The Dark Clue by James Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

was ‘Ale anders Boat ard’, so you had to fill in the ghosts of the missing ‘x’ and ‘y’ yourself – and leading to an untidy sprawl of spars and timbers and ropes. Facing the house, beyond the road, flowed the great river, hemmed in by a shallow embankment of rough stones, and approached by a flight of steps, which were crowded with lounging watermen smoking their pipes and waiting for custom. Further out, a desultory little army of mudlarks in ragged dress scoured the stinking mud for treasure.
    â€˜Are you sure this is the right address?’ I asked the driver.
    â€˜Six Davis Place, Chelsea, miss?’ he said, slowly, as if I were an idiot.
    I got out. A knot of boys kicking a broken bottle stopped to stare at me, and two or three of the watermen stiffened and turned in my direction. They may simply have been bored, or hoping I would take a boat; but there seemed a kind of animal watchfulness in their unsmiling faces, as if, even at this time of day, a lone woman could have no rightful business here. I knew, though, that to show fear is to feed the monster that frightens us, so I paid the cabman and marched up the path without so much as a backward glance.
    As I knocked on the door, however, I sensed a movement behind me, and, looking round, saw that the group of boys had followed me, and were pressing against the gate like a pack of wild dogs. Most of them instantly turned their heads to avoid my eyes, but one, a gangly beanpole of twelve or thirteen, held my gaze steadily.
    â€˜You want to know about Puggy?’ he called.
    I couldn’t tell whether he was mocking me or trying to be helpful; but since I have found that, if you expect the best of people, they generally strive to live up to your expectations, I smiled and said:
    â€˜Booth. I’m looking for Mrs. Booth.’
    â€˜She won’t tell you nothing about him,’ said the boy.
    There was no sound from within the house, so I knocked again.
    The boy called: ‘Ask Mr. Neave about him.’
    The words were barely out of his mouth when I heard a man shouting: That’s right, miss, I knew the Admiral!’
    I turned, and saw one of the watermen (presumably Mr. Neave) crossing the road towards me. He seemed to have been drinking, for he staggered a little, and waved his arms wildly to attract my attention.
    â€˜I took them everywhere,’ he said, gesturing across the river towards Battersea. ‘You come with me, I’ll show you where they went.’
    I had no idea what they were talking about, but did not want to show it, for fear that it might encourage them to take some advantage of me, so I said nothing, and knocked for a third time. But I was beginning to lose heart. What if – as now seemed probable – Mrs. Booth were out, and I had to walk down the path again, and through the throng? My cab had long since disappeared from view, and there was not another in sight. To add to my disquiet, three or four more men, apparently attracted by the commotion, now spilled out of the tavern. One was a most impressive figure, a black-bearded giant in a red flannel shirt and pleated black French trousers, who elbowed his way to the front and bellowed, in what sounded like a Russian or Polish accent:
    â€˜I tell you about the Admiral! The bottles! The ladies!’
    â€˜You lying foreign b-!’ shouted Mr. Neave. Emboldened by drink, he clenched his fists and lurched forward, scattering boys on every side, although he could barely reach his opponent’s shoulder.
    â€˜Please!’ I shouted. ‘I have no interest in any Admiral!’
    I hoped this would calm them, but it appeared to have no effect. The men jostled themselves into two groups, while the boys lined up against the fence, either because they wanted to watch or because they could not escape. I quickly formulated a plan: I would appeal to the beanpole’s chivalrous instincts and offer him and his friends a penny