Robert wiped his brow on his sleeve and nodded.

  Marisee forced her legs to move again. The pale dome of St Paul’s seemed to glow through the gloom ahead of them. They cut through the empty cathedral churchyard. It was still a long way to Hyde Park, and she was tired and her head hurt. She felt like a small boat fighting against the Thames current.

  At least she knew where they were: on Ludgate Street with the Fleet Bridge up ahead. She’d been this way before with Grandma only two months ago, checking on local wells. The streets that day had been full of noise beyond the usual roar of the city. There was to be a hanging at Tyburn and the mob had been jostling for a view of the cart carrying the condemned folk from Newgate prison. Grandma had muttered words that Marisee was sure she wasn’t supposed to hear, her elbows cutting a path through the mass of shouting, laughing onlookers.

  Now, Marisee caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Her brain shouted “wild boar!” just as the beast charged.

  “Run. Run! Now!”

  Was that her mouth shrieking those words or Robert’s?

  Her legs wobbled. The creature was so close. She could see every detail of it: the sharp upward point of its tusks, the circle of its snout, black eyes pulling her into darkness – and the smell! It was filthy prison cells, a butcher’s abattoir and the thick stink of burning horse bones. The boar squealed as it thundered towards her, the fur bristling between its ears like dressmakers’ pins. And she’d seen it before! This was the boar from the Chad court. This was Fleet Ditch, a spirit! It was mist and water. It should pass right through her, but its hooves sparked as it ran and those tusks were sharp as pikes.

  Robert was trying to pull her away, but she was so weary. It would take all her strength to take one step.

  “You cannot hurt me!” she tried to yell. “I am Madam Blackwell’s granddaughter!”

  “I know who you are, honey.”

  That kind, sparkling voice! “Turnmill? Is that you?”

  Turnmill had appeared in front of the Fleet Bridge. She gripped the boar by the snout. Marisee felt as if she had been drenched in swift cold water washing away the stench and terror. In the Chad court, Turnmill had seemed to glisten and fade. Now she looked as solid as a pie seller. So did the boar. Its hooves struck the ground and it tossed its head, trying to free itself. It roared even though its mouth was clamped shut.

  “Ditch takes his guard duties very seriously,” Turnmill said.

  The boar snorted, its bristly ears flattening against its head.

  “Stop this nonsense, Ditch!” Turnmill said.

  The boar shook its head. Dark drops sprayed from its fur and popped as they hit the air.

  “Don’t you recognize her?” Turnmill said. “It’s Marisee Blackwell. You are an excellent guard-boar, but you can’t gore the Well Keeper’s granddaughter.”

  The boar backed away and dropped its head. Turnmill clung on to its snout.

  Turnmill rolled her eyes. “All Solids do not look the same, Ditch. That’s just ignorant. Now, if you promise to behave, I will let you go.”

  More snorts and head-tossing, a hoof scrape.

  “She didn’t know you were going to stop. All she saw was a great big hairy pig running at her.” She glanced at Marisee and Robert. “Isn’t that so?”

  Marisee and Robert nodded.

  “I’m letting you go now,” Turnmill said. “But behave!”

  Turnmill released the boar.

  “What if he charges again?” Robert asked.

  Ditch made a noise that sounded surprisingly like laughter. He trotted away, cast Marisee one backwards glance, and then disappeared over the sides of the Fleet Ditch.

  Turnmill’s attention was on them now. “Our Lady Walbrook is not very happy with you two, is she? Her river surged earlier. Every gutter in the City of London was flooded. Ditch even felt the tremor in his burrow beneath Fleet Bridge. That is pure Walbrook rage.”

  Marisee backed away from her. “Has she sent you to bring us to her?”

  Turnmill laughed. “She knows better than to send me to do her bidding. I try and stay out of her way. You saw what she did to Sadler. You do not want Walbrook as your enemy, though perhaps the warning comes too late for you.”

  “We didn’t mean to upset her,” Marisee said.

  “It’s easily done,” Turnmill said. “But you must be especially careful now. Where are you going?”

  “Hyde Park,” Marisee said. “To talk to the ghosts. We think they might know why this sickness started.”

  “Good idea!” Turnmill said. “The See-throughs always know what’s going on and love new folk to talk at. Ask for Mistress Agnes. She knows everyone. If you keep to the east of the park and away from the Serpentine, you’ll be safe. Well, safer. And ignore the lingering monk. I’d be furious if I was him.” Turnmill looked up and down the road. “We need to make sure you arrive there safely.” She paused, as if listening. “I think our transport problem has been solved.”

  “Thank you so much,” Marisee said. “I know that if Walbrook knew you were helping us…”

  She tried not to imagine Turnmill caught in a web of silver threads, slowly crumbling into sand.

  Turnmill nodded. “If Walbrook knew I was helping you, it wouldn’t end well for any of us. But how could I not help you? I knew your mother and your grandmother and many of the grandmothers that came before.”

  “My mother?” Marisee felt that twist from deep inside her. “You knew my mother?”

  “Of course! When she was a child, she’d often come and sit by my banks and talk to me. She even came to say ‘goodbye’ on the day she left. You were so small, a rivulet. It’s been such a pleasure watching every one of you grow up. Ah…” She looked along Ludgate Hill. “I believe your carriage approaches.”

  Turnmill disappeared.

  Robert touched her arm. “Do you miss your mother?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t remember her.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Can you hear that?” Marisee said. “We should hide. I doubt they’re friendly.”

  Robert held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.

  Hooves on cobblestones. One horse. The metallic rattle of wheels. A chaise, perhaps. What was she supposed to do? A wealthy person in a carriage wasn’t likely to stop for her in normal times, but certainly not now when there was a sleep plague.

  “Marisee! Here!” Robert called.

  He was crouching behind a large chandler’s sign on the other side of the road. She ran over and squeezed next to him. The carriage sounded close, though it was hard to tell. In this strange, silent London, sound moved differently. Those clattering wheels could just as easily be on the other side of the Thames.

  The noise grew louder and louder until the carriage appeared. It was indeed a chaise, driven by a gentleman wearing a long black frock coat and matching tricorn hat. The horse stopped suddenly in front of the chandler’s sign, almost sending the gentleman flying out of his high seat behind the horse. He was a young man, but his face was folded into frowns so heavy that his forehead nearly met his nose. He was clutching a whip so long that the braided leather almost tangled in the horse’s hooves. He cursed the horse and tugged the reins.

  “Move, you ignorant beast!”

  The horse neighed and suddenly trotted a few steps forward. The carriage skittered across the cobbles.

  “Move!” The gentleman raised the whip. “Or I’ll … oh.”

  Marisee thought he may have glimpsed her, but he was staring back at the Fleet Bridge. The boar was sauntering slowly towards the carriage, head down, each step ringing like a bell. Steam flared from its nostrils. The whip dropped from the gentleman’s hand.

  “Move,” he whispered to the horse. “Please move.”

  The horse lifted one hoof, then placed it firmly down exactly where it had been before. It tossed its head. Ditch snorted and the horse did the same – yes, almost exactly the same. It was like the animals were talking to each other.

  “Be ready.” Turnmill had reappeared by Marisee’s side. “Any moment now…”

  Ditch charged. The gentleman screamed. Marisee hadn’t known that men’s voices could reach that high. Ditch stopped just before he slammed into the horse.

  “Nice piggie.” The gentleman’s voice wobbled. “Lovely, lovely, nice piggie.”

  The “nice piggie” turned round and trotted back towards the ditch. Marisee heard the gentleman breathe out in relief. He leaped down from the chaise and picked up the whip.

  “You wait until I get you back to … oh.”

  Ditch had turned around and was staring straight at the gentleman, who was desperately trying to scrabble back on to the chaise.

  “Nice piggie?” the gentleman whimpered, and then he fled, disappearing into an alleyway between the houses.

  “So now you have transport,” Turnmill said sweetly.

  Marisee looked at the carriage. She had never been in a chaise before, let alone driven one.

  “Can you drive?” she asked Robert.

  She picked up the discarded whip and tried to hand it to him, but his hands stayed by his side. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

  Turnmill patted the horse’s flank. “Our friend here doesn’t need a driver. Who do you think he’d rather carry? You or that cruel addle pate?”

  The horse stretched out his head and nuzzled Marisee’s ear.

  “You see?” Turnmill said. “He likes you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Red Rum,” came a deep, smooth voice. Marisee stared towards the boar, who lowered his head as if he was bowing. “But that nasty Solid never knew that.”

  Ditch nodded to them, then disappeared over the edge of the riverbank.

  Robert opened his mouth and closed it again. “He can talk?”

  “Of course,” Turnmill said. “Eighty-three different languages at last count, including London Horse. His Anglo-Saxon cursing is next to none.”

  The cursing boar of Fleet Ditch. Marisee felt a deep sadness that Grandma wasn’t with her to meet him. They’d get on so well. Though they were probably already best friends. So much of Grandma’s life was a secret.

  Marisee stroked the horse’s head. “Actually, I thought rum was brown.”

  “Maybe the name doesn’t translate well from Horse,” Turnmill said. “But it’s better than whatever stupidness that man called it. Come on. You haven’t got much time. I’ll help you up.”

  She cupped her hand for Marisee’s foot. Red Rum stayed still. Marisee tried not to step too hard, before gripping the carriage side and almost tumbling in. Robert followed with as little elegance as her. She took hold of the reins. The carriage seemed rather fragile for the potholes and gutters of London.

  “I hope Red Rum knows the way to Hyde Park,” Marisee said.

  Turnmill whispered in the horse’s ear. “He does now. Hold tight!”

  Marisee did – very tight indeed.

  THE GHOSTS OF HYDE PARK

  Robert had never sat inside a coach before, though he had often helped to clean Lady Hibbert’s landau. He’d travelled on the rear platform, wedged between two conceited footmen, clinging on as the wheels bumped across the uneven roads. He’d also trotted by the side, clearing obstacles from its path. Now, he thought that he would prefer any of those to travelling inside this thing. He had seen these types of coaches speeding around Hyde Park. They made him think of a baby’s cradle bouncing around on high wheels. He clung to the sides as it jolted and sprung and wiggled and threw him against Marisee, who sat rigid and upright, the reins slack in her hands. He wished that Turnmill had taught him London Horse for “please slow down before I’m sick”.

  The early twilight was passing into darkness, with just a smear of orange sky in the west. It was like the sun was fighting the sickness and losing. They stopped by a tavern on the Strand to take the lit lantern that hung outside. Three times, riderless horses trotted out of the shadows towards them. Each time, Marisee had flinched, expecting robbers, but Red Rum had neighed at them and the horse had neighed back. Robert wished he knew what they were saying.

  A gentleman in a judge’s wig was sitting by a statue on Charing Cross. He’d leaped into the road and yelled “Stop!”, but Red Rum had easily swerved round him. Whether he was sick or not, Red Rum wasn’t going to stop to find out.

  At last, they arrived at a long, high wall. Hyde Park. Turnmill must have given Red Rum specific instructions because they rattled through the gate on the south-east side, rolling north along an avenue. Robert could just make out the dark shapes of the trees on either side. The Serpentine was to the west.

  Marisee was looking the same way.

  “Grandma said that there used to be many separate wells and streams,” she told him. “Queen Charlotte joined them together. Many of the spirits were against it.”

  Robert’s stomach was jumping around too much to reply. He shivered. There was a chill to the air. He imagined the yellow mist from all the sleepers in London curling up and joining together to blot out the light. And he was here to find ghosts. He tried to pull his tight jacket closer around him.

  The horse slowed to a walk and finally stopped. It lifted its head and neighed.

  “I understand, Red Rum,” Marisee said. “I feel it too. This is as far as you go.”

  She slid out of the carriage. Robert thumped down on the other side. The park was so dark he could barely see where his feet landed.

  “We’re near Tyburn Road,” Marisee swung the lantern towards a high wall at the end of the park. “That’s where they’ve built the triple tree gallows so they can hang twenty-four people at the same time.”

  Robert knew about it. It had been the talk of the kitchen. Mrs Wandle had even been to an execution there and was very impressed. She’d thought it funny that Lizzie and Robert were so upset about it.

  “Grandma hates the hangings,” Marisee said. “She says that most of the condemned are just poor and desperate.”

  Lizzie had said the same, but not within Mrs Wandle’s earshot. He hoped Lizzie was safe.

  Marisee looked around her. “Do you think the ghosts can see us?”

  Robert had been trying not to think of that. The chill in the air became sharper. His own ears must be twitching like the Fleet Ditch boar’s as he squinted into the shadow at every sound.

  “Miss Turnmill said you should ask for Mistress Agnes,” he whispered. Though he wasn’t sure if he wanted Marisee to ask for anyone at all. He’d rather follow Red Rum and get far away from this place.

  Marisee cleared her throat and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Mistress Agnes?”

  In the park’s eerie silence, she could be loud enough to raise all the dead people in London.

  “I pray for you, my sister.” The gargled voice came from on top of the wall. A pale hooded figure huddled there. There was a shine around it as if it was crouching in a tunnel of light.

  “Who…” Marisee was much quieter now. But as she held up her lantern, Robert saw her lift her head and thrust back her shoulders. “Who are you?” Her voice was stronger again.

  “I pray for you, sister. I pray for all the sinners that sent me to my death.”

  The figure stood, though there was a thin line of darkness between it and the top of the wall. It was not standing. It floated, clutching its cloak tightly, its hands buried within the folds.

  “It’s … it’s a ghost,” Robert said.

  He didn’t know why he said this. It was obvious. He just needed to say something. It tilted back its head, pushing away its hood, and its face – there was no face. Just a skull held within the fold of the cowl. Its body jerked and the skull rolled sideways. The cloak flew open. Robert saw bony fingers – and then he turned away. The ghostly monk’s body had been split open like a hot potato, and everything that was inside it had been pulled out.

  Marisee touched his arm. Her hand was shaking, but her voice was not. “It’s gone,” she said.

  “What…” His teeth were chattering too much to speak.

  “It’s gone,” she said again.

  Robert remembered Fleet’s words. How can Solids be so cruel to their own? He had always known that some found it easy. Even when he’d seen Fleet’s hands on her blanket, they’d reminded him of the elders in the plantation, finger joints swollen from years of separating cocoa beans from the pods, their nails dirty, ragged and torn.

  “Who goes there?”

  Robert jumped. His heart hammered. A soldier stood by the wall, carrying the same faint shine as the monk. His red coat flapped open and his pale breeches were stained with mud. A bayonet was slung across his shoulder, though the barrel was pointing towards the ground.

  “I’m … I’m Marisee,” she said. She lifted her chin. “Marisee Blackwell.”

  The soldier took a few steps forward. His black leather boots made no sound. “I said who goes there?”

  Robert’s heart beat even harder. Soldiers had once been called to the plantation. There’d been rumours of a rebellion brewing. They’d marched round the fields, shoulders back, bayonets high. Mama had clutched him and his sisters even closer.

  Robert took a deep breath. This was a soldier, yes, but a ghost-soldier. It was only living soldiers that he must fear.

  “My name is Robert Strong.” He wasn’t even sure if the soldier could hear him, but he continued. “This is Miss Marisee Blackwell. We seek an audience with Mistress Agnes.”

  The soldier marched up to them. He lifted his bayonet and pointed it towards Robert’s chest.

  “Is that young Marisee?” The voice came from behind them. A woman shone in the darkness, clutching a milkmaid’s stool in one hand. Her spectacles were perched low on her nose and her apron pocket was heavy with flasks. A black bonnet lay flat against her head, its strings tied tight below her chin. The light from the lantern shone right through her to the ground below.

  “Let them be,” she said.

  The soldier spun around back to the wall.

  “Poor Hans,” the elderly woman said. “He was shot. By his own side, if you can believe it. He was meant to be in the barracks, but his wife died bringing another baby into the world. He went off to be with his little ones. He didn’t ask no permission so they brought him here.” She clutched at her see-through chest. “Straight through his heart. I saw it all.”

 

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