He pulls me in front of him, arms around my waist, face lowered over mine. “That will be our motto. We must find the proper Latin and ask Edmund to devise us a coat of arms.”
I laugh under my breath. “Rosalind does have him terribly fascinated with knights. It does not help that she insists that is whatyouare.”
“A knight and a pirate. Truly the dream life for a six-year-old child.” He tilts his head. “And perhaps for a twenty-seven-year-old man. You are curious and concerned about the ghost, and so we shall pursue it.” He pulls out the note we received at the bakery. “I hope you do not mind if I suggest we postpone our rest and have our adventure first, leaving the remainder of the evening to ourselves.”
“That is an excellent idea, as it is already dark.” I loop my arm through his. “I trust you will follow the directions this time?”
“Certainement. I can make no such promises for our return walk, but as I do not know our destination, I had best use this.” He waves the note. “Tell me the story of Dick Turpin as I navigate.”
6
The street is even more magical now that the sun has set. Gone are the workers scurrying about their business, replaced by shoppers and merrymakers. I stop to smile at two small children so bundled in winter wear that they can barely toddle. A group of girls no more than fifteen pass us, laughing and teasing one of their party, and I envy them their freedom to walk the streets alone together in such a world.
Then there are the decorations. Christmas ones, of course, but also other winter celebrations, many of which I do not recognize, and I make a mental note to investigate further.
As we walk, I tell Nicolas about Dick Turpin.
“That is quite the tale,” Nicolas says. “It sounds like the plot of one of your books.”
“Oh, it’s been used in many a book,” I say. “Most famously, one calledRookwood, which was also the first Newgate novel I ever read.”
“Newgate novels?” Nicolas says. “Does that have anything to do with the Newgate calendars?”
I beam at him. “You know them?”
“Some of the men on my ship were positively obsessed with them. I admit I was torn myself. The contents were rather concerning, yet I hate to judge anyone’s choice of reading material.”
“They were extremely popular,” I say. “My father used to joke that he would be as likely to see that in a patient’s home as a copy of the Holy Bible. Often both, which was, as you might say, somewhat concerning.”
He laughs at that. The Newgate calendar was originally a list of executions from Newgate prison. But then writers got hold of it, with their writerly imaginations, and “Newgate calendars” became the name for books of criminal biographies, often greatly embellished. Oh, they tried to put a God-fearing slant on the stories—this is what happens to naughty boys and wayward girls!—but the publishers knew exactly what the public wanted: lurid stories of scandal and crime.
“Newgate novels,” I explain, “are books about criminals. You must readOliver Twist. It is by a new author named Charles Dickens who...” I trail off. “Who would not be a new novelist in this time period. I wonder what became of him? I really must find out. I adoredOliver Twist. I also must see what became of William Thackeray. He despised Newgate novels and recently wrote one that was supposed to be a satire of them, but readers devoured it as the real thing.”
“The poor man.”
“Not at all. I have met him. He is singularly insufferable. I told him that I write, and he all but patted me on the head, as one would a dog who has learned to walk on two legs. As forRookwood, Dick Turpin was a secondary character, but it ignited a mania for him as a historical figure who had been all but forgotten.”
“So how much of Turpin’s tale is true... and how much is based onRookwood?”
I tap his arm. “That is an excellent question, sir. One that I ought to answer tomorrow, if I can. It will help in understanding that ghost’s tale.”
“Or one that you could answer right now, I believe, if that is what it seems to be.”
He points to the building beside us.
“A library!” I exclaim as I read the sign.
“Yes, and I did not at all make a wrong turn two roads back, circling us in entirely the wrong direction. It was intentional.”
“Naturellement.” I pause. “Did I use that right?”
“You did. So let us pretend I knew you would wish to visit the library, even if it was not along the way. I also have noted those black vehicles, which seem the motorized version of hansom cabs. I propose we visit the museum, answer your questions and then embark on a truly dangerous adventure.”
“Attempting to hail one of those cabs and give the driver our list of directions?”
“Oui.”
This is not simplyany library we enter, but the British Library... and I have never seen it before. That’s not surprising, given that it is less than fifty years old. In my time, the library and museum were linked. The British Museum Library—as it was known—moved into the British Museum when I was young. From today’s visit to the museum, I know that the library eventually moved into the museum’s Reading Room. That has not yet happened in my time, and in the twenty-first century, it has moved again, to this building.