And all because I neglected to kill Riley in his bed all those years ago. Could that be the whole reason? Would Charismo pit himself against a man of my caliber over the life of a child?
Suddenly Garrick remembered the first time he had spied a Timekey.
Riley’s father had one on his person. I took it from his corpse and delivered it to Charismo. He asked for the device specifically.
It occurred to Garrick then that Mr. Tibor Charismo had seen the future and was benefitting from his knowledge.
But not anymore. Charismo has gone too far with someone, and now the military are involved, which would suggest a government connection, perhaps even the monarchy.
This pleased Garrick greatly, as he had always thought the man a trifle smug and had never liked his music. Another Brick in Yonder Wall. Honestly.
The spirit of Felix Sharp suddenly made the connection, and Garrick physically reeled with the realization.
He knew that song, or rather Agent Sharp knew it, because it originated in the future. Tibor Charismo had not only been to the future, he belonged there.
Garrick closed his eyes, focusing on his train of thought. He pictured Charismo’s face, then allowed his memory to make it younger and draw on a ratty beard.
Tibor Charismo was Terry Carter, the missing witness. Agent Sharp had the file in his desk. William Riley had been his handler.
This put a completely different complexion on the matter. Charismo could not be allowed to talk to anyone. If he had a Timekey, then he could demonstrate its workings, and Garrick could become a fugitive once more.
I must act now, he thought. Carpe diem. The circumstances are far from ideal, but the risk is acceptable.
Garrick’s on-the-hoof plan involved subduing the carriage driver and then hopefully absconding with Charismo in the back.
He might even believe I am rescuing him.
Garrick smiled grimly. This misapprehension would not last for long.
The blossoming scheme dried up and withered when two soldiers emerged from the house with Charismo suspended between them, his short legs bicycling the air.
There is no time. No time.
Garrick knew that, even with his speed, he could not vault the railings and overpower the driver in time.
But all was not lost. Garrick was nothing if not adaptable. He stepped behind the trunk of a large hawthorn bush and pulled his laser-sighted pistol. It was a shame to waste a bullet on the likes of Charismo, but at least it would be only one.
Garrick sighted quickly along the barrel and placed a red dot over Charismo’s heart.
I will never know the full truth of why you wished me dead, he thought. It is a pity we could not chat, you and I, but better a niggling mystery than a dangerous loose end.
Garrick’s finger was about to squeeze the trigger when he noticed that the carriage was actually a secure ambulance, with the Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum logo inked on the side.
They are taking him to Bethlehem, Garrick realized.
He watched bemused as Charismo was stripped down and roughly bundled into an asylum work shirt. His clothes were tossed onto a growing pile of his possessions on the basement stairwell, which was doused with lamp oil and set alight.
Charismo’s Timekey is busted now, if he kept it, Garrick realized with some satisfaction. Tibor can talk of wormholes to his heart’s content, and all it will earn him is a spike between the eyes.
Garrick pocketed his gun and strolled casually toward the far side of the park.
I will come to find you, Tibor, he thought. Before very long I will know all of your secrets. After all, you don’t need them anymore.
In seconds, Garrick’s mind was once again focused on his main mission to find Chevie and Riley, with absolutely no idea that he had come within a hair’s breadth of snagging them for the second time.
By this time, my spies will be scouring the city, he thought, all craving the reward for information on the boy with the odd eyes and his Injun companion.
Although slightly aggrieved at being denied the opportunity to question Charismo, Garrick judged it to be a fair morning’s work, all in all.
One more enemy safely out of the way, he thought, whistling the opening bars of Another Brick in Yonder Wall.
Only two remain.
The Old Nichol
THE OLD NICHOL ROOKERY. BETHNAL GREEN. LONDON. 1898
Chevie tried to flag down a cab, but she was filthy from her trips up and down Charismo’s chimney and no driver would halt until she stood half in the road, waving Malarkey’s gold purse. As the hansom clattered away, Chevie slumped on the seat beside Riley and wondered where in the universe they could go in order to earn a minute’s respite. Her ribs ached from the various scrapes that Victorian London had inflicted on her person, and she realized that somewhere in the midst of this misadventure she had developed a constant ringing in her left ear.
Riley was recovering, but in no shape to journey far. They needed to find a place to hide until she could figure out their next move.
It would be irresponsible to allow Garrick to run amok in London with all the knowledge in his head, which he would definitely not be using to put an end to war and starvation. Simply put: Garrick had to be stopped. But how? She had no idea. This was Riley’s world, and they would have to put their heads together on a problem as big as Garrick. And to do that they would have to lie low somewhere until they were fit enough to fight back.
Chevie slapped Riley’s cheek gently.
“Come on, Riley. Wake up, partner. There must be somewhere this lunatic won’t follow us. Where is Garrick afraid to go?”
She was forced to repeat the question several times before it penetrated Riley’s addled skull, but as soon as he understood the question, he knew the answer: the Old Nichol. His face paled and his hands shook at the very idea.
“There is a place,” he said, then coughed long and harsh. “Somewhere Garrick has sworn he would never go. He would rather smash his artist’s hands with a mallet, said he, than return to the rookeries of Old Nichol.”
Chevie sat straight in the hansom’s seat, brushing the soot from her shirt. “Off we go, then. The Old Nichol it is.”
Riley was not so eager, for to see the devil afraid of a place is a powerful incentive never to pay that place a visit. He gazed at the road ahead, remembering how Garrick had described the Old Nichol.
“My master told me that the air in Old Nichol is charged with sulfur, enough so that the rats and small dogs will turn snow white and asphyxiate.”
Chevie sat back beside her traveling partner. “Rats turning white is never good,” she admitted.
“At the rear of each tenement or rookery there is a pile of raw sewage, which is fed by the entire building. The only creatures who thrive in Old Nichol are those which feed on offal.”
Chevie felt her stomach sour. Offal-thriving did not sound like much of a way to get by.
Riley remembered something else. “Old Nichol is slow death for all. Garrick told me of a strongman who fell on hard times and took a bunk there. In six months he had wasted away to nothing and died of blood poisoning from bedsores. They buried him in a flour sack.
”
“Oh, come on,” objected Chevie. “We’re not getting married and raising kids there. You just need a few hours’ sleep to get the poison out of your system, then we can figure out a way to defeat Garrick.”
“It takes only a moment to suck down whooping cough.”
This was a sobering statement and almost turned Chevie from her purpose, but she held onto her reasoning. Garrick would not set foot in this Old Nichol hellhole, so they must, if only for a single night.
She rapped on the cab’s roof.
“Hey, buddy. Take us to the Old Nichol.”
The cabbie slid back an aperture and stuck his head in the hole. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. This heat have me addled. I could’ve sworn you said Old Nichol.”
“You got it, pal.”
The cabbie’s luxuriant eyebrows arched like small fish. “Old Nichol? West End to the Old Nichol? Is the tourist having me on, young sir?”
“No,” replied Riley gloomily. “She ain’t.”
The cabbie spat into the street. “Well, beggin’ yer pardon, but I ain’t taking you into the stink. The bleeders would have the shoes off me mare. I’ll drop the pair of ye at Bethnal Green, and you can risk yer own skins from there.”
Poverty and crime are never very distant in London. Even in the modern metropolis, cast an eye down any alley and there is an unfortunate making himself as comfortable as the pavement allows. But in the nineteenth century, the Old Nichol rookery had been saturated so thoroughly by destitution and neglect that not even a postcard-sized area was exempt. Each building was a tenement, each citizen was crooked with disease, and every occupation dealt with the immediate preservation of life. Even the climate seemed worse there, creating a chill, damp principality inside the boundaries of London proper.
As Chevie Savano and Riley walked along Boundary Street, all hope of a bright future seeped down into their boots and onto the uneven cobbles. There wasn’t a shantytown in the modern world that could compare with the Old Nichol for sheer grim despair.
Walls of greasy bricks rose from the cracked paving stones, story plonked upon story. Windows, apparently placed at random, were rarely glazed, and were curtained by busted crates or flapping rags. Street stalls were piled with decayed objects that would have been on the rubbish heap in any other market. The fruit was gray and pulped, the bread tinged with green, and rock hard.