The Great Trouble Read online

  I hadn’t been there long before Abel Cooper remarked on my speed. “How’d you get back so fast?” he asked me once when I turned up not long after going way over to Doughty Street. “The other messenger boys are constantly getting lost. It’s like you’ve got a map of the city in your head.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “Well, Mr. Cooper, in a way I do. I’ve walked a lot, and know my way around the city. I make a map in my head before I start. So I usually can get there and back right quick.”

  I’d been this way since I was little. Seeing how things fit together seemed to come natural.

  “You’re like your father,” Mum had said once. I did have memories, thin and dreamlike, of long walks with Pa, or of sitting on his lap as he pored over a giant map of London, spread out to cover the entire table.

  Abel Cooper had been pleased with my response. “Well done, Eel. I’ll mention this to Mr. Edward.”

  Now Hugzie was trying to take all this away from me. I had to find a way to change Mr. John’s mind.

  “Sir, if you want proof of where the extra coins in this tin box are from, let me fetch Mr. Griggs the tailor,” I said.

  “He’ll vouch for me.”

  Mr. John hesitated, and I felt sure he’d say no. Then he relented.

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Ask Mr. Griggs to step over here if he is free. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

  “But … but, Uncle, he’s guilty!” Hugzie protested.

  I was already pushing past him. I had a second chance.

  After sprinting across the cobblestoned street, I stood in front of the tailor shop. No family on Broad Street had their own house. The Griggs family lived in two rooms above the shop. Constable Lewis and his wife and children crammed into a single room on the same floor.

  Conditions were even worse in other poor neighborhoods. I’d spent nights crouched in doorways in tiny, crowded courtyards teeming with barefoot children and crying babies. It didn’t seem a fit place for humans to live. At least Broad Street had a good number of shops, and we were close to a spot of grass in Golden Square.

  I was already thinking of what I would say to Mr. Griggs. But as soon as I pulled open the door, I knew something was wrong.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Griggs the Tailor

  Something had changed in the tailor shop. First off, it was quiet. It appeared empty too. It felt so eerie, little hairs on my arms began to prickle and stand up all on their own.

  Mr. Griggs was nowhere in sight. That wasn’t like him. The busy tailor was almost always at work, rarely stopping even to eat during the day. “Folks don’t pay me to put grease on their jackets,” he’d once told me with a hearty laugh. “I leave that to them.”

  Mr. Griggs was devoted to his trade. He liked to greet his customers, fresh and pleasant-like, even if he’d already seen them twice since breakfast. He treated me the same way. “Eel! How nice to see you,” he’d say each evening. “Dear boy, I’ve made a fearful mess for you to sweep up today.”

  Now, as my eyes grew used to the shadows, I saw that the shop wasn’t deserted, after all: five-year-old Bernie and his sister, Betsy, two years older, were there. Bernie and Betsy were usually as rambunctious as kittens. But here they were, posed as prim and stiff as a little gentleman and miss, on the chairs reserved for customers.

  I had an odd feeling looking at them, a stab of memory. They reminded me of a time when I’d hoped that if I was extra, extra good and didn’t move a muscle, I could keep something bad from happening.

  Bernie’s face had streaks of dirt and tears on it. Betsy had her hands tucked under her. Her black-and-white runt of a dog lay curled by her chair. Dilly swished her tail lazy-like when she spotted me, but even she was being extra well behaved: most days she’d jump up and twirl like a spinning top.

  Mr. Griggs sometimes called her Silly Dilly. “Where’s my welcome, Dilly girl?” he liked to say. Dilly had followed Mr. Griggs home from Piccadilly Circus one day. We figured she’d come into the city on a farmer’s cart and gotten separated from her master in that great, bustling intersection, which was always packed with horses, carts, and crowds.

  “Poor wee pup. How could I resist bringin’ her home to Betsy?” Mr. Griggs said. He was convinced that Dilly was the smartest dog in London. “If I hadn’t picked her up, I don’t doubt she would’ve found her way back to the farm she was born on. But now she loves us too much to go anywhere, ain’t that right, Miss Piccadilly?” I’d almost made the mistake of pointing out that if Dilly had had such a keen sense of direction, she wouldn’t have gotten lost in the first place.

  Not everyone in London took kindly to dogs as pets, but Dilly’s family treated her like royalty. She was especially fond of sausage rolls. I even found myself buying one for her sometimes. I’d feed it to her in small bits, which drove her so crazy she’d sit at my feet, throw up her muzzle to the sky, and howl.

  I went over and scratched behind Dilly’s soft ears. In a low voice I asked Betsy, “So where’s your father, then?”

  “Pa ain’t feeling well,” Betsy whispered. “Mum says I should tell everyone that he begs you to please return another day.”

  I couldn’t do that! I needed to talk to Mr. Griggs—now. If he didn’t speak up for me in the next hour, I might find myself sleeping in an upturned boat by the side of the Thames tonight.

  I stared at the children, unsure what to do. Tears pooled up in Bernie’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. He thrust his fists against his face as if trying to make them stop.

  I looked to Betsy. “Was it somethin’ he ate?”

  She nodded, swallowing hard. “Pa’s stomach hurts somethin’ awful and he’s real thirsty.”

  I frowned. It might be nothing. Stomach upsets were to be expected, especially in summer. Maybe I could just slip upstairs for a quick word. Mr. Griggs might be well enough to jot a brief note to Mr. John on my behalf.

  “Well, I’ll just go up and poke my head in at the door. Your ma might need me to fetch something from the costermonger.” Fishing into my pocket, I drew out two halfpenny coins, almost all the money I had left. “I saw an Italian ice man and his cart on the corner of Berwick Street. Go on and get yourselves a lemon ice.”

  Betsy and Bernie sprang up, grabbed the coins, and ran out, their bare feet pattering on the wooden floorboards. I made my way up the narrow staircase. It was hard to breathe. The air was stale and hot. Yet, for some reason, a shiver ran down my spine.

  It’s just nerves after what’s happened at the Lion, I told myself. Don’t be daft.

  It might be rude to barge in like this, but if I lost my situation and ended up back on the street, my chances of keeping out of Fisheye’s way weren’t good. I’d be no use to anyone who needed me then. No use at all.

  And someone did need me.

  The door ahead of me was slightly ajar. I gave it a gentle push with my foot. It creaked and swung open. Mrs. Griggs, a neat, plain woman with a gentle face, startled at the noise.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Griggs …,” I began.

  Then I stopped.

  I stopped for a long, terrible minute, unable to breathe or think or even understand the scene before me. What I saw was this: Mr. Griggs lay in a corner of the small room, resting on a pile of sheets. Well, I don’t suppose you could call it resting. Far from it. For in truth, he looked to be in pure agony.

  I’m sure my mouth was wide open in shock. I thought to close it, and just as I did, Mr. Griggs clutched his belly and started to writhe, back and forth, back and forth, something awful. His blond hair looked almost black with sweat.

  Then there were the sounds he made. From deep in his throat came small, horrible cries of pain. There was a chamber pot nearby. And some extra buckets. But I don’t think he’d had the strength to use them.

  The sheets under the tailor were covered with what looked like water. At first I figured Mrs. Griggs had tried to cool off his fever. But then I saw that it wasn’t water at all, but strange
masses of tiny white particles, like rice. Something pricked at the back of my mind. White particles … white particles.

  I’d heard something about them before, somewhere. But what?

  “Oh, Eel, lad. You oughtn’t to be here. Didn’t Betsy tell you?” Mrs. Griggs said in a fierce, urgent whisper. “He’s been exploding … the pain … I sent the children downstairs. You go too. Go now.”

  “Mrs. Griggs, do you … do you need anything?”

  She stared at me helplessly, as if I’d spoken in a foreign language.

  “Don’t you understand?” she hissed softly. “There’s nothing you can do.…”

  Her voice trailed off. Mr. Griggs cried out and she rushed over. After that she seemed to forget I was there.

  I swallowed hard. I thought I would throw up, and I might have if I’d stayed any longer. Instead I left. Fast. I backed out of the room and clattered down the stairway without drawing a breath. In a second I was out into the street.

  I stood quivering, taking in great gasps of air that was so sticky it hardly counted as air at all. And there, right across the cobblestones, stood the Lion Brewery.

  I’m lost now, I thought. I’ll never get my job back. There’s not even any sense in goin’ back inside. I’ll have to put up with Mr. John dismissing me—and hope he doesn’t have me put in jail as a thief.

  I shouldn’t be thinking of myself first, I knew, with Mr. Griggs suffering so. Then I remembered what I’d heard about those white particles. That’s what came out of people when they fell sick with the cholera.

  Mr. Griggs had been struck down by the blue death.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Urchins on Excursion

  I stood there, frozen with horror, for at least ten minutes. What next? Behind me, up in that room, was Mr. Griggs. In front of me was the Lion. And looming up around every corner was the shadow of Fisheye Bill Tyler.

  “Bad air brings trouble,” Abel Cooper had warned. It seemed he was right. But how could so much trouble happen in just a few days?

  I couldn’t do much for Mr. Griggs. And unless I wanted to hide in a London sewer and never come out, I’d have to take my chances that Fisheye might find me. I needed my situation at the Lion (and my four shillings!) back. The only other person who might help me was Dr. John Snow.

  Or would he? Even though I took care of Dr. Snow’s animals every night when I was done sweeping the tailor shop, I rarely saw the doctor himself. He was either out on a call or attending some important meeting or dinner. I tried to avoid the stern Mrs. Weatherburn, his housekeeper, except when it was time to get paid. Still, it was worth a try.

  It might be the only chance I have left, I thought.

  I was about to set off when Florrie Baker came storming toward me, buzzing like an angry fly. “Eel! Is this your doing?”

  “What are you talking about?” Then I saw.

  Behind Florrie were three dirty, wailing kids. Betsy and Bernie came first, sniffling and gulping. Bernie must have scraped his knee; trickles of blood ran down his leg. Annie Lewis, who’d tied bits of thread and ribbons around her wrist, tagged behind.

  Woof! Woof!

  Adding to the confusion was Dilly. She dashed in circles around the crying children. Every once in a while, she caught sight of her own tail and began to chase it. When she couldn’t catch it, she barked harder.

  “Dilly, shush!” Florrie scolded. She turned to me, hands on her hips. “Annie and I found these two cryin’ over by the Golden Square, all turned around. Bernie fell and nearly got trampled by a horse and cart.”

  “It was a giant horse,” Betsy reported. “I thought Bernie would get smashed flat.”

  “They said you sent them off,” Florrie continued. “Eel, they’re no more than babies! You know their pa likes to keep them close.”

  “The horse was giant! A black monster.” Bernie gave a huge hiccup, his face stained with dirty tears. Then he remembered the most important thing. “We couldn’t find the ice man. I want my ice. You promised.”

  “Me too,” Betsy begged, tugging at my shirt. “And I want to see the doctor’s animals. Florrie said you’d take us.”

  I glared at Florrie, who shrugged. “We may as well bring them all and give their mums a break.”

  “Aw, Florrie, think how it’ll look. It ain’t … businesslike,” I protested. “I got … I got something I need to discuss with Dr. Snow.”

  “Look at you, all puffed up just ’cause you take care of animals for some swell doctor.” Florrie sniffed. “It ain’t like you work for the queen herself. They won’t be any trouble.”

  I shook my head and grumbled, “You’re all trouble!”

  Florrie put her hands on her hips, waiting for me to give in. Florrie was stubborn. She was also the closest thing I had to a best friend. But still, I hadn’t told her about the blue death, or about Mr. Huggins accusing me of being a thief.

  They all watched me. Even Dilly stared up at me expectantly. I gave in at last. “All right, all right. But you’ve got to stay close and keep up.”

  “I’ll run in and let Mrs. Griggs know,” Florrie offered, moving toward the tailor’s shop.

  “No, I’ll go.” I put out a hand to stop her. “It ain’t good for my reputation if I’m left standing here on the road like a nursemaid.”

  I ran back inside and up a few steps. I yelled out to Mrs. Lewis and Mrs. Griggs that their little ones were safe with Florrie and me. I didn’t wait for an answer. I didn’t want to go back into that room. Not unless I had to.

  “So, Bernie, tell me,” said Florrie as we walked along. “What’s your favorite ice? Mine’s raspberry.”

  “Lemon,” he said. “Pa likes strawberry.”

  “How about you, Betsy?” I asked.

  Betsy didn’t answer. Her face was pinched and white, almost as if she might be sick herself. She tripped and I grabbed her hand.

  Regent Street was a bustle of cabs, horses, hawkers calling out their wares, and crowds of people. I looked behind me. “Keep up, Annie Ribbons!”

  “I am. I just had to look at the pretty hats in that window,” she squeaked. Annie was nearly nine, but she was as scrawny as a six-year-old. That’s how it was in our neighborhood. Mr. Lewis might be a constable, but that didn’t mean it was easy to feed a family.

  Constable Lewis. I wondered if he would stand up for me with Mr. John Huggins. But that could be dangerous. If Constable Lewis knew the whole truth, there was a chance I could be put in the St. James Workhouse. I was too much like Thumbless Jake for that: I wanted the sky overhead.

  “Watch out!” I pulled Betsy back from a cart that came so close the mare jerked her head in alarm.

  “Slow down, Eel!” Florrie panted, trying to keep up and dragging Bernie behind her. “What’s put you in such a bad temper? We’re supposed to be having fun!”

  I scowled and pulled them off into a side street. It was quieter here. I let out my breath and felt the tension drain away a little. Fisheye could have pickpockets at work in busy crowds most anywhere, but we would be safe in this neighborhood.

  Florrie sent the little ones ahead. “So what’s wrong?” she wanted to know. “Has something happened at the Lion?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s the middle of the day and you’re not at work,” Florrie pointed out. “And for another, you’re as bristly as the needles on one of Annie’s pincushions.”

  “Mr. John Huggins thinks I’m a thief,” I admitted.

  “Was it Hugzie who got you in trouble?”

  I nodded. “He snuck into my things, took my money, and tried to convince his uncle I’d stolen it. Now I’ve probably lost my place.”

  I stopped, not wanting to spill the whole story of my secret box. “How did you guess Hugzie had something to do with it?”

  Florrie snorted. “You’ve never tried to hide that you’re smarter than him. He’s the nephew of the owners, after all.”

  “I thought you’d be on my side.”
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  “I am. I’m just saying, those of us on the bottom got to be careful.” Florrie touched me gently on the shoulder. “Have you asked Mr. Griggs to help? He must know Mr. Huggins.”

  I hesitated. “Mr. Griggs … wasn’t feeling well enough to see me.” I almost told her everything—that the tailor most likely had been struck with the blue death. But this wasn’t the time, what with Betsy and Bernie so close. Besides, maybe if I put it off, it wouldn’t be true.

  Florrie was silent a moment. Then she said, as if the idea had just come into her mind, “Eel, you told me Hugzie took your money. What money? What have you been saving money for?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  “You know, sometimes when I ask you things, it’s like you don’t want to answer.” Florrie fixed me with her clear, honest gaze. “And when you do, it’s like you’re trying to sell me fish that’s gone off a bit and you think I can’t smell it.”

  Then she sprinted ahead to pick up Bernie, who’d fallen down again. I was left to walk alone and think about her words.

  By the time we got to Sackville Street, with its clean stone town houses all lined up in a neat row, Annie, Bernie, and Betsy were wide-eyed. “It’s so quiet. Almost like bein’ in St. Luke’s,” Betsy breathed.

  “Nice, ain’t it? This is where the swells live,” Florrie explained. To me she said, “I’ll be working in a fine house like this soon.”

  “Dr. Snow lives in Number Eighteen,” I said, pointing to a house with a large door and with four windows on all three floors. I still couldn’t quite believe that someone as important as Dr. Snow trusted me—a mudlark—to look after his animals.

  “Your doctor has this whole house to himself?” asked Betsy, craning her neck to see the upper floors.