A Christmas Revelation Page 11

  Eloise crept silently up the stairs, and when she reached the top she went swiftly into the darkness of the passage.

  Younger hurled the box as violently as he could, cursing at the top of his voice. It hit the railing and struck hard at the metal bands of a keg.

  Worm saw the glint of gold, soft, yellow gold where the pewter coat had been broken, just before the blinding flash blew him off his feet and hurled him to the ground.

  Where was Eloise? He scrambled up again, bruised, but nothing more. It might hurt later, but now it was no worse than when he fell off a bale in the dock.

  He had no idea where Squeaky was, but he must find Eloise, because she might be hurt. He kept his hand on the wall and followed it back a few yards, to where the passage was, turned down it, and went as fast as he could along the way he had seen her go.

  He saw her ahead of him, and suddenly it was so bright he could see her quite clearly, because everything was bright, as if they were in the middle of a lantern, and the noise was terrible, just about deafening.

  He ran into Eloise and clung on to her as they were both thrown onto the floor.

  She struggled to get up, gripping on to him. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded furiously.

  “I went round to see if you were all right,” he answered, trying to stand up.

  “Round what?”

  “Round to where Squeaky was. What happened?”

  She pulled her skirt straight and took his hand again. “We’ve got to get out of here. They’re after us. They’re mad because there’s no gold here. What’s this now?” She raced back along the passage.

  Worm turned to look and saw the scarlet flames. That’s what the noise was, and the light. The whole room they had been in was on fire.

  The sound of it was getting louder, and it felt hotter.

  “Come with me!” she said urgently. “Run!”

  “We’ve got to find Squeaky!” he protested.

  There was another explosion, and part of the wooden balcony crumpled up and fell to the floor below.

  This time he didn’t argue. Hand in hand, they ran as fast as they could.

  There was a yell of rage from one of the men behind them, but there was no way to know if it was of fury at the fire, at Eloise and Worm, or at each other.

  There was also a crackle of flames tearing at the structure of the rooms, at wooden crates and barrels, at anything fire could consume.

  Worm clung to Eloise and they fled, stumbling now and then, even falling, but bruises were barely felt. They must find the way out. It was not dark inside anymore, but orange red from the flames, and choking with smoke.

  “Hurry,” she urged, pulling him even harder. “We’ve got to get out while we can.”

  He pulled back. “But what about Squeaky? We can’t leave without Squeaky!”

  “Are they after us?” she gasped.

  “They got the gold!” he insisted.

  “No, they didn’t. Didn’t you see? The box was empty.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it were made of gold.”

  “What!” She was so startled she actually stopped running.

  “We’ve got to find Squeaky! We can’t go without him!”

  “He probably got out another way. If Oldham catches us he’ll kill us. No use arguing about gold now. There is none.”

  They could both hear Oldham shouting not far behind them.

  “The box were made of gold,” Worm said again. “When he threw it away, it landed on something hard, what left a scratch on it—deep. And it showed gold. He were a clever one, your dad.”

  Oldham’s voice was getting really close. “Find that bitch and finish her this time. If we’re going to burn, so is she!”

  That shocked Eloise into starting to run again, pulling Worm along faster than his feet could find a grip on the uneven floor.

  They turned a corner just as another part of the building gave way and crashed three stories of burning wood down into the alley.

  “No, not that way!” Eloise jerked Worm so hard that this time he did fall. It hurt.

  She stooped and pulled him to his feet. “I don’t know the way. But we’ve got to hurry! There’s sacks and sacks of flour in there. They could all explode. We’ve got to get away. Squeaky wouldn’t want you to get killed. He might even be waiting for us outside.” She tore a bit off her skirt, yanking at it so hard it hurt her hands. She left the piece of fabric on the doorway, like a sign, then turned and grabbed hold of Worm’s hand again. “We’ve got to hurry. The fire is coming this way, and when it reaches here it will almost certainly blow the room up.”

  He followed her because he had no choice. It was hot and smoky, and the noise of burning was closer and louder. Oldham and Younger were getting closer, too, and Worm was really frightened of them. He knew Oldham would hurt them both dreadfully if he could catch them. And the men could run faster and were much stronger. Worm couldn’t save Eloise, and he couldn’t save himself. And he couldn’t bear to think of Squeaky in all the flames.

  His lungs were bursting; his throat ached with the smoke in the air and the hot, acrid taste.

  They must be nearly returned to the way out by now, surely!

  He pulled back. What if Squeaky were in there, where the flames were?

  Then he would be dead. That thought was too much to bear.

  If Worm himself were there, then Eloise would go back for him—wouldn’t she? Even though he was slowing her up, she wouldn’t let him die?

  Then before he could think of anything more, there was an explosion like the sound of a bomb. A terrible roaring noise. Worm was picked right up off the ground and hurled into the air as if he were never going down again. And then the cold ground hit him harder than he had ever fallen before.

  It was long, breathless seconds before he could even move. Then he sat up slowly and saw the biggest fire of his life. The whole back of the warehouse was gone and flames were roaring up into the sky—brilliant, white-hot in the heart, yellow, orange, and red all around the place, and smoke, towers of smoke like the biggest fireplace in the world.

  Where was Eloise? He tried to stand up, but he was too dizzy.

  Then out of nowhere there was water all over the place, on the ground, big fountains of it in the air, all going toward the flames.

  Somebody grabbed him and he tried to shout, but his throat was too dry. He was carried against his will, wriggling as much as he could, by a big man in a coat that felt funny. When he was put down on the cobbles, he could see the horses of the fire engine standing nervously, breathing hard, shifting their weight from one hoof to the other, big fire wagons just behind them. There was another wagon twenty yards away. At each of them there were men talking softly to the horses, telling them they would be all right.

  It was a fireman who had carried Worm off the pavement where the explosion had thrown him.

  “Eloise!” He forced his voice to come. “Where is she?”

  The fireman gave him a cup of water. “You hurt?” he asked.

  “No. Where’s Eloise?”

  “Over there,” the fireman pointed. “She’s a bit singed around the edges, but she’ll be all right. Anyone else in there?”

  “Yes. An old man with a jacket and no hat. White hair. Something lit up with a terrible bang—again and again. Please, you got to find him…”

  “We’ll look. Anyone else?”

  “Yes. Two bad men. It was them that made it burn…You got to look for Squeaky…”

  The fireman’s face was suddenly soft with pity. “There’s no one left alive in there now. Flour…it can explode something terrible if it fills the air, if it’s stale enough for that—it’s really bad.” He stood up. “You stay here. Do as you’re told! Not getting you out of there a second time.”

  Worm was very glad to do
as the man told him. He was burned in all sorts of places. His chest hurt when he breathed, and so did his throat. He wondered about Squeaky. It mattered desperately—it was none of it any use if Squeaky didn’t come out alive. It hurt more than anything else.

  Eloise hadn’t taken her revenge. That was good. In fact, it was better than good. And the gold wouldn’t belong to anybody. That was good, too.

  When Eloise made her way over to him in the red light that filled the air, she found him crying silently.

  “You seen Squeaky?” he asked with a sudden lurch of hope.

  She shook her head. “There’s nobody alive in there now. I’m…I’m sorry…”

  “So are we going home now?” he asked her, getting up with great difficulty, staggering a bit, when she caught him.

  “Yes,” she answered with certainty, although she had no idea where home would be. She stepped forward and hugged him. “Where’s home?” she asked.

  “Come with me. It’s on Portpool Lane. It’s…” Then he thought about Squeaky again and his eyes filled with tears. “It’s where Squeaky and I live…” He daren’t go any further.

  She gently stroked his hair, but she could not find any words of comfort. Perhaps in her own way she felt just as bad?

  He sniffed and pulled away from her. “He could be in there. We shouldn’t just go…He…he was getting ready for Christmas. He liked it. This one was going to be special.”

  “It’s just about Christmas Day now,” she answered. “I reckon it’s the middle of the night, and that’s when it starts. He wouldn’t want you to spend his special Christmas sitting in a pool of water, watching the warehouse burn down, would he?”

  Worm shook his head, but his throat was too tight for him to speak.

  “Let’s go,” she said gently.

  “It’s a long way from here.” He refused to move. The argument didn’t matter, and they both knew it. There could be no real Christmas without Squeaky.

  Eloise waited several moments. “It’s too hot to stay here,” she said, as another gout of flame roared up into the sky.

  He stood up and took her hand, and together they walked slowly away. They were at the end of the street, still lit by the red glare, almost like daylight, when the scruffiest figure Worm had ever seen caught up to them. His trousers were scorched and torn in several places, his once-elegant coat singed up one side and missing one of its sleeves. His hair was burned and full of black bits on one side. His cadaverous face was smeared with soot, and one or two red patches showed where flying cinders had burned him. But he was smiling.

  “Squeaky!” Worm cried out and flew into his arms, hugging him with all his strength, clinging on to him as if he would never let go.

  Squeaky started to complain, then changed his mind and lifted Worm up and held him. Over Worm’s shoulders he glanced at Eloise and dared her to say anything at all.

  She didn’t. She just started walking very slowly toward the better-lit part of the street.

  Squeaky put Worm down and together they caught up with Eloise.

  “You coming for Christmas, then?” Squeaky said matter-of-factly. “We’re having roast goose. And pudding. And cake. And there are red ribbons all over the place.”

  “Please?” Worm added.

  “I’d like that,” Eloise replied hesitantly, looking from one to the other of them, trying to read in their faces if they really meant it.

  And as they walked under the streetlamp, the glow caught the tears in her eyes and the light in her hair, a little singed, but still shining. And somewhere in a church tower, not far away, the bells began to ring.

  * * *

  Whatever Squeaky and Claudine had told Worm about Christmas, the reality far surpassed his imaginings. Everyone was smiling as, beside the decorated tree, the holly with its berries, the Nativity scene, and the enormous red satin bows that Worm had helped tie so proudly, they sat down to the festive feast. He thought all the geese in London must be crisply steaming on this table on Portpool Lane.

  “Couldn’t risk running short, could we?” Squeaky said, carving a generous portion. “Pass that down to Eloise…”

  Spooning roast potatoes onto his plate, with nobody counting how many, Worm thought this was the best day of his whole life.

  “Shall we raise a toast?” Squeaky asked Claudine.

  “We shall indeed,” she agreed, glancing around the table at the people who had come to mean so much to her. She stood, and everyone else did, too, including Worm, who wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. “Raise your glasses, everyone. A very Merry Christmas to you all!”

  “A very Merry Christmas,” they echoed.

  When the geese, the stuffings and vegetables, the sauces and gravy, and the puddings—better, even, than spotted dick—had been eaten, and everyone was sitting around feeling drowsy and full, Worm decided it was the moment to give Claudine her present.

  “I got you this,” he said shyly. “It’s to say thank you…for everything wot you’ve done for me.”

  Claudine looked surprised but pleased. She took the little parcel, carefully untied the red ribbon and pulled away the gold paper. Her eyes were huge and suspiciously bright as she took out the scarf with the roses and carefully held it up.

  “Oh, Worm…oh, it’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Thank you.” She leaned over to hug him and kiss his cheek. Then she draped the scarf loosely around her shoulders so that she could admire the pattern and feel its softness. “Thank you…I’ve never seen anything so pretty.”

  “I’m so glad you like it,” he said.

  “I love it, Worm,” she replied.

  He sank down on the floor beside her chair and rested his head on her knee, thinking through the wonderful day he’d had, starting with the church bells at midnight. This moment, though—this very minute—was what he would choose to remember forever.

  To all those who wish to belong

  THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS

  OF ANNE PERRY

  A Christmas Journey

  A Christmas Visitor

  A Christmas Guest

  A Christmas Secret

  A Christmas Beginning

  A Christmas Grace

  A Christmas Promise

  A Christmas Odyssey

  A Christmas Homecoming

  A Christmas Garland

  A Christmas Hope

  A New York Christmas

  A Christmas Escape

  A Christmas Message

  A Christmas Return

  A Christmas Revelation

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of fifteen earlier holiday novels, as well as the William Monk series, the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt series, the new Daniel Pitt series, five World War I novels, and a work of historical fiction, The Sheen on the Silk. Anne Perry lives in Los Angeles.

  anneperry.co.uk

  To inquire about booking Anne Perry for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at speakers@penguinrandomhouse.com.

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