Something had changed in the tailor shop. First off, it was quiet. It appeared empty too. It felt so eerie, little hairs on my arms began to prickle and stand up all on their own.
Mr. Griggs was nowhere in sight. That wasn’t like him. The busy tailor was almost always at work, rarely stopping even to eat during the day. “Folks don’t pay me to put grease on their jackets,” he’d once told me with a hearty laugh. “I leave that to them.”
Mr. Griggs was devoted to his trade. He liked to greet his customers, fresh and pleasant-like, even if he’d already seen them twice since breakfast. He treated me the same way. “Eel! How nice to see you,” he’d say each evening. “Dear boy, I’ve made a fearful mess for you to sweep up today.”
Now, as my eyes grew used to the shadows, I saw that the shop wasn’t deserted, after all: five-year-old Bernie and his sister, Betsy, two years older, were there. Bernie and Betsy were usually as rambunctious as kittens. But here they were, posed as prim and stiff as a little gentleman and miss, on the chairs reserved for customers.
I had an odd feeling looking at them, a stab of memory. They reminded me of a time when I’d hoped that if I was extra, extra good and didn’t move a muscle, I could keep something bad from happening.
Bernie’s face had streaks of dirt and tears on it. Betsy had her hands tucked under her. Her black-and-white runt of a dog lay curled by her chair. Dilly swished her tail lazy-like when she spotted me, but even she was being extra well behaved: most days she’d jump up and twirl like a spinning top.
Mr. Griggs sometimes called her Silly Dilly. “Where’s my welcome, Dilly girl?” he liked to say. Dilly had followed Mr. Griggs home from Piccadilly Circus one day. We figured she’d come into the city on a farmer’s cart and gotten separated from her master in that great, bustling intersection, which was always packed with horses, carts, and crowds.
“Poor wee pup. How could I resist bringin’ her home to Betsy?” Mr. Griggs said. He was convinced that Dilly was the smartest dog in London. “If I hadn’t picked her up, I don’t doubt she would’ve found her way back to the farm she was born on. But now she loves us too much to go anywhere, ain’t that right, Miss Piccadilly?” I’d almost made the mistake of pointing out that if Dilly had had such a keen sense of direction, she wouldn’t have gotten lost in the first place.
Not everyone in London took kindly to dogs as pets, but Dilly’s family treated her like royalty. She was especially fond of sausage rolls. I even found myself buying one for her sometimes. I’d feed it to her in small bits, which drove her so crazy she’d sit at my feet, throw up her muzzle to the sky, and howl.
I went over and scratched behind Dilly’s soft ears. In a low voice I asked Betsy, “So where’s your father, then?”
“Pa ain’t feeling well,” Betsy whispered. “Mum says I should tell everyone that he begs you to please return another day.”
I couldn’t do that! I needed to talk to Mr. Griggs—now. If he didn’t speak up for me in the next hour, I might find myself sleeping in an upturned boat by the side of the Thames tonight.
I stared at the children, unsure what to do. Tears pooled up in Bernie’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. He thrust his fists against his face as if trying to make them stop.
I looked to Betsy. “Was it somethin’ he ate?”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Pa’s stomach hurts somethin’ awful and he’s real thirsty.”
I frowned. It might be nothing. Stomach upsets were to be expected, especially in summer. Maybe I could just slip upstairs for a quick word. Mr. Griggs might be well enough to jot a brief note to Mr. John on my behalf.
“Well, I’ll just go up and poke my head in at the door. Your ma might need me to fetch something from the costermonger.” Fishing into my pocket, I drew out two halfpenny coins, almost all the money I had left. “I saw an Italian ice man and his cart on the corner of Berwick Street. Go on and get yourselves a lemon ice.”
Betsy and Bernie sprang up, grabbed the coins, and ran out, their bare feet pattering on the wooden floorboards. I made my way up the narrow staircase. It was hard to breathe. The air was stale and hot. Yet, for some reason, a shiver ran down my spine.
It’s just nerves after what’s happened at the Lion, I told myself. Don’t be daft.
It might be rude to barge in like this, but if I lost my situation and ended up back on the street, my chances of keeping out of Fisheye’s way weren’t good. I’d be no use to anyone who needed me then. No use at all.
And someone did need me.
The door ahead of me was slightly ajar. I gave it a gentle push with my foot. It creaked and swung open. Mrs. Griggs, a neat, plain woman with a gentle face, startled at the noise.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Griggs …,” I began.
Then I stopped.
I stopped for a long, terrible minute, unable to breathe or think or even understand the scene before me. What I saw was this: Mr. Griggs lay in a corner of the small room, resting on a pile of sheets. Well, I don’t suppose you could call it resting. Far from it. For in truth, he looked to be in pure agony.
I’m sure my mouth was wide open in shock. I thought to close it, and just as I did, Mr. Griggs clutched his belly and started to writhe, back and forth, back and forth, something awful. His blond hair looked almost black with sweat.
Then there were the sounds he made. From deep in his throat came small, horrible cries of pain. There was a chamber pot nearby. And some extra buckets. But I don’t think he’d had the strength to use them.
The sheets under the tailor were covered with what looked like water. At first I figured Mrs. Griggs had tried to cool off his fever. But then I saw that it wasn’t water at all, but strange masses of tiny white particles, like rice. Something pricked at the back of my mind. White particles … white particles.
I’d heard something about them before, somewhere. But what?
“Oh, Eel, lad. You oughtn’t to be here. Didn’t Betsy tell you?” Mrs. Griggs said in a fierce, urgent whisper. “He’s been exploding … the pain … I sent the children downstairs. You go too. Go now.”
“Mrs. Griggs, do you … do you need anything?”
She stared at me helplessly, as if I’d spoken in a foreign language.
“Don’t you understand?” she hissed softly. “There’s nothing you can do.…”
Her voice trailed off. Mr. Griggs cried out and she rushed over. After that she seemed to forget I was there.
I swallowed hard. I thought I would throw up, and I might have if I’d stayed any longer. Instead I left. Fast. I backed out of the room and clattered down the stairway without drawing a breath. In a second I was out into the street.
I stood quivering, taking in great gasps of air that was so sticky it hardly counted as air at all. And there, right across the cobblestones, stood the Lion Brewery.
I’m lost now, I thought. I’ll never get my job back. There’s not even any sense in goin’ back inside. I’ll have to put up with Mr. John dismissing me—and hope he doesn’t have me put in jail as a thief.
I shouldn’t be thinking of myself first, I knew, with Mr. Griggs suffering so. Then I remembered what I’d heard about those white particles. That’s what came out of people when they fell sick with the cholera.
Mr. Griggs had been struck down by the blue death.