The Curse of Salamander Street Read online

  Four horses charged on, rolling the coach from side to side as it scraped against the houses. They were garbed in funeral black and each was plumed about the head with the blackened tail of a cockatrice. The coachman whipped the horses to go faster. Ahead was a solid wall.

  Thomas covered his face as they drew closer, the sound of the tumbling wheels clattering against the cobbles. ‘Stop!’ he screamed to the coachman, who turned to him and grinned as the coach sped towards the wall. ‘No …’ Thomas screamed again as the first horse vanished through the solid stones as if it were a ghost.

  The coachman turned and slapped him with the back of his hand. ‘Keep silent,’ he squealed in the voice of a mouse, from a man the size of a mountain.

  There was a long silence. The noise of the street had gone, the glow of the lamps vanished. Suddenly there was a whooshing of the breeze as the night sky blazed above. People stopped and stared as the coach was driven madly towards the dock. Soon it turned towards the Thames. Salamander Street was left far behind. Thomas could smell the stink of the sewer that ran through the city. Far in the distance, he could see the masts of several ships rising from the water. There was the Magenta, tall and bare, still tied to the quayside.

  The horses slowed as they shivered and jumped along the road. Thomas remembered how he had once seen a funeral coach take a man from the town and climb the cliff path to the high church above the harbour. It had slithered through the streets, drawn by horses just as these, dark and bringers of death. Twice it had circled the church, then thrice and then for a fourth time. The coffin had been lead-braced and made of holly. ‘Four times round the church,’ Thomas said out loud, ‘four times to keep the man dead …’

  ‘Bed?’ asked the coachman. ‘There will be no bed.’ He laughed again, his teeth black like rotted potatoes.

  At that the coach stopped and the doors opened. On the Magenta, a crew of grey Druggles waited impatiently for their master. Galphus led the procession from the quayside and onto the ship. A crowd of sultry women gathered and looked on.

  ‘Prisoners of the King,’ shouted Demurral as he strode behind, kicking out at Thomas. ‘Stop your staring and be about your business. We can’t be late,’ he shouted to Galphus who merried himself with his cane. ‘She will not wait for us, not tonight.’

  The many eyes gave no heed to what he said. They stared and stared as Thomas and the others were quickly taken below deck and the ship made ready. Three small boats, each with oars and a small mast, pulled the ship into the tide. It creaked and groaned as the fingers of the current took hold and pulled it against the breeze.

  Crane felt the ship move beneath his feet and smiled. He looked around his cabin. All seemed familiar and yet different. The door was locked. Galphus sat in Crane’s chair and glared, his eyes blood-red. Propped against the wall by his desk was the picture of Isabella. The spirit was nowhere to be seen. All that was present was her outline against the canvas. On the deck above, they could hear Demurral shouting to the Druggles as they attempted to steer the ship to Dog Island.

  *

  Salamander Street was deathly still. Lady Tanville Chilnam looked out of the upper-floor window of Galphus’s house. The room was bare, but for a leather-backed chair placed close to the fire. A single candle burnt on the mantel. Outside the door a Druggle waited. Lady Tanville held the empty pistol in her hand. No one had thought to take it from her when they had pushed her from the room and bundled her up the stairs. She had heard the carriage take flight as the horses raced from the street. Now she was alone, she thought of what she could do.

  In the light of a nearby house, Tanville Chilnam could see Ergott’s body lying in the mud. She felt no concern for what she had done. Her mind was numb, she was unconcerned with his death. Tanville mused on this again and again, unable to feel any compassion.

  All she could feel were the pangs of betrayal and the irritation of being locked in the room. For several seconds she searched the street to see where Barghast had fallen. Tanville thought him to be dying, the curse on his life broken by the dust on which he walked. In the last moments of his life she had watched him age. Wrinkle crept upon wrinkle as he had withered before her eyes.

  Now in her prison she searched for him again. She needed to know if he was really dead, for she needed to escape.

  She could see the shadow of the Druggle that crept in under the door, lit by the storm lantern he held in his hand. The house was silent and as quiet as the street outside. From somewhere very near she heard the creaking of an old door. There came a sudden rush of footsteps that pounded against the stairs. The Druggle had not the time to shout out. He gave a muffled scream and dropped the lantern. Tanville heard it roll down each step – first the glass cracked in its case and then smashed. The body of the Druggle slumped against the door, which in time opened slowly.

  A bloodied, frail hand slowly appeared around its edge and then the face of Barghast. He was old and near to death. He wheezed and coughed as he reached out to her. ‘Quickly,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You have to leave this place and find Raphah.’

  Tanville took hold of him as she led him step by step along the landing and down the steps. Flames from the broken lamp licked against the walls. They passed quickly, listening to the creaking of the house as the fire took hold.

  ‘You’ll have to leave me,’ Barghast said, his face now that of an old, old man without teeth or hair. ‘I die a happy man.’

  ‘But not here,’ she demanded. ‘Not in this place.’

  Tanville pulled him to the door. His pace was slow, laboured and painful. She looked back to the flames that now grew brighter, filling the house with thick black smoke that spiralled in the draught. High above she could hear the beams spit and crackle as the roof burst into bright red flame. The thatch exploded like sulphurous tinder and lit the sky.

  As they stumbled down the flight of stone steps to the muddied street, Barghast fell to the floor.

  ‘Leave me,’ he said in an aged melancholy.

  Ignoring him, Tanville dragged him further as the windows of the house exploded with flames, showering the street with shards of glass. She found shelter in the narrow alleyway that led to the factory. From far away they could hear the clanging of the Dragon’s Heart as the Druggles beat out the warning of the fire.

  ‘I die here,’ Barghast said calmly as his flesh began to fall from his bones. ‘This shall be my resting place.’ With that, he held out his hand to reach for someone Tanville could not see. Barghast smiled as if he stared into the face of a long-lost companion. ‘I will not turn you away, I know who you really are,’ he said to whoever stood invisibly before him. Then he turned to Tanville and opened his eyes and whispered his final words. ‘Tell Raphah … not a beggar … but a king … He will know what you mean …’

  Barghast slumped to the floor, his flesh crumbling. Tanville held his hand as it became a jumble of bones.

  From the factory the sound of a human stampede drew closer. Taking a final look at Barghast, his skull now glowing in the flames, Tanville began to run. Something inside her led the way as if a voice within her heart told her every turn of the road ahead.

  In the distance she could see The Eye of the Needle. It grew smaller as she ran towards it and became a simulacrum of what it was. The door diminished in size with her every step, disappearing before she could reach it. Behind, she could hear the Druggles chasing her. The echo of their footsteps became like the thundering of the sky.

  The doorway shrunk and shrunk until it was the size of a small window. Tanville grabbed the now tiny handle and pushed open the door. It faded away until it was a mere vapour of what it was before. Tanville dived through the fading aperture and smelt the London street. Just as she managed to squeeze herself through, the portal finally disappeared.

  Dog Island

  TAKING Demurral’s tethered horse, Tanville Chilnam made her way back to the lodging house. Beadle slept by the fire, his face covered in an old hankersniff coated in snotty blister
s. The dog slept fitfully by his feet. Tanville woke Beadle gently; her face gave away her concern and her meagre smile told him what had gone before.

  ‘Raphah?’ he asked rubbing his eyes wearily.

  ‘Taken …’ she replied. ‘By ship to Dog Island with Thomas and Kate and Jacob Crane.’

  ‘And Barghast?’

  ‘Dead.’ She spoke the word softly, unable to tell him all that had happened. ‘So is Ergott. He was the beast,’ she said with a glance that Beadle knew meant she had killed him. ‘Demurral was also there. It has all been a trap. It was his desire to capture them and in that he has succeeded.’

  ‘Never,’ he exclaimed angrily as he threw a lump of wood into the fire. ‘We should go and bring them back. We can’t give up on them, Tanville.’ Beadle fidgeted with his hands in a frustration that shivered its way from his fingers to the tips of his toes. He shook like a wet dog and his jowls wobbled furiously.

  ‘Did Crane say what would be done?’ Beadle asked.

  ‘ He said, “Remember, tell Beadle – The Prospect of Whitby.” I have no idea what the man meant.’

  Beadle looked into the flames as he thought. ‘He meant to tell you that his men were at the Devil’s Inn, by the Thames at Wapping – that is the place where The Prospect is always birthed. It’s a collier brig, a ship – the The Prospect of Whitby … Smugglers, murderers and hob-smackers. A landmark if ever there was one,’ he said excitedly. ‘His men will be there – that’s what he meant. He knew I would understand, the old dog knew …’

  Beadle could not contain himself. He danced a jig upon the hearth and kicked the embers of the fire about the stone tiles.

  ‘Dog Island is just at the turn of the river. It’ll be quicker by land. I have heard so many stories of the place I could take you there blindfold,’ he said, bubbling eagerly. ‘Let’s steal a horse and make for the place.’ Beadle laughed as he dipped his hand in the cold ash bucket by the side of the fire and, taking a handful of powder, smeared it upon her face. ‘Can’t be having you looking like a lass. Keep your gob shut and let me speak and then we’ll keep our throats. Dog Island!’ he exclaimed again as he danced and danced.

  They left the lodging inn and set off into the night. Demurral’s horse took them through the darkened streets. Beadle gripped himself to Tanville’s waist as the horse trotted on.

  A column of burning smoke lit the night sky above the walled bastion of Salamander Street. On they went by the river until the streets became narrow and dank. They smelt of the nearby marshes and the midden heaps that were piled at every crossroads. Butchers shops soon gave way to fishmongers’ yards until the door of every house was edged in sea-cable. Sale-makers and sextant-sellers filled their windows with goods for sale. Quadrants, chronometers and brass sea compasses hung from door eaves, watched over by fat women with calloused legs.

  Tanville covered her muckied face with the brim of her hat as they passed the gangs of seafarers huddled by the torches that lit the street. To her right, she could hear the tide beating against the walls as the river ran quickly to Dog Island.

  ‘Wapping,’ Beadle said as they had gone another mile. ‘Soon be at the Devil’s Inn.’

  Tanville twisted the wet leather of the horses’ reins in her fingers. She had seen many years come and go. Now the providence of her family was held in her young hands. She looked at their reflection as they walked by the large windows of a sail shop. In the light of the tallow she could see Beadle clutching at her waist and hanging on for dear life. They rode on, the streets filling with people like the dregs washed in by a dark tide.

  Ahead was the Devil’s Inn. It was a small dark building, nondescript and vague in the shreds of fog that crept from the river through the landings and steps along the riverside. Outside the inn was an old cart stacked with empty barrels. It was surrounded by a mass of people. Some drank from flagons of beer whilst others picked pockets and drew on clay pipes.

  As the smog rolled about them it brought from the river the stench of the sewer. Tanville Chilnam was overcome by the smell. She put her hand to her face and gulped back the desire to cough. She felt that every eye and face had turned towards her. There in that small part of England were the faces of every nation under the sun. As they drew closer the horse became more wary. It slowed in its gait, reluctant to go on. Several times it threw back its head and snorted the air as its ears twitched.

  ‘Don’t look at them,’ Beadle said as he closed his eyes. ‘If they look at you, they’ll know we shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Then how will we find Crane’s men?’ she asked as they got from the horse and started to walk.

  ‘No need to look any further,’ a voice said from the doorway of the inn. ‘If it’s Crane you want then you can talk to me.’

  Tanville looked at the man. He filled the frame of the door with his gigantic hulk. He had a small beard and dark eyes that stared at them. Wrapped in a thick coat, he looked out of place, almost from another time. Beadle jumped from the horse and vanished in the fog. Chilnam dismounted and looked at the man.

  ‘Why do you want Crane?’ he asked, not realising he spoke to a girl.

  ‘I have to find the crew of the Magenta,’ she replied as Beadle hid behind the horse and pretended to look at its feet.

  ‘No such vessel,’ the man said. ‘There was once, but now she has gone for good. Why does a young lad like you want to see a rascal like Crane?’

  ‘Because he’s in danger and as we speak the Magenta sails down the river to Dog Island and tonight he is not captain of the ship.’

  The man snatched her suddenly by the arm and dragged her inside the inn. Without a single word, he pulled her through the inn and onto a large wooden balcony that overlooked the river. A long bench ran the length of the wall and to one side were a set of wooden steps down to the water. Three iron braziers that burnt sea coal and wood lit the gallery, crackling and spitting against the fog. By each were huddled a group of men. They were tattered and forlorn, bearded and dishevelled. From where she stood, Tanville Chilnam could smell each one.

  ‘He’s after Crane,’ the man said, and he laughed. ‘Says the Captain is in danger and that the Magenta sails down the river.’

  ‘Who do we talk to, Mister Abel?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Lady Tanville Chilnam,’ she replied quickly as she looked for Beadle.

  ‘A lass?’ one asked scornfully. ‘Dressed like a boy and it’s a lass?’

  ‘Would you let your daughter upon these streets?’ Tanville asked. ‘Not one of you would ever dare – if you had any love for your family.’

  ‘Then why did they let you, my lady?’ asked one.

  ‘They didn’t. All my family are dead and I the last one. It was I who decided to come – what did I have to lose?’

  Before she had finished speaking, Beadle was dragged from where he had been hiding in the pub. He was gripped by the ear and squealing like a pig.

  ‘Look what I have found,’ said the smuggler as he threw Beadle on to the gallery. ‘If I am right then this is Beadle of Baytown, Demurral’s pet lamb. Seen him many times licking around his master’s rump …’

  ‘Strange you should come together,’ the voice said.

  ‘We are together, Mister Martin,’ Beadle said, knowing the voice well. ‘Travelled from Whitby and met in the carriage.’

  ‘And Demurral?’ he asked.

  ‘He has the Captain, Thomas and Kate,’ Beadle said as the man twisted his ear.

  ‘It’s a trick,’ said another.

  ‘Kill them,’ said yet another, as dark swirls of mist blew across the balcony.

  ‘Truth,’ Tanville shouted as she stepped towards Martin. ‘Your master is captured by Demurral and is being taken to Dog Island. You can let him be killed or help us find them.’

  ‘Crane told us to come here tonight – the night of the Feast of Sola the Hermit. Strange you should appear in his place,’ Martin said as he rubbed his chin and spat into the river.

  ‘And he told me whe
re you would be found. The Prospect of Whitby, Crane said. Remember, The Prospect of Whitby.’

  ‘And there she is as always,’ Martin replied, pointing to an old ship tied on to the landing rail at the bottom of the flight of wooden steps. ‘Not much of a ship – but with the Magenta gone our only way home.’

  Mister Martin stopped and looked up the river. His eyes peered through the gloom. The water was edged in the mist that formed a grey mantle. In the distance were the billowing white sails of a brig. It sailed slowly and somewhat cumbersomely as the tide took hold of its boards and brought it nearer.

  ‘Look,’ he said in amazement as he pointed for them all to see. ‘She’s right – the Magenta.’

  Like a floating gallows, the Magenta came closer and closer. The tide ran fast and the ship rolled in the wake.

  ‘I told you it was the truth. Believe me. Crane is being taken to Dog Island by Demurral and will surely be killed.’

  ‘Then it will be our business to be catching them,’ Martin said as he drew a small telescope from his pocket and looked through it. ‘Quickly – six of you take the rowboat, the rest come by land.’

  His words went unquestioned. Six of them ran down the flight of wooden steps to a long rowboat that was tied at the water’s edge. Without ceremony they raised the oars and pushed from the land into the river. One man called the pace as they quickly set out from the Devil’s Tavern and rowed ahead of the Magenta. Within the minute, Tanville had lost sight of them. They had merged with the dark waves and the shadows of the far shore and were gone.

  ‘You two can stay here,’ Martin said as he looked at her and Beadle. ‘This is our business.’

  ‘It’s also mine,’ Tanville said as she pushed Martin away. ‘If I don’t go with you then I shall make my own way and Beadle will be with me. Demurral has something that belongs to me and I want it back.’ Tanville wanted to say more, to tell them about the portrait and the misery it had brought to so many. She wanted to tell them of her father’s dying wish, the betrayal of her mother and the loss of everything that Tanville Chilnam held as being precious. She wanted to speak of a castle that once rang out with laughter and now stood like miserable sackcloth in the border fells. Tanville Chilnam would have chattered for hours of all that had been good in her life and the misery that had befallen her. Instead, like the dour walls of her castle she kept silent.