could see in the dark. She heard a muffled conversation, more footfalls, then the jangle of the front door, and finally silence.

  Rosemary shook the door, but it held fast. She sank to the landing floor and put her head in her hands.

  “That didn’t go so well.”

  Both ends of the creek were now in sight. The southern tunnel had extended all but a hundred feet from the northern entrance, a sewer tunnel beneath Bloor Street. The icy mud of the construction site crumbled under dozens of feet hustling to meet the winter deadline.

  Peter kept an eye out for signs of Rob’s gang, but nobody stayed long on the hills around the site. Then Peter heard a conversation that made his ears prick up.

  “Will Farley!” called Tom Proctor. “You’re on diversion trench duty.”

  Will was a boy in his early teens, wearing shabby clothes and a cap. He stopped in his tracks. “Mr. Proctor! Why me? My feet will get wet!”

  Diversion trench duty was wet work. The creek had to be dug out into a new course so that the storm sewer’s floor could be laid.

  Tom glared. “Because I saw you, Mr. Farley! Everyone hates the work, so everyone gets a turn. Now, who else?”

  Peter raised his hand.

  “See?” Tom shouted. “That’s the type of worker I like to see!”

  Peter ignored the glares burning holes in his back.

  Moments later, he grimaced as the brackish water seeped over his laces. Will Farley struggled to wield his shovel and at the same time stand on a dry patch of land. He swore when he stepped firmly into a mud puddle.

  “Trouble?” asked Peter conversationally.

  “It’s these darn boots,” said Will. “Holes in the sole. The water goes clean through. Chills me to the bone!”

  “Time for new boots, I guess.”

  “I had new boots,” said Will bitterly. “But then I lost them. I had to stick with these.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. “That’s a shame.”

  “Ain’t it, though,” said Will. Then he looked up, and saw who he was talking to. His gaze darkened. “None of your business.”

  Peter kept digging.

  Later, on break, Peter stepped close to Tom. “Tom, I need you to do me a favour.”

  “What is it?” Tom whittled away at a piece of wood. He did not look up.

  “I need you to keep Will Farley behind a few minutes after shift before sending him on his way.”

  Tom stopp
ed whittling. “What for?”

  Peter smiled. “I just need to talk to him ... alone.”

  Tom looked up, frowning. “Be careful, Peter. Will’s in with bad company.”

  “I guessed that,” said Peter. “I think he was one of those people who attacked us that night.”

  “What?” Tom stood up. “Where is he? I’ll throttle —”

  Peter gripped his shoulders and shushed him. “That’s what I want to talk to him about. I’ll get him alone and make him confess.”

  Tom shook his head. “The police should be told.”

  “They will be,” said Peter. “As soon as I have something to tell them.”

  Tom rubbed his chin, then nodded. “All right. But be careful!”

  The crowds on College Street thinned as the sun set. Peter stood in the shadow of the Presbyterian church. He watched as the shadows lengthened and the lamplighters darted down the street, setting the gas lamps aglow.

  The crowds were gone now. The wind picked up. Peter blew on his hands and glanced at the gaslights, half-expecting to see that strange phosphor glow.

  Then he heard quick, booted footsteps on the wooden sidewalk. He peered out on the street and saw Will Farley, huddled and muttering beneath his breath, limping on bad boots.

  Peter tensed, eyeing the distance. When Will was almost past him, he leapt into the light, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him into the church wall.

  “Hey! What? G’off!” Will choked as Peter pressed forearm to throat.

  “Easy now,” said Peter, smiling grimly. “Don’t yell. I just want to talk to you.”

  Will glared up at him. “What about?”

  “Actually, I want you to talk,” said Peter. “I see you’ve been having a little problem with your boots.”

  “Yeah? What of it?”

  Peter pressed down harder. “A few nights ago, Tom and I were attacked at the construction site. You know anything about that?”

  “Yeah,” snarled Will. “I heard the mates talk about it. Mr. Proctor weren’t hurt, so what?”

  “I wanted to report it to the police,” said Peter. “He wouldn’t let me. He said we didn’t have enough evidence, though I was able to grab a boot off one attacker. Size eight. Common enough, apparently. But here’s the thing: you start complaining about old boots.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. He stayed silent.

  Peter leaned back. “How about we go back and see if the shoe fits. If it doesn’t, I apologize; if it does, we call the police. I think that’s fair. So, really, the question is ...,” he leaned forward, dropping his voice an octave, “do you feel lucky ... punk?”

  Will blinked at him. “What?”

  “Look, I know you were there, so answer me straight: what were you doing there?”

  Will pushed away from the wall. “Yeah, I was there, but I weren’t going for Mr. Proctor!”

  “So, what were you doing, then?”

  “Inspectin’ for His Nibs.”

  That phrase again, thought Peter. “How did you get in?”

  Will sneered. “The river tunnel.”

  “I knew it!” Peter punched the air. “You’ve got a network in there, don’t you? You’re using the sewers to smuggle things right under the noses of the police!”

  Will chuckled. “Noses. Feet, too.”

  “Why are you so interested in the construction site?”

  Will shrugged. “It’s a link, i’nnit? When the tunnel’s finished, we reach the north end of the city.”

  That explains the construction site, not the watches, thought Peter. Maybe “His Nibs” found more than he was looking for. “Last question: I think I know already, but I want you to spell it out. Who is this ‘Nibs’ character?”

  Will shrugged. A smile touched his lips. “Dunno. Just me and my friends work for him and his friends.”

  Peter scowled at him. “Would your friends know him?”

  Will grinned. “Ask.”

  Peter whirled around. Three young men surrounded him, fists raised. There were the two boys he’d gotten fired, and Rob Cameron. Rob’s nose was out of the bandage at last, but was still purple and crooked.

  Rob’s teeth flashed in the twilight. “Stool pigeon?”

  “Yeah,” said Will. “Wants to see His Nibs.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Peter lunged at Rob, knocking him down, but Will and one of the other boys tackled him. Then everybody was on him, punching and kicking. A boot caught his chin. He tasted blood, and that was all he knew for a while.

  After Will had left, complaining loudly about having to re-stack a pile of bricks that had been mysteriously knocked down, Tom had casually brushed brick dust off his hands, closed the gate, and walked to his cabin and lit his lantern. Hoisting it, he stepped back out into the construction site and did his rounds, following the perimeter to ensure there were no gaps in the hoarding, no new way for thieves to sneak in and pilfer his materials.

  At the north end of the site, he paused at the remnant of the river, now a carved trench holding a trickle of slimy water. The sides had been denuded of vegetation. The bare earth was bright in the setting sun. The two tunnel mouths gaped at each other, rushing to kiss at a hundred feet apart. Tom took a deep breath and sighed. Then he turned away to return to his hut.

  A splash made him turn around.

  He found himself staring back at the river, but it was just as he’d left it. There was no ripple on the surface, no shifting shadows that suggested intruders. After a moment of watchful silence, he turned away again.

  He heard a singing of line, a light plosh, then a thrash of flailing water. Tom whirled around and looked about wildly.

  He knew that sound. Someone was fishing. Someone had caught a fish! But as he peered through the deepening twilight, there was nothing but the two tunnels, and Taddle Creek’s last dying breadth. More silence.

  Hardly surprising, he told himself. Nobody had fished the Taddle for twenty years. Only a fool would try today.

  But ...

  As Tom watched, the water began to glow. The light stretched out along the short surface of the stream, and beyond. Tom followed the glow as it obscured the southern tunnel mouth, and he caught ghostly images within it. His mouth fell open as the glow filled the horizon.

  Before him stretched an expanse of glowing green. Ghostly reeds waved in the wind. The air twittered with birdsong and hummed with the drone of lazy bees. Flowers and ferns furred the creek’s banks, and there was the pond, water black with leaf tannin and smelling of autumn.

  Then he heard the singing of line again, the light plosh, and he turned. Across Taddle Creek, a young man stood on the bank, swinging his fishing line into the water. He peered at the surface of the water and swung his line again. There was a pause of anticipation, then the line jerked. The young man laughed and hauled a trout to the surface.

  Hoisting his trophy in triumph, the young man looked across the river at old Tom. Their eyes met. Tom stared back at a face that hadn’t stared at him out of a mirror for thirty years.

  The young man smiled and tipped his hat.

  Tom burst out laughing. He waved back, then looked around at his glowing surroundings. He breathed it in deep. Then, with the exuberance of a schoolboy, Tom ran, following the ghostly river along its bank as the glow eased downstream.

  Peter woke with a splitting headache and the feeling that something had crawled into his mouth and died. He tried to spit it out, but it wouldn’t budge. Something was wrapped across his lips, forcing the vile thing in. He gagged and retched. His hands jerked uselessly. They were twisted behind him and cuffed together, tied to cuffs latched to his ankles. He grunted in pain.

  Someone behind him chuckled. “’Ere, he’s awake.”

  He opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness. He was bound to a wooden chair in the middle of a small, lamplit room. Hammers, crowbars, and saws dangled from hooks and shelving. He was tied so tight that his feet didn’t touch the floor. More ropes wound arou
nd his legs and chest. He struggled, but his wrists chafed. He grunted again.

  Someone stepped around his chair and peered close. Peter found himself staring into the face of one of the boys he’d gotten fired. The boy sneered. “He’s the one. A stool pigeon, too? I should have known. Well, I’ll learn you ....” He raised his fist. Peter closed his eyes.

  “That’s enough,” said a smooth, cultured voice. The boy glared, shrugged, then stalked away. Aldous Birge and Rob Cameron stepped around Peter’s chair and leaned in. Aldous tested the ropes that were holding Peter taut. “Comfortable?”

  Peter grunted.

  Aldous glanced at Rob. “Recognize him?”

  “No,” said Rob, frowning. “But I know him from somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

  Aldous turned back to Peter. “Peter ... McAllister, is it? I’m Aldous Birge. It seems that you know who I am.”

  Peter grunted again.

  Aldous crouched low, peering into Peter’s eyes. “I have to say that your knowledge troubles me. I have prided myself on keeping a low profile where the police are concerned. It appears I may have underestimated their investigative skills.”

  Peter stared. Was Aldous interested in having him talk, or not?

  Aldous started to say something more, but was interrupted by a knock from somewhere behind Peter. A door creaked open. “Edmund Watson to see you, sir.”

  Aldous straightened up. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Peter?” gasped another voice: Edmund’s.

  Aldous grabbed the back of Peter’s chair and dragged it around. “You know this man?”

  Edmund was flanked by henchmen. He stared at Peter like a man at a gaping chasm. He stammered. “He-he-he lives with us. He and his wife, Rosemary —”

  Peter grunted desperately, shaking his head for silence, but he was too late.

  “That’s it!” Rob thumped his fist. “That wench who broke my nose! He was with her that day!”

  “Rosemary?” Aldous repeated. “Rosemary Watson? Married to Peter with the last name McAllister?”

  Edmund stood agog.

  Aldous gripped Peter’s shoulders hard. “You have been deceived, Edmund. Peter McAllister and Rosemary Watson, if those are their real names, have conspired to keep their true identities secret while they infiltrated your home and my construction site. Interesting that they knew where my interests lay.” His voice ran like honey. “Or perhaps they didn’t deceive you. Perhaps you have been deceiving me.”