He was swung around. A huge man in a dirty black uniform grinned at him. “See the duds on this! Come and take a look, lads. Here’s a gallimaufry.”
A few chortling faces grinned through the curtain. “Let me go,” Jake snarled.
The peeler snorted. “Very good, milord.” He opened his hand.
It was sarcasm, but it gave Jake an idea. He drew himself up, raised his chin, and fixed the man with a glare. “Take your hands off me, man. Don’t you recognize your betters when you see them. How dare you involve me in this disgusting farrago!”
Wharton, he thought, would have been proud.
The man’s face lost its grin. He said, “You mean…Lor love you sir, I…”
“I shall have you dismissed without pay for this…audacity.” Jake dusted down his clothes. He had too many bruises. Too much dirt for the part. But the man was cringing.
“I ’ad no idea, sir. In this den—”
“I’m not here for the opium! I’m looking for a gentleman. His name is Symmes. John Harcourt Symmes. Have you arrested him?”
“We ain’t nabbed no toff ’cept yerself, Mister…?”
Jake shrugged. “Jake Wilde. Son of Lord Wilde…Surely you know my father, man? The personal assistant to the Home Secretary?”
He had no idea if there even was a Home Secretary at this date, but it didn’t seem to matter; he was rapidly understanding that just to be haughty and speak in his crisp twenty-first-century English might be enough. As the peeler looked around hopelessly for help, he pushed past him. “He was here, in this room, minutes ago. It was he who had you summoned. He can’t have gone far.”
“We come on a nark’s word.”
“Nark?”
“Grass. Informer.”
Jake frowned. Symmes had set up the raid, he would have been ready. He’d have already taken the mirror in the cab. He turned quickly, past the peeler. “I have to find him!”
“Ah now sir, you can’t just…”
But Jake was already out in the dingy courtyard. The rattle of hooves made him turn; he saw the quick glimpse of a cab rattle past the archway; saw in the flash of the gaslight a plump, rather smug-looking man settling down inside.
Jake raced after the cab. Bursting out into the street, he saw it swallowed by fog. He took two steps after it and crashed into a small shape that burst from the alley and grabbed him to stop itself falling.
He looked down and saw the dirtiest child he had ever imagined. The girl wore a ragged blue dress over trousers and worn boots. She screeched, “Let me go!”
He dropped her, but the cab had gone; the fog was a silent, greasy swirl. He swore. Then he said, “Listen kid, what year is this?”
The girl stared. Her eyes widened. “You from the Bedlam, mister?”
He pulled out the two-pence coin and tossed it; she caught it, bit it, and pocketed it in one smooth move. “Foreign tin and no good.” She grinned. “But as I like yer face, I’ll tell you. It’s 1848.”
Two years.
Wrong raid. Symmes had had the mirror for two years. Jake swore again.
He said, “I don’t have much time. You live here?”
She shrugged.
“Two years ago a man came here. A gentleman.”
She rolled her eyes. “They all do.”
“Not for opium. He came to buy a mirror. There was someone in the back room, a man with a scar on his face…” He groped after the name. “Maskelyne. Do you know him?”
For a moment intelligence flashed into and out of her face. Then a yell from the den made her twist.
“I knows him. And I knows them as robbed you.” She sounded breathless. “As took yer siller. Bail me and I’ll take you to ’em.”
For a moment he thought she was speaking some foreign language. Then a peeler came out of the door and said, “You! Girl! Come ’ere.”
The girl snatched Jake’s hand. “Bail me.”
The peeler came over and grabbed her. “With me, you.” He dragged her away; she screamed, tugging and struggling, a small thin whine of woe that set Jake’s teeth on edge. He shook his head.
“Siller? What’s siller?”
Did she mean…silver?
With a sudden terrified jerk he whipped up his sleeve, and stared.
The only thing around his wrist was a bare white ring in the flesh.
The snake bracelet was gone.
A small yellow flame cracked and flickered in the darkness and Piers’s high voice said, “Don’t anybody move. I don’t want any injuries. Or accidents.”
The flame moved jerkily across the blackness of the hall; Wharton heard noises of opening, and then the click of a powerful flashlight beam swept his face. He had a nightmare glimpse of a slot of dark room with Sarah standing in it before Piers focused the beam on the generator.
“This is our emergency supply. If everything’s in order, we should get…”
Light.
A faint, flickery crackle as the overhead lights came back on, the generator erupting into an efficient hum.
Then it went off, just as abruptly.
Piers groaned and tried again. Nothing. “I loathe machines,” he hissed.
Wharton took the flashlight and turned it on the mirror, black and enigmatic in its silver frame. Sarah came and stared into it, and her reflection turned Wharton cold.
She looked devastated.
He hurried across. Rebecca, just a voice behind him, said, “But where’s Jake? What happened?”
“Are you all right?” Wharton caught Sarah’s elbow and drew her gently back.
She shook her head. Near the glass the air was charged; it felt as if a great surge of power had somehow drained it; and Sarah too. As Wharton held her arm she staggered; he grabbed her and said, “Fetch a chair, quickly.”
Rebecca dragged one over.
“I don’t want a chair.” She wished the shaking in her fingers would stop—no wonder he thought she was scared. How was he to know it was dismay and sheer fury. Jake—Jake!—had journeyed.
“This girl is in shock.” Wharton swung accusingly to Piers. “And I have to say so am I. What has happened to Jake and Venn? Have we lost them too?”
Piers had lit a candle and was studying the controls. He seemed calm, but Wharton could see the faint sweat on his lip.
“How am I supposed to know! You’re the teacher, mortal!” He took a breath. “Okay. They both seem to have entered the mirror, apparently only one-fiftieth of a second apart, though only Jake wore the snake. I don’t know what that will mean. They could come back at any moment. Or not for hours.”
Or never, Wharton thought, catching the panic under the forced control. He drew himself upright. “Then I’m taking charge. Listen to me now. We need to re-group. Split up and work together.”
In the slant of the flashlight beam he caught Rebecca’s giggle.
“Well, you know what I mean. We have two emergencies here. This intruder. He seems to have disabled the lights. How?”
“The mains supply comes down under the drive. There’s a control box in the stable block.” Piers shook his head. “I’ll need to get over there and work on it. But after I’m gone, you must make sure every window and door is firmly locked.” He glanced at Sarah.
Wharton said, “Is this intruder anything to do with you?”
She wanted to tell him. But then: “We know who it is.” Piers came over, wiping his hands on his coat. “He’s been spying on the place for a while. We call him the scarred man. Venn thinks…well, you’ve read the journal, Sarah. You’ve read about Maskelyne…”
Rebecca, turned, restless. “Look, it doesn’t matter who he is, he could be forcing his way in right now. You should have seen that huge white wolf. It was terrifying. Let’s lock this place down!”
Wharton nodded. “Okay. You’re with me. Sarah, stay with Piers. No one is to be on their own.”
He hurried out, and Rebecca, after another glance at the mirror, ran after him.