and Baines out, are we?’ he said.
Mr Flynn laughed. ‘No, we’ll do a bit of nosing around. See what we can see.’
Julius sniffed to try to clear the mysterious smell from his nose.
‘My beat is in the area, you see—the tanning yards near the Bermondsey rookery. I see all the comings and goings at night,’ explained Clements, as they walked along Bermondsey Street. A London fog had descended. It hung illuminated around the lamps like spectres.
‘Your beat?’ said Julius.
‘Yes, I’m in the purefinding trade, my boy. I have a nose for pure. I harvest it at night when the roads are clear.’
‘Pure?’ asked Julius.
‘That’s dog poo to you and me, Julius, It’s used in the tanneries to cure leather,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Correct,’ said Clements. ‘Brown gold, littering the streets of this great metropolis. Think of it, Higgins, the leather on your next pair of boots might be tanned using the very pure that I pick up tonight. How many people can say that?’
‘Not many,’ said Julius.
Clements laughed. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t go into the business years ago. Urban agriculture, I call it—the agrarian idyll among the cobblestones. But I’m just doing it to get my foot in the door, you know.’
‘Foot in the door, where?’ asked Julius.
‘At the tanneries, of course,’ said Clements. ‘My name has been bandied about by those in the know: “Clements is a reliable fellow.” “Clements knows pure.” “Clements is a force to be reckoned with.”Those are but a selection of the many things being said of me in Bermondsey. This time next year, I’ll be smoking cigars as long as your arm. Ha, ha.’
Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn walked on. A smell like festering sewage wafted through the fog. ‘That’s the tanning yards,’ said Clements. ‘You get used to it.’ He led the way, appearing to navigate by scent alone.
They passed the workhouse on Great Russell Street and turned into a narrow street. It was lined by tenements, rising up and leaning out over their heads. Unseen dogs barked, and babies cried.
‘Through here,’ said Clements. He led them into an even narrower street. Julius held the back of Mr Flynn’s coat so as not to lose him.
‘Nearly there,’ said Clements, as cheerful as a tour guide.
The street stopped and wasteground began. Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn stood there in a row, peering into the night. A muddy path stretched out before them through an expanse of swampy grass. After ten yards it dissolved into the fog.
‘Lead on,’ said Mr Flynn.
Clements hesitated. ‘You can take my word for it, Mr Flynn. Their hideout is through there. Follow the path and you can’t miss it.’
‘I want to see it for myself before I part with a farthing,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Three pounds, did we say?’ said Clements.
‘Two, if I remember correctly,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Yes, of course, two. I remember now.’
The fog began to sink its damp claws into Julius’s skin, making his head ache with the cold. He tried to stamp his feet quietly, waiting for Clements to come to a decision.
‘Just a sight, then, and our deal is done?’ said Clements.
‘Just a sight,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Very well…’
Julius thought he heard a curse under Clements’s breath. ‘This way,’ said the purefinder and he walked into the fog.
‘Stick close,’ said Mr Flynn to Julius.
When they had gone a few paces Julius looked back. There was nothing but fog. He held Mr Flynn’s coattail firmly as they walked on. Julius lost count of his steps.
Clements stopped. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered.
Up ahead, the fog thinned and Julius could see a wall, slightly darker than the night. Beyond the wall the black silhouette of a house rose from the wasteland. Faint candle-lit rectangles showed the windows.
‘They come and go at all times of the night,’ whispered Clements. ‘They stole a hansom cab a few days ago, and they use it to bring boxes and whatnot into the place. There’s
Mr Flynn laughed. ‘No, we’ll do a bit of nosing around. See what we can see.’
Julius sniffed to try to clear the mysterious smell from his nose.
‘My beat is in the area, you see—the tanning yards near the Bermondsey rookery. I see all the comings and goings at night,’ explained Clements, as they walked along Bermondsey Street. A London fog had descended. It hung illuminated around the lamps like spectres.
‘Your beat?’ said Julius.
‘Yes, I’m in the purefinding trade, my boy. I have a nose for pure. I harvest it at night when the roads are clear.’
‘Pure?’ asked Julius.
‘That’s dog poo to you and me, Julius, It’s used in the tanneries to cure leather,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Correct,’ said Clements. ‘Brown gold, littering the streets of this great metropolis. Think of it, Higgins, the leather on your next pair of boots might be tanned using the very pure that I pick up tonight. How many people can say that?’
‘Not many,’ said Julius.
Clements laughed. ‘Don’t know why I didn’t go into the business years ago. Urban agriculture, I call it—the agrarian idyll among the cobblestones. But I’m just doing it to get my foot in the door, you know.’
‘Foot in the door, where?’ asked Julius.
‘At the tanneries, of course,’ said Clements. ‘My name has been bandied about by those in the know: “Clements is a reliable fellow.” “Clements knows pure.” “Clements is a force to be reckoned with.”Those are but a selection of the many things being said of me in Bermondsey. This time next year, I’ll be smoking cigars as long as your arm. Ha, ha.’
Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn walked on. A smell like festering sewage wafted through the fog. ‘That’s the tanning yards,’ said Clements. ‘You get used to it.’ He led the way, appearing to navigate by scent alone.
They passed the workhouse on Great Russell Street and turned into a narrow street. It was lined by tenements, rising up and leaning out over their heads. Unseen dogs barked, and babies cried.
‘Through here,’ said Clements. He led them into an even narrower street. Julius held the back of Mr Flynn’s coat so as not to lose him.
‘Nearly there,’ said Clements, as cheerful as a tour guide.
The street stopped and wasteground began. Julius, Clements and Mr Flynn stood there in a row, peering into the night. A muddy path stretched out before them through an expanse of swampy grass. After ten yards it dissolved into the fog.
‘Lead on,’ said Mr Flynn.
Clements hesitated. ‘You can take my word for it, Mr Flynn. Their hideout is through there. Follow the path and you can’t miss it.’
‘I want to see it for myself before I part with a farthing,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Three pounds, did we say?’ said Clements.
‘Two, if I remember correctly,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Yes, of course, two. I remember now.’
The fog began to sink its damp claws into Julius’s skin, making his head ache with the cold. He tried to stamp his feet quietly, waiting for Clements to come to a decision.
‘Just a sight, then, and our deal is done?’ said Clements.
‘Just a sight,’ said Mr Flynn.
‘Very well…’
Julius thought he heard a curse under Clements’s breath. ‘This way,’ said the purefinder and he walked into the fog.
‘Stick close,’ said Mr Flynn to Julius.
When they had gone a few paces Julius looked back. There was nothing but fog. He held Mr Flynn’s coattail firmly as they walked on. Julius lost count of his steps.
Clements stopped. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered.
Up ahead, the fog thinned and Julius could see a wall, slightly darker than the night. Beyond the wall the black silhouette of a house rose from the wasteland. Faint candle-lit rectangles showed the windows.
‘They come and go at all times of the night,’ whispered Clements. ‘They stole a hansom cab a few days ago, and they use it to bring boxes and whatnot into the place. There’s
Similar Books
