The Traitors’ Gate
illustrated by Karina Raude
A RICHARD JACKSON BOOK
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
New York London Toronto Sydney
Nineteenth-century Novels by Avi
The Barn
Beyond the Western Sea
Book I: The Escape From Home
Book II: Lord Kirkle’s Money
Emily Upham’s Revenge: Or, How Deadwood Dick Saved the Banker’s Niece: A Massachusetts Adventure
History of Helpless Harry: To Which Is Added a Variety of Amusing and Entertaining Adventures
The Man Who Was Poe
Punch With Judy
The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2007 by Avi
Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Karina Raude
Case cover image of North, or Inside View of Traitors’ Gate (Smith’s Antiquities of London) courtesy of Motco Enterprises Limited
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Book design by Ann Bobco
The text for this book is set in Adobe Caslon.
The illustrations for this book are rendered in pen and ink.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Avi, 1937—The Traitors’ Gate / Avi.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Richard Jackson Book.”
Summary: When his father is arrested as a debtor in 1849 London, fourteen-year-old John Huffam must take on unexpected responsibilities, from asking a distant relative for help to determining why people are spying on him and his family.
ISBN: 978-0-689-85335-7
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-13219-7
[1. Spies—Fiction. 2. Poverty—Fiction. 3. Family life—London (England)—Fiction. 4. London (England)—History—1800-1950—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.A953Tqm 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2006008825
www.SimonandSchuster.com
For Nancy and Dick Jackson
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
I Introduce Myself
CHAPTER 2
I Return to My Family
CHAPTER 3
My Family’s Fortunes Fall
CHAPTER 4
I Learn About a Sponging House
CHAPTER 5
We Arrive at the Halfmoon Inn
CHAPTER 6
Mr. Tuckum Speaks to Me Privately
CHAPTER 7
Father Makes a Request of Me
CHAPTER 8
I Receive More Requests
CHAPTER 9
I Go Out at Dawn
CHAPTER 10
I Set Off to Visit Lady Euphemia
CHAPTER 11
I Meet Lady Euphemia
CHAPTER 12
I Gaze Upon the Traitors’ Gate
CHAPTER 13
I Go to the Naval Ordinance Office
CHAPTER 14
I Meet a Mysterious Man
CHAPTER 15
I Am Confronted by the Ragged Girl
CHAPTER 16
I Wonder About Father
CHAPTER 17
I Hear an Odd Story
CHAPTER 18
I Enter the Den of the Red Lion
CHAPTER 19
I Seek Advice
CHAPTER 20
I Learn of Mr. Farquatt’s Proposal
CHAPTER 21
I sit in Darkness
CHAPTER 22
I Overhear a Private Meeting
CHAPTER 23
I Return to Lady Euphemia
CHAPTER 24
I Have a Curious Encounter
CHAPTER 25
I Hear Father Proclaim His Fate
CHAPTER 26
I Attend the Queen’s Bench Court
CHAPTER 27
I Learn News of Mr. Farquatt
CHAPTER 28
I Confront More Riddles
CHAPTER 29
I Have More Questions
CHAPTER 30
I Visit Whitecross Street Prison
CHAPTER 31
I Learn the Truth
CHAPTER 32
I Look Beneath the Stone
CHAPTER 33
I Visit the Rookery of St. Giles
CHAPTER 34
I Meet Mr. Nottingham
CHAPTER 35
I Go to the Church of All Hallows by the Tower
CHAPTER 36
I Return to Whitecross Street Prison
CHAPTER 37
I Hear Sary’s Astonishing Story
CHAPTER 38
I Receive an Invitation from Mr. Tuckum
CHAPTER 39
I Make More Discoveries
CHAPTER 40
I Decide Upon a Plan of Action
CHAPTER 41
I Discover the Real Traitor
CHAPTER 42
I Meet with Sergeant Muldspoon
CHAPTER 43
I Am Amazed
CHAPTER 44
I Am Alone
CHAPTER 45
I Make an Astounding Discovery
CHAPTER 46
I Follow the Traitor Through the Gate
CHAPTER 47
I See an End to It … Almost
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Traitors’ Gate
PROLOGUE
“Don’t speak!”
“But—”
“I’m warning you, don’t speak! Yer life may depend upon it!”
Midnight on the River Thames: A rowboat in which two men sit. Water stinking of dead fish, sewage, and brackish sea. Fog so clotted with coal dust that the men, though a few feet apart, cannot see each other, no more than they can see the stars in heaven or the gas lamps of London less than a quarter of a mile away.
A paddle wheeler passes by. The churning water causes the rowboat to dip and bob. The first speaker rests on his oars. But once the wheeler is gone, he leans over his oars and whispers, “Riverpolice.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s my job to know, ain’t it?” His voice is low and husky.
“Do they know we’re here?”
“Maybe.”
“How could they?”
“Them Metropolitan Police ’ave detectives now.”
“A dumb lot they are, I suppose.”
“Think so? Then ’ere’s some advice: Keep away from Chief Inspector Ratchet. You never know when ’e’ll show up. All right, then, ’ow are things back where you come from?”
“Couldn’t be worse.”
“And you’re ’re to even things up, right?”
“We’re going to defend ourselves, that’s all.”
“So you called on me for ’elp, did you?”
“Right.”
“’Ow you get my name?”
“A girl said you’d help me.”
“Then she done ’er job fine. Now listen ’ard. I’m about to provide that ’elp you want. Then I’ll get you back on shore quick as winks.”
“Why did you bring me out here?”
> “You paid me for information. And you’re brand-new ’ere, ain’t you? People won’t know you. But me, I’ve been round this city some. So let me tell you, London ’as more eyes and ears than any city. If them Peelers see you with me, it’s over. Lot safer out ’ere on the river.”
“What about that police boat?”
“Just ’ope it’s a coincidence.”
“All right. Go on. I’m listening. What’s your information?”
“It’s this: There’s this clerk, Wesley John Louis ’Uffam.”
“Huffam?”
“If you like.”
“Why, I know about him!”
“Do you? Who told you?”
“That’s my business. Go on.”
“If you know ’im, I guess you also know ’e works in the Naval Ordinance Office. ’E’s seen the wery plans you want. And ’e’s more than seen ’em. ’E’s copied ’em.”
“For whom?”
“Who do you think? The Royal Navy. ’Ere’s the point: There’s reason to think you can get the information from ’im.”
“Is he willing?”
“That’s the word. The man’s either a fool or too clever by ’alf. But ’e’s surely got what you’re looking for—in ’is ’ead. The best military invention in a ’undred years. Changes everything. Better yet, ’e’s let word slide that ’e’s willing to sell it to the ’ighest bidder. Why? Cause ’e needs money. Needs it bad. All right, then: Apply the right squeeze and you should’ave no trouble getting what you want out of’im. ’E’s an easy mark.”
“How much time do I have?”
“What’s it now, August? I’d say you got till November.”
“I have someone close to the man.”
“Who?”
“You have your business, I have mine.”
“You talk like a real spy.”
“If you’re asking if I’m willing to take risks? Well, I am.”
“A real gambler, ain’t you?”
“A man has to survive someway, don’t he?”
“Fine, but from this point on,” says the rower, “you’re on yer own. Understand? I don’t want to see yer face, and I don’t want you to see mine.”
“Don’t worry. The bloody fog is so thick, I can’t see anything.”
“Good.”
“Anything else?”
“Just this: From the way this ’ere ’Uffam put out ’is word, I’ll bet there’s others trying to get what you want. You’re not likely to be the only one in the game.”
“Who else?”
“The usual mob. The French. The Russians, per’aps. Maybe the Prussians, Turks, or Spanish. Could be Americans for that matter. Take yer pick.”
“No idea which?”
“It could be all. Or some. Or none. Best be on yer guard. Now I’ll take you back to the riverbank. No more talk.”
“One more question.”
“Go on.”
“What’s your interest?”
The rower leans forward and, guided by the voice, manages to tap on the other man’s chest as if to punch a mark on it. “I can ’ave my own business too, can’t I?”
“Suit yourself,” says the passenger, pushing the hand away with a walking stick.
The rower leans back and begins to propel the rowboat with powerful strokes. All is quiet save for the splash of oars.
“Fog lifting,” he says, shifting his head so that his oilskin cloak covers him up to the eyes.
“Where are we?”
The rower peers through the murk. “There’s the Tower of London. You can just make out Traitors’ Gate.”
“I’d rather not land there,” mutters the other.
“Fitting … in its way.”
“If that’s a joke, I don’t like it. Just get me on shore.”
The little boat scrapes the riverbank where a narrow city street—Cousin Lane—runs down to the water.
The passenger clambers out.
“Mind the muck!”
“I’m fine.”
“Good luck.”
“I assure you,” the man calls back as he vanishes into the fog, “luck will have nothing to do with it.”
“Maybe,” murmurs the oarsman as he pushes back into the foggy river, “just maybe I should ’ave taken ’im straight to Traitors’ Gate. Might ’ave saved time. Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
He rows right to Old Swan’s Pier, where the police paddle wheeler is waiting for him. “All right, then,” he announces as he climbs aboard. “Our pretty little fishing expedition ’as commenced. By November we’ll see what our net brings in.”
Among those who hear him is a girl. She puts a dirty hand over her mouth and does a little jig of delight to keep from laughing out loud.
CHAPTER 1
I Introduce Myself
“By the end of this week,” said my father, as if speaking of a change in weather, “there’s a possibility I shall be sent to prison.”
With those words, Father—Wesley John Louis Huffam, who liked to add “Esquire” to his name as befit a gentleman—informed us of his circumstance.
My mother—Leticia—responded by shrieking, sobbing, and scolding. Clarissa, my older sister, bemoaned her likely spinster fate, then retired into a corner to whimper softly if audibly. Our Irish servant, Brigit, hid her face in her apron and no doubt whispered prayers.
Father, having provoked this domestic thunderstorm, closed his ears to the din, kept his hands in his pockets, stared out one of the small dirty windows of our rooms, and whistled his favorite tune, “Money Is Your Friend.”
As for me—christened John Horatio Huffam—I could hardly grasp the situation except to watch and listen. That night, however, my feelings of anxiety were so great, I slept very poorly. As a consequence, it took considerable effort to keep my eyes open next day at school.
The nature of this school—which Father had selected—can perhaps be best understood from the sign affixed over its entry.
MULDSPOON’S MILITANTLY MOTIVATED ACADEMY STRICTEST DISCIPLINE! NO RETREAT BEFORE IGNORANCE! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! SERGEANT ANTHONY MULDSPOON, RET., PROPRIETOR & HEADMASTER
The only teacher at the school was this same Sergeant Muldspoon. His sergeant’s rank derived from his days as artillery soldier when, thirty-five years previous, he fought Emperor Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo under Wellington.
Sergeant Muldspoon—we students called him “Old Moldy”—was a tall, gaunt, gray-haired man. The two bits of color about him were his nose, a veritable strawberry in texture and hue, and his polished Waterloo medal, which he wore upon his chest every day. Otherwise, he was always dressed in black from head to his one toe. I say “one” toe because his left leg was a wooden peg. The real leg—as he oft related in ghastly detail—had been left behind on the glorious battlefield.
So great was Sergeant Muldspoon—s absorption in military matters, he could be said to dwell in a constant state of war. His lessons were such that I could tell you to perfection how to load a musket or cannon, without ever touching one. I could salute my superiors (meaning Sergeant Muldspoon) with considerable dash and I could recite the command structure of the Royal British Army, though I never thought of enlisting.
Hardly a wonder, then, that during class Old Moldy could always be found standing, as if at attention, beside his high desk—what he referred to as his “place of command.”
The school consisted of but one room—an absolute barrack. Dim light. No heat. Cold, clammy air. Forty-one boys—ages four to sixteen—arranged in ranks of long benches and deal desks before the teacher. Youngest students forward. Oldest students back. Boys dressed in trousers and canvas jackets. Some with shoes. Others without. No books. No paper. No writing—save when we carved our initials on the desks.
Days of attendance: six days a week. Hour of starting: Nine in the morning. No recess. Lunch at noon with a two-hour interval. Whether we ate or not was of no interest to our teacher. Nor did we care that he vanished daily. We were free. The
best part of my day. Sometimes I read to my classmates from my favorite books, The Tales of the Genii or Robinson Crusoe. Other times we roamed the City streets. Then, when Sergeant Muldspoon returned—promptly at two o’clock—the afternoon session commenced and wore on till five.
Despite the length of the day, Sergeant Muldspoon stood ever straight, more rigid than any man I knew—as if his spine had been replaced with a bayonet. In his hand was a cane, only slightly more flexible, which he used to attack the gray teaching slate that stood by him upon an easel. He also used that cane to assault us. In truth, Old Moldy brought his military experience to bear upon his pupils much as an artillery soldier might lay siege to thick walls: lethal persistence with maximum force.
On the chilly afternoon when my great adventure began, a thick, dank, brownish fog had crept in, rendering the classroom even more dismal than usual. The whale-oil lamp that sat upon the sergeant’s desk glowed but faintly through a glass globe—a soot-smudged metaphor for the school’s incessant dullness.
Using white chalk, Old Moldy had inscribed on the slate the words WAR, RIFLE, GUN, DEAD, HURT, HARD. The sergeant’s teaching method was to strike the easel with his cane, pointing to each word in sequence. Thus, when he banged WAR and slightly cocked his head to one side, it was his signal that he was waiting for us.
We knew exactly what to do. “W-A-R spells ‘war’!” forty-one boys chanted in a jagged chorus.
For the whole day I had been trying to keep my eyes open and focused on our teacher. To do otherwise was a declaration of war to Old Moldy.
He assaulted the next word on the easel. Bang!
True, I often daydreamed—eyes open; but that time I had in fact fallen asleep—eyes closed.
“R-I-F-L-E spells ‘rifle,’” came the answer. From all but one, that is. Me.
“Halt!” commanded Sergeant Muldspoon.
I woke with a start and sat, along with the other boys, at attention. Their eyes shifted uneasily, trying to discover who had failed discipline. I knew.
“Eyes front! Feet together! Hands clasped!” barked the teacher. His eyes, narrow beneath shaggy gray eyebrows, burned with anger like a fuse, providing the only heat in the room. We boys did as ordered, not one of us daring to express amusement, I least of all, since I was very aware that the teacher was glaring right at me, something he did frequently since he had discovered me furtively reading The Tales of the Genii during class. When he had complained to my father, Father referred to him—to his face—as a “mere soldier.” From that point forward Old Moldy demonstrated an aversion toward me that could only be considered vengeful. Hardly a wonder, then, that I considered Sergeant Muldspoon—to use his own terms—my great enemy.