here this time, neither.”
“Hold your arms out,” Roman ordered. Twitch pressed his lips
together, and Roman knew there was more the boy didn’t want to be found. He was
reluctant to pat down a mudlark; often as not they held back shards of glass or
rusty hooks against just this purpose, but the boy had been running from
something.
The knife was hidden under his sleeve, tied beneath the boy’s
upper arm with a strip of rag. A flick blade with a five-inch edge.
“Well, well. That’s a wicked bit of nasty, isn’t it?” The blade
appeared to be covered with dried blood.
The boy’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t steal it!” He seemed to
shrivel into himself. “Found it.”
Roman examined the weapon. On the carved bone handle, a hunting
scene; a pack of hounds chasing a doe. German made, with a good steel blade. “Where
did you find it?”
“South Dock.”
The pool of blood. He gave the boy a good
shake. “Where? What time?”
“Maybe an hour ago.” Twitch squirmed out of his grasp. “Near the
Millwall gate. I swear, I found it lyin’ in the dirt by the taxi stand.”
He sniffed the blade. The blood was fresh enough that a coppery
scent still lingered. “I’ll bet.” He took a closer look at the malnourished
boy. If he remembered right, the lad’s mother had died of consumption months
ago, leaving the boy on his own. Twitch was so thin now, his skin had taken on
that translucent pallor of starvation—so common on the street these days.
Probably hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. He wouldn’t last much longer.
Roman shouted out to the reception area. “Sergeant Loman! I’ll be putting
young Mr. Crisp here in cell number two. What time is supper?” They couldn’t
hold him for more than a day, but the least he could do was to get a meal or
two into him. That and warm bed might loosen his tongue.
The sergeant stepped into the doorway and gave him a knowing look.
“Five-thirty. The missus has a lamb stew on. With carrots and barley bread.”
The boy’s jaw dropped.
“Come on then, Twitch. Let’s get your paperwork finished up. Seems
like you’ve caught a bit of luck today. If nothing comes up, we’ll turn you
loose in the morning.”
“Can I ‘ave me knife back?”
“I think not. You’ve had enough luck for the day.”
CHAPTER
10
Simon kept a firm grip on the heavy tow line as he followed Figgsy,
the hangar master, with Bruno and the others trailing behind. From the outside,
the two airship hangars had the general appearance of an elongated bee skep, or
perhaps a rugby football laid on its side. They trudged past the first hangar,
and Simon caught a glimpse of the less-than-impressive Belgian and Swiss airships
tethered just inside.
“You’re the last of ‘em, I expect.” Figgsy eyed the damaged
gondola, but wisely said nothing. “Crews here from all over the continent, all
lookin’ to persuade ‘Er Majesty of the necessity of an air navy. Excoitin’
times, to be sure, eh? Spectin’ a big turnout crowd as well. Biggest thing
since the last public hanging, in ’68.”
The doors of the second hangar had been pulled wide to receive
them. Once out of the wind, the Il
Colibri offered no more resistance than the tug of a tethered hot air
balloon. Inside, rigid steel girders soared some thirty meters above them and
provided a birdcage-like structure, sheathed on the outside with strips of
metal siding. Near the ceiling, a line of clerestory windows encircled the
structure, allowing plenty of light inside.
“Last bay on the left,” Figgsy, instructed. “Dock fee is two shillings
per night. Extra two-pence for use of the waiting-room. Pay as you go. Plenty
of room for you and your crew, and you’ll be safe as my own mother here.”
“I presume there’s a decent hotel nearby?” Although Simon adored
flying and every moment they spent aloft on the Il Colibri , he did not enjoy cramped quarters aboard, and usually
he and Arvel took rooms when they
“Hold your arms out,” Roman ordered. Twitch pressed his lips
together, and Roman knew there was more the boy didn’t want to be found. He was
reluctant to pat down a mudlark; often as not they held back shards of glass or
rusty hooks against just this purpose, but the boy had been running from
something.
The knife was hidden under his sleeve, tied beneath the boy’s
upper arm with a strip of rag. A flick blade with a five-inch edge.
“Well, well. That’s a wicked bit of nasty, isn’t it?” The blade
appeared to be covered with dried blood.
The boy’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t steal it!” He seemed to
shrivel into himself. “Found it.”
Roman examined the weapon. On the carved bone handle, a hunting
scene; a pack of hounds chasing a doe. German made, with a good steel blade. “Where
did you find it?”
“South Dock.”
The pool of blood. He gave the boy a good
shake. “Where? What time?”
“Maybe an hour ago.” Twitch squirmed out of his grasp. “Near the
Millwall gate. I swear, I found it lyin’ in the dirt by the taxi stand.”
He sniffed the blade. The blood was fresh enough that a coppery
scent still lingered. “I’ll bet.” He took a closer look at the malnourished
boy. If he remembered right, the lad’s mother had died of consumption months
ago, leaving the boy on his own. Twitch was so thin now, his skin had taken on
that translucent pallor of starvation—so common on the street these days.
Probably hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. He wouldn’t last much longer.
Roman shouted out to the reception area. “Sergeant Loman! I’ll be putting
young Mr. Crisp here in cell number two. What time is supper?” They couldn’t
hold him for more than a day, but the least he could do was to get a meal or
two into him. That and warm bed might loosen his tongue.
The sergeant stepped into the doorway and gave him a knowing look.
“Five-thirty. The missus has a lamb stew on. With carrots and barley bread.”
The boy’s jaw dropped.
“Come on then, Twitch. Let’s get your paperwork finished up. Seems
like you’ve caught a bit of luck today. If nothing comes up, we’ll turn you
loose in the morning.”
“Can I ‘ave me knife back?”
“I think not. You’ve had enough luck for the day.”
CHAPTER
10
Simon kept a firm grip on the heavy tow line as he followed Figgsy,
the hangar master, with Bruno and the others trailing behind. From the outside,
the two airship hangars had the general appearance of an elongated bee skep, or
perhaps a rugby football laid on its side. They trudged past the first hangar,
and Simon caught a glimpse of the less-than-impressive Belgian and Swiss airships
tethered just inside.
“You’re the last of ‘em, I expect.” Figgsy eyed the damaged
gondola, but wisely said nothing. “Crews here from all over the continent, all
lookin’ to persuade ‘Er Majesty of the necessity of an air navy. Excoitin’
times, to be sure, eh? Spectin’ a big turnout crowd as well. Biggest thing
since the last public hanging, in ’68.”
The doors of the second hangar had been pulled wide to receive
them. Once out of the wind, the Il
Colibri offered no more resistance than the tug of a tethered hot air
balloon. Inside, rigid steel girders soared some thirty meters above them and
provided a birdcage-like structure, sheathed on the outside with strips of
metal siding. Near the ceiling, a line of clerestory windows encircled the
structure, allowing plenty of light inside.
“Last bay on the left,” Figgsy, instructed. “Dock fee is two shillings
per night. Extra two-pence for use of the waiting-room. Pay as you go. Plenty
of room for you and your crew, and you’ll be safe as my own mother here.”
“I presume there’s a decent hotel nearby?” Although Simon adored
flying and every moment they spent aloft on the Il Colibri , he did not enjoy cramped quarters aboard, and usually
he and Arvel took rooms when they
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