Ghost at the Window , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Elyssa Warkentin

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65 pages

English

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Janey Wiggins lives a desperate life in London's East End at the end of the nineteenth century. With little education and fewer prospects, she has no hope of escaping the grinding poverty, constant hunger, and ever-present danger of life on the street -- that is, until a chance meeting with the great detective Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson. Hired on as Holmes's apprentice "irregular," Janey turns her adversity to her advantage. As she and her friends investigate the mysterious appearance of a ghost in the upper window of a local home, Janey discovers how important she can be. But when her theory of the case clashes with Holmes's and a child's life may be on the line, will she find the courage to act?

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	01 septembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781787057562
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Ghost at the Window
Elyssa Warkentin

Published in 2021 by
Orange Pip Books
www.orangepipbooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2021 Elyssa Warkentin
The right of Elyssa Warkentin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Brian Belanger

The Ghost at the Window

Chapter One
Janey Wiggins raced through the dark London streets. The trickle of light let off by the thin crescent moon was veiled by clouds, and in the absence of lamplight she could barely see a foot in front of her face. The lamplighters had not yet made their way through the maze of East London streets, but Janey had lived in the neighbourhood for all of her eleven years, and she knew it like the back of her hand.
Janey was a tall girl for her age, with plain brown hair tied back with a simple ribbon. She was growing so fast that her dresses were always a little bit short, worn at the elbows, and fraying where her mother had taken down the hems. She had quick brown eyes that flashed speedily between mischievous smiles and fits of temper.
Panting now, she flew across the cobbles. Her feet pounded and her legs pumped hard, muscles burning with the strain. Quickly, she dodged through an archway that stretched between two dingy buildings and plunged into the inky blackness beyond. She crouched down behind a row of rubbish bins, wrinkling her nose. The stench was overpowering: rotting vegetable scraps and worse, the leavings of the businesses that inhabited the surrounding buildings that were too rotten to even appeal to the starving animals that frequented the alleys. But it was her best bet for safety. She withdrew further into the darkness, pressing into the bin beside her to make herself as small and invisible as possible as she tried to catch her breath.
For a moment there was silence. Janey heaved a sigh of relief. That had been a close call – she’d been out playing in the streets with her friend Rose, like they did every evening, but this time she’d allowed herself to be distracted by the grumblings of her empty belly, and then had been lost in daydreams of extravagant meals. She was a daydreamer by habit, but this time it had been dangerous. They’d almost been caught by the Vigilance Committee thugs who patrolled the streets after sundown each night, acting like they ruled them, like they could decide who had the right to use them, and when. Rose had dashed off down the street at the sight of the group of swaggering men, and Janey sprinted away in the opposite direction, hoping the gang would give up on the idea of pursuit. She knew they considered street girls like her to be a menace – a danger to the respectable folk who lived in the area. Somehow, respectable always seemed to mean rich to people like this. Janey wasn’t sure what they’d do with her if they caught her, but she knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. They’d treat her like a criminal, probably, just for being out on the street after dark. A pickpocket, or something worse. Her face burned at the thought.
She sagged against the bin. She was still hungry. She’d had her milk and bread with her mother when they’d risen that morning, and a cup of weak tea, too, but there was nothing else in their cupboard. Her mother had hugged her apologetically and taken up her basket to walk the three miles to Covent Garden to sell flowers with the other vendor women.
“When I return, I’ll stop at the corner stall and we’ll have a meat pie each,” she had promised Janey, kissing her cheek.
Janey had kissed her back and smiled. “Good luck, then, mother.”
But at that, her mother had only sighed.
“It’s not luck that earns our bread, Janey – it’s hard work. That’s something you’d do well to remember.” She was always pestering her to take up odd jobs and earn some money.
Now, in the still darkness, Janey’s stomach growled again at the memory of her mother’s promise.
“Soon,” she told herself. “It’s almost dinner time. Just a little longer.”
Suddenly, she sat up straighter. Her keen ears picked up the sound of boots on cobbles. Were they coming nearer?
She strained to hear. The footsteps had slowed, but they were definitely coming closer.
Closer.
Closer still.
Janey held her breath. She saw a figure outlined against the entrance to the alley. It paused for a moment, and soon it was joined by several others.
“Did you see which way she went?” a voice asked lowly.
Her blood froze in her veins. She knew that voice. It was Mr. Crawford, the chairman of the Vigilance Committee and the cruellest of the gang.
“Nah, I think we lost her,” another answered. Mr. Crawford cursed under his breath.
“Let’s hope the little street rat makes for the sewers – where she belongs.”
The men surrounding Mr. Crawford laughed. It almost seemed to Janey that they were looking straight at her even if she knew it was too dark in the alley for her to be seen. After a moment they moved on, hurrying away down the side street.
Janey waited a minute then burst out from her hiding spot in a sudden explosion of speed. Without a backwards glance, she raced out of the alley, turning in the opposite direction, making for the busier Commercial Street just a hundred yards away. She was close – so close to the street that she could hear snippets of conversation as people passed up and down, could hear the clip-clop of horse hooves as cabbies carried wealthier Londoners through her poor neighbourhood and home to their comfortable beds and well-stocked pantries.
The single room in which she lived with her mother was on the other side of this street, just over the baker’s shop that stood at the corner of Commercial Street and New Road. If she could make it to the side entrance of her building, she would be safe, and her mother would come home. They would eat and talk about their days and maybe – if Janey were very lucky – her mother would have brought home a newspaper that they would read together by the flame of a single candle, huddled in the small bed they shared. Janey loved to read, but it was rare that they could afford even the small expense of a newspaper.
Her heart pounded. She was so close to home that she could almost smell it – the delicious baking bread that wafted up into her room every morning, the laundry that hung drying in the winter sun. Ahead of her, the warm streetlights on Commercial Street had been lit, and the light spilled out, calling to her. She was almost there.
And then, with a sharp cry of victory that seemed to come out of thin air, a hand shot out of the dark and latched onto Janey’s arm, stopping her dead in her tracks.

C hapter Two
Janey gasped in pain as the hand around her forearm tightened, holding her fast.
“Got you!” a voice hissed in her ear.
Janey twisted around. Her stomach fluttered in dismay. It was just her luck, she thought – she’d been captured by Jim Crawford, the son of the leader of the Vigilance Committee, and one of the roughest boys she knew. He was big for his age – tall and muscular – and his mouth was twisted in an ugly sneer. There was no way she could get away.
“Janey Wiggins!” he said. He sounded surprised. “I ain’t seen you since you left school.”
Janey groaned. She’d attended the free Charity School in Hunton Road with all of the neighbourhood children, including Jim Crawford and the rest of his gang of bullies, though he’d been a year ahead of her. She’d learned to keep her head down, to stay out of their way and make the best of her lessons. But when she’d turned 10 years old, her mother had sat her down and carefully explained that there was no need for a poor flower-peddler’s daughter to have any more of an education than she had already had; that it was a waste of time when she could be helping out and earning money. Janey hadn’t been to school since.
“What’re you doing, wandering about the streets like a common thief, girl ?” He spat out the last word like an insult.
Janey flushed. “What are you doing, Jim Crawford? Wandering the streets like a common thug?”
She tried to tug away from his grip, but the more she pulled, the harder he dug his fingers into her arm. There would be bruises tomorrow, she thought.
Suddenly, she felt very alone. No one in the world knew where she was. There was no one to help her. Janey shivered in her thin, cotton dress. The colourful shawl her mother had knit for her the winter before was a help in weather like this, but she’d been outside all day and was chilled nearly to the bone.
Jim shook her. “Wait till my father sees what I’ve caught. A month in the Reformatory will teach you your place.”
Janey shuddered. The Juvenile Reformatory was little better than a prison for children. “You can’t send me to the Reformatory! I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Jim scoffed.
“Wandering the streets alone after dark? If you’re not a criminal now, you will be one soon. Who’re they going to believe? Me? Or street trash like you?” He shook her arm again.
“Let go of me!” Suddenly, Janey was more furious