The Sackville Street Caper

‘Filled with big laughs and unforgettable characters. I adored this book!’

Paul Howard, author of Gordon’s Game and Aldrin Adams and the Cheese Nightmares

Molly Malone & Bram Stoker in

‘Victorian Dublin is alive – or should that be alivealive-oh? Alan Nolan has worked his magic to reimagine Molly Malone and Bram Stoker as a young crimefighting duo. A gripping, edge-ofyour-seat caper, filled with big laughs, unforgettable characters and more twists and turns than the River Poddle. I adored this book!’

Paul Howard, author of Gordon’s Game and Aldrin Adams and the Cheese Nightmares

ALAN NOLAN grew up in Windy Arbour, Dublin and now lives in Bray, Co. Wicklow with his wife and three children. Alan is the author and illustrator of Fintan’s Fifteen, Conor’s Caveman and the Sam Hannigan series, and is the illustrator of Animal Crackers: Fantastic Facts About Your Favourite Animals, written by Sarah Webb. Alan runs illustration and writing workshops for children, and you may see him lugging his drawing board and pencils around your school or local Instagram:Twitter:www.alannolan.ielibrary.@AlNolan@alannolan_author

Molly Malone & Bram Stoker in

Alan Nolan

This edition first published 2022 by The O’Brien Press Ltd, 12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, D06 HD27, Ireland.

Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777 E-mail: TheWebsite:books@obrien.ieobrien.ieO’BrienPressisamember of Publishing Ireland

ISBN: 978-1-78849-318-5

Text © copyright Alan Nolan, 2022 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Copyright for typesetting, layout, editing, design © The O’Brien Press Ltd

Layout and design by Emma Byrne

Cover illustration by Shane Cluskey

Internal illustration p223 by Shane Cluskey Map and internal chapter header illustrations by Alan Nolan

Author photograph p2 by Sam Nolan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or in any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 22 24 25 23

Printed in the UK by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc. The paper in this book is produced using pulp from managed forests.

Molly Malone and Bram Stoker in The Sackville Street Caper receives financial assistance from the Arts Council

Published in

Dedication For Don

Patented

A

Prologue:

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Table of Contents

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Author‘s

A Short List of Characters Contained Within, provided by the Most Considerate Author for Your Instruction and Delight:

Bram Stoker

The future author of Dracula, eleven years of age, yearns for adventure and to have stories to tell.

Molly Malone

Eleven years of age, accomplished sneak thief and part-time fishmonger. Shep, Rose, Billy the Pan, Calico Tom, AKA The Sackville Street Spooks Molly’s gang, to whom she is part sergeant major, part mother hen.

Count Vladimir Grof-Constantin de Lugosi, Knight-Indigent of Transylvania

A down-at-heel (yet spookily Gothic) Transylvanian count, who plans to rob the Irish Crown Jewels to pay off the numerous gambling debts he has accrued across Europe.

Messrs Bounderby & Caddsworth

The Count’s short, bumbling, slightly dim-witted sidekicks; they are almost identical in appearance, but for the fact that one of the villains has a moustache and no beard, while the other miscreant has a beard and no moustache.

Madame Florence

A fortune teller at Smithfield Market, variously known as the Seer of the What-Is-To-Come, the One Who Knows All, the Seventh Daughter of a Seventh Daughter, and the White Witch of Westmoreland Street.

Wild Bert Florence

A semi-retired Wild West trick-rider from ‘this side of the Mississippi’, USA, and Madame Flo’s husband.

Abraham Stoker

Bram’s strait-laced civil servant father, and Keeper of the Crown Jewels at Dublin Castle.

AdventurePrologueAwaits!

Bram lit the candle on his bedside table and tall, creepy shadows instantly began to dance around the dormitory walls. Outside, a harsh gust of night wind blew through the branches of a tree, causing its bony twig fingers to tap and scrape against theAswindowpane.usual,Bram was the last boy awake in the dor mitory. He wasn’t at all worried that the wind, or the scraping twigs, or the dim candlelight would wake

up the other boys in the room as they slept, row by row, in their cots – if they could manage to sleep through Nesbitt’s incessant snoring, they could sleep though anything!

He stared thoughtfully at the shadows as he chewed his pencil. That one fluttering around the gas lamp fitting looks like a bat, he thought, and this one crouching beside the wardrobe looks like an evil witch about to pounce! He smiled nervously, thinking about his plan for the next day, the plan he had mapped out in his mind for so many weeks. He opened his leatherbound diary and began to write.

The Diary of Master Abraham Stoker 22nd of August 1858 Howth, County Dublin

Well, Dearest Diary,

The decision is made; this shall be my last night in Mrs Harker’s Academy, and I find that now my mind is finally set on escape, my heart is bursting with both anticipation and relief.

I should like to rise from my bed and shout for joy, to open up the window and cry HALLOOO! into the cool night air, but I fear I may wake the other boys in the dorm.

But although I shall miss everybody (even Mrs Harker), I find the Academy so boring! I am intent on becoming a writer, but how am I to be a writer if I attend an Academy where nothing ever happens?

So, it is time to move on. Even if only for a few days.

Next month I am to start my senior school education in the Reverend Wood’s School – another famously dreary establishment – but before that, I intend to embark on AN ADVENTURE.

Tomorrow, while Mrs Harker and the boys are on the walking trip to Howth Harbour, will be the perfect time to make my escape.

I shall walk the dusty road to Sutton Cross, then through Bayside and on along the coast path. I shall hurry through Clontarf for fear Mama or, even worse, Papa should spy me on my journey. I may even flag down a passing carriage or cart – I have heard some of the boys in the dorm refer to the practice as

‘cart-cadging’ – and ask the driver if I may accompany him into Dublin.

For it is there in Dublin City that I shall become a writer. All the action and excitement and incidents of Ireland occur in the big city. I shall experience REAL LIFE there, I shall see stories unfold before my eyes; in short, I shall have something to write about!

But don’t you worry, Dearest Diary – I shan’t leave you behind.

Wheresoever I will go, you shall be by my side (or at least, in my knapsack).

So, until the morrow, D.D. – ADVENTURE awaits! Bram

School‘s Out!

In which young Master Bram Stoker slips away from school to pursue a life of adventure!

Bram placed his pencil inside the pages of his diary and, reaching down, tucked the small, leather-bound book into his knapsack and quietly shoved it under his bed beside his chamber pot.

He looked around at the other boys in the dorm, or at least, the ones he could see by the dim light of his candle. He couldn’t see Nesbitt, but he knew

he was there by the droning snore that bounced off the wooden panels of the room. He smiled as he remembered how Cooky had stitched a pocket into the back of Nesbitt’s pyjamas, right between the shoulder blades, in an effort to stop him snoring.

‘Pop a walnut into the pocket, dear,’ she told him. ‘That way, every time you turn on your back and start snoring, the walnut will dig into you and make you tip over onto your side again.’

This plan worked for a couple of noise-free nights, but unfortunately Cooky’s scheme had two fatal flaws – one was that Nesbitt loved to eat wal nuts; the other was that Nesbitt’s parents had kindly gifted him a nutcracker the previous Christmas. He went through almost a shilling’s worth before Cooky admitted defeat.

Bram licked his thumb and forefinger and extinguished the candle. He closed his eyes and made an inventory in his head. Shoes. Short trousers. Under wear. An old jacket, not too fancy. Coin purse. All under the spare blanket at the end of his bed. In the morning he would help himself to some bread and cheese from the kitchen as he left. And some string.

Must remember some string.You never know when you will need string. He reached down in the dark ness and felt for his knapsack. Still there. Right beside the chamber pot. Oh dear. Maybe he was nervous about tomorrow’s planned escape, but he decided he’d better use the chamber pot again.

* * *

The next morning Cooky sounded the gong at seven o’clock sharp, as she did every morning, apart from Sundays, when she sounded it at seven thirty. Nesbitt’s job was to open the curtains, and he shuf fled sleepily over to the window to fulfil this duty. The day was fresh and bright, and the sun was shin ing. Perfect, thought Bram.

As the boys lined up to wash at the two basins of cold water, Bram once again checked his runningaway clothes and peeked under his bed to make sure his knapsack was still there.

Once washed, the boys all dressed in their school uniform of short trousers, navy blue knee socks, white wing-collared shirt, black bow tie and crested navy

jacket. As soon as Bram and Nesbitt had helped some of the younger boys tie their bow ties – Bram always felt they could be frightfully fiddly for little fingers – the boys lined up again at the door, paced out onto the landing and descended the wide mahogany staircase, all in unison, like a platoon of miniature soldiers marching to the battlefield. Halfway down, Bram faked a sneeze, jerking his body violently.

‘I say,’ said Nesbitt, taking him by the elbow, ‘are you all right, old boy?’ Bram straightened up, ‘Tickety-boo, old chap, neverAfterbetter.’breakfast the boys gathered in the assem bly room where Mrs Harker greeted them with the same closed-mouthed smile that greeted them every morning, a smile that, though wide, never quite seemed to reach her eyes. She was a tall, thin woman with a severe hairstyle that was pulled back so tightly that it stretched the skin of her face. This was topped with one enormous bun of jet-black hair that sat on the top of her head. Bram thought that the bun looked like a round, corpulent crow, asleep up there with its own head tucked under its wing. This made

him smile, but his smile, unlike Mrs Harker’s, reached hisMrseyes.Harker coughed sharply to silence the already quiet room and the boys quickly snapped to atten tion. She brushed the front of her raven-black dress and placed a pair of pince-nez spectacles on the bridge of her hooked nose. Bram smiled to himself again; she really did look like a bird.

‘Good morning, boys,’ shrilled Mrs Harker in her twittery voice. ‘Are we all excited for our little walk ing trip?’ She began to organise the boys into a very straight, military-style line, ‘It’s a pity you won’t be joining us, Master Stoker,’ she said, ‘but perhaps a day of solitary study and quiet contemplation will be beneficial for your cold, eh?’

Mrs Harker patted Bram’s head and smiled with the bottom half of her face. ‘Rest, Master Stoker, plenty of rest,’ she trilled, and led the boys out the ornate wooden front door, crunching down the gravel path towards the village, with a cheerfully saluting Nesbitt bringing up the rear.

Bram closed the door and bolted up the stairs to the dorm. He quickly changed into his travel things

and bundled his school clothes under the bed covers, doing his best to make it look like he himself was lying asleep in the bed. He pulled the heavy curtain closed to add to the illusion. He grabbed his knap sack and quickly used the chamber pot again. Gosh, he thought, I am nervous.

He crept quietly down the stairs and slithered past the dining room where good old Cooky was clear ing up. Passing through the kitchen, he wrapped half a loaf of fresh white bread and a large lump of pale orange cheese in a cloth and put them in his knapsack.Then,looking around to make sure Cooky wasn’t watching, he quietly opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the sunshine.

Meet Molly

In which champion sneak thief Molly Malone prepares her Spooks for a hard day‘s haunting.

Take that saucepan off your head.’ ‘Take‘No.’it off.’

Molly‘No!’ took a step towards Billy the Pan. Billy the Pan took a step backwards.

‘Why do you wear that saucepan anyways, Billy?’

I need a trade,’ said Billy, not taking his eyes off Molly.

‘A trade? Your da’s a beggarman!’ laughed Shep.

‘And so was me granda, and so was me granda’s da. It’s not easy to make a livin’ as a beggarman nowadays. Dublin’s full of beggarmen. Me da says you need to be able to stand out. So, I wear a saucepan on me head.’ Billy knocked his knuckles on the battered side of the pan. It sounded hollow.

‘Not today,’ said Molly, balling her fingers into fists. ‘We are going bobbing today. And bobbers who don’t want to get caught by the constables don’t try to stand out from the crowd.’ Molly’s eyebrows fur rowed and she jutted out her freckle-covered chin. ‘Take it off. Now.’

Billy knew that look. He took the saucepan off.

‘Right,’ said Molly, ‘line up and let’s have a look at you.’ She stuck her two thumbs into the ragged, once-white pinafore she wore over her faded blue dress and inspected her crew like a particularly picky Dragoon Guard drill sergeant. In all her years she had never seen a sorrier-looking bunch.

Billy was lanky, had the beginnings of a moustache and could have passed for a servant, (perhaps a foot man?) if his clothes were less ragged and he wasn’t carrying that stupid saucepan. Shep was around eight or nine – he didn’t know when his birthday was – with tight, curly black hair and a constantly dribbling nose. Rose was ten, with red hair just like Molly; she wore a blue dress, stolen from a washing line in Bride Street, so she could look even more like her idol. Calico Tom was the smallest of the gang, an orphan with wavy blonde hair and a cherubic baby face who looked much younger than his six years –he could almost pass for a toddler. He’ll be a stunner when he’s older, thought Molly, but his arms are too little to reach into the Qualitys’ pockets – he will have to be the lookout. Or maybe the distraction?

Lastly, of course, there was Her Majesty: a kneehigh mutt with curly brown fur, big floppy ears, and a long, lolling tongue. She was always slightly smelly, but in Molly’s opinion gave the best cuddles in ‘AllDublin.right,’ said Molly, ‘here’s the plan.’

She stood and scratched her freckly chin for several

long seconds, then she bent down and scratched Her Majesty’s chin too.

‘It’s the “Lost Baby” caper again,’ declared Molly, standing up, ‘We go to Sackville Street as a gang, hiding Calico Tom from view. When we get to the Pillar, we drop the “baby” and walk away. Calico, how’s your wailing?’

‘I can wail like a mountain goat, Mol,’ said the tiny boy in an unexpectedly deep voice. ‘No bother at all.’

‘Grand,’ said Molly, ‘Next, Tom wails that he’s lost his mammy. The Quality gathers to see what’s wrong with him ... and then we do our magic tricks.’

‘Our magic tricks?’ asked Rose, who was new to the‘Makinggame.

wallets, pocketbooks and silk handker chiefs disappear, of course,’ replied Molly.

‘Right, there’s money to be made – Spooks, let’s go a-hauntin’!’

Dublin‘s Fair City

In which Bram arrives in Dublin City, is pilfered by pickpockets, and almost splits his kipper.

The cart began to rattle noisily as the iron wheels clattered over cobblestones. The big sow stirred in her sleep and a few of her piglets squealed in alarm. ‘Sssssshhhhh,’ said Bram and patted the sleeping pig. ‘I think we’re arriving in the big city at last!’ He pulled himself up into a sitting position, brushed down his jacket and picked