The heavy, iron-rimmed wheels of the Clarence carriage clattered loudly over the granite cobbles of Fenchurch Street, the steel springs screeching with every jolt and judder.
Inside, Charles gazed out of the window, his thumb gently stroking the half-silver, half-iron fox head topping his walking cane. He had thought that cane lost in the opium-hazed depths of the Lotus Blossom, but by some remarkable stroke of fortune, he had found it propped up beside the palace gates when leaving earlier today. None of the guards seemed to have any idea how it could have got there. It really was quite remarkable.
The great stone-fronted buildings of merchant banks and imperial counting houses rumbled past slowly. Their heavy, soot-covered pillars loomed over him like rows of stern, unyielding creditors, their grand limestone facades streaked with decades of grime and corruption. These were the honourable institutions that filtered the blood, sweat and toil of the East End docks and colonial plantations, turning it into the gleaming, polished gold that filled the velvet-lined coffers of the Empire’s privileged elite.
The smell of coal smoke hung heavily in the air, undercut by the sharp, sweet, cloying stench drifting on the wind from the many tanneries south of the river.
“Mr Dickens,” Florence’s shrill voice cut through his thoughts like a Houndsditch cutthroat’s blade. “You cannot seriously believe this nonsense. The dead do not just rise up, Mr Dickens. Least of all during the day. There must be a rational, scientific explanation for all this.”
Charles chose to ignore the naïve child’s chirping. He hadn’t wanted to believe it himself, but Her Majesty was taking the threat seriously enough to have deployed the Black Watch, not a move she would have taken lightly. His street informants had also reported similar horrors. They had whispered stories of the desperate sounds of scratching against the inside of sealed coffins. They had spoken of graves clawed open from beneath the earth. They had told tales of plague-stricken souls collapsing lifeless in the filth of the street, only to stagger back to their feet just minutes later.
The carriage gave a sudden judder, pitching Charles forward and causing his hat to fall over his eyes.
Uttering a loud curse, which was met by an instant tut of disapproval from Florence, he set it right upon his head again.
The grandiose buildings vanished, replaced by squat, soot brick structures. The carriage lurched and jolted again over the now uneven, broken cobbles of Aldgate, the wheels crunching and grinding against the loose gravel. The pungent, earthy stench of horse manure stung the air, wrinkling Charles’ nose.
Florence, he noticed with a wry smile, had reached for a white lace handkerchief which she now held firmly against her face. He had often wondered how she had ever coped in the bloody, disease-ridden wards of Scutari when a simple streetful of London horse muck clearly turned her stomach so.
The carriage gave another shudder and jolt, the springs groaning for a long moment before coming to a dead halt.
What now?
“Bloody hell, old chap,” Charles shouted at the driver, his fox-headed cane rapping against the front glass window. “What have you stopped for? This is Her Majesty’s business. There’s no time to dally.”
Above them, a small wooden hatch in the roof slammed violently open. The coachman’s little round, flushed face appeared in the opening, peering down like an expectant urchin at the parlour door on Christmas morning.
“I’m sorry, Mr Dickens, sir,” the red-faced fellow called down. “They’ve blocked Aldgate High Street. They’re not letting anyone in or out.”
“Poppycock!” Charles swore.
“Mr Dickens!” Florence’s eyes flashed up to meet his.
“This is the Queen’s business!” he retorted sharply, before flinging open the door and without waiting for the footman, leaping to the wet road, his boots crunching on the loose gravel and jagged shards of broken stone.
Gathered in a tight, nervous knot before him were, by Charles’ reckoning, at least twenty-five soldiers, their bright red coats catching the low autumn sunlight, their dark tartan kilts swaying slightly as they shifted in their positions. With rifles lowered and bayonets fitted, they stood rigid, with their backs turned to him, facing towards Aldgate High Street.
Charles didn’t hesitate. Striding forward, his footsteps crunched loudly on the loose ground.
“Who, pray tell,” he called out, his voice cutting through the damp, stagnant air, “is in command here?”
The men remained frozen to the spot, their blood-red cap feathers barely twitching in the still air. A sharp prickling chill crept up the back of Charles’ neck, making the hairs flutter in irritation. Didn’t they know who he was? Didn’t they understand why he was here?
“I’m on the Queen’s own business,” he barked again, closing the distance with every crunching step. “By order of Her Majesty, you will let me pass. I ask it again. Who is in command?”
“These here are my men.” A deep voice rolled from over Charles’ shoulder. “And who may I ask are ye to come here hollering like a blethering gowk?”
Charles spun on his heel, the fiery words already forming on his lips.
Those words died instantly.
Filling Charles’ view wasn’t the face of a man, but a coarse red woollen jacket stretched tightly across a barrelling torso.
Craning his neck backwards, Charles eventually found, peering down at him, a face that instantly reminded him of the rather bad-tempered Highland cow he had once met on a narrow pass near Stirling. That encounter hadn’t ended well for him, and he was starting to wonder if this one wouldn’t have a similar conclusion.
Thick orange hair bristled from a face that looked made of old, weathered hide. It matted against his cheeks and sprouted in unruly curls from underneath a black feather bonnet.
“My good fellow,” Charles began, swallowing down the lump that seemed well and truly lodged in his throat, before correcting himself when his eyes snagged on the three white stripes on the soldier’s not insignificant arm. “Sergeant, we are on the Queen’s business. We need to get through.”
“Canna happen, lad,” the sergeant’s voice rumbled from somewhere within that cavernous chest. “The Major’s orders. Not even a rat is getting through this line.”
“Sergeant,” Charles began, his mind racing, searching for any leverage he could get over this absolute Munro of a man – he quickly decided that flashing a gold sovereign would probably not be the best approach in this situation. But before he could speak again, the sergeant snapped to attention, his eyes locking onto something past Charles’ shoulder.
Miss Nightingale stepped down from the carriage, smoothing her skirts against the damp chill. She had watched Mr Dickens storm towards the red-coated line with about as much grace and decorum as a strutting peacock trying to command a flock of geese. As predicted, he had run into a brick wall, or in this instance, something far less movable, a detachment of the Black Watch.
“Corporal Gordon,” she said brightly, stepping up to Mr Dickens’ side with a wide smile stretching her lips. “How is your shoulder?”
“It’s sergeant now, ma’am,” the big Scotsman said softly, his head bowing slightly while his eyes glanced proudly at the stripes that adorned his arm. “And the shoulder is as good as a wee bairn’s, no small thanks to you, ma’am.”
“Sergeant Gordon, of course. Do forgive me,” Miss Nightingale said, taking a step forward. She could feel Mr Dicken’s eyes drilling into her back as she placed a hand gently on the big soldier’s forearm. “I heard you got a promotion after Sevastopol, and more than deserved from what I heard. My congratulations to you.”
“Not at all, ma’am.” Sergeant Gordon said, his eyes glistening as he looked at her. “I, and more than a few of the boys here, owe you our lives.”
“Sergeant, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind terribly gracing me with a small favour?” she said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We really need to get into Whitechapel, to find out what’s happening in there.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry but the Major’s orders are that we can’t let anyone pass. Not even you,” he said.
“I understand, Sergeant,” she replied with a nod.
“Have you heard about that new underground railway they’re building?” Sergeant Gordon continued, tilting his head close to hers. “It’s a crazy idea if you ask me, but there’s a half-finished tunnel from Fenchurch Street leading straight into Whitechapel. I’ve got a couple of lads watching it. They’re on strict orders not to let anything get out. There have been no orders about stopping anyone going in.”