The Precarious Child Read online

Verity here.”

  She shifted in her seat again. The agent made her feel very strange, and sent her thoughts winging to other places than where they should have been. It was most certainly nowhere near pursuing her family’s killers, or finding her beloved father’s collection of antiquities.

  Realising this, she leapt to her feet. “Don’t mind Henry, we’ll find who you want us to.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. You know how to reach me.” Agent Thorne tipped his hat and exited through the concealed staircase.

  “You heard the man,” Verity snapped. “Let’s go find this Clayton gent. If he suspects the Ministry is after him he’ll be heading for the lowest bolthole.”

  Children privileged or impoverished would have thrown a fit at being ordered about like that, but her little group would never question a command from her or Henry. They had only survived this long on the streets by listening to them. Quickly the children were on their feet, sliding on jackets, hats, and pocketing the little devices and nick knacks that gave them a profession.

  Watching these urchins carry out preliminary checks of their technological creations gave her a tiny, vain smile. She’d made most of them herself and trained the children in proper care of their arsenal. Modern men of science would have dismissed her compatriots, and even she had her doubts when they first gathered. Happily, her gang had proven her wrong.

  Henry came up behind her as she was packing a collection of devices that might come in handy into her jacket and trousers. “I don’t like how he orders us about like we’re a pack of hounds he can set on a bleedin’ fox.”

  Verity glared at him. “Would you prefer Jonathan and Jeremy pressed into working for an adult gang? Maybe Liam would be happy as a clankerton’s tester or a chimneysweep? Or would you see Emma some dirty old man’s plaything? The workhouse is always an option, of course.”

  Henry swallowed and stared abruptly down at his feet.

  “I thought not,” she continued primly. “Now let’s go out and make an honest coin.”

  The streets of Kensington were well to-do, but like most of London, a street in either direction could lead a person to a different world. Poor, middle-class, prostitute or doctor, they all rubbed shoulders here.

  Without needing to consult, the urchins set off to their own favourite haunts in the reeking, deadly city. Henry headed into the East End, where he had distant family members and a reach deep and wide. Jonathan and Jeremy went to the West End, where they mingled with the various children who held horses and ran errands for theatre-goers and actors (when they had coin to spend). Christopher was kind enough to let the doe-eyed Emma tag along with him as he made for Westminster.

  That left Verity looking down into the cheeky grins of Liam and Colin. “So where do we start boys?” She knew if she let them run off by themselves not a lot would be achieved except for maybe a few lifted purses. The youngest boys were the easiest to be distracted.

  Liam tilted his head. “The Ditch.”

  “Yeah, plenty of dosses there,” Colin chimed in.

  Of all the places. “Are you sure?” Verity asked with a little dread. However, they knew this city far more intimately, and she didn’t doubt their instincts.

  The boys nodded solemnly, and so that was how it had to be.

  They caught a ride on the back of a bus, running up alongside as it chuffed away from the stop, and hauling themselves onto the back. It was not the fastest mode of travel, nor the safest if the conductor caught them, but it was fun to watch the world go by and saved their boot leather. Perched like sparrows very near the rear wheel Verity and the boys took in the sights. To keep Liam and Colin mollified, she fished out some toffee she’d acquired two days before and gave it to them.

  They passed plenty of fellow urchins—some even waved or called hello. However the three of them were on Ministry business, and so Verity held tight to the boys’ sleeves least they make a run for it. The looks they shot her were not exactly delighted.

  The boys motioned with their heads, and they jumped as their bus turned a corner. Verity straightened up, squinting through the dust of the afternoon, taking in the less-than-desirable Shoreditch. Verity allowed herself to be lead down an alleyway by the boys who were almost giggling. How they loved to keep her on edge.

  One of the difficulties they faced was that in London there was a definite surplus of one-legged men. Wars and industrial accidents had in fact made them as common as dust.

  When Liam and Colin finally allowed her to stop, a slow smile spread on Verity’s face.

  They were standing across the road from Lady Bucket’s Hospital for War Veterans. The newly painted sign, clean windows, and smells of food proclaimed that inside could be found a hero’s welcome, as well as a hot dinner and warm clothing. Verity chewed her lip and observed for a moment as a group of three well-dressed ladies went in. She knew the type: privileged, looking to do good work in the hopes it would make them better people, or perhaps justify their social shortcomings. Some did it out of appearance, others were genuinely kind hearted. It reminded her distastefully of the workhouse.

  “We did good right, Truth?” Colin asked, tugging slightly on her sleeve.

  She smiled down at him. The boys liked to seem all posh calling her that—showing that they knew what her name meant in Latin—even if she had told them. “You did, lads. Should have thought of it myself.” She attempted to brush any dirt off her half-cloak and trousers. “Now you stay here and keep watch.”

  They both grumbled a little, but they didn’t need telling how much attention two small boys in a place like this would draw. They retreated into the shadows of the alleyway, and Verity quickly crossed the road.

  She slipped in with a gaggle of other ladies carrying in large bundles of clothing. They were all too busy being pleased with their charity to notice one extra female among them. She and the charitable women were soon marching into a large room housing the shattered remains of Britain’s warriors. While the prim and proper ladies did little to hide their disdain, Verity reminded herself sternly that these men had fought for the Empire. However, it was hard looking at them. Despite her years on the street, these broken souls were pathetic to see. Their wounds were not just physical. It was their eyes; as still and dead as stones.

  As the boys had guessed, one-legged men were in abundance here. The lucky ones had articulated prosthetics of varying age, engineering, and effectiveness. The unlucky ones had mere wooden pegs where once limbs had been. They clattered and stumped their way around the hall, which was full of stretcher beds. It could not have been much different than when they’d been in the army, but certainly better than the streets.

  Verity’s gaze darted around the room, looking for one man Agent Harrison Thorne was after. None stood out as being particularly clean or better fed than the others. What was needed was a distraction so she could sort the wheat from the chaff.

  She dipped into her pocket and felt around. She didn’t need to see the objects in there to know what they were; she knew everyone of them by touch. A set of lockpicks she’d stolen from a member of the elephant gang, a spool of razor wire, and a hundred other little objects. Her fingers closed on the tiny oval shape of Mickey. A slow smile spread on Verity’s lips.

  Hiding him behind her back, she carefully wound the key, and dropped the little clockwork rat onto the floor. Gentile ladies come for a little charitable work were not immune to Mickey’s particular charm. This was no toy for a pet or a child, but an articulated rat that ran on articulated feet, with a mechanical body covered in a pelt that made it look all too real. Verity has also made her automated rodent rather aggressive. It scuttled across the floor, letting out a high-pitched squeals as it drew close to objects. Objects like feet. In a few moments the room was full of horrified ladies dancing around screaming. Many were pulling up their skirts. Some of those they’d been helping, in turn tried to help the women. Veterans now lashed out at the rat with their prosthetic and otherwise legs.

  In the
chaos, Verity slipped in the office. She glanced at the clock and focused on its internal workings, making a mental connection between it and Mickey. Her rat’s clockwork would soon enough reach their second sequence and send him scuttling for shelter. Until then, she would have the time necessary to get done what she wanted. Her eyes scanned the hospital director’s desk. Everyone in power was always ready to make lists—it seemed it was the only way to for them to ever feel important. A brief stint in a workhouse had made Verity deeply distrustful of lists and the large books they were kept in, but they could be useful at times like this.

  Only two men had come in the last week, according to this calendar. One old, one young. From Agent Thorne’s description she knew this wasn’t going to be some codger. He wasn’t as simple as to sign in under his name, but thanks to the blessed fernicktyness of the establishment, they took something they called ‘identifying features’. Probably the odd person tried to pull one over on the charity…it happened even in the most worthy of places.

  “Young then,” she whispered. “And red-haired.” Her finger traced the name. It was not Arthur Clayton, but John Marlet, listed as ‘mobile’ and fit for work duty.

  In her head, she heard a quick click as if gears in both the clock and Mickey were striking together in perfect