Page 8 of The Demons of Wychwood

“I’ll get a hot potato from the stall for you, yeah?” Billy suggested. I was relieved to hear it because I’d have no time to stop and eat.

“Thanks, mate, I owe you one,” I said with a nod. Clutching the letter, I rushed to the exit. I clocked out and would need to clock in again by twelve-thirty or my afternoon wages would get docked.

By the time I walked through the corridors at the GPO and onto the street the bells of St Paul’s had stopped ringing, and the sounds of the city wrapped around me. Horse-drawn carriages, omnibuses, carts and a throng of people swarmed this part of the metropolis. I suddenly paused realizing that I hadn’t even looked at the address on the front of the letter. “Oi!” I roared as I was buffeted by a passerby.

“Don’t stand in the path then, you bleedin’ numbskull!” The stranger shouted back. I scowled and put my back to the wall as I glanced at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to;

Lord Christopher Havelock

Duke of Penhelligan,

20 St James’ Square,

London.

Blimey! This was one of the most exclusive addresses in London. And I knew that name, Penhelligan! My hackles rose and my protective urges came to the fore. A wrong had been done to my family by those at a Devonshire country estate named Penhelligan Hall. Could this Duke and the hall be connected? I wanted to find out, but I needed to do it in such a way that I didn’t lose my job. I didn’t wear a uniform, and it was clear that I wasn’t a mail delivery boy. I’d not only need to deliver the letter quickly but hope that this Lord Penhelligan didn’t reprimand me for the unusual method of delivery or cause a fuss, as nobs are prone to do!

Unless I suddenly grew wings there was no way I could make it all the way to St James’s and then back to St Paul’s in thirty minutes. I wondered if I could just pretend I’d made the delivery and slip the letter into the next mail round, but Superintendent Stockton had seen the address, and he was notoriously a nosey bugger. I wouldn’t put it past the man to check. My shoulders sagged and I resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be a costly error. I’d have to pay for a hack and hope the midday traffic across town wasn’t too bad. It was near the end of the week and money was tight until payday. I rarely touched the money I earned at Wychwood. Elowen and I relied on my weekly earnings from the GPO and the coin she made from doing embroidery piecework at home. I thrust my hand into my trouser pocket, and on pulling it out and opening my palm, I saw I only had three shillings and sixpence. At sixpence per mile, the coins would get me a cab across town, but I’d need to run like the devil was at my arse to make it back to St Paul’s in time for my afternoon shift.

It was always easy to hire a hack around St Paul’s as London’s full of sinners seeking absolution and they visit the grand cathedral thinking they’ll find it! The journey to St James’ took ten minutes. I sat in the hack with its worn leather banquette seat, the driver standing on his perch behind me shouting curses at every cove who dared cross the road in front of his old nag. I held the envelope between my fingers and stared at the flowing feminine script of the address. I sniffed the paper and detected the faint scent of lavender. I wondered if this was a letter from a sweetheart, or something else. Was Lord Penhelligan young and courting a lady, or was he one of the fussy old codgers who spent his days in gentleman’s clubs instead of at the House of Lords? Was this Lord responsible for the betrayal of my blood?

The hackney came to a halt, and I saw a flock of unwashed street urchins running into the road, as the traffic around us halted to a standstill. I called up to the driver, “Oi! What’s the holdup?”

He opened the hatch in the roof, “Looks like a cart lost a wheel, there’s apples all over the road. A swarm of beggars is nickin’ ‘em and a fight broke out.”

I then heard the high-pitched peel of a police whistle. “We ain’t movin’ for a while guv’nor, not until the carts gone from the road.” The driver grumbled. We couldn’t go backwards and turn around to find a clear route and we weren’t moving forward. Frustration bubbled in my chest. I had no time to waste sitting in a hack waiting for a clear road.

“Okay mate, I’ll walk from here,” I called. I passed the fair to the driver through the roof hatch, eased the letter into my pocket as I stepped out of the cab and onto the cobbles. I hurried to the nearest street corner to get my bearings, weaving between the carts and hacks stuck in the hold up. I was at the junction where Pall Mall met Waterloo Place, so didn’t have far to go. Determined to complete my task and get Superintendent Stockton off my back, I ran the rest of the way to St James’ Square.

By the time I arrived at the square my legs were shaky with the effort of running on such a cold day. Luckily fog hadn’t swallowed the city today, but my throat was dry and my lungs felt tight from breathing in the stinking icy air. I paused at the black wrought iron railings of the garden square to catch a breath and then I crossed the road to check the house numbers and locate number twenty. A black liveried carriage drew up to the curb and before the carriage wheels had stopped rolling the door was flung open and the bulky silhouette of a man stepped out. Fine leather booted feet adorned with sparkling silver spurs met the pavement while he bellowed,

“Bloody peasants shouldn’t be allowed on Pall Mall. I’m going to demand that Lord Palmerston does something about this!” The man barreled toward me, swatting me out of the way as if I was a gnat on a hot Indian summer’s day. I didn’t have a second to dodge as I was knocked off my feet and straight onto my arse. The angry nobleman didn’t pause or even apologize, but bullishly marched up the steps to one of the houses on St James Square.

“Kit, come along, we’ve wasted enough damnable time today!” he shouted as he walked.

The arrogance of the man stole my words. My pride was wounded, and my flat cap was on the dusty pavement. I was bloody furious to have been treated in such a way by a stranger. I wanted nothing more than to get up and kick that bugger right in the fork and see how he liked it! A red leather-gloved hand appeared in front of my face.

“I’m so sorry. Please, let me help you up,” a soft, cultured voice said. “We got stuck behind an upended cart and I’m afraid it was the last straw for him today.” I automatically gripped the stranger’s hand. The helper was strong and pulled me to stand as if I was as light as a feather. I brushed road dust off myself then I bent down and picked up my flat cap, dusted it off, and set it on my blond-haired head. It was only then that looked up at the face of the man who had assisted me. Kind brown eyes that reminded me of warm sweet coffee gazed at me like I was some kind of exotic curiosity at a travelling fair.

“T—t—twenty-seven!” The words left my lips before my noggin registered what I’d said. And then, those kind eyes hardened.

“I’m sorry, w—what did you say?” 27 asked suspiciously.

“Nuffin’, nuffin’ sir, I do beg your pardon.” The last time I saw the man now standing before me, he was drunk and suicidal. Secretly, I was delighted to see 27 alive and well, pleased that he hadn’t had another go at topping himself. Nothing in his countenance gave away that he’d been at his lowest ebb a few weeks ago.

Nervous words fell out of my stupid mouth and tumbled over one another as I plucked the letter from my pocket and brandished it as proof that I wasn’t a liar. “I’ve got this…this letter…to deliver to a gentleman. I work for the GPO, see, and the letter missed the mailbag. The superintendent was ever so cross and so here I am delivering it myself. If you’d be so kind as to direct me to number twenty, I’d be much obliged, sir.” Not only was my backside smarting, but my cheeks burned like boiled beetroots as I heard my pathetic self ramble.

The man’s look of suspicion softened, and he gestured towards the front door that the bullish man had entered. “This is number twenty,” he smiled, and for a split second, I was entranced by his beautiful, heavenly mouth.

With my limbs feeling like that of a marionette I turned, and for the first time, I looked at the house. Again, my old Pa’s training came in handy, cos he taught me about posh houses—how they were put together and where it was best to break in and get out. This particular house was a grand four-storey affair made of Portland stone. The ground floor had three arched recesses, one for the front door and the other two for dressed windows. Four Corinthian pilasters rose from the basement to the first and second floors. They’d be good handholds if a thief had to risk an escape through an upper floor window. A lovely carved stone stairway led up to the front door, painted in glossy black with an intricate stained-glass fanlight above. Wrought iron railings with Prince of Wales plumed heads outlined the house, and through the windows, I could see luxurious drapes and the lit crystal chandelier. No expense had been spared and in a garden square of Georgian red brick houses; this grey Portland stone house stood out like a jewel.

I wondered now if this Lord Penhelligan fellow was the cur who knocked me on my arse. I knew my place and understood that my place meant serving my betters, but the man wore military spurs, so he was connected to the army in some way. I’d dealt with too many arrogant shits when billeted in India—nobs who’d purchased their rank to please pa-pahh. I knew men like that were spineless bastards who cared only for pomp and status. They were happy to send the likes of me, and Frank, and Eric into battle while they sat back, drank port, and sucked on fat cigars. If that was the type of man this Lord Penhelligan was, I wished I hadn’t bothered my arse using my lunchtime to deliver a letter to this undeserving blaggard.

I nervously turned the ivory envelope in my fingers, stood straighter, and announced,

“Thank you for your kindness, sir. I’ll deliver this letter to Lord Penhelligan and be on my way.” I doffed my cap, my innards twisting with embarrassment. I’d made a complete fool of myself, and I longed to turn around and run. But 27 was once again giving me a curious foxy look. His eyes sparkled with mirth as if I’d just told him a joke. Was he mocking me?

“You’d better give it here, then.” He held out his red leather-clad hand to me.