Legacy of the Clockwork Key (7 page)

I straightened and tried to fix my expression to some semblance of abject misery. “I have a kindness to ask, missus.”

She blinked, but otherwise gave me no indication that my plea for sympathy was working. I folded my hands in front of me to try to calm my shaking nerves.

“Well, what is it? Speak up.” She scratched at the ledger with sharp, hard strokes then blotted the ink with fierce stamps that shook the desk.

“My mother’s birthday is recently past and I have found myself thinking on my parents of late. I wish to assuage my grief and tend their graves.”

The tightness in her mouth eased. “So that’s the cause of your recent mood.”

A shiver tingled down my back. I’d tried hard not to be noticed since finding the letter. It worried me that Mrs. Pratt suspected something.

“Yes, missus,” I answered, tucking my head again so she couldn’t read the prevarication in my eyes.

“Very well. If you are done with your morning chores before I leave for market, you may accompany me. But you must finish all your regular tasks after we return.”

“Thank you, missus.” I bobbed another short curtsy.

“You may go.” She returned to studying the ledger as I exited the room.

I worked hard all through the day and well through the night to get my chores done. I didn’t want to give Mrs. Pratt any excuse for leaving me behind.

The next morning I stood dressed and waiting for her at the stairs that led from the kitchens to the garden. Though I’d barely gotten two hours of sleep, I didn’t feel fatigued. Excitement coursed through my body. Mrs. Pratt marched past the table, once again putting the queen’s guard to shame.

Agnes gave me a couple of sprigs of lavender to tend my parents’ grave and a wary look, as if she still suspected I was up to something. She didn’t say a word as I ascended the stairs after Mrs. Pratt.

I stopped short. Will stood by the cart holding the reins of Old Nick. He blinked once from under the short brim of his cap. His expression reminded me of cold stone, his face giving away nothing of our secret meetings. He was angry. It didn’t show, but I could feel his displeasure lingering in the air between us.

Immediately, I dropped my chin, hoping to hide the burning flush I could feel coloring my cheeks.

I hardly had to bother. Mrs. Pratt didn’t spare me a glance.
Will gave her a hand to help her into the cart then climbed up beside her. While he took the reins, Mrs. Pratt ordered me into the back. She didn’t have to tell me twice. I clambered into the cart and seated myself in a little heap just behind her.

Will never looked at me. He was the picture of calm as he sharply snapped the reins. He acted as if I didn’t exist. Perhaps it was for the best. He wore an old gray coat with a patch on the elbow right where I’d mended a tear in one of his shirts. I had mended his tattered clothing, and now I didn’t warrant any acknowledgment at all, not even a conspiratorial glance. The cart rumbled forward. I felt each bump and jostle in my bones as we lumbered along through the sleepy streets of London.

The sun slowly rose, painting the east in pink and orange, but the rest of London remained under a heavy blanket of gray clouds. The air felt damp from the cold spring rains. They had melted all but the most persistent lumps of snow, leaving the landscape bleak, soggy, and dead.

As we neared the markets, more carts rambled down the street. Vendors laid out their wares in open stalls. The staffs of the privileged families of London wandered through the crowded square looking formal and dour in their crisp blacks, whites, and grays. From his perch on an old crate, a scraggly
brown mongrel eyed the sausages. He nearly snatched one before a fat man with a tattered broom chased him away.

Will helped Mrs. Pratt out. She straightened her bonnet while inspecting the quality of a sack of onions.

“Take the girl to the cemetery, then return here to help me load the cart.”

“Yes, missus.”

I climbed to the seat of the cart. Mrs. Pratt skewered me with a harsh glare then flicked her gaze in the direction of the groom.

“I expect you to honor the memory and reputation of your parents well,” she warned. I swallowed. Doing my best to look humble and innocent, I nodded. “You have three hours.”

Will snapped the reins again, and we rumbled on. As we turned a corner the sounds of the market faded into the clatter of London’s busy streets.

I looked longingly down the neat lanes as we traveled west and entered the quiet neighborhoods and wealthy shops of Mayfair. Oxford Street was just north of us. I felt as if I’d stepped back into my old world. We were merchants, but my family had done well. I belonged here, not under the stairs.

We’d had our own housekeeper, a sweet woman named Mrs. Cobb who always made my favorite currant scones in the summer.

We drove south, near the edge of Hyde Park. In my mind I again wandered down its stately paths. On pleasant mornings, mother and I would walk through the park, and even the most well-to-do ladies would stop to greet us kindly. She seemed to know everyone in the West End.

I swore I could hear my mother’s voice as she taught me about the trees and gardens, then shared the latest gossip about the parade of gentry before us. The trees and the gardens remained. The nobility still strutted about. It wasn’t the same. My mother was gone. Mrs. Cobb was gone. Yet the West End looked as if nothing had changed at all.

Will drove the cart west down Brompton toward the Earl’s Court, and I found myself wishing I were going to lay flowers on my mother’s grave. She deserved them. I suddenly felt bad for my deception, but it was too late to change course now.

“What are you about?” Will asked, breaking the silence between us.

Funny how he could ask a question and not have it sound like one. “I’m visiting the graves of my parents.” If he didn’t want to be a part of my quest, he didn’t have to.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “If you were clever, you’d stop trying to find Pricket.” He snapped the reins and
Old Nick tossed his head as he picked up his step.

“I don’t see how my business is any concern of yours.” It wasn’t. I’d decided.

“ ’Tis my concern when you do something foolish. Are your parents even buried here?” He gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles blanching under the pressure.

“I’m never foolish, and yes,” I blatantly lied. After all, the cemetery at Kensal Green was practically the same as Brompton. It was a matter of perspective, really.

He laughed, and it reminded me of how he’d chuckled when we first met. It was a hard and bitter sound.

I rounded on him. “Look. Either you wish to be within my confidence, or you don’t.”

“Your confidence is a dangerous thing,” he observed.

He was a rat. I clasped my hands in my skirt and counted to ten as he drove the cart past a milkman with a braying mule. A short distance ahead I saw the gate of the cemetery. The tall stone walls, set with narrow windows in close pairs, rose up from the street. The gate loomed higher than the walls and was built from larger blocks of stone that had a golden hue in the weak light of the overcast sky. Four thick columns stood beneath the heavy crown of the gate. The sharp, clear letters cut into the stone had a grim finality.

W
EST OF
L
ONDON

AND

W
ESTMINSTER
C
EMETERY

“I think it’s best if you stay with the cart,” I said as I tugged on my mop cap. I didn’t need him. I knew what to do, and I could do it just as well without him.

He pulled Old Nick to a stop.

I jumped down from the cart on my own and marched to the gate. Heavy iron bars lurked within the thick arch, a severe warning that this was one place that had no escape.

I didn’t look back. Whatever I found, Will would have no part in it, and that suited me splendidly.

He could sit in the dust and dark of the carriage house and rot for the rest of his life. Clearly that’s what he wished to do. It was not my place to get in the way of so profound a destiny.

I shivered as I passed through the arch to the long open path beyond. The cemetery was enormous. The path continued on and on beneath trees lined up like soldiers, their skeletal branches reaching over the rows of stone crosses and sculpted angels.

It had taken us a half hour to reach the cemetery, and it
would take another to return. I didn’t have much time to find Pricket’s grave.

It seemed impossible. The graves were jumbled together in crowded rows, leading to the colonnade at the end of the stand of trees. I had to start somewhere. Within the colonnade was as good a place as any.

I ran.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t look up until I reached the center of the circle at the heart of the graveyard. Out of breath, I turned, surrounded by angels, crosses, and death.

All around me, the colonnade stretched, enclosing the circle in its grim arms. The series of arches in the corridor reminded me of an endless row of doors that all led to the same lonely path. The arches gave the illusion of escape, but through them, all I could see was the solid wall beyond. I felt completely closed in. No one else wandered the cemetery save a raven roosting atop the silent bell tower that guarded an entrance to the catacombs below.

Dropping the lavender, I gathered my skirts and marched to the circle of graves. I swept past the headstones and monuments without really seeing them. I only looked at the names as a picture. What had once been people, death had transformed into nothing more than a series of letters on a stone.

I didn’t have enough time. There were too many graves. The world seemed to spin as I passed the domed chapel over and over again, time sliding past as quickly as the names on the graves.

On and on, names flashed before me, but I couldn’t find the one I was looking for. How many people had died in London and why did they all seem to be buried here? After searching the circle, I continued on through the graves crowded between colonnade walls, working toward the stand of trees leading to the gate.

Several times I looked up expecting the bell tower to be on my left, only to find it on my right. I was twisted around, confused, and out of time.

I fought the clenching in my chest as the hope caught within slowly died.

I heard a rustle behind me, and the unsettling feeling of being watched crept down my neck. Glancing back, I thought I saw someone in a dark coat pass through an archway in the colonnade.

“It’s over here.”

The familiar voice drew my attention from the stranger. My heart fluttered as I turned. Beneath one of the trees, Will stood with his arms crossed. He scowled, but he inclined his
head toward a large pedestal gravestone with a cross. The halo circling the center of the cross resembled a gear wheel.

He found it.

I ran to the grave, stopping short as Will speared me with the intensity of his gaze. What was he about? One moment he took great pleasure in chastising me, the next he helped. I didn’t understand. “Thank you,” I said, unwilling to think on it further or give him any more than that.

“Whatever you’re after, I hope this puts it to rest for both our sakes.” He flicked a small rock at a tree across the path, hitting it with a sharp
snap
.

I fought the urge to huff at him as I knelt and carefully inspected the grave. The pedestal below the cross was smooth marble with a single name carved in crisp block letters.

P
RICKET

A darkened brass plaque was attached to the front. I felt along the thin edge of the plate as I read. The first inscription was for Georgiana Pricket, wife, mother, so on and so forth. Then came Harold Pricket, husband, father, yes, yes yes . . . Finally my eyes reached the one name I had hoped to find.

S
IMON
P
RICKET

B
ELOVED HUSBAND AND TRUSTED FRIEND

W
HO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON THE
8
TH OF
J
ULY
1858

A
GED 22 YEARS

Etchings of overturned torches marked the plate on either side of his name, a symbol of a life cut short. I touched them lightly, knowing in my heart they did not lie. Simon Pricket had died too young.

I couldn’t let myself dwell. I was here for one thing. My grandfather had been here. He had to be alive somewhere. I knew it.

I ran my fingers over the brass plate, looking for a button or lever, something that would reveal the three-petal flower I’d found on the clock.

Nothing.

I stood and circled the grave.

“What are you looking for?” Will stepped away from the tree, but didn’t uncross his arms.

I didn’t bother to answer. I checked the base, the cross, the gear-like crown of the memorial.

Nothing.

“It has to be here.” My hands slid over the gritty stone.
There had to be some sort of groove or chink that would reveal the flower medallion.

Pressure mounted in my head until I couldn’t think. I was wasting precious seconds. I felt the heat in my face as I clenched my hands. All around me, death. Nothing but dirt and rotting bones beneath my feet.

I kicked, the heel of my boot connecting with the corner of the brass plate.

“Meg!” Will grabbed me from behind, locking his arms around my chest as I struggled against him. He pulled me back, but I continued kicking. I couldn’t help it. Death, it was all death. Everyone that had cared for me was buried and gone, rotting in the grave. Only my grandfather remained, but the dead wouldn’t give up their secrets.

Will placed my feet squarely on the ground and spun me, then grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. His eyes were filled with worry, worry that shouldn’t have been there. Not for me. I felt a tear slide over my cheek. He brushed it with his thumb.

“They’re dead, Meg.” His voice was clear, reasonable, and I couldn’t speak. “Let them go.”

He brought me into the circle of his arms. I tucked my chin and allowed him to hold me. I couldn’t stand on my own.

Will’s threadbare coat pressed against my cheek. I nodded against his chest. He was right.