Page 26 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

Sebastian had dressed with care in his most subdued clothes, but he still knew himself out of his place.

The taxi-cab driver who had dropped him off in the reassuringly named Prince Albert Street had given him a curious look.

When he’d received his fare he looked Sebastian over and said, ‘I’d keep my hand on my ha’penny if I was you, sir.

There’s some funny coves about these alleys. ’

‘Thanks, I’ll be careful,’ Sebastian said. It was only when the cabby had driven off that he realised he should have asked directions. Although he had an address, he didn’t know how to get there. With a shrug, he took a firm grip on his cane, and plunged in.

The alleys were narrow, and the overhanging houses made them dark, too; the cobbles were slimy from the recent rain, weeds grew in the cracks, and litter was lying about.

The buildings had the unmistakable look of poverty – peeling paint, cracked rendering, patched panes, moss streaks on the walls from leaking downpipes.

The shops were poor-looking and had faded, peeling signs.

Dwelling-house windows had dirty and sagging curtains, or a bit of sacking nailed across.

And there were few street signs: it was as if these alleys were too poor to merit a name.

He attracted some curious glances, but no-one offered him any insult, though he suspected a couple of boys in shabby clothes and patched boots too big for them were following him, either for the purposes of mockery or perhaps with more sinister intent.

It was no good, he would have to ask his way.

For all he knew he was wandering further from his object with every step.

He passed a low alehouse with several rough-looking men lounging outside with tankards in their hands, and felt their eyes following him.

But he wouldn’t ask them: this was not a place where you wanted to seem uncertain.

He walked on, and saw a woman approaching, shabbily dressed but decent-looking, carrying a basket of folded clothes.

Surely a washerwoman must be respectable?

Forgetting himself, he touched his hat to her, and she stopped, staring.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘could you tell me where Hog Lane is?’

She continued to stare as if he had grown another head, while behind him he could hear the boys sniggering and trying to imitate him. At last she said, ‘It’s back a ways,’ and jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. ‘But you’ll never find it. I’d show you, but I’ve got to get on.’

‘Would a shilling help?’ he said.

‘A shilling?’ She seemed struck. ‘Here, mister, what are you up to? You don’t want to flash your jingle round these parts. There’s sorts here’d have it off you in two ticks.’

‘Would you show me the way?’

‘I’m in a hurry,’ she said, ‘but the kid’ll show you.

Here, you, Alfie Hedges!’ she called to one of the boys behind him, then lowered her voice.

‘Give him a penny. Don’t go offering no shilling.

’ The boy sidled up, hands in his pockets, eyes slithering about so as not to look directly at Sebastian.

The cap on his head was a man’s and too big for him; the face under it was dirty and decorated with a runnel from one nostril, like a snail’s trail.

‘You show this gent to Hog Lane, and he’ll give you a penny,’ the woman said.

‘And don’t start getting any funny ideas or he’ll clout you one with his stick, you hear me?

Go on, then! Off you go.’ The boy slouched past and started walking away, but stopped a few yards on and looked back.

His friend scurried past Sebastian and joined him, and they both waited.

‘If they give you any trouble, give ’em a clout,’ the woman said, and went on her way.

The route seemed tortuous, and Sebastian wondered whether he was being led a dance. But the boys glanced back at him from time to time, and walked with confidence. At the end of a narrow, dirty alley, they stopped.

‘Giss a penny, then,’ the boy Alfie said. He shifted from foot to foot and didn’t meet Sebastian’s eyes.

‘Is this Hog Lane?’ he asked sternly.

The boy pointed to the lane that crossed the alley. ‘Thass it,’ he said, then held his hand out, palm cupped in an accustomed manner.

‘Where’s Jack Hubert’s shop?’ Sebastian asked.

The boy looked blank, but his companion whispered something into his ear, and he said, ‘Wot, Shoddy Jack’s? Thass down that way.’ He gestured to the right.

So Sebastian felt in his pocket, identified a penny by feel – he didn’t want to bring out a handful of change and tempt anybody – and handed it over. The grubby palm closed over it and the boys scuttled away like mice, leaving Sebastian alone.

He was relieved to see Hog Lane was wider, less dark, more decent-looking, with a narrow pavement on either side of the cobbled roadway.

It even had an iron lamppost, positioned to give light to the junction with the alley.

There were shops on either side – one had pots and pans, pails and brushes hanging up, another was selling second-hand furniture, a third was a pawn-shop – and there were people about who, though poorly dressed, seemed to be going about normal business.

A few doors along, a run-down and paint-bereft shop had old clothes hanging in the window.

Walking past and looking in, he could see nothing in the dark interior, and there was no sign over the window to say who owned it, but if this was indeed Hog Lane – the address the aptly named Mr Bland had given him – then surely that must be it.

He walked on to the next corner and stopped to light a cigarette to give himself time to think.

He still had no idea what to say to Jack Hubert, or what outcome he hoped for.

Yet he had expended a large sum to find him, and now had come all this way, so it would be feeble just to go away again.

Perhaps something would occur to him when he actually saw the man.

He walked back slowly, and paused outside the shop, and after a moment a man emerged from the dark interior and stood in the doorway. ‘Help you, guv’nor?’ he asked, looking Sebastian up and down in a predatory manner.

‘Are you Jack Hubert?’ Sebastian asked.

The man scowled. He was as tall as Sebastian, though thinner, but he had the look of mean strength of an alley-dog.

He wore no tie or shirt-collar, but the jacket and trousers, though old, were from the same suit and had once been decent.

His chin was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, and his face bore the unmistakable marks of a drinker, but it was possible to tell that he had once been handsome.

‘And who might you be?’ The eyes were fixed on Sebastian like those of a dog about to attack.

Sebastian shifted his grip on his cane and said, ‘I want to talk to you about your wife.’

Hubert had been leaning against the door frame; now he pushed himself clear, and his hands clenched into fists. ‘My wife’s upstairs. What do you know about her?’ he demanded dangerously.

A saving thought came to Sebastian. Bigamy was a crime, punishable by gaol. Could he perhaps put pressure on Hubert to promise never to seek out Dory, on pain of being reported to the police? ‘Your name is Jack Hubert?’ he persisted.

A few passers-by had paused in the hope of some entertainment, and one of them shouted, ‘Don’t tell him, Jack!’

There was laughter, and Hubert’s face darkened. ‘You look like a copper’s nark to me. We know how to deal with copper’s narks in these parts. You’d best be on your way.’

‘Is your wife here?’

‘What business is it of yours? You got some nerve, coming here asking about Mary.’

‘So your wife’s name is Mary, is it? I must make a note of that,’ Sebastian said.

And Hubert said, ‘I’ve had enough of this.

’ He surged forward, grabbed Sebastian by the lapels and shoved.

Close to, Sebastian could smell the drink on him: not just on his breath but, in the manner of heavy drinkers, coming out of his pores.

‘You clear out of here or I’m going to punch your lights out! ’

Sebastian thrust him away, managing to break the grip on his jacket. ‘Threats only mean you’ve got something to hide,’ he said. ‘I know things about you, Jack Hubert, that could get you a spell inside.’

Hubert’s snarl showed missing teeth, but the blow from the bony fist at the end of the stringy arm was so quick it almost connected with Sebastian’s face: he jerked his head back just in time to catch it on his collar bone.

It was frighteningly hard, and his blood surged with fighting spirit, making him quick enough to dodge the second blow, though it grazed his ear.

Hubert paused, turned slightly away and back, and now something glinted in his hand. There was a short scream, and a woman’s voice cried, ‘He’s got a knife!’

A man shouted, ‘Watch out, guv’nor!’

Sebastian backed away, readying his stick, watching Hubert’s eyes for the jump as he advanced. The ring of onlookers widened judiciously. Then from the shop a slatternly woman emerged and screamed, ‘No, Jack! Don’t stick a nob!’