The Magnificent Lizzie Brown and the Devil's Hound (2 page)

That was a frightening thought. The new horses were a big investment, and Fitzy was counting on them to take part in the show. He'd even had new posters printed, featuring the twins balancing on Albert and Victoria's backs. They had to be ready to perform.

Up ahead, the circus convoy was moving off the road and into a green field.

“We're here!” Lizzie said. “About time. My bottom's gone numb.”

* * *

In only a few moments, the atmosphere changed from weary boredom to frantic hard work as Fitzy's Circus set about pitching its show tent. The rain was still coming down in torrents, threatening to turn the field into a muddy swamp. First the canvas and poles had to be unpacked, then the rigging and the stakes, along with the mallets to drive them in. Meanwhile, enclosures had to be set up for the animals, who all needed to be fed and watered after their journey.

Like scenes from a crazy dream, circus folk hurried about. Camels trotted past behind bearded ladies; a boy with clawlike hands and feet tucked nails into his mouth and a hammer under his arm; a woman as fat as a hot air balloon passed wicker traveling baskets to her short, smiling husband; and acrobats stood on one another's shoulders to lift tent poles into position.

It looked like chaos, but Fitzy had it all under control. Lizzie loved to watch him at work, striding from place to place with his cane under his arm. If any job needed an extra pair of hands, he'd roll up his sleeves and help, never mind the mud and rain.

“Hari!” Lizzie called, running up to help the lean Indian boy lead one of the elephants out. “Easy, Akula. It's me!” The elephant nuzzled her fondly under the arm, making her giggle.

Once Akula was safely set up with fresh hay and a meal, Lizzie went to see where else she could be useful. Her own fortune-telling tent didn't have to be put up until later.

The Boisset family, acrobats and high-wire walkers, were pulling up a support pole. Lizzie ran over to give them a hand. Dru Boisset was tall for his age, and everyone agreed he was turning into a handsome young man. “You sure have muscles, Lizzie,” he said approvingly.

“Do I?” Lizzie was a little mortified at that.

The French boy laughed. “For a girl, I mean.”

“Try bending an iron bar next,” grunted Mario the strong man, giving her a wink.

One of the clowns, JoJo, was unloading crates stuffed with juggling clubs, costumes, and props. Lizzie always looked forward to helping him since he loved to try out new routines with her. “Chuck 'em over here!” she joked. “I'll catch them!”

JoJo stared at her. There were dark bags under his eyes. “Are you going to give us a hand or not?”

Startled, Lizzie ran to take the other end of the crate. “I was just joking.”

Jojo sighed and rubbed his sweaty forehead. “I know. Sorry, love. I'm not myself today.”

“What's the matter?”

He blinked helplessly, as if there was something he badly needed to say but didn't dare to. “I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he admitted.

“You go and lie down,” Lizzie said. “I'll unload the rest of this stuff.”

“You sure?”

“Of course! Go and get some rest.” She patted JoJo on the back.

But the moment she touched him, Lizzie's skin prickled all over. In her mind's eye, she saw a shadow. Long, ragged arms stretched out to grasp JoJo. It wore a hood and robe, but there was nothing beneath but bare bones. Death. Next second, it was gone.

Lizzie gasped and pulled away.

From somewhere in the distance — possibly from Kensal Green Cemetery itself — came a long mournful sound. Lizzie's blood chilled as the sound went right through her.

It was the howling of a hound . . .

It was late afternoon by the time they finished setting up, but the grim skies made it feel like evening. At least the show tent was up now. The rain drummed on the canvas with a sound like wild horses stampeding across a plain.

“Tea break,” Erin said happily. “Come on!”

Lizzie and the twins dashed out of the show tent, shielding their heads as best they could from the pouring rain. They ducked inside the animals' tent for a quick breather. Immediately a snarl ripped through the air, making Lizzie jump. Leo the lion was pacing up and down, glaring and occasionally roaring. Camels fidgeted and spat.

“Goodness,” Lizzie said. “What's got into them?”

“They're spooked,” said Nora. “Just like Victoria was.”

“Look at the elephants!” said Erin. Mo, Myrtle, and Sashi, usually calm, were stamping their feet and tossing their heads. Akula trumpeted and reared up.

Just then, Hari came in, his face grim. “Better leave them to me,” he said. “It's easier to calm them down if there are fewer people around.”

“What's upsetting the animals?” Lizzie asked.

Hari shook his head. “It's been a long trip. They don't like being cooped up for hours any more than we do. And the storm's making a lot of noise.”

That wasn't the whole story, Lizzie could tell. She approached Akula with her hand held out. “Easy, Akula. It's only me.”

“I wouldn't go near her,” Hari warned. “I know she's your friend, but she's scared right now.”

“Scared? Of what?” Lizzie asked.

Hari looked down as if he'd said too much. “The same thing half of us are scared of, I expect. Some people are saying Fitzy's made a mistake coming here to Kensal Green. They think we should move on.”

“We can't!” Erin yelled. “We'd lose money — and Albert and Victoria aren't paid for yet!” At the shrill sound of her voice, the lion roared.

Hari quickly shooed them all out of the tent. “Come back later, when the storm's blown over,” he suggested.

Ma Sullivan, the twins' mother, had rigged up her tea tent outside the family caravan. It was cozy inside with the entire Sullivan family gathered around a single table and some of the other circus folk visiting for a relaxing brew. Usually, the tea tent was a jolly place, full of laughter and gossip. Fitzy would often stop by and play a round of dominoes, puffing fragrant pipe smoke into the steamy air. Today, though, the girls walked into an atmosphere of gloom.

Erik the acrobat was sitting with Bungo the muscle man. The two of them made an unlikely pair, one thin and wiry as a pole, the other stout as a walrus. Erik looked up at Lizzie with wet, pale eyes, as if he expected her to explain why this black mood was hovering over everyone.

“Goodness,” Lizzie said with a nervous laugh. “Has someone died?”

Ma Sullivan sucked air through her teeth. “You'd best not go making jokes about that sort of thing, Lizzie love. Not around here.”

“Those rich folks said this was no place for a circus the moment they saw us,” Erik said.

Erin helped herself to a huge mug of tea and one of her mother's oat flapjacks. “The animals are all wound up. Hari's trying to calm them down.”

“What did I tell you?” Bungo said to Erik. “It's always the animals that know when something's up. They've got a sixth sense.”

“Victoria didn't like going past . . . that place,” Nora said. They all glanced in the direction of Kensal Green Cemetery.

“It's not right. It's just not.” Ma Sullivan, short and draped in a shawl, went to heat up a fresh kettle full of water on the wood burner. “The dearly departed should have a corner of some little churchyard to call their own. That's as much as any of us need. Just a quiet little plot with a hazel tree, perhaps, and a headstone. But that place?” She shivered, making a
brrr
sound. “It's the size of it that sets your teeth on edge, I don't mind saying. Acre after acre, grave after grave! It's not right.”

“That's it, Mrs. S.! That's exactly it!” Bungo slurped his tea, wetting his whiskers. “How can the dead rest easy in such a place? It's no wonder they go roving about.”

“Roving about?” Erin echoed in horror.

“Why else would the animals be upset?” Ma Sullivan said. “Where there's graves, there's ghosts. Erin, Nora, be sure and take your rosaries with you if you go off the site.”

Lizzie felt a twinge of anger at all these dark mutterings. Even though she had powers she couldn't explain, it didn't mean everything had to be mysterious and spooky. “It's only a cemetery,” she said boldly.

Bungo shook his shaggy head. “You won't catch me going in there after dark. Not for a million dollars.”

“I'd go,” said Sean, one of the Sullivan brothers.

“You would not,” said Patrick, another one. “You'd come running out after five minutes, shoutin', ‘Help, help, the
Cú Sídhe's
chasing after me!'”

“Patrick Sullivan!” Ma shouted, slamming the kettle down hard with a bang. “Do you want to bring bad luck down on the whole lot of us, now?”

Lizzie blinked. “What's a . . . what you said?” It had sounded like “Coo Shee.”

Ma hesitated, then beckoned Lizzie over to sit with her. She leaned in close, ready to share something important. The other Sullivans leaned in too, so they were all huddled over their tea like a gaggle of witches meeting over a cauldron.

“Sometimes they call it the Black Dog,” Ma Sullivan whispered. “Most folk know better than to call it by its real name, except for this dolt.” She smacked Patrick lightly on the back of the head and ignored his howl of protest. “Sometimes it prowls around the old mounds that the fair folk left behind them—”

“Fair folk?” Lizzie interrupted in disbelief. “You can't mean . . . fairies?”

“Are you going to keep interrupting or let me tell what I've got to tell?” snapped Ma Sullivan.

Lizzie squirmed. “Sorry.”

“Those who've seen it say it takes the form of a hound the size of a calf,” Ma Sullivan said. “It's all shaggy and black and has eyes like burning coals. It lurks in graveyards, waiting for the foolish souls who've gone in there after dark, perhaps to take a shortcut, perhaps because they were doing some stupid dare that their brother put them up to.” She glared at Sean, who pretended he didn't know she meant him.

Around the stones of Kensal Green, the Devil's Hound does roam
, thought Lizzie. She was sure it was all just folklore, but she listened politely. Ma Sullivan did like to tell stories, especially at times like this, when the thunder and the rain outside just added to the tale.

“The hound goes hunting for souls,” Ma whispered. “If you hear it howl, you must run for safety — into a church, or at the very least into a well-lit house.”

“Or over running water,” whispered Nora.

Ma Sullivan nodded. “If it howls again, then run all the faster. Because it howls only three times for any one person, and if you hear the last howl before you reach a safe place, then that's the end of you.”

A crack of thunder shook the tent, and a figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the lightning.

Everybody gasped, as if the hound had come for them. But it was only Fitzy. He stood there in his multicolored jacket, with his club-footed son Malachy close behind.

“Hope I'm not interrupting your leisure time,” Fitzy said sharply. Lizzie was taken aback by the tone of his voice. He sounded moments away from an angry outburst.

“Will you take a cup of tea, Fitz?” Ma said, suddenly all smiles.

“No time for tea,” Fitzy snapped. “There's work to do. We still have a show to put on, unless I'm much mistaken? Erin, Nora, come with me. Let's talk rehearsals.”

He turned and walked out. Ma Sullivan watched him go, then turned to her girls. “Well? You heard him!”

Lizzie, Nora, and Erin ran out into the rain. Malachy was lagging behind his father, hobbling along on his stick. They quickly caught up.

“Dad's in a foul mood,” Malachy murmured to Lizzie, too low for Fitzy to hear.

“I noticed.”

“You don't have to be psychic to see it, do you?” Malachy winced as his good foot sank into a muddy spot of ground. “He took a chance on this location, and it looks like it's not going to pay off.”

“Because of the rain?” Lizzie asked.

“Well, not just the rain.” Malachy glanced at the cemetery. Lizzie braced herself for more muttering about ghosts and demons, but to her relief Malachy was just as skeptical as she was. “You know how superstitious we circus folk can be — and there aren't many tougher crowds to play to than a field full of dead people.”

Fitzy headed into the main show tent. The sawdust ring was already in place, and the clowns were busy with rehearsal. Lizzie sat down to watch.

“You're on next,” Fitzy told Erin and Nora. “Hari's on his way with the horses.”

It was always strange to see the clowns performing without costumes or makeup. Rice Pudding Pete crossed the floor with a wibbly-wobbly walk, holding up an empty tray. Lizzie knew it would have a bowl filled to the brim with rice pudding during the actual show. Most of which would go straight down his trousers.

Fitzy folded his arms and looked on approvingly. Then he frowned. “Someone's missing. Where's JoJo?”

“Can't make rehearsal, boss,” Pete called, looking apologetic.

“That's not good enough,” Fitzy snapped. “I need all hands on deck. Tell him to drag his lazy backside in here right away!”

“He can't,” Pete said, more firmly now. “He's sick. Barely been out of bed all day.”

Fitzy let out an explosive sigh. “Sick, eh? That's all I need. One more piece of bad luck. Malachy, next time I suggest setting up in Kensal Green, please be so good as to kick me.”

“Will do, Pop,” Malachy said.

“Did you get those new posters put up in the town, at least?” Fitzy asked.

Malachy nodded. “I sent Dru and Collette out half an hour ago with a stack a foot high.”

“Good lad.” Fitzy glanced around the ring. “Where has Hari gotten off to?”