Trailing someone, even on foot when they were by water, was not difficult when you knew whence they were bound. As the Alchemist and Isabella had wrestled with the starling doors, they had not gone without observance. Two eager faces leaned over the parapet of the Bridge above.
At length, Clive turned from the low guard wall. There had been a good deal of splashing and cursing, but the starling doors were now firmly shut. The object of his adoration was shut within, denied to his vision.
“Well, that’s that then! Told you it was a waste of time!” said Jerry, leaning back against the wall.
They were right next to the first (visible) floor of Nonsuch House. Of the many windows, not-a-one showed sign of movement within; but then, frosted and opaque as they were, Isabella could have been lewdly twirling amethyst rings about her naked navel but inches from their noses and they would probably have been none the wiser. Clive shook his head of the vision: what was that line from My Summer Night’s Cream?
‘The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all a cat.’
Not just pretty words! He needed to focus: he had a job to do. “Let’s just wait a while, can we?” he asked. “Maybe someone will come out?”
“Come out of where?” said Jerry. “This thing’s got more exits and entrances than a Spanish whore.”
“Please!”
“Eh-eh!” Jerry started. “Will you look at that?”
“What?”
Jerry wasn’t looking towards Nonsuch. He was looking further up the Bridge. “There!” he pointed. Clive followed his gaze to a hurrying figure, heading northwards through the Nonsuch archway, already past them, swaddled in a shawl that hid the face.
“Someone you know?”
“Are you kidding? I’d recognise those hips anywhere!”
“So, who is it?”
“Milly, of course!”
“So? We’re here for Isabella’s father, aren’t we?”
“Milly and Isabella are thick as thieves, mate. If Milly’s heading to a secret tryst north of the Bridge and doesn’t want to be seen, I’d wager my right nut it’s got something to do with Issy. And her father, of course.”
“Well, not necessarily, she could be going to see a...” nervous look at Jerry, “a man or... something?”
Jerry thought about this. Apparently, the idea had not occurred to him previously. “Not sure Isabella’s into somethings. Straight-shooter that one.”
“I was talking about Milly.”
“Nah. Don’t think Issy’s into Milly, neither, but ta for the thought.” He half-shrugged. “Either way, there’s only one way to find out!”
Jerry started off, only to realise Clive hadn’t budged. “Pick up your feet, Huckledish!”
“Fish!”
“Not in this river!”
Clive crossed his arms. “Jerry! The Undertaker told us to wait right here and watch out for the Alchemist and his daughter, and that is exactly what I intend to do!”
“Really? Didn’t you say something earlier about wanting to see north of the Bridge?”
Clive double took, and then took it back. “Oh, very well then, if you insist! You are the senior employee, after all.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Got that right: they don’t come much more senior than me!”
They set off down the tunnel bored through Nonsuch and the row of houses hence. Open air was something of a rare commodity on London Bridge. Unbeknownst to Clive, the Alchemist had purchased all the airspace immediately in front of Nonsuch, above the old drawbridge (now nailed down), ensuring a clear view for his many windows. Pricey, but then not all owners on the Bridge could turn ordinary household items into gold. The following seven or eight houses (it was a bit hard to tell where one ended and the next began sometimes) enjoyed no such separation from each other. Seen from the side, the effect was of a hastening queue, the foremost of which (Nonsuch) had suddenly halted, causing the rest to collide, compressing together like bellows.
Milly was nearly across the Bridge now, but they kept her in sight, following at a discrete distance.
The northernmost stretch of the Bridge was... noisy. Oh, not just the normal noise of the traffic... no, this was mechanical. Clanking and splooshing, over and over.
“What on earth is that?” asked Clive, trying to get a view over the edge.
“Water wheels,” said Jerry, “pumping drinking water into the city. We have the Alchemist’s grandfather to thank for that – another Dutchman. Can you believe the city granted him a 500 year lease?”
“How did he get that?”
“He shot a jet of water over the roof of St. Magnus to show how powerful his pumps were.”
“Sounds rather vulgar.”
“What do you expect from a Dutchman? Anyway the city fathers were so impressed they gave him the top three archways to use, and permission to build Nonsuch. Not that there’s much money in water now, especially since the New River...”
“I thought we were at war with the Dutch?”
“’Bout bloody time if you ask me! Come on, she’s getting away!”
Clive followed. The sharp spire of St. Paul’s was now clearly visible above the rooftops to the left. The Bridge transitioned almost seamlessly into the mighty thoroughfare of Gras-Cherche Street. The houses here were far grander and more solid-looking than those of the South. Coats-of-arms on the second floors told tell of the families and societies within. The second floors elbowed out against one another, greedy for every inch of space, while the upper stories craned upwards, scaffolding around the newest additions. The windows of opposing houses were so close as to be more egress than vista: trysting neighbours could pay their respects without ever laying foot to the ground.
Where there was space at all between the houses, utter darkness reigned. Clive thought he saw what looked like the twinkle of hungry eyes for a moment... but then they were gone.
Jerry saw Clive’s look. “Quite a dog’s dinner, innit? But that’s municipal planning for you – or the lack of it, rather. Look at this – even the Quakers have a house down here! Y’know they believe women to be equal to men? Did you ever hear the like? Everywhere you look – extremism and entropy! One could almost wish for some great calamity to come in and sweep it all away so we could start over... Ah well—ooh look! She’s ’anging a left into Thames Street! Com’on!”
Jerry began to jog – Clive huffed and puffed and kept pace. They turned the corner into Thames Street, parallel to the river. Warehouses dominated the left bankside leading down to the wharves: the smell of fish was overpowering.
“Isn’t this where Chaucer lived?”
“Upper Thames Street, but yes – you know your greats!:-
‘Have friars such a grace,
that none of them come to this place?’”
Clive knew this part:
“‘Hold up your tail, Satan!
Show forth your ass–’”
Jerry and Clive spoke in unison,
“‘and let the friar see where the nest of friars is in this place!’”
They roared in conjoined mirth: a tarman who was passing gave them a dark look (which is not difficult when you are a tarman).
“Phew!” Clive said as the wind delivered, “it’s a bit whiffy isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it didn’t used to be called Stockfishmonger’s Row for nothing. Finest pescatorium in all London. Oh, and the funeral parlour’s just down there–” Jerry wafted in the direction of one of the streets between the warehouses, “–we rent one of the smaller warehouses down by the river. Costs us a small fortune!”
“You rent? Hope you have a nice landlord! Ours back home was an absolute troll!”
“Er... Not really, seeing as how it’s the Alchemist an’ all.”
Clive stopped dead. “Wait!—Jerry—you’re telling me that your boss, the Undertaker, Phil Anbury, is renting his work premises... from his arch nemesis?!?”
“The Alchemist owns most of the waterfront along here. Besides, the old bastard gives Phil surprisingly good rates, all told. You know, you have to consider the tangibles: excellent central location, riverside view, easy access to transport, occasional floater washes up – and the fish masks the smell a treat, it does!”
“But... that doesn’t make any sense! What does the Alchemist get out of it? He doesn’t seem short of coin...”
Jerry tapped his nose. “You’re forgetting your Sun Jew, Clive. ‘Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies... owing you rent!’”
“Who is the Sun Jew?”
“Who knows? And that’s the point! He might not even be Jewish! Hell... he could even be Chinese for all we know! He could be anyone! Or no-one! That’s what makes him so clever! Hey, she just turned right! And I think I know where she’s going!”