The Adventures of Master Alfie London: The Lost Scrolls of Shangri-La

By Hamish McTavish

London 1842 - Unwilling to be shackled by his orphan tag and the Mile End Poorhouse, 10-year-old Alfie London is desperate to break out and explore the world by way of a naval career. Following a chance encounter, Alfie meets the well-to-do Alexandria Scott. Together with their stray Jack Russel, Rocket, they fearlessly stowaway into the unknown in search of adventure. And adventure is what they soon find! The kind that will test their mettle to the limits and take them on a magical journey to save their imprisoned shipmates. Tackling puzzles, villains, and mythical creatures at every turn, they must find a way to ensure that the history of the world as we know it comes to pass! 

Where their only hope is finding the long-lost Scrolls of Shangri-La and, in turn, the enchanting and miraculous kingdom itself!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035804009

Hamish McTavish

Hamish McTavish lives with his partner, Karen, in the remote West Highlands of Scotland, far from the madding crowd. Hamish admits he is just a big kid at heart who hasn’t the slightest inclination for growing up. His debut novel is written for his two grandsons to encourage them to read, seek adventure, believe in the impossible and follow their dreams! When not writing, Hamish can be found out on the Lochs fly fishing with Karen and grandsons; Che and Eli. To catch up with Hamish McTavish and learn when The Adventures of Master Alfie London (Curse of the Caribbean) will be available head to https://hamishmctavish.ampbk.com/. [https://hamishmctavish.ampbk.com/. ]

Book preview

About the Author

Hamish McTavish lives with his partner, Karen, in the remote West Highlands of Scotland, far from the madding crowd. Hamish admits he is just a big kid at heart who hasn’t the slightest inclination for growing up. His debut novel is written for his two grandsons to encourage them to read, seek adventure, believe in the impossible and follow their dreams!

When not writing, Hamish can be found out on the Lochs fly fishing with Karen and grandsons; Che and Eli.

To catch up with Hamish McTavish and learn when The Adventures of Master Alfie London (Curse of the Caribbean) will be available head to https://hamishmctavish.ampbk.com/.

Dedication

Dedicated To Che And Eli

Follow your dreams!

Copyright Information ©

Hamish McTavish 2023

The right of Hamish McTavish to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035803996 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035804009 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Chapter 1

The Kidnap of Miss Alexandria

December 1841

Mile End Old Town, The East End of London

It had been a week now. Seven days all told since ten-year-old Alexandria Scott had been snatched from her loving home at Craven Manor on the Epsom Downs in the county of Surrey. The victim of a moment of drunken opportunism, she had been abducted from the cocoon of her warm, snug bed in the midst of a sweet and tranquil dream only to awaken into the cruel, harsh nightmare of a cold, dark, clamorous and foul-smelling world of squalor and deprivation. Miss Alexandria’s captors were brothers of Irish descent, Tom and Eamon Maconagle, who inhabited the notorious and poverty-stricken East-end of London. Labourers by day, when work was available, they were petty criminals by night, who thieved and picked pockets to sustain their pitiful existence.

In his early thirties, Tom was the eldest and was the brains of the fraternity. Tall and thin with long, matted, black hair, his most distinguishable feature was undoubtedly a full-length facial scar that ran from his forehead to chin, to leave his left eye half-shut at all times and serve as a constant reminder that crime is not without risk nor punishment. As a fifteen-year-old, back home on the west coast of Ireland, Tom had been caught red-handed rustling a lamb and the landowner had seen fit to deal out justice on the spot. Held down by ruthless farmhands, he was branded with a white-hot poker then badly beaten and left for dead.

A year his junior, Eamon was short and plump with a bald head and carried himself with a clumsy shuffle. Slow on the uptake, the cogs inside Eamon’s brain had seized up early in life to leave him with a mental age somewhere in the region of a twelve-year-old. Reliant upon his elder brother for guidance and direction, his loyalty, obedience and devotion to Tom was unfaltering and worth more than any intelligent partner could ever provide. A week earlier Tom had summoned Eamon around the table in the dark, dank dungeon that was their one-roomed flat in Green Street. Things were at an all-time low. Financially they were bankrupt, they hadn’t eaten meat for three weeks and there were no labouring jobs to be had, since all building work had been suspended for the winter. The time had now come to take drastic measures if they were to survive.

Tom glanced at the two slices of mouldy bread and jug of water resting, mockingly, in the middle of the table and banged his fist down. We need to start operating further afield.

Eamon grunted and nodded in agreement.

There’s a race meeting at Epsom tomorrow, Tom announced. All the toffs will be there. Rich pickings if we’re lucky and if not then we’ll just have to mug a drunk when the pubs are throwing out.

The following day couldn’t have gone worse. Their first intended victim had felt Tom’s crude sleight of hand and alerted the Police. The brothers were chased out of the racecourse and barely escaped by the skin of their teeth. As they began to walk the twenty odd miles home, Tom spotted a large country house with nearby stables and an empty paddock. However, it was Eamon who triggered the idea in Tom’s scheming head.

I bet the horses in those stables are better fed than us.

Tom’s eyebrows raised and he grinned wickedly. Then here’s what we’ll do. We’ll wait ’til dark then steal a bag or two of oats. We have to show some profit for the day’s efforts.

As soon as darkness began to fall, they moved into the stable from the nearby woods where they’d laid in wait and could hardly believe their turn of good fortune. Not only were the stables empty, but in the far corner, where the riding equipment was hung, stood a barrel of cider with tap protruding invitingly. Between them they drank the vat dry and with that came two hungry bellies and in turn an impulsive change of plan.

There are no horses here, Tom drawled. They must be racehorses and haven’t returned from the course yet. And if that is indeed the case then the house should be empty.

They skulked around its perimeter to discover that the only sign of life was coming from a light in the kitchen at the rear of the house.

Sssh, Tom whispered, placing a finger over his hungry lips, as he crouched down and tiptoed towards the window to take a look.

Inside he could see the large frame of a woman attired in a black housemaid’s uniform and he could hear her merrily singing to herself as she nursed a pan on the stove. Gently he twisted the doorknob and to his delight the door creaked open. In a flash he raced in, grabbed a chopping knife off the kitchen table and held it to the throat of his startled victim.

Where’s the master? he spat venomously to underline his authority.

He and his lady wife have been racing their horses and are due back any minute, she gargled in reply, as the force of the blade threatened to draw blood.

Who else is in the house? he demanded, ever so slightly easing the knife.

Only myself and— she caught her tongue, but the damage was done.

And who? he roared, reapplying the pressure to her wrinkled neck.

Trembling, fit to collapse, she somehow managed to hold herself together and gave a reluctant reply. Just the master’s young daughter, who I’ve not long put to bed. She’s only a child.

Circumstances made Tom’s decision swift and easy. It had gone seven-thirty and time was of the utmost essence.

He glanced around the luxurious surroundings and he thought about the racehorses. ‘These people have money to burn. Robbing the house will take time, precious time we don’t have, and all the silver and jewellery we could make off with might only feed us for a week, a fortnight at most. No, it’s time to go for bust!’

Quick, he ordered Eamon. Tie her to the chair then raid the larder. Take all you can carry. I’ll get the child.

For the first three days, petite Alexandria had wept an ocean of tears, sadly it had not been enough to sail her back to her parents’ rural estate. On the fourth day, gagged and bound to a stiff wooden chair, her almond-shaped, deep brown eyes ceased to weep and a new determination began to shine from them. ‘I will get out this predicament, alive!’ she kept telling herself over and over. ‘My father will come, and those evil men will be thrown into jail where they belong to rot for ever and a day!’ When her father failed to materialise on the fifth day, she refused to wilt yet changed her tact by trying to befriend Eamon with a view to appealing to his seemingly gullible side. And if that failed, attempt an escape. Having waited until Tom had left the flat, she groaned through the gag to attract Eamon’s attention.

He approached gingerly then undid the soggy linen rag that had bitten deep into her once radiant cheeks. What do you want?

Alexandria began gently. I just want to talk, maybe we could be friends?

Alright, but if you start bawling again I won’t hesitate to replace the gag.

I won’t, I promise, she convinced in a velvet tone. You could untie me. I’m really sore.

I can’t! Tom said not to.

But I thought you were the master of this house? she coaxed.

Eamon’s head dropped. No, Tom’s older than me.

Already Alexandria’s patience was wearing thin and so she decided to get straight to the point. Have you any idea what’s going to happen to you when you’re caught? They’ll put you in prison with live rats and throw away the key! But if you let me go, I would make sure nobody would even come looking for you, she paused, or Tom for that matter. I promise, cross my heart and hope to die.

We’re not going to harm you, Miss Alexandria. As soon as the ransom money is paid, we’ll let you go, he said almost apologetically.

And when will that be exactly? she snapped frustrated by his stubbornness.

I’m not really sure.

Well, when did you send the ransom letter and how much did you ask for? she investigated.

I don’t think we have sent it yet, but it will be one hundred pounds, he smiled, his mind filling with all the delicious food and drink that such a princely sum could buy.

Bemused, Alexandria exploded. Why on earth haven’t you sent the letter? I’ve been here five whole days now. What’s taking so long?

Neither of us can write, he mumbled ashamedly.

She shook her head in bewilderment. Look, I can write. Get me some paper and ink and I’ll help you if it’s going to speed up matters.

Would you really? he asked excitedly, certain his brother would be glad he’d solved their biggest problem.

Of course, I’d be delighted to. The quicker you get your money, the sooner I can get home to my parents.

Great! I’ll tell Tom when he gets home.

Alexandria felt deflated inside. ‘I’ve been kidnapped by halfwits,’ she reflected. ‘If only I could be free of these binds then I could easily escape.’ Instantly, her mood brightened as a cunning plan sprang to mind. I need to pee.

The chamber pot’s behind you, Eamon replied, matter-of-factly.

But I’m tied to the chair, she reminded.

Eamon bit his lip. Tom had left strict instruction that she was not to be untied for any reason whatsoever. You’ll have to wait until Tom returns, he won’t be long.

I can’t wait, she snapped. Do you want me to wet myself? Just remember you’ll be the one who has to clean it up. It will only take a minute and Tom would never have to know you disobeyed him, her voice began to crescendo as she pleaded with renewed urgency. I can’t keep it in any longer. Please, Eamon?

Alright, he panicked. He marched across the room, untied her then backed off. Please be quick, he begged nervously, his stomach churning from the thought of what Tom would say and do if he got wind of this.

I will, but please turn around. It’s not proper to watch a young lady whilst she pees.

His face burned bright scarlet and he swivelled around. I’m sorry, Miss Alexandria.

Lightning fast she bolted to the front door then turned the key. A split second later she was hurtling down the gloomy stairwell towards freedom. As she neared the last flight of stairs the light began to grow and her heart pumped faster from a rush of adrenaline, for she knew that even if Eamon could somehow sprout wings it was now surely too late. In a matter of strides she’d enter a street full of passers-by and all she needed was one to come to the rescue of a screaming young girl. As she touched down on the bottom landing, she could almost touch the outside world and then without warning she ran headfirst into a wall of darkness which was Tom’s fist crashing into her jaw. The burning sensation of her jet-black hair being torn from her scalp brought her back to consciousness as Tom mercilessly dragged her back into the flat.

Where exactly did you think you were going to, Miss Pretty? Tom bellowed, as he threw her crashing into the room. And some guard dog you are! he scolded his brother.

Eamon cowered by the window with his hands crushed against his ears. Please don’t hit her anymore. It was all my fault.

Then make amends and tie her up, Tom instructed calmly, his temper quelling in an instant.

Eamon began to do as ordered. I’m really sorry, Tom. I don’t like this anymore. I’ve a bad feeling about all of this. I don’t want to go to jail and if we let her go now, she’s promised that we won’t.

And I don’t want to starve to death! Tom stressed. Now pull yourself together. We stick to the plan.

Eamon nodded reluctantly, before a burst of excitement temporarily masked his anxieties. Then she can write the ransom letter. She can write, Tom.

Don’t worry, the letter was sent off today. Bert Barker agreed to do it for a fee of five pounds. To be settled when the exchange is complete. Just a few days more and she’ll be home safely, and we’ll be rich.

The words, just a few days more, echoed around Alexandria’s throbbing head. It would seem like a lifetime, but endure it she would, for she understood that Tom was capable of anything. And she sensed that might just include cold-blooded murder!

At first light the following day, a few streets away in Alderney Road, the towering cast iron gates of the Mile End Poorhouse groaned open and a small regiment of twenty or so children, between the ages of five and fifteen, crept out, single file, into the icy chill of a yuletide morning. Amongst their ranks was ten-year-old Alfie London. With sandy, blond hair and a spattering of golden, Demerara freckles, Alfie was short and frail for his age, undoubtedly attributable to the malnutrition he’d suffered for the past two years.

Yet in these darkest times of extreme poverty, young Alfie’s passionate enthusiasm and intense optimism shone like a beacon of hope for everyone in the parish. With a whistle and a skip in his step he greeted everyone with a blazing smile, even if he knew deep down that his days were numbered in his current field of employment. Though little could he imagine that today would turn out to be his last. Christmas Eve or not, the orphan and pauper children of London’s plethora of poorhouses would go to work. Some earned their keep by working as Scavengers, trawling through the rubbish strewn streets and putrid sewers for coins, rope, copper nails or anything else of slight value. Many were Rat Catchers, who sold their live catches to the landlords of the local alehouses, who in turn would dispose of the vermin in the name of entertainment, by throwing them into rat pits containing slavering bull terriers for the amusement of drunken, bloodthirsty audiences who bayed for more. Others plied their trade as Pure Collectors, gathering human and animal waste from the stinking, rancid streets of London to sell on to the tanners, who used the disgusting produce to de-lime animal hides in the leather making process.

For Alfie, it was his tiny, underdeveloped frame that lent him to the often dangerous and sometimes deadly pursuit of Apprentice Chimneysweep. Nimble and dexterous, he had the ability to wriggle his way up chimney stacks as tight as eight inches square. All the jobs undertaken by the children of the poorhouse were hazardous, though none more-so than Alfie’s. For not only had he become slightly asthmatic as a result of the toxin-rich soot he inhaled on a daily basis, but many sweeps had been maimed by serious falls and some even killed from suffocation when they’d become stuck in the tight curves inside the chimneys.

Only a year earlier, the House of Lords had passed a bill making it illegal, for anyone under the age of twenty-one, to sweep chimneys. However, London’s east end remained a feudal society where laws were made to be broken. Armed with his metal-headed brush, Alfie turned his collar against the biting frosty morning chill and in a bid to mask some of the pungent smells that filled the narrow streets, followed his customary routine of tying his handkerchief around his head to cover his nose and mouth. Last night’s faint covering of powder snow, preceded by the onset of a hard frost, had gone some way to dilute the vile stench, though had brought new dangers as odd patches of cobblestone now glinted menacingly underfoot.

Normally, Alfie would dance his way across the free areas of road, using them as stepping stones, to dodge the squelching rivers of raw sewage, dung and animal entrails that ran throughout the city, though today was mindful to avoid any unnecessary accident that might befall to blight his great excitement. Finally, Christmas Eve had come around and that meant just one more working day before one of only three annual holidays recognised by the Poorhouse. Not only that, it signified just one more week until the New Year of 1842. A new year that would eventually bring a new season and when spring finally arrived, Alfie would set out to fulfil his hopes and dreams in the big, wide world. After all it was his destiny to do so. His grandfather had told him on many an occasion, so it simply had to be true.

As always Alfie’s first ports of call were the backyards of the local alehouses, where he’d painstakingly siphon off dregs of whisky, splinters and all, from empty giant wooden casks into three small medicine bottles he kept hidden in a wall near the Globe Inn pub. Task completed, he sprinted the further half-mile journey north to the Victoria Park Cemetery to see his friends, the Judge, old Maggie and one-armed Johnny. They were elderly vagrants who resided in the graveyard, under the stars, too proud and frightened to enter any of the multitudes of workhouses that spread through the veins of London town like an incurable cancer. The Judge was nicknamed so as he was very obese and his extensive knowledge, combined with a seemingly infinite wisdom, suggested that he had been a very important and distinguished gentleman in his earlier life, though he chose to keep everyone guessing. In truth he had been an eminent High Court Judge, who had turned to the bottle for answers following the death of his wife to cholera. Prior to Alfie’s visits he had had little reason to live, but now he had been given a purpose to carry on.

In return for saving his life, the Judge had been teaching Alfie to read and write as well as the principals of law. Old Maggie and one-armed Johnny were husband and wife and had fallen on hard times when Johnny had lost his right arm in a work accident at the docks. With no social security system in place to support their needs they soon found themselves in the gutter. They were all huddled around a brazier trying to keep warm when Alfie appeared on the scene.

Ah, here comes Master Alfie, the Judge announced. The boy with the social conscience.

Alfie pulled up wheezing and gasping for air then handed out the medicine bottles. What’s a social conscience? he asked catching his breath.

Well, Master Alfie, it’s a good fellow who looks after the welfare of those less fortunate than himself, the Judge educated.

Alfie nodded his head as he reflected to his late grandfather who’d often told him that it was his duty as a noble human being to provide for those worse off than one’s self.

You know we can’t pay you, Master Alfie, said old Maggie as she took a swig.

Alfie smiled, I know, but my reward is in knowing that I’m helping you.

Little did Alfie know, but his daily appearances were all that was keeping his three old friends alive. He brought hope and even if they were all in their late seventies and in the poorest of health, they all realised that their real debt to the young lad was to be alive for him the next morning.

I suppose you won’t be calling in on us tomorrow, seeing as it’s Christmas day, the Judge said with a wry smile.

Alfie twisted his face. I will come the day after, I promise. But I still want you all to have a Christmas to remember. He reached into his tunic pocket and produced a shiny shilling.

You haven’t been stealing, have you? quizzed the Judge, raising his eyebrows.

No, no, Mr Judge, he stammered. I’ve been saving my tips all year.

Tips? exclaimed the Judge. Surely the Master confiscates them?

Alfie felt a burning twinge in his left ear as he remembered the first time he had returned to the poorhouse and turned his pockets out to hand over his earnings. If I get a tip then it’s usually a ha’penny, so I ask for two farthings. I keep one and the Master gets his share and is none the wiser.

The three elders chuckled in unison, before the judge spoke. Nevertheless, young master, we can’t take your money. You’ll need it come Spring.

No, I insist, besides I have another shilling stashed away and by the time I leave I should have double that.

Old Maggie sniffed back a tear as she accepted the gesture.

I’ll have to be on my way now, Alfie said, taking his empty bottles back. Have a Merry Christmas and I’ll see you all on Boxing Day.

Just wait there one moment. We have a present for you, the Judge said, reaching behind to produce a small wooden sailing ship. We all took turns carving it and it’s inscribed underneath.

Alfie’s eyes expanded and his face tightened to hold back his humble emotions as he read the inscription. To Master Alfie from your grateful friends, Judge, Maggie and Johnny. Merry Christmas 1841. He raced over and hugged them one by one. Thank you so much. Now I really must be on my way, he about-turned then paused. Why do you call me Master Alfie? I’m not a master, just an able-bodied pauper.

Because you shall be a master one day and a great master at that, who people will respect and look up to, replied the Judge and the others nodded in agreement.

Clutching the ornamental ship close to his chest Alfie ran off, his heart pumping from the euphoria of what the Judge had said. Yet within the space of an hour Alfie’s high was scythed down in cruel fashion. Whilst nearing the summit of a fifty-foot chimney, an eroding kiln brick crumbled and gave way under his left foot, sending him crashing towards the still smouldering fireplace below. Alarmed with a surge of panic, his heart flew into his mouth as he tumbled towards certain death. Then as his life flashed before his very eyes, abruptly, his fall was broken as his right foot jarred in the tight recess. Aware that he might just live to tell the tale, his relief was short-lived as he heard a sharp crack and felt the searing pain arrive. Sucking hard at the sooty air and gritting his teeth to block out the agony, he resumed his desperate fight for survival as gravity continued to drag him down. Less than a second later, a cloud of ash and orange embers exploded upward and outward as finally, he thudded down to earth. Once again, his respite was fleeting as he felt the glowing embers nip and tear at his backside and shoulders. Instinctively, he rolled clear of the blistering ashes then allowed the pain in his leg to siphon away through his mouth. Alerted by his piercing wails the housemaid appeared and cradled him in her maternal arms.

Gently she began to stroke his pale forehead. Sssh, Alfie, where’s the pain?

My right leg is numb, he whimpered.

She laid him down carefully then pulled up his trouser leg and was able to make an accurate diagnosis from the instant swelling and bruising. You’ll live, Alfie, but no more sweeping lums for the next few months. Looks like you’ve broken your ankle. We need to get you back to the poorhouse. Albert! she called to the butler, as Alfie began to sob his heart out again. Come on now, Alfie, it’s not the end of the world. It will heal, she chastised in a matronly manner.

But I won’t be able to work for the Master. He’ll throw me onto the streets.

Now don’t be so silly! I don’t know who’s been filling your head with such nonsense, that’s not how the poorhouse works. The butler arrived. Please take him back to the Mile End Poorhouse on Alderney Road. They’ll splint his leg and we’ll see him in the Spring.

When Alfie arrived back at the poorhouse, draped over the butler’s shoulder, he was still clutching the wooden ship close to his heart.

The Master waited until the butler had departed then began to read the riot act. You stupid boy, have you any idea how much money I’m going to lose because of you?

Alfie swallowed hard and shook his head.

And that’s not including the splint, bandages and starch we’ll need to set that damn leg.

I’ll still be able to work, Alfie interrupted. I can pick oakum or chip stones.

Oakum was second-hand rope bought in by the poorhouse for seven shillings per hundred-weight. The strands of fibre were then painstakingly unthreaded, before being sold on for a three-shilling profit for mattress stuffing, or onto the Royal Navy who mixed it with tar to seal the linings between the decking on their ships. Hence the saying, money for old rope.

Well, you’re going to have to do something if you want a roof over your head and food in your belly over the next few months. The Master caught a glimpse of the wooden sailing ship in Alfie’s hand. And you can start by giving me that. It might fetch a penny or two towards your keep. He snatched the carving away. Without thinking Alfie swiped at his prize possession then felt the full wrath of the Master’s infuriation. Don’t you ever bite the hand that feeds, you little runt!

Please don’t sell my ship, Alfie begged. I’ll work ten times as hard if you don’t sell it.

We’ll see, the master replied then shouted down the hall, Bob!

A moment later a huge bear of a man with a shaven head entered the room. He was the Master’s henchman Bad Bob Fraser. The rumour circulating amongst the children of the poorhouse was that Big Bad Bob, as they dubbed him, was an ex-professional boxer, who’d killed an opponent with one almighty punch. As a result, he was not allowed to enter the ring again. Forced to hang up his gloves, he now served the Master as a debt collector, minder and child disciplinarian. All of it was true.

Yes, guv’nor, he growled, the veins in his bulging neck muscles straining to break through.

Take this one down to the sick ward and get them to splint his leg.

Bad Bob tossed Alfie over his shoulder then about-turned and left the room. As Alfie gazed back at his Christmas gift lying on the Master’s table he experienced pessimism and defeat for the very first time in his young life.

Later that afternoon Tom Maconagle made his daily pilgrimage to the pub. As he strolled up Globe Road, he noticed that a sizeable crowd had congregated around the public notice board. Normally such a sight would signify a street brawl, but on this occasion the gathering was eerily quiet with the exception of the odd whisper. Magnetised by his curiosity he barged through to see what all the fuss was about. The attraction that held everyone spellbound was a large white poster emblazoned with bold black lettering. Unable to make out the finer details through his illiteracy, Tom had no such difficulty in understanding the numerals which spelt out five hundred and the preceding pound sign.

He tapped the shoulder of a tiny old lady who was standing in front of him. What does the notice say?

Without turning to face him she began to give word for word detail. It says that a ten-year-old child, Miss Alexandria Scott, has been kidnapped. It then goes on to say that her father, Lord Scott, will pay five hundred pounds reward for her safe return and any information leading to the successful capture of person or persons responsible.

Suddenly Tom felt squeamish. Lord? he wittered.

Aye, Lord Scott, the child’s father, the woman confirmed, then half-turned to see that the man had hurriedly left the scene.

A few minutes later Tom burst through the front doors of the Globe Inn and made straight for the snug in the far corner where Bert Barker was seated.

Bert, a tall, thickset man with neat, short, cropped silver hair, noticed that Tom was wheezing and sweating profusely, yet his complexion was corpse grey. You don’t look so great, Tom, fever? Sit down and I’ll get you some medicine. He raised his hand and called over to the barman. Two hot toddies, another quart of ale and a fresh tankard, Jim.

No, I’m fine. I just ran to get here. Tom glanced round to see if anyone was within eavesdropping range, though felt safe to talk in the knowledge that he could barely hear himself above the raucous festive noise that was swirling around the congested bar. Have you seen the posters? We’re in big trouble. The girl’s father only happens to be Lord Scott.

Not the same Lord Scott who trains Derby winners in his spare time, just for the fun of it, when he’s not sticking his nose into the economics of our great empire?

Tom nodded. The very one and he’s put a five hundred pounds bounty on our heads. Every man and his dog will be out to stake a claim and that’s not counting every street corner, two-bob criminal. And of course, the London underworld will take no prisoners to ensure they’re the ones collecting at the end of the day.

I see. Bert downed his whisky in one fell swoop as he tried to conceal his worry. You are in a muddle.

Damn you, Tom spat, slamming the palm of his hand on the table. You’re up to your neck in this just as much as Eamon and I and you’d be a fool to ignore that. The letter? Don’t forget, we can’t write. If I get caught, I’ll have no qualms about naming and shaming you as a co-conspirator. In fact, who’s to say that it wasn’t all your idea in the first place? I mean who’s the judge likely to believe masterminded such a crime, two imbecile Irish labourers or a well-educated, successful businessman?

Bert fell silent and stared vacantly towards the bar as he scanned his mind for a way to outsmart the complications that had arisen. With no honour amongst criminals, collecting the ransom money was not an option. And even if the weight of evidence against him had not existed, in the form of the sent letter, he understood that the five hundred pounds reward was merely a carrot that would be dangled to produce a desired result. With that in mind he had to be sure that Tom was also aware of this. You do realise that her father has no intention of paying out? Any fool who returns this girl will be implicated and tried for her kidnapping. For a fraction of the money the Police would be bribed, and the naive courts would take care of the rest. The Lords and the politicians hold all the wealth and power in this country, and they know how to keep hold of it. The truth is they are more corrupt than you and I put together, because they have the authorisation to write and tweak the laws to suit their own ends. In fact, they make us look saintly by comparison. Damn you, Tom, I knew I should have steered clear of you and your dim-witted brother. Who else knows?

Tom shook his head. I’ve told no-one, what about you?

No, Bert sighed and began to massage his forehead with the palm of his hand.

So, what are we going to do?

The girl needs to disappear for starters.

Do you want me to kill her?

Pipe down, Bert hissed. I’ll never put my neck on the line for any amount of money. I might be crooked, but until now I’ve worked within the confines of the law even if the service I provide involves slight exploitation. As far as this kidnap business goes, as it stands, if caught we’d all go to prison, but I’d never let your madness send me to the gallows.

So how can we get out of this mess and still keep the girl alive? She’d still be able to talk and write. She knows our first names.

Mine included? Bert panicked.

No, not yours, Tom lied.

Good, well that’s a start. Right, here’s what needs to happen if we all want to stay free men. You and Eamon need to vanish immediately.

Tom cut in. But we’ve nowhere to go and no money either and we’re six weeks behind on our rent as it is.

That can work in your favour. If you were to disappear owing rent, then no one would suspect your reason for leaving London was down to the kidnapping. Try the docks first, maybe there’s a ship waiting to sail to some far-off exotic shore. I’ve heard half your countrymen are settling in New York. Failing that, head up north and lie low. I’m told there’s an industrial revolution in full swing.

But what about the girl? Tom reminded.

Bert tossed a sixpence onto the table. I’ll think about that while you get the next round in. As you say, we need to do something that’ll guarantee she doesn’t talk nor write.

To no avail, Alexandria had spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening chipping away at Eamon’s conscience and insecurities, before Tom returned at 9p.m. to silence the room.

We’re leaving town, Tom announced to his brother.

Why? What’s happened? Where are we going? Eamon fired a salvo of questions.

Seems our golden goose isn’t going to lay for us after all, he replied dejectedly. Her father is a Lord.

Eamon was more confused than ever. Then surely he’ll easily be able to pay the hundred pounds.

It doesn’t work like that with the upper classes. The only payment his kind makes to the likes of us is in the hard currency of years behind bars.

In the corner of the room, still tied to the chair, Alexandria had her head tilted forward straining her ears to the conversation. Her heart began to race with excitement for she now assumed that her ordeal was almost at an end. ‘Looks like I’ll be home in time for Christmas dinner after all’, she thought, grinning internally.

Hastily, Tom began to gather up the small amount of possessions they had and stuffed them into a tattered, old sailor’s kitbag.

Are we leaving now? Eamon enquired.

Sooner the better, Tom confirmed. There’s no time like the present.

But it’s Christmas Eve, Eamon contested. Where are we going?

As far away from London as possible. I had hoped America, unfortunately there are no sailings out of Woolwich until the 22nd of March and that’s a convict ship to Van Diemen’s Land off the coast of Australia. So, unless we want to be part of that cargo, we need to find an alternative safe haven where we can keep our heads down for a while."

So where are we going and how are we supposed to get there without money?

You just leave the worrying to me. Besides have I ever let you down before? But if you must know we’re heading up north. By all accounts there’s plenty of labouring work up there, some kind of industrial boom, where they can’t get enough people to fill all the jobs. Bert Barker’s kindly loaned us a few crowns to tidy us over until we make our fortune. Now come on, you finish the packing while I dispose of the girl, we leave within the hour.

The words dispose of shattered Alexandria’s daydream of her Christmas Day reunion and she swallowed hard. What are you going to do with me? she begged nervously, her face tightening to hold back her escalating fear.

Without saying a word Tom turned to face her then reached downwards. Slowly he pulled his left trouser leg up to reveal the thick wooden handle of a fish gutting knife, which threateningly protruded from a scabbard tucked inside his sock. He removed the dagger and menacingly began to walk towards Alexandria, the razor-sharp edge glinting as the candlelight danced off the steel blade.

As Tom crept closer, she began to wriggle then bounce in the chair, yet the tight binds refused to yield under the strain. No! she screamed. Please don’t kill me!

Chapter 2

Betrayal at Mile End

Oh, for goodness sake be quiet, Tom ordered. You’ll waken the dead. I’m not going to kill you!

Hyperventilating from sheer terror, Alexandria fought to get her words out. Then… then what’s the knife for?

Tom laughed wickedly. To untie you, of course!

Gradually her heartbeat began to stabilise and her worst fears temporarily subsided. So, you’re going to let me go?

Eventually, yes.

Tom slit the rope from behind her back, allowing her tense hands to spring free and immediately her fingers tingled back to life as a tidal wave of blood coursed through the numbness. A notion flew into Alexandria’s mistrusting mind. ‘He is going to kill me. He just isn’t going to do it here. A dead body at this address would incriminate him. No, he’s going to take me somewhere secluded and murder me.’ Her mind began to spiral out of control. ‘Probably the River Thames, that way my body could drift for days and miles before being found.’

Again, her survival instincts kicked in and she launched herself towards the window that overlooked the street below. Help! Help! she screamed, banging her fists upon the freezing pane where sprawling tentacles of ice had crystallised over the entire length to seal the world outside.

Tom raced over and grabbed her around the waist with one hand, whilst he gagged her high-pitched screams with the other. Unwilling to go to the slaughter without a fight she lashed out in all directions, wriggling and kicking before, in a final act of defiance, sinking her teeth into his right hand. Far too strong for her, Tom continued to stagger back to the chair then instinctively released his prey as her sharp incisors cut deep into his thumb bone.

Arrgh, you feisty little madam, he let off steam with an angry yelp.

As the shock momentarily robbed his senses, his bloody right hand arced high into the air. Alexandria curled up, thrust her hands over her face and squeezed her eyes tight as she cowered in preparation for the incoming blow. But nothing!

Enough! Eamon growled, catching hold of his brother’s hammer-like arm in mid-flight. I don’t like this anymore.

Tom shook free and glared down towards Alexandria. Right, here’s how we’re going to play this. So listen and listen well.I’m not going to kill you, he stressed. That’s unless you really, really force me to. So get that through your thick skull. It’s Christmas Eve and it’s snowing a blizzard out there. You wouldn’t make it home. Trust me, you’d end up lost and die from hypothermia. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m taking you to the poorhouse for the night. They’ll provide you shelter and I’m sure they’ll be delighted to get you home to your parents first thing in the morning, five hundred pounds and all, but only if you keep that big mouth shut ’til I’m gone. Do we have a deal?"

Alexandria nodded in agreement.

Finally! he exclaimed. However, it’s plain to see that we don’t really trust each other. So, I’m going to gag you again and I’ll be holding a knife to your back for the entire duration of our walk to the poorhouse. That way I can be sure you won’t try to escape again. I’ll warn you, my patience is really growing thin so if you should try to do a runner then I’ll be left with no alternative than to silence you once and for all. Do you understand?

Yes, she replied softly.

Good, now sit up in the chair for a moment.

Alexandria did as instructed and allowed Tom to reapply the gag, although on this occasion he was gentle and humane.

Can you breathe alright?

Mmm, she confirmed.

Great. Eamon, pass me your coat and scarf.

Alexandria pulled her head back as if she was sitting in a dentist’s chair.

Don’t worry I’m not going to strangle you. This scarf will hide the gag, keep you warm and keep out the stench of the streets. We don’t want those upper-class nostrils smelling the vile world of the poor, now do we? Besides you might vomit and choke to death on your sick and we don’t want that either. Tom mocked. Right, stand up. He draped Eamon’s huge coat over her. That’s us. Just a fifteen-minute walk to the poorhouse then we’ll be rid of each other for good. Now are you sure you can control yourself?

Alexandria nodded desperate to start the trek towards her freedom.

Let’s go then, said Tom, before turning to Eamon. I’ll be back in around half an hour. Be ready to leave.

For the past two Christmas Eves, Alexandria had been snuggled up in bed by seven o’clock. Unable to sleep for the excitement of what gifts lay awaiting her under the giant, brightly decorated evergreen in the sitting room, she’d watched spellbound as cascading snowflakes had danced and swirled at her window, like moths around a flame, and she’d yearned to be out playing in the enchanting weather. The hypnotic whistling of the north wind through the eaves would eventually lullaby her to sleep and she’d drift off to a fairy-tale land of snow and ice, where rivers of chocolate sleepily meandered through the snowscape towards a castle made of sugar candy where she lived as a princess. The mere thought of being out in the snow, under the yellow-orange skies of nightfall, made her feel alive and deep down she’d craved to be allowed to venture out one snowy Christmas Eve to experience the magic. Suddenly her wish was being granted, though she quickly realised her ultimate fantasy was not all she’d imagined it would be. As Tom marched her from the shelter of the building, a ferocious gust of icy wind almost knocked her over as it buffeted her backwards towards the knife. Forcing herself onwards she squinted through her streaming eyes to observe that the snowstorm had driven any festive revellers inside. Still suspicious as to Tom’s true intentions, Alexandria had resolved to give him fifteen minutes and no more to direct her to the poorhouse and if by then it had failed to appear on her horizon, then she’d run to the first person that came her way. With no timepiece she calculated each minute as a hundred steps, yet before she had even reached a first century her feet were chilled to the bone and her raw hands so numb that she was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the count, as the severe winter elements stole all her concentration. Onward they marched, battling against the incessant blizzard and after ten minutes they passed the Globe Inn with its twinkling lights and boisterous sounds seeping into the bitter night. After twenty full centuries Alexandria’s worst fears returned. Now certain that Tom was leading her to her grave, she began to strain her sights through the blinding snow in desperate search of another human being, when abruptly he stopped her.

We’re here! he announced through chattering teeth.

Alexandria twisted her head to make out daunting rows of spears standing to attention to form immense railings and gates. Slowly, she raised her head and read the striking lettering that ran in a half circle across the main gates, Mile End Poorhouse. She focused to inspect further afield and witnessed a terrifying three-story redbrick mansion, which looked more like a haunted house of horrors than the haven of sanctuary it was billed as. She shrugged it off for little did it really matter, come the light of Christmas Day and she’d be back on her way home to Craven Manor.

Tom located a side entrance and spotted a cast iron bell fixed to the wall. He shook the clapper a handful of times then removed the scarf and gag from Alexandria’s head. He began to walk on the spot, hugging himself as he waited for an answer. Remember our deal? You keep quiet until I’m gone. Can I trust you?

Yes, I promise, she agreed and meant it.

She would play along and wait for him to leave before reporting her kidnap to the master of the poorhouse. Not for Tom’s benefit, but for his hapless brother’s. Eamon had defended her from another certain beating and was being manipulated by his evil sibling and therefore, in Alexandria’s mind, did not deserve to go to jail. A good few minutes passed to Tom’s annoyance and he was just about to try the bell again when the door creaked inward and the intimidating, muscle-bound figure of Bad Bob emerged.

What do you want? he bellowed out inhospitably.

I’ve come to see the Master. I found this pauper wandering about lost in the snowstorm, Tom lied. I think she’s ill and belongs here.

Bad Bob lead them indoors and Alexandria quickly grasped, from the visible mist emanating from her breath, that it was no warmer inside the drab, prison-like, grey painted walls of the building. They climbed three flights of stone stairs then arrived outside a dark wooden door. Bad Bob knocked then awaited permission to enter. As he opened the door a warm gust of air flew out tickling Alexandria’s rosy red cheeks. She followed Bob into the room then made straight for the roaring open fire to thaw out.

The Master put down the newspaper he had been reading and rose from his chair. So, what have we here?

I found her staggering about the streets. I think she may be sick. Is she one of yours? Tom asked.

The Master walked over to Alexandria, placed his finger under her chin and lifted her head. Yes, I’d say you’re right she doesn’t look well at all, though she’s not one of mine.

But you can take her in? Tom quizzed.

Of course, the Master smiled. After all that’s the service we provide for the waifs and strays of this parish.

Good, Tom sighed with relief. I’ll be on my way then. Oh, I almost forgot. He walked over to Alexandria, removed Eamon’s coat and gave her a furtive wink before starting towards the door.

Warm yourself through whilst I see this gentleman out, the Master instructed.

When he returned Alexandria was still standing in front of the fire, staring into the dancing flames, reflecting upon her ordeal and just how close she’d come to being murdered for profit.

The Master’s presence broke her spell. Lucky for you there’s at least a few decent people left in this world.

Decent? she laughed. That man kidnapped me. I’m Alexandria Scott and my father’s Lord Scott.

The Master looked her up and down. Her hair was matted and tangled, her hands, face and clothes were filthy and in general her overall appearance was dishevelled and grubby. And I’m Prince Albert, he mocked.

No, really, I am the girl who was kidnapped, she protested.

The Master walked over and placed his hand on her forehead, which was burning from the heat of the fire. You have a temperature, dear. Let’s get you a bed for the night and we’ll see how you feel in the morning. Bob! he called out.

Dumbstruck, Alexandria couldn’t believe the master’s ignorant attitude towards her claim.

Bad Bob appeared at the door. Yes, guv’nor?

Take this one down to the sick-ward. She has a raging fever, is spouting delirious rubbish and seems to be experiencing hallucinations. Best keep her under observation for the next twenty-four hours. Classic symptoms of cholera or typhoid, wouldn’t you agree?

Certainly sounds like it, guv’nor.

As Bad Bob forcefully led Alexandria away, she shouted back, There’s a five hundred pounds reward on my head.

The Master shook his head from side to side. See what I mean? She must have seen the posters and her illness is leading her to believe she’s the missing girl.

Alexandria was still arguing when Bad Bob arrived at the sick ward. Get in there and find a bed, he ordered.

I’m going nowhere, she screamed then bit into his arm.

Infuriated, Bad Bob lashed out clipping her ear then thrust her into the room before locking the door behind. Too enraged to feel the pain she wrenched and shook the door handle, using her left leg as a lever as she vehemently continued to plead her case.

From the shadows the sad voice of a young boy caught her unawares. Calm down, will you. There are real sick children in here.

Felled by guilt Alexandria turned on the spot to see a small lad of similar age lying on a bed with his right leg in a splint. She gazed further afield and saw another four manned beds and could hear the odd cough and splutter of disease.

She walked over to the boy and forwarded her hand in apology. I’m Alexandria. What happened to you?

The youngster shook her hand. "Alfie London. Pleased to meet you, miss. I’m, well, I was a chimney sweep. I had an accident today and broke my ankle. So