Salamander (38 page)

In the morning she had accompanied the Turinis to Covent Garden and then struck out on her own. She had a vague idea of where to look for her father’s print shop, but after losing herself among the winding lanes around St. Paul’s she simply wandered. When she rested, she would take the book out of her apron and turn it over in her hands, tempted but unwilling to brave two labyrinths at the same time.

Near her, someone started to sing, in a high, sweet, perfect voice that soared above the noise of the crowd.

The song pealed like a bell through the hot, dusty air. She looked around but could not find the singer through the foot and horse traffic that passed on all sides of her.

Pica looked up. The slightest of breezes swept dust in swirls from the pavement. Around her, heads began lifting to the sky in expectation of heavenly relief.

As the last line ended, a shadow persisting at the edge of her vision made her turn. Amphitrite Snow stood nearby, dressed in the straw bonnet and frock of a servant.

– Put black skin in a slave’s clothes, Snow said, replying to Pica’s look of surprise, and no one looks twice. It’s been useful, especially today.

– You’ve been following me.

– You should be thankful, Snow nodded. You’re lost, aren’t you?

Pica fought back tears.

– We should go back to the
Bee
, Snow said.

– I haven’t found my father.

– Perhaps he’s returned to the ship on his own.

She took Pica’s arm and glanced around nervously.

– What is it?

She had gone downriver to Wapping, she told Pica as she tugged her along, to the taverns where newly arrived sailors drank away the wait for their next outbound berth.

– All the talk, Snow said, was of the huge warship they had passed in the estuary.

A gleaming white legend, riding placidly at anchor. As to how long it had been there or why it had come, there were many speculations, but she had kept her own thought to herself: if the Commander was offering such a temptation to his former masters in the Admiralty, it could only mean he knew that his quarry was close at hand.

A freshly-painted sign swung above the door.

The Indian & Conundrum
.
All welcome.

Flood ducked through the low entryway and entered a room full of trestle tables at which men sat, noisily manhandling newspapers or huddled together in close conference. At the back a huge silver urn stood burbling and steaming on a squat four-legged stove, a turtle in black armour.

He sat at an empty table and one of the boys running up and down the aisles brought him a pot of coffee and a cup. A burly red-faced man left his stool by the urn and sat down heavily beside Flood.

– The name’s Henday, sir. This is my coffee house. Your first visit, I believe.

– I don’t know, Flood said. I was on my way … somewhere. I can’t remember.

– By good fortune, the man said with a toothless grin, your steps have directed you to the one establishment where uncertainty is a virtue. The actors frequent Bedford’s, the politicians conspire at Will’s, the doctors compare cures and corpses at Child’s. Here we cater not so much to occupations, however, as to preoccupations. Phantoms of unreason, obsessions, mysterious perturbations of the spirit. First cup is always gratis.

– I just need a moment. To gather my thoughts.

– I understand, sir. We all have such days. Don’t hesitate to shout if you feel the need to talk.

Henday heaved himself from the bench and lumbered off. Flood took a gulp of coffee, grimacing as the bitter liquid burned its way down inside him. It would have made more sense to eat something. This vacancy in his thoughts was simply the
result of an empty stomach. He looked up to see that Henday had returned and was leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

– Pardon my intrusion, but I thought I should point out that tall fellow, over in the corner there, with his Roman nose in the
Royal Magazine
. A lord of the Admiralty, upon my honour. Strides in here once a week and goes on about that newfangled luncheon snack that’s all the rage in the gambling houses. Beef and mustard and what-you-will between two slices of bread. Can be eaten while standing at the gaming table, or in bed between bouts with the mistress. His Lordship claims he invented the thing and that it should be named after him.

Henday straightened and rubbed his hands.

– So as you see, everyone in here has a story. Myself, I once roamed the wild north lands of America, for the Hudson’s Bay Company.

– Did you? Flood said, distracted by his own thoughts, pacing around the rim of a great blank. He had lost the thread he was following.

Henday sighed, sat again on the bench, shifting his bulk so that the flimsy table creaked ominously.

– At sunset one day my Cree guide shot a buffalo. The great beast rolled down into a hollow, and we followed. As we were butchering it I looked up to see figures against the sky. At first I thought they were people. My blood ran cold and then I saw that they were wolves. A grey senate of wolves, around the rim of the hollow, watching us.

Henday’s voice trailed off. He shrugged and slapped the table with an open palm.

– Ah, well. I can see that you’re tired. I am sure we will compare wolves another day.

Flood’s gaze returned to the turtle—shaped stove. Like the one he and his father used to melt down their worn-out type.

– I’m a printer, he said.

– Coincidences welcome, too, Henday said, brightening. This house was formerly a bookbinder’s. Before him, if I remember rightly, a short-lived topical newspaper was published here. And before that it was home to a writer of satires and homilies. Remarkable, isn’t it? All trades dabbling in ink.

– Until now, I suppose.

– There are those who say my coffee is thick and black enough to dip a quill in. But many of my customers live by the printed word. Once in a while even the esteemed Mr. Samuel Johnson deigns to visit.

– I’ve never heard of him.

– A dictionary-maker, sir, who has undertaken a labour of Hercules that would’ve turned any other man’s wits. We’ve seen him in here a time or two, let me tell you, while he toils on that endless book of his.

– Endless …

– A dictionary, sir, of our native tongue. Every word of it that is, pinned, defined, and exampled by quotes from the immortal Shakespeare, among others. Soon those of us who struggle with the unsayable will have a new weapon.

He tapped the table in front of Flood.

– And I’m willing to wager you are here for the sake of that struggle.

Flood remembered Pica sweeping type off the work table in one of her rare fits of temper.
I can’t learn this. Why should I?

– I’m looking for lodgings, for my daughter and myself. I’ve been away a long time, and I’m hoping to set up shop again.

– Alas, my friend, I can be of no help with something that
practical. Business is brisk, and I haven’t any room to spare. But come to think on it, why not go see Mr. Johnson? They say he employs squads of clerks and copyists and such people to help him compile his book. Perhaps he has work for you, or can introduce you to someone who does. Gough Square, off Fleet Street. Near the Cheshire Cheese. Do you know it?

– I know it, Flood said, rising. Thank you.

Once Flood was back in the street Henday’s black brew struck home. He staggered forward, heart galloping, as the rooftops and chimney-stacks rose and toppled like waves. A coach thundered past, showering him in dust. He stumbled backward, coughing.

A horse whinnied in his ear.

– Thought it was you, sir, the coachman said, leaning down.

Flood fell against the door, felt the window glass shudder in its frame. He was still without the thread, but he had another now. It would have to do.

At Blackfriars Stairs, Pica and Snow were waiting for a wherry to take them back downriver when the coachman drove up on the quay and called to them. They hurried over.

– It’s your father, the coachman said to Pica. You’d best climb in and let me explain on the way.

She and Snow seated themselves and the coach lurched forward into the streets. Pica stuck her head out the window and was about to speak but stopped herself, remembering that it was better to let the coachman gallop unchecked.

– Took him to Gough Square, the coachman shouted. To see a Mr. Johnson. Employment prospect, I believe. So I wait
for him in the street. After a while there’s a great hullabaloo. People running this way and that, like a grand spectacle’s just been announced. I climb down from the coach just as they’re carrying your father off.

– Carrying him off?

– I only know what they told me. Mr. Johnson not at home, landlady says, but expected soon. Lets your father in to wait. A few minutes later there’s a scream that brings half the parish running. Landlady comes flying out of the house, blubbering and shrieking.
Madman, a madman
. Neighbours rush in, find him on the third floor. Standing in an empty room making these unaccountable motions at the thin air. Doesn’t seem to see them. Doesn’t reply. They jump him, knock him senseless, carry him out of the house. Tall, thin fellow, all in black, suddenly appears and takes charge of things. So off they go, your father, the man in black, and the mob.

– Where?

– I forgot you’re not from here, little miss, the coachman said. They took him to the madmen’s hospital, of course. To Bedlam.

They rode out along the London Wall to the desolate expanse of Moorfields, passing lone, cheerless houses, the camps of gypsies, smoking hills of rubbish. In the southwest a dark anvil of cloud had risen, towering up behind the turrets and spires. The air bristled like a dog’s hackles and a strong, hot wind began to blow, driving straw and dust before it along the empty road.

– Here we are, ladies, the coachman said, drawing up amid a herd of carriages and sedan chairs.

The article on London in the encyclopedia had mentioned Bedlam, but she had not imagined it like this. A great, dark palace. She and Snow climbed out of the coach, skirted the drivers and porters playing dice on the pavement, passed between the lofty iron gates. Ahead of them on the long gravel path ambled a party of sightseers, the men arm in arm and the women two steps behind, whispering together and breaking into little gusts of laughter. Pica and Snow hurried to catch up with them and followed close, slipping through the narrow portal in the door out of the turnkey’s line of sight.

Looking back to ensure they had not been seen, Pica collided with two taffeta hoop-petticoats. The women looked back, identified the source of the disturbance, and turned away. One of the men with them glanced at Pica, then at Snow.