A FEW MINUTES LATER, Quaint and Butter exited the station, and headed towards the Thames embankment, where a number of small dockyards littered the river's edge. The late November wind was trailing a fine spray of cold, salty water in their direction, and Quaint shuddered, tucking his scarf inside his coat.
'My word, that's a chill wind. I'll bet this weather reminds you of home, doesn't it?' Quaint asked, turning up his collar.
Butter smiled. 'Not much. There is too much rain here, boss. We have little rain in Greenland. It freeze to snow long before,' he answered, his memory forcing him to reflect upon his homeland. 'And of the chill, boss, I am long since capable of noticing such things.'
Quaint stroked his chin. 'Ah, yes. Your imperviousness to cold would be a very useful gift for me right about now, my friend. England is nothing if not damp. Damp enough to get right under your skin, as it always has been. Here we are. Look!' he said, pointing at a flaky painted sign above a rickety fence. 'Barter's Boatyard. This will do very nicely.'
Butter followed a few paces behind as Quaint strode into the boatyard. They weaved through the carcasses of several old and damaged boats propped up on stilts, and headed determinedly towards the wharf. A rundown shack, with a peeling turquoise-painted door hanging limply from rusty hinges, stood between the wharf and Quaint, and from inside the shack, the golden glow of a gas lamp shone weakly. It was mid-afternoon, but the clouds had congregated across the sky, shrouding much of the daylight. Quaint held his finger to his mouth, signalling quiet, as they crept underneath the shack's window, the gravel underfoot scratching at their soles as they went. Once they were past the outbuilding, Quaint relaxed and looked at a wide selection of rowing boats moored up alongside the wharf.
'Did I not say this would be easy, Butter?' he said.
The words had just fallen from his lips when an extremely large Alsatian dog bolted from behind the shack, a fire in his eyes, and a trail of saliva dripping from its jaws. Shards of gravel ricocheted around, smashing against the wall of the shack as the dog tried to get purchase on the ground, incensed to see two intruders in its yard. It didn't even bother barking, but just leapt with all its strength towards Quaint, the thick ruff of fur around its neck looking almost like a lion's mane. Quaint instinctively defended himself, and as the dog's vice-like jaws clamped themselves around his forearm, he let out an uncharacteristic yelp of pain.
'Christ, this bastard's strong!' Quaint yelled. He thought of his Indian friend Kipo's work in the circus with his tiger, Rajah, and remembered a flash of a conversation that they had shared once. Instead of trying to wrench his arm from the thrashing dog's mouth, Quaint relaxed, and forced his arm instead towards the gnashing jaws. He could see the ferocity in the animal's eyes as it tried to wrestle the tall man to the ground. With his other hand, Quaint delved deep into his pocket, desperately ferreting around for something he could use as a weapon, when suddenly-the animal stopped thrashing. It stopped snarling, and it stopped furiously trying to twist Quaint's arm from its socket. It just froze in mid-motion, its eyes rolled up into the back of its head, as if someone had flipped its OFF switch. Looking down at his bloodied and shredded sleeve, Quaint watched in transfixion as the dog released his forearm limply. As he stared down at the animal, something silver and glistening caught his eye, deep within the canine's open mouth. His eyes travelled up the length of the silver protrusion until they greeted the sight of Butter astride the now very dead dog. One hand tripped tight around the animal's neck, whilst the other grasped the handle of a long-bladed knife that was embedded into the dog's skull. The dog fell to the ground limply as Butter released his grip, sending a smattering of gravel into the air.
'My thanks, Butter,' said Quaint exhaustedly, examining the state of his gouged arm through his ripped sleeve. Large patches of red blood seeped through the dark-grey material. 'This coat is pure Mongolian Kashmir. A second longer and that beast would have cost me an arm and a leg.'
'Or perhaps just an arm,' said Butter, his face a roadmap of craggy wrinkles as a smile breached his worn features.
'I shall have to have a word with Jeremiah about teaching you his sense of humour,' Quaint said. He removed his scarf and tied it firmly around his wound. 'Come on, let's move on. I've no wish to explain to that dog's owner the circumstances of its demise-especially as I'm about to thieve one of his rowing boats as recompense.'
A minute later-passengers in a small pale-orange boat-Quaint and Butter pushed away at the wharf with the long oars, and the Inuit set about rowing them along the River Thames towards Blythesgate fish market. The afternoon fog was drawing in up the river, and visibility was getting steadily worse. Quaint produced a tinder-box from his coat pocket, striking a flint next to a small, oil-burning lantern. The wan flame flickered into life, albeit reluctantly, as Quaint hung the lantern on its pole at the fore of the boat. It gave them scant light, but hopefully enough for them to be seen through the fog should there be any other boats drifting nearby.
'Take it steady, Butter,' Quaint said. 'We don't want this peasouper to be our undoing. Let's hope we can still see Blythesgate; we can barely be seen ourselves!'
But Quaint was mistaken.
They had been seen.
They were seen very clearly indeed by a set of piercing eyes that had been watching them with obsessed intensity from the entrance of Barter's Boatyard. The scruffy young lad wiped his mouth with a moth-eaten sleeve, and smiled.
'Off t'Blythesgate market are we, boss?' said the urchin of a boy, his thick matted black hair brushing against his eye line. 'Mr Reynolds will pay 'andsomely fer that little titbit.'