Wild Boy (27 page)

They heard whistles and shouts as police officers charged along the bridge. But they were too tired to run. Besides, Wild Boy had had enough of running. Over Clarissa’s shoulder he looked at Marcus. The golden-eyed man slicked back his silver hair and replied with the slightest of smiles. And Wild Boy knew that everything would be all right.

He leaned into Clarissa and closed his eyes.

W
ild Boy opened his eyes.

He was lying in a bed — a proper soft bed with clean linen and a plump feather pillow that smelled of lavender. His chest ached as he shifted up against the headboard. A bandage was wrapped around his side, and his arm hung in a tight sling. Sunlight streamed through a window, dazzling his eyes.

Marcus Bishop stood over him, leaning on his cane even more heavily than before. In his other hand was a thick sheaf of papers.

“So,” he said, “did you have fun at the fair?”

Wild Boy grimaced. He was in no mood for jokes. He looked around the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It was bright, breezy, and spotlessly clean, unlike any room he’d been in before. There was a cupboard that was gilded with gold, a chest that looked like solid silver. Through the door, he glimpsed oil paintings on the walls. He heard the clip-clop of horses and the clatter of carriages on a street some way away.

“Am I in a
palace
?” he asked.

Marcus poured him a glass of water from a jug. “You have been asleep for twenty-four hours,” he said. “Drink.”

The glass trembled in Wild Boy’s hand as he took several small sips. He was surprised to see that his fingernails had been scrubbed clean. Someone had taken great care in washing him, but he could still smell sewage. . . .

“Sir Oswald?” he asked. “Did he die?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Almost certainly.”

“And his machine?”

“It joined the killer on the riverbed.”

Killer.
It seemed strange to call Sir Oswald that. Wild Boy knew that, in the end, his old friend had saved his life. He didn’t feel angry at him — he felt sad that he was gone. Without him the world felt emptier.

“What about me?” he asked. “Them blasted coppers still after me?”

“That has been taken care of. In fact, them blasted coppers would rather appreciate your assistance.”

Marcus flicked through a few of his papers. “An interesting new case. Four murders, all Members of Parliament, killed in their homes. The killer sends notes to the police, informing them of the exact date and time that the next crime will occur. He is always correct, to the second. His next target is the Prime Minister, and the police are at a loss. And when the police are at a loss, they come to us.”

Wild Boy took another sip of water. His neck ached but he felt surprisingly awake.

“Arrest the clock maker,” he said.

Marcus looked at him for a long moment, and a smile broke across his face. He tucked the papers under his arm. “Care to come along?”

“I ain’t one of you, you know? I ain’t no bloomin’ Gentleman.”

“But you will come anyway.” Marcus limped from the room, holding up the papers. “There are puzzles to be solved.”

Wild Boy slumped back in the bed. He hated how that man always knew what he was thinking. He hated too that he was always right. He
would
go with him. Not because he had nowhere else to go, but because he wanted to. People to spy on, puzzles to solve, new places to snoop around . . .

He felt it in the hairs all over his body —
excitement.

He lay back, enjoying the warm sun and the cool breeze on his face. “I know you’re there,” he said. “In the cupboard.”

The cupboard door creaked open. An angry eye glared from the dark.

“How
could
you know?” Clarissa said from inside.

He’d known she was there from the moment he had woken. But he also knew that it would annoy her if he didn’t say how, so he just shrugged.

Clarissa stepped gingerly from the cupboard, still aching from their adventure. She had gotten rid of her circus costume and was dressed entirely in black — black hood, black trousers, long black coat. But her hair blazed like fire in the sunlight, and her freckles looked like they’d been painted onto her face with strawberry juice.

She came up to the bed and they looked at each other for a long moment. They were both struggling not to smile, still trying to look tough.

“I ain’t not forgiven you, you know?” Clarissa said.

“Don’t care anyhow,” Wild Boy replied.

Clarissa peered out of the door, making sure they were alone. A mischievous smile creased across her cheeks. “Look at this.”

She dug in her pocket and brought out a golden necklace studded with emeralds and rubies. The gleaming jewels dazzled Wild Boy’s eyes.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“I stole it. Don’t you know where we
are
?” She stuffed the necklace back in her coat. “They want us to work for them, you know. The Gentlemen. They need us cos they’re too stupid to solve their own mysteries. I told Marcus we would. We will, won’t we?”

“Yeah . . . Maybe.”

Really Wild Boy was bursting to get involved. It wasn’t just Marcus’s cases that intrigued him, but the Gentlemen too. He wanted to find out more about them, to uncover their secrets.

“Marcus pretends to be mean,” Clarissa said, “but I think he’s all right. Remember I said that you can’t pick a Smithson lock with a nail? Well, he can! Said he’d teach me.”

She turned and gazed out of the window. “At the fair,” she said quietly. “Did you see my mother?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did she . . . Did she speak about me?”

Wild Boy remembered her mother’s cruel words in the circus tent, but decided not to tell Clarissa. Mary Everett had already hurt his friend enough. He wouldn’t let her do so anymore. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She didn’t say anything.”

Clarissa was silent for a moment, a slender silhouette against the window. “I’m sorry I called you a freak,” she said.

Wild Boy couldn’t fight his smile any longer. “I’m sorry I called you normal,” he replied.

Now she grinned too. She punched him on the arm. “Hurry up,” she said. “Marcus says we’re going to catch another killer!” Then she rushed from the room.

Wild Boy knew he needed to rest for longer, but he didn’t want to miss out on the fun. He slid from the bed and began putting on the clothes that hung for him in the cupboard — a new pair of breeches, a crisp white shirt, and a red military coat with gold tasseled buttons — swearing loudly each time he discovered a new pain in his bruised limbs.

Fully dressed, he considered his reflection in the window. The coat was just like his old one except that it was brand-new, tailor-made just for him. It felt like an old friend.

It was a perfect fit.

Huge thanks to everyone at Walker for making me feel so welcome, especially Mara, Lucy, Gill, and David, as well as Deb Noyes at Candlewick Press. They all did magic. Thanks to my amazing agent, Jo Unwin, without whose early advice this book would not exist, to the brilliant team at Conville & Walsh, and to Carol for helping me find the time. Most importantly, thanks for a million reasons to Mum, Dad, Sally, and Otis. Love you all.