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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019s privileged elite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMr Dickens,\u201d Florence\u2019s shrill voice cut through his thoughts like a Houndsditch cutthroat\u2019s blade. \u201cYou 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.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Charles chose to ignore the na\u00efve child\u2019s chirping. He hadn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The carriage gave a sudden judder, pitching Charles forward and causing his hat to fall over his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Uttering a loud curse, which was met by an instant tut of disapproval from Florence, he set it right upon his head again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019 nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The carriage gave another shudder and jolt, the springs groaning for a long moment before coming to a dead halt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What now?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBloody hell, old chap,\u201d Charles shouted at the driver, his fox-headed cane rapping against the front glass window. \u201cWhat have you stopped for? This is Her Majesty\u2019s business. There\u2019s no time to dally.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Above them, a small wooden hatch in the roof slammed violently open. The coachman\u2019s little round, flushed face appeared in the opening, peering down like an expectant urchin at the parlour door on Christmas morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mr Dickens, sir,\u201d the red-faced fellow called down. \u201cThey\u2019ve blocked Aldgate High Street. They\u2019re not letting anyone in or out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPoppycock!\u201d Charles swore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMr Dickens!\u201d Florence\u2019s eyes flashed up to meet his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is the Queen\u2019s business!\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Gathered in a tight, nervous knot before him were, by Charles\u2019 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Charles didn\u2019t hesitate. Striding forward, his footsteps crunched loudly on the loose ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho, pray tell,\u201d he called out, his voice cutting through the damp, stagnant air, \u201cis in command here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019 neck, making the hairs flutter in irritation. Didn\u2019t they know who he was? Didn\u2019t they understand why he was here?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m on the Queen\u2019s own business,\u201d he barked again, closing the distance with every crunching step. \u201cBy order of Her Majesty, you will let me pass. I ask it again. Who is in command?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese here are my men.\u201d A deep voice rolled from over Charles\u2019 shoulder. \u201cAnd who may I ask are ye to come here hollering like a blethering gowk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Charles spun on his heel, the fiery words already forming on his lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those words died instantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Filling Charles\u2019 view wasn\u2019t the face of a man, but a coarse red woollen jacket stretched tightly across a barrelling torso.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t ended well for him, and he was starting to wonder if this one wouldn\u2019t have a similar conclusion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy good fellow,\u201d 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\u2019s not insignificant arm. \u201cSergeant, we are on the Queen\u2019s business. We need to get through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCanna happen, lad,\u201d the sergeant\u2019s voice rumbled from somewhere within that cavernous chest. \u201cThe Major\u2019s orders. Not even a rat is getting through this line.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSergeant,\u201d Charles began, his mind racing, searching for any leverage he could get over this absolute Munro of a man \u2013 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\u2019 shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCorporal Gordon,\u201d she said brightly, stepping up to Mr Dickens\u2019 side with a wide smile stretching her lips. \u201cHow is your shoulder?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s sergeant now, ma\u2019am,\u201d the big Scotsman said softly, his head bowing slightly while his eyes glanced proudly at the stripes that adorned his arm. \u201cAnd the shoulder is as good as a wee bairn\u2019s, no small thanks to you, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSergeant Gordon, of course. Do forgive me,\u201d Miss Nightingale said, taking a step forward. She could feel Mr Dicken\u2019s eyes drilling into her back as she placed a hand gently on the big soldier\u2019s forearm. \u201cI heard you got a promotion after Sevastopol, and more than deserved from what I heard. My congratulations to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot at all, ma\u2019am.\u201d Sergeant Gordon said, his eyes glistening as he looked at her. \u201cI, and more than a few of the boys here, owe you our lives.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSergeant, I wonder if you wouldn\u2019t mind terribly gracing me with a small favour?\u201d she said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. \u201cWe really need to get into Whitechapel, to find out what\u2019s happening in there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMa\u2019am, I\u2019m sorry but the Major\u2019s orders are that we can\u2019t let anyone pass. Not even you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI understand, Sergeant,\u201d she replied with a nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHave you heard about that new underground railway they\u2019re building?\u201d Sergeant Gordon continued, tilting his head close to hers. \u201cIt\u2019s a crazy idea if you ask me, but there\u2019s a half-finished tunnel from Fenchurch Street leading straight into Whitechapel. I\u2019ve got a couple of lads watching it. They\u2019re on strict orders not to let anything get out. There have been no orders about stopping anyone going in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n