CHAPTER 20
London in the year 1818 took some getting used to but, thankfully, the layout of the main thoroughfares had not been altered since the Romans first laid them down over the footpaths made by the Celts along the wide rolling river known to the locals at the time as Afon Tamesas, but now known as the Thames River. Wilhelmina did not know the original name of the river, but not many did. As the coach rumbled over the engineering marvel that was the London Bridge, Mina shook her head at the multitude of water conveyances on show below. Boats of every size and description filled the grey water: ferry boats, both oar-driven and coal-powered; steamboats pulling barges loaded with cargo; sailboats, from ocean-going schooners with crews of a hundred to single-manned ketches; ironclad warships bristling with guns; sleek pleasure boats with striped canopies; tug boats, tenders, and taxis plying the waters looking for employment… so many boats that Mina imagined she could have hopscotched across the water from the Embankment to South Bank one boat deck at a time.
Nor were the city streets less crowded. As with the water, every manner of land vehicle ever invented seemed to want to cross the bridge at the same time. Horse-drawn coaches and carriages accounted for most of the traffic, but there were also carts aplenty; Wilhelmina counted no fewer than forty-nine handcarts, seventeen donkey carts, nine mule carts, eight goat carts, five horse carts, and a dozen or so pulled by dogs. Foot traffic filled in every available gap, and Mina thought it a wonder pedestrians were not continually falling beneath moving wheels of one sort or another.
When the coach finally reached its destination, Wilhelmina disembarked and was pleased to find that she recognised some of the more familiar city landmarks such as Blackfriar’s Bridge and the Tower of London; navigating her way around would not pose undue difficulty-providing she knew where to find Thomas Young. The only scrap of information she possessed was that he was a member of the Royal Society. Find the society, she reckoned, and with any luck that would lead to the good doctor.
Thanks to her judicious purchases at M amp;S, she blended in well enough with the other pedestrians as she walked along the road she knew as Victoria Street, heading towards Whitehall. As she came in sight of the Palace of Westminster, she saw a line of street vendors selling everything from tortoise shell combs to sugared almonds; they were standing by their handcarts pestering passersby with their sales pitches. The nearest one was selling ribbons; he, like many of the others, had bushy sideburns and a droopy moustache and was plying his wares with gusto.
“Good day to you, sir,” Wilhelmina said nicely. “A bit of the red, please.” She pointed to a glistening spool of crimson satin.
“Right away, miss.” He fetched the spool and produced a pair of scissors from his apron pocket. “How much would ’ee like?”
“Oh, about-so much.” She held out her hands a few inches apart. “How much would that be?”
“Well, this red is very dear, it is. Comes all the way from China, don’t you know.” He held the shears, ready to snip.
“How much?”
“Thruppence, miss. A’right?”
Mina nodded. She fished around in her sack of coins for three pennies-grateful once more for Cosimo’s thoughtfulness in providing some ready cash. The ribbon man snipped and rolled the ribbon carefully. “That’un won’t run in the rain, miss.”
“Thank you.” She paid the man and pocketed the ribbon. “I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me how to find the Royal Society?”
“Eh? Royal Society, is it?”
“Please.” She batted her eyelashes. “If you could point me in the right direction, I would be much obliged.”
“Much obliged, is it?” Removing his cap, he looked her up and down. “Well, if I was wantin’ to find the Royal Society, I would just trot along the way you’re going like, and when I got a little way past Whitehall Palace, I’d start asking folk around there the way to Somerset House. It ent far.”
“Somerset House,” echoed Wilhelmina.
“That’s where they keep it, my darlin’.”
“My thanks, sir. You have been a gentleman.”
The compliment made the fellow smile; he raised his hat to her, which brought a hoot from his near neighbour. “Hoo! Lookit Sweet William there!”
Wilhelmina blew the fellow a kiss and resumed her walk and, following the ribbon seller’s advice, was soon standing outside the pale stone facade of the sprawling edifice of Somerset House-an impressive, imposing pile built right on the Thames so that visitors could arrive and depart by boat. The size of the place and the overpowering grandeur took her aback somewhat, and she spent a moment planning her assault. Then, with a plan firmly in mind, she made her way to the nearest of several doors off the street, pushed through, and found herself in a large garden. An arched entrance stood across the courtyard, which she crossed before entering the main building. She was immediately met by a man in the black livery of a servant, who demanded to know her business.
“I am looking for Dr. Thomas Young,” she replied simply.
The doorman regarded her sceptically. “Women are not permitted entry,” he intoned dryly.
“I do not wish to join the society,” Mina said crisply. “I merely wish to speak to Dr. Young. I have it on good authority that he is a member of the society.”
“Indeed, madam,” confirmed the servant. “Dr. Young is the current president of the Royal Society.” He tilted his head so that he looked down his nose. “It is my opinion that he would not wish to be disturbed.”
“I thank you most kindly for your opinion, to be sure,” countered Mina sweetly. “But I believe that the good doctor himself will be the best judge of whether he wishes to see someone who brings him valuable scientific information.” She had made up that last bit, but thought she could back up the claim in any case. “Now, if you will be so kind as to tell me where I might find him, we will put your ill-considered theory to the test.” She gave the man a superior smile. “Shall we?”
Perhaps unaccustomed to dealing with such stroppy, headstrong females as the one standing before him, the doorman quickly acquiesced, saying, “I regret to inform you that Dr. Young is not in residence, madam. But if I were of a mind to locate him, I would inquire at his medical practise, the offices of which are to be found in Harley Street.”
“There, now,” said Wilhelmina. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” She thanked the fellow for his help and was soon making her way to Harley Street, the traditional home of London’s medical establishment. She located Dr. Young’s offices by reading the large brass nameplates outside the doors and went inside, where she was politely informed that Dr. Young was away on one of his scientific expeditions.
“He is in Egypt this time of year,” the woman explained. “We do not expect him to return before the autumn.”
That was that. Wilhelmina was back on the street within two minutes and heading for the nearest cafe or restaurant where she could collect her thoughts. She found a tidy little eatery on a nearby cross street where she sat with a warm pork pie and pot of tea, contemplating her next move: a visit to Black Mixen Tump. That was the next place listed on the back of the note Cosimo had left for her at the pub in Sefton-on-Sea. She reasoned that if she went there she might find another note, or another clue of some kind. Though where Black Mixen Tump might be-or even what — she had no idea, but reckoned a visit to the British Library would give her access to whatever maps or geographical guides were to be found.
Nor was she disappointed. The Ordnance Survey, recently published, contained an exhaustive index that did indeed list the place. It gave precise coordinates to said feature in Oxfordshire, which Wilhelmina copied down, drawing a neat little map of the area for future reference. The day was advancing as she left the library, and the sun, having long since crossed the midday meridian, was now beginning to fade in the west as clouds drew in. To save time and shoe leather she hailed a hansom cab and told the driver to take her to the nearest overland
