Free The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock

Could I be experiencing a trick of the fog?
    Although I felt awkward about missing that teatime appointment, I was still mainly intrigued by the young woman I had glimpsed riding into the innyard. She was around my age. Wonderful in her tricorne hat and thigh-high boots, she was quite literally my dream girl. Every time I was in the Fleet Street area I looked out for her.
    Three days later Bayley came round to return a Science Fantasy he’d borrowed. We went to the Globe, then back to his place. I kept him up all night, going through my little trauma over and over again, showing him the copy of Claude Duval . He listened mainly, he admitted, because I was buying. Early next morning I dragged him back to Carmelite Inn Square to look for the gate. Barry’s hangover had been growing worse. When we reached the gate he pushed it open easily, much to my surprise, and immediately stepped back, holding his nose. ‘What a bloody stench!’ Then he turned around and began to throw up in the gutter.
    It didn’t smell that bad to me. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go in.’
    â€˜Bugger that. It stinks too much. I’ll get off home, I think.’ He began to stagger back towards the entrance to the court. ‘Good luck!’
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said.
    There was nothing else to do. I told Barry I’d see him later. I pushed the gate a little wider and walked in.

 
    4
    THE ABBOT’S ‘COSMOLABE’
    And then I was in the cobbled street where that wonderful swaying signboard announced in cold daylight The Swan With Two Necks. Remembering to close the gate behind me, I only now realised that those who’d caroused last night had doubtless not yet looked day in the eye. A man in shirt and long underwear glared at me as he stumbled past. Cautiously I pushed open a door of the inn. The smell of sour beer had not yet cleared. On the floor was the previous night’s swept-up rubbish, scrubbed boards, broken clay pipes, bundles of sweet straw about to be scattered by two little potboys who were of course unaware I had no right to be there. They tipped their caps and called me ‘sir’. I took the nearby stairs with pretended authority and walked along a landing giving on to several battered oak doors.
    I had no idea what I was looking for or why I was here except, I told myself, that there might be a news story in it. The girl had been very attractive. I was pretty sure she was an actress. If I could find out what her connection with the pub was I might be able to get our regular photographer to take her picture. Together we could make a few guineas. We were always paid in guineas in those days. It separated the trades, who received pounds, from the professions. Working people and the trades were paid in pounds and fractions of pounds, shillings and pence. But, like lawyers and doctors, writers and artists were paid one pound, one shilling. Just as every draper’s price always ended in three farthings. The flannel was not ten pounds, but £9.19.11 ¾ d.
    This idea of making money, however, was rank self-deception. Pure rationalisation. I had no professional interest in the girl. I had yet to admit my compulsion to get a second look at someone I had previously seen only in my dreams.
    Evidently the rest of the place was asleep. Feeling guilty about my intrusion I turned and went back downstairs. I took a side door out into the stable yard and stood gazing directly across at the horses. Horses! Two blacks, a grey and a chestnut. Good riding horses by the look of them. This place was some sort of mews now, I guessed. Maybe municipally owned? People still rode in places like Hyde Park. These horses were probably rented by the hour. If so, they were in beautiful condition, especially the two black stallions. This part of the inn being more or less public, I felt all anyone could do was tell me the place was closed and ask me to leave. The smell of horses was strong as I