Then she used a piece of burned cork to give my face dirt smudges and a hint of stubble. Powder lightened the color of my lips and the cast of my skin as well. A pouch of money completed my ensemble. I was equipped for anything.
Even Pix.
Warning Pepper to dissuade Florence, who might come to check on me, I climbed out the window. Moments later, I was down the maple tree, reveling in the freedom of trousers and low-heeled boots.
It was a long ground-level walk to Whitechapel and Spitalfields. They were the most violent and dangerous neighborhoods of London and where I would begin my search. In the interest of time, I found a hackney. But I got out at St. Paul's and walked the rest of the way so as to keep my disguise as an impoverished young man.
Big Ben announced it was eight o'clock. The sun was low, its glow hardly able to slip between the crowded London rooftops and chimneys. The ever-present black smoke clouds billowed into the darkening sky, interrupting the pale pink sunset. A gaslighter sang some happy ditty as he extended a long, mechanized arm to illuminate a streetlamp. It came to life with a small, pleasant pop.
The farther east I went, the dingier, closer, and more putrid the streets became. Here in Whitechapel, the sewer-chutes were almost nonexistent, and those that were there were often clogged and left to unclog themselves or fill up and overspill. And in this area, the upper-level walkways were the more dangerous and dirty ones. One well-placed push could send an unsuspecting person tumbling off the streetwalk and down to the cobblestones. Because the streetwalks were narrow, mechanized vehicles were uncommon even at ground level. Horse-drawn ones passed through without pausing unless required to. People loitered on street corners, in shadowy alleys, and in small clusters near the steps of dark-windowed buildings.
It took only a few well-placed questions for me to learn that Old Cap Mago could be found at a public house called Fenmen's End.
The pub was small and dark, like everything else in Whitechapel. Its entrance was three floors above the ground level. I rode up in an old, creaky lift that had been jammed open and didn't require any toll. As I walked across the narrow fly-bridge spanning the air-canal, I looked down and saw one man throw another into the overflowing sewer canal.
Inside, the pub was loud and smoky. In the corner was a self-playing piano attached to a small steam engine. The off-key notes could hardly be heard over the grinding, squeaking mechanism. Three large fans whirred from the ceiling. They seemed to just press the smoke down instead of causing it to dissipate.
I'd never been in a place like this before: filled with men drinking, smoking, and swearing. In the corner, a group of spectators cheered on two men who were arm wrestling.
For the first time, I felt a shiver of uncertainty. I didn't have a plan. I was used to walking along dark streets and waiting to be accosted by thugs, or seeking out vampires by sensing their presence. That was much different than having to pretend to be a man in a man's world. I could take care of myself as long as I wasn't outnumbered. But in here, in this crowded, confined place . . .
I'd have to keep my voice low and masculine, my cap on, and act like everyone else. With all the cursing and whooping going on, it didn't seem as if it would be too difficult.
I made my way to the counter, where a slender, bewhiskered man darted about filling drink orders. "I'm looking for Old Cap Mago," I said in a gruff voice.
The man flipped a thumb toward the arm-wrestling corner. "Over there."
The men were shouting and crowing, jostling each other to get a better view. Money changed hands, and bets were called out. Being short and slender, I could squeeze through the crowd to see the contest.
The participant facing me was tall and dark-skinned. His bald head gleamed in the light, and he wore a gold hoop in one ear. He was the size of a house, but all muscle and height. Moisture glistened over his forehead and a bare, tattooed arm. There was an anchor inked on his skin. I'm certain if Miss Holmes had been there, she could have given me the man's entire history at one glance.
His fingers curled around a tanned, more elegant hand than his ham-like one, and the muscle in his upper arm bulged like a small, dark melon. The bigger man looked as if he'd easily win the contest, but as I knew, appearances could be deceiving.
The opponent, whose back was to me, also had sleek, well-defined arm muscles, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. I could see his shoulders move and shift beneath the white fabric. A short, dark club of hair showed from beneath his cap. Even though he was in the midst of a tense battle, he laughed and talked to the spectators. When he turned to jeer at the other man, I caught a glimpse of chin and mouth.
Pix.
Well, now. I started pushing closer to place my own bet, but then I had a brilliant idea. Turning to the man standing closest to me, I said, "I want to challenge the winner."
He looked me up and down. "Ye wouldn't last a minute wi' either one of 'em, lad. And ain't no one gonna bet on a snakesman like ye."
"I'll take on all the bets," I said, thinking of the pouch in my pocket. "If I lose, I'll pay them all."
Pix had taken me by surprise twice already, showing up in unexpected places and catching me off guard. Then he'd slunk back into the shadows, leaving me gawking after him. Now it was my turn to set him off balance.
A loud roar erupted. "Winnah!" The small crowd surged closer and then retreated.
"Now, damme, ye made me miss it!" grumbled the man next to me. "Who won?" he shouted over the uproar, then turned away in disgust. "Damn. Pix lost me two pound notes this time!"
"Pix lost?" I couldn't help but grin with satisfaction.
"No, dammit, ye fool. 'E won. 'E always wins. I thought f'sure that bloke would have pinned 'is 'and down."
My grin grew broader. Now I was even more determined to play. Making sure my cap was low over my forehead, I pushed my way to the table. Between my disguise and the guttering, uncertain lights, I was sure not to be recognized. I was careful not to look directly at Pix or to give him a clear view of my face.
"I challenge the winner." I wasn't surprised when the men exploded with guffaws and jeers. Fine with me. To convince them I was serious, I had to pull the pouch from my pocket. When I loosened its ties and tossed it on the table, the crowd quieted as a swath of coin spilled out in the dim light. "My bet."
"Well, there, boyo. If yer wantin' t'give up yer gilt so easy, who's t'argue?" said Pix. Settled back in his seat, in a satisfied pose, he looked around the crowd, laughing. When he glanced at me, his smile was expansive, as if he were a king granting an audience.