Morlock Night Page 8

  The sun's edge reddened the oily waters that lapped against the docks. I slipped the envelope that held the thread-end of our destiny into my breast pocket, just over my unquiet heart.

  6

  Seeking the Grand Tosh

  A dark place that resisted the ascending light of morning; to this came a figure whose pale face and hands con trasted with his dark cloak. He pushed open the narrow, craze-hinged door and entered, leaving behind him the cramped street where the buildings leaned together to provide pools of shadow for the tattered forms of men and women, London's human refuse, that loitered at the base of the dark walls.

  Candles guttered in the room, and shapes moved and watched beyond the yellow circles of light. Another face, so pale it seemed to shed its own ghastly radiance in the dark, turned away from its companion and up at the newcomer. "Dr. Ambrose." The voice was flat, unemotional. Only a nar rowing of the eyes revealed the hate and loathing beneath.

  "You left a chess game unfinished," said the newcomer. "That's not like you, Merdenne."

  Pale also was the flesh of the other figure sitting at the table, but unhealthily so, like the belly of a rotting fish, damp and repellent to the imagined touch. A pair of blue glass lenses beneath the skull's fringe of fine white hair completed the face that followed the words of the two identical men.

  "I have larger amusements to pursue," said Merdenne levelly. "In fact, you have come upon me in the midst of discussing a point of strategy with my associate here." The sick-looking face with the blue glasses nodded in hollow politeness. "I fear I have no time for that smaller game."

  "No time?" Ambrose smiled. "I think otherwise." His hand darted forward and locked about the wrist of his double. The candles flicked out and the room was plunged into darkness. When the candle was lit again, the eyes be hind the blue glasses saw a turned-over chair beside himself, and nothing else.

  Ambrose painfully raised himself from the rubble strewn ground. He touched his hand to the side of his face, looked and saw blood bright against his fingers. A ringing noise filled his ears.

  A few yards away, Merdenne staggered to his feet. He shook his head, then gazed about him at the vista of ruined masonry, the crumbling fragments of a once great city. His eyes shifted focus for a few seconds, as if looking beyond the scene's material aspect.

  "You fool!" He spun about on his heel and glared in fury at Ambrose. "You've trapped us here!"

  Wearily, Ambrose sat upon the base of a shattered mar ble column. "We're not trapped," he said, gazing at grey clouds moving across a grey sky. "Just removed from the game for a little while. Let our pawns play out the moves we've arranged for them." He gestured at the scene around them. "This will pass, one way or another, when the strug gle is decided." With a sharp-pointed stone he began to scratch at the dirt in front of his boots.

  "What are you doing?" snapped Merdenne.

  A cross-hatch of sixty-four squares showed in the dust. Ambrose began picking through the small stones around him, sorting out the darkest and the lightest and arranging them on the squares. "This will do for a rook," he said. "And here's your king… I believe you had just castled when we left off, though I'll let you take that move back, if you wish." He glanced up at Merdenne's scowling face. "Come, come." he chided. "We have a little time here. Can you think of a better way to pass it?"

  Merdenne glared at him for a few more seconds, then without speaking sat down on the other side of the board inscribed in the dust.

  I drew the envelope from my pocket and once more read Ambrose's message – Tom Clagger can be trusted – followed by a house number in Rosemary Lane. As the three of us – Arthur, Tafe and myself – had set out from Ambrose's lodgings just as dusk was setting upon the city and had spent some time searching fruitlessly for the mysterious Mr. Clagger's residence, it had now gotten quite dark. The mazy streets and alleys of this poor section of London, packed tight with the most wretched of the urban refuse, seemed even denser and less penetrable at night. I pocketed the envelope again and turned to my companions.

  "I fear we have lost our way," said I. This, though we were not out of sight of some of the city's tallest landmarks! Such is the intricacy of these lesser explored urban parts. "Stay here and I shall seek directions." I crossed the narrow street and headed for a group of roughly clad men standing about the open door of an ale shop.

  My undertaking was accompanied by a little trepidation, for in an area such as this the possibility of violence for the sake of robbery or even mere amusement is always something to be reckoned with. Our little expeditionary party had tried to dress as plainly as possible, but our great-cloaks simply by their cleanliness attracted the sinister attention of the loiterers on the street. But the urgency of our mission propelled me on toward the men who were even now scowling at my approach.

  "Gentlemen," I said brazenly. "I'm looking for a Mr. Thomas Clagger. The price of a drink all around if you can direct me to him."

  "Clagger? Clagger?" muttered one of the rag-tag band. "Don't know of no damn Clagger." His blacknailed hand strayed toward his pocket.

  The others whispered among themselves until suddenly the face of one brightened. "Oh, you mean Rich Tom!" he called out. "Whyn't you say so?" His companions' faces took on less menacing expressions, as they now regarded me with some measure of respect. Clearly the name Clagger was one that carried a little weight in this district.

  "Yes, that's the one," I said, hoping it really was. "Do you know him?"

  " Everyone knows old Rich Tom. Why, he loaned me a crown when me wife was last confined and the nurses wouldn't give us the baby 'til we had paid a bit on the bill. Of course I know Rich Tom."

  I signalled for Tafe and Arthur to come across the street and join me. "Can you take us to him?" I said, turning back to my newfound informant.

  "I should think so," said he. "You're nowt but a few paces from his door where you're standing."

  "Splendid." I distributed coins to the other men, who touched their caps and mumbled thanks, then stepped into the ale shop to test their value. "Can we hurry along? We've got some important business with Mr. Clagger."

  "I'm on to you. Lord, I had no idea old Tom had such spiffy friends, but it makes as much sense as him having pots of money in the first place."

  He escorted us to the opening of a courtyard that we had passed by several times earlier. "You probably missed it," said our guide, "cause the lane takes a little jog in right here. See? There's 'nother building around the corner." We followed him under the low arch. "That's his door right there."

  In truth, we would have never found the well-hidden lodgings without the man's aid. I bestowed a coin of gratitude upon him and received a cheerful thanks.

  Arthur looked about the cramped, crumbling courtyard with distaste as I rapped upon the door. The old king was most likely filled with bitter reflections about the degradation of his land. On the other side of the door I could hear shuffling footsteps. "Coming!" cried a man's voice from inside.

  The door opened and a man's face peered out. He was not quite so old as Arthur, but well up in years, with a fringe of grey hair around the shining pink dome of his head. "Yes?" he inquired politely. "What is it?"

  "Mr. Clagger?" I asked. "Tom Clagger?"

  "That's right." He nodded happily, apparently quite pleased with being recognised.

  "We're friends of Dr. Ambrose-"

  "Ambrose!" he cried. "Well then, come in. Don't stand out there in that mucky courtyard." He ushered us into a small, well-lit parlour. The room was surprisingly clean and tidy in a fussy bachelor's manner, in contrast to the decaying neighbourhood surrounding it. It was comfortably, if not expensively furnished, with a few framed sporting prints on the walls above the time-worn chairs. An astonishing number of books lay about on the tables and tops of cupboards, and arranged in rows upon several sets of bookshelves. Most of them showed the marks of having been acquired at bargain pricescracked or mismatched bindings, water stains and the like. There were no cheap novels
among them, but were all an impressively weighty collection of philosophy, history and similar topics. One that lay open on the arm of a chair bore in the margins the pencil marks of studious perusal.

  "And how is Dr. Ambrose?" said our host, gesturing for us to seat ourselves. His voice bore just a trace of the uncultured accent of the people in the nearby streets.

  "I'm afraid he may be in some danger." I sat down and studied the old man's expression. "There is, unfortunately, nothing we can do to aid him at this time."

  Clagger nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I imagine such could very well be the case. Dr. Ambrose is a man of powerful great learning, but- something more than that, too, as you might well know." His bright eyes peered sharply at me. "Mister… ahh…"

  "Hocker," said I. "Edwin Hocker. And this is, ah, Mr. Tafe, and Brigadier-General Morsmere."

  "Tut, tut," said Clagger reprovingly. "I'm at least a little ways into Ambrose's confidences. I'm honoured to have you in my home, my lord Arthur." He gravely inclined his head toward the king.

  Arthur lifted his hand. "Please. No formalities. I hold a man of learning such as you as my equal"

  "Yes, well, I'm not exactly what you'd call schooled, but as you can see I read a fair bit." Clagger waved a hand at his scattered library. "Quite famous for it in these parts, you know. Mr. Mayhew was the one who put me on to it."

  "Mayhew?" said I. "Not Henry Mayhew, I take it?"

  "Yes," said Clagger with obvious pride. "I've got a signed first edition of his London Labour and the London Poor somewhere around here. I was one of the people he interviewed in his research. Let's see – Lord, that was back in '49 or '50, I believe. How my heart broke when he died a few years back, for he'd become a true friend to me, and done me all the good in the world." He sniffed in sad remembrance of the great chronicler of London society.

  My eye darted to an object I had seen when we had first entered the room, and had caused me a little wonder. Suspended on hooks over the fireplace was a pole some eight or nine feet in length with a curved hook on one end. His mention of Mayhew's book, which, like most educated Londoners, I knew to some degree, sparked my recognition of the singular object's function. "Why, you're a tosher!" I said. "A river-man, a sewer-hunter."

  "Retired," he corrected. "Though I miss me old trade like anything on a clear morning, when the sun's just tinting the river's water by the outlet grates, and that stew of smells comes wafting out of the sewers at low tide isn't that fine, though." He pointed to the long object over the fireplace. "You see I've kept me old probing pole – many's the time it's served to save me very life, I tell you! – and I've got me old lanterns and leather aprons tucked about somewhere as well. Ah, what a grand life has a sewer-hunter, there's no doubt about that."

  "I had no idea the calling enabled one to live as well as this," I said, gesturing about at his cozy residence.

  "Ah, well, there's the kindness Mr. Mayhew did me. The calling does pay well, for all manner of valuable objects is lost into the sewers for the finding by those that know the ways. But most toshers spend their earnings on drinks and suchlike sprees as fast as they can get it. Mr. Mayhew, bless his memory, was the one who pointed out to me the folly of such rude practices, and how fast a little put by from one's findings would soon amount to a tidy sum. I followed his advice, though Lord! I got thirsty at times, and now the people in this district hereabouts call me 'Rich Tom,' though I'm prouder yet of the learning I've done meself in these years since I left the toshing trade. For it's that what prompted our mutual friend Dr. Ambrose to seek me out and enlist me in his projects."

  My eyebrows raised in unbidden scepticism. "What exactly is it Ambrose consults you about?"

  Our host lifted his chin with a measure of disdain. "Dr. Ambrose is a man of great knowledge, as you might expect, knowing who he really is, and he knows more about the London sewers than many of the toshers mucking about down there. But he doesn't know as much as I do."

  "How much is there to know?" said I. "About sewers?"

  "Sir, you reveal your ignorance. There's marvels beneath the street that would fair scatter the wits of the average fellow walking about on the pavement all unaware of what's below his feet. Places and ways deeper and older than you can imagine, my dear Mr. Hocker. And things, too – certain valuable things, if you catch me drift."

  I did indeed. "So you know then what it is we are seeking?"

  "I believe I do," said Clagger. "Though I can tell you the fetching of it will be no easy matter."

  "The harder the task," said Arthur sternly, "the greater the glory." Tafe, seated away from him, rolled her eyes heavenward at his statement but said nothing.

  I looked at the old king dubiously, then turned back to Clagger. "There's little time." I said. "How soon can we start down there?"

  "Me old pals have loaned me from their gear some of the stuff we'll need for our little expedition – lanterns and aprons, mostly. And I've got me old pole to help me test the way ahead of us. So I believe we can start at most any time you please."

  "You'll guide us?"

  "Of course," said Clagger. "Who else? And I can't bloody well give you a map, you know."

  "I suppose not. Well, that's most kind of you then."

  "I'll go fetch the gear." He got up and disappeared into the rear of his lodgings, coming back a few moments later with the traditional leather aprons used by sewer-hunters draped over his arm. From one hand dangled some battered tin lanterns with leather straps affixed. These, as I knew from my reading of Mayhew, were worn on the toshers' chests to light their way in the dark passageways under the London streets. Clagger deferentially handed one of the aprons to Arthur, but before his hand could grasp it the old king doubled over in a fit of coughing. As the choking and hacking died inside him, he straightened up, pressing his handkerchief to his lips. Before he could put the cloth away I was up from my chair and had grabbed his thin wrist. He was able to put up only the most feeble resistance as I turned his hand over and revealed the spots of blood upon the handkerchief.

  We looked in grim silence at the blood, then Clagger spoke. "You'll have to stay here, my lord," he said. "You mustn't come down into the sewers with us."

  "Nonsense," said Arthur angrily. "I'm more than capable." He jerked his hand free from my grasp. "No," said Clagger, shaking his head. "The cold and the damp and the noxious gasses make it no fit place for weak lungs. It'd kill you for sure, and then where would we all be?"

  "He's right," said I. "Come, you're an old soldier. Would you endanger the success of a mission by sending along a man in your condition?"

  His red-flecked eyes glared fiercely at me for a moment, then clouded with moisture as he sank back into the chair. "Go on, then," he said, gesturing weakly at us. He looked very old and shrunken now. "I'll… I'll keep watch on the situation from up here. Yes, that's what I'll do. Stand guard."

  We completed our preparations in silence, then left the old king there in the parlour, staring before him into his memories of ancient glories.

  As we crossed the courtyard I drew Clagger toward me. "You see the urgency of our task," I whispered. "Not only his strength but his very life depends upon our finding the swords." He nodded and led us quickly on toward the river, his pole carried in his hand like some odd weapon of battle.

  "Down here," said Clagger when we had reached a section of sagging wharves along the bank of the Thames. "There's a bit of a rope here you can lower yourself down on. I'm afraid those fancy boots of yours will be most ruined." He went before us to show the way down to the muck at the river's edge. The moon and stars glittered upon the oily, garbagespecked waters.

  Tafe and I dropped down behind him. I reached over my shoulder and felt the bundled Excalibur where I had securely strapped it so that it would not impede my movements. We had decided to take it with us for whatever aid it might furnish us in locating its fraudulent brothers.

  Splashing through the shin-deep, odorous mud, we made our way to one of the large iron gates of th
e sewer outlets. These were hinged so that they only opened outwards, to allow sewage to exit into the river yet prevent the water from backing up into the drains when the river was swelled by high tide.

  Clagger got his hands under the edge, of the gate and lifted it far enough for Tafe and me to scramble into the circular opening beyond. He ducked himself under the gate, then let it fall behind him. With a resounding clang that echoed down the passageway, we were thus enclosed in the darkness of the London sewers.

  A match sputtered into flame, then a shaft of light coursed in front of us from the lantern strapped to Clagger's chest. He helped us light our own lanterns. By their combined glow we could see quite well the drain's slime-encrusted walls leading on into blackness, and the torpid stream of filthy water that washed about our ankles. For several moments my breath, laden with the sewer's stagnant odours, caught gagging in my throat.

  "It's a roughish smell at first," said Clagger. "But you'll get used to it. Just step along right behind me as we go and you'll be all right!"

  His words proved true. After a few yards, both Tafe and I found our breaths coming easier to our lungs. The human body, prompted by the human will, is a marvel of accommodation to all manner of wretched conditions.

  A scurry of tiny clawed feet sounded from somewhere beyond the reach of our lamps. Rats eyes, red in the lantern light, glared at our passage, then disappeared back into the crevices that served as their nests.

  "Don't mind the little beasties," said Clagger. "They're not dangerous but when they're cornered. And then, Lord! How they'll fly at you! Some toshers think it's grand sport to hunt em, and probably think for all the world that they're just like the landed gentry on a fox hunt, but I've no mind for such foolishness."