The Black Book of Secrets Part 6

Ludlow put down his quill, laid a sheet of blotting paper between the pages and closed the book.

*I can give you respite,' said Joe and looked into Horatio's troubled eyes. *Your secret is safe in the book now, I swear to you.'

Horatio sighed deeply and the lines on his brow slowly disappeared. His eyes brightened and he yawned widely.

*I feel better already.' He stood up, but hesitated to take the coins that Joe offered, a substantial amount.

*Mr Zabbidou, I feel it is I who should be paying you!'

Joe shook his head. *Not at all, Mr Cleaver. It is a fair exchange.'

*Very well,' said Horatio and made his way to the door, where he stopped for a moment. *I swore I would never bake a rodent pie again, but I cannot deny there are days when I am tempted. Every time Jeremiah Ratchet comes in, striding about as if he owns the place, flaunting his posh clothes and smelling like a perfumery, wouldn't I like to give him one more special.'

*The day will come when you will not have to suffer that man any longer,' said Joe. *Ratchet'll get what's coming to him. Just be patient.'

Joe took Horatio to the door and Ludlow sat silently at the table. Horatio's story had reminded him of things he wished to forget. Ludlow knew what it was like to have a violent father. What bad luck for Horatio to be born to such a man. But did that mean he been destined from birth to murder him?

Joe watched as Horatio made his way back to the butcher's. He waited until he saw him go into his shop and the light go out upstairs. He smiled. Horatio was going to sleep tonight. But there were others who wouldn't.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Disturbed Night While Joe was listening to the woes of the villagers, halfway down the hill Jeremiah Ratchet lay wide awake in his bed. Prior to Joe's arrival, it was rare to see a light on after midnight in Jeremiah's house. A man with no conscience often sleeps soundly and Jeremiah would snore hour after hour (keeping Polly awake up in her attic bedroom), blissfully untroubled by the fact that he was the chief cause of insomnia in Pagus Parvus.

Now Jeremiah spent his nights tossing and turning. He called for Polly at unG.o.dly hours, requesting a warm drink or a book to read or fresh hot embers for his bedwarmer. But nothing worked. Sleep would not come.

Jeremiah Ratchet lived right in the middle of the street in a house that was five times the size of those he rented out to his unfortunate tenants. He had spent many years filling it with all sorts of treasures, but in the end the effect was similar to his clothing: loud and difficult to miss, and not a pleasant sight. The house had seven bedrooms (though he had never entertained an overnight guest), a marvellous dining room served by a large kitchen (most nights he ate alone) and room for five servants in the attic (his innate meanness meant he kept only two: Polly and a boy to look after his horses, but he slept in the hay).

Jeremiah used to take great pleasure from wandering the musty, shadowy corridors with his hands clasped smugly behind his back. He contemplated the portraits on the stairs: seven generations of Ratchets watching him with cold eyes and curled lips. He admired the s.h.i.+ne on his silver and revelled in the luxury of his imported rugs a" hand tied by carpet weavers in an African desert. Sometimes when he dug his fingers into the pile he imagined he could feel the grains of sand under his nails. In fact, it wasn't his imagination. Polly's cleaning left much to be desired.

But this was all before Joe Zabbidou arrived.

Joe had rattled Jeremiah from that very first morning. Although he had not gone up to the shop since then, not in daylight at any rate, Ratchet knew what was in the window. Polly had been instructed to pay regular visits a" although not to enter the shop a" and described the display to him in great detail.

*Chipped chamber pots and old boots!' exclaimed Jeremiah. *How can a man make money in such a way? He must be a fool!'

For generations, the Ratchet family in Pagus Parvus had profited from the poor unfortunates in the village. By stealth, force and inherited duplicity Jeremiah had continued the tradition. He had acquired owners.h.i.+p of cottages and land which he rented out to the villagers at rates that could only be described as criminal. He evicted them periodically, to show them he meant business, and then allowed them back on the understanding that they owed him even more rent. Obadiah was not the only one who had made the mistake of falling into debt to him and in this way Jeremiah's fortune grew.

In his own mind it was all down to his skill as a businessman. Of course, it is easy to be a skilled businessman when there is no compet.i.tion, but Jeremiah was beginning to realize that Joe might be the rival he had never had. Unfortunately for Jeremiah, he did not own Joe's shop, a fact which caused him immense irritation. What galled him even more than that was Joe's apparent wealth. He had convinced himself that it was Joe's money that afforded him his elevated status, especially as he was so generous with it, and that it couldn't last. Two weeks after the p.a.w.nbroker first opened up Jeremiah was surprised to find that Joe's shop was still in business, and, judging by the number of people who pa.s.sed Jeremiah's house on their way up the hill, Joe's foolish trade in chamber pots and old boots was thriving.

Jeremiah was further irked when Obadiah Strang had come up to him in the street with a queer look on his face.

*Now, Obadiah,' Jeremiah had said impatiently, *I hope you aren't going to try to get out of this week's rent again. I told youa"'

*Here,' said Obadiah triumphantly, *take this.' He thrust a leather bag towards Jeremiah, who took it and opened it curiously. It was full of coins.

*It's all there,' said Obadiah. *Now my debt is paid.'

The gravedigger walked away with head held high and Jeremiah stood in the snow, mouth agape. As the pa.s.sersby began to sn.i.g.g.e.r at him he turned and hurried home. Polly came up from the kitchen and met him in the hall.

*Someone left this for you,' she said. She was holding the wooden spade. Jeremiah snorted and pushed past her and went into the study. He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.

Obadiah wasn't the only one to have suddenly come into money. At least three other debtors had paid up. *Where are they getting it from?' Jeremiah asked himself and the only answer he could think of was Joe Zabbidou. Jeremiah's temper was now even shorter and Polly and the stable boy bore the brunt of it. He had never considered that anyone would pay their debts. If business continued in this manner Jeremiah was going to have to find other ways of making money.

Recently he had heard there was profit to be made from selling teeth, both false and real. Ironically, the rich suffered more than the poor with tooth rot. Doubtless their sweeter, more exotic diet was to blame, unlike the coa.r.s.e fare of their poorer counterparts. Well-off ladies and gentlemen would pay handsomely for a set of real teeth to fill their gaps, not least because it was an obvious show of wealth. Jeremiah wondered if he could take advantage of this business opportunity. Last time he was in the Nimble Finger he had heard mention of a certain Barton Gumbroot who knew more about these things. Mentally he made a note to meet with him next time he was in the City.

For now though he had to deal with the p.a.w.nbroker. Every time he thought of Joe, that string bean of a character whose hair defied description, he could feel his teeth clamping together and a headache starting at the base of his neck. As for the boy, his skinny, short-legged attendant who went with him everywhere, he seemed a sly little devil. He wore a scarf and gloves that looked suspiciously like his own, the ones Jeremiah was certain the coach driver had stolen. And those big dark eyes. Jeremiah had never once managed to hold Ludlow's gaze. He always had to look away.

Ever since their first meeting a creeping sense of dissatisfaction had wormed its way into Jeremiah's veins. Now when he walked down the street the villagers looked at him sideways and it unnerved him. His ears were filled with the sound of laughter, though the faces around him were grim. There was a change in the village. It was in the very air he breathed. He could feel it in his bones and it made him s.h.i.+ver. And he knew that it was something to do with the p.a.w.nbroker.

It didn't take Jeremiah long to notice Joe's nocturnal visitors. Now what was that all about? Lying awake in the middle of the night, Jeremiah tossed and turned in his foreign-made four-poster bed. The slightest noise seemed to be magnified tenfold as he listened out for the footsteps pa.s.sing under his window. He had tried to ignore them, burying his face in the mattress, but he couldn't stand the smell of his own breath and had to come up for air. He sat up and frowned and talked to himself and drummed his fingers on the counterpane until he heard the soft crunch of the snow outside on the pavement. Then he would jump from his bed and race to the window. He could see the dark figures going up to Joe's but he couldn't make out who they were. Whatever it was they were up to, it could only mean more trouble for him. In his night gown Jeremiah shook his clenched fist at them and pounded the floor in a fury.

*This man must be stopped,' he shouted into the night.

Chapter Twenty.

Fragment from The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch If Joe was a source of interest to the villagers, then equally I was a source of interest to the younger members a" namely Polly and the Sourdoughs. I'd not had friends before and where I came from, people's only loyalty was to money. But the Sourdough boys weren't like that. They were good company and made me laugh and I liked them. Except perhaps for the oldest. I always had the feeling that I couldn't quite trust him. You never really knew what he was thinking.

Polly, however, was less interested in Saluki and more interested in stories from my past. *Tell me about the City,' she urged. *I want to know everything.'

So I told her: about the dark, enclosed streets with the houses so close together that the sun could never break through; about the broken pavements littered with rotting food, dead animals, dogs and putrefying rats; about the pools of rancid water and the swarms of flies that hovered in clouds above the surface. I told her about the people, sitting in the gutter and begging for money to go into the taverns, or lying drunk, thrown out of the same; and I told her about the unbearable coldness of the winter, when people and animals died and froze where they lay.

Through all of this flows the River Foedus, her slow-moving waters thick as soup. Lord but she lives up to her name; her unrelenting stench hangs over the City like a shroud. She is not to be trusted. I have seen her s.h.i.+ver to shrug off the s.h.i.+ps tied at the piers, causing them to rock violently from side to side, their creaking and groaning of protest mingling with the frightened shouts of the oarsmen and pa.s.sengers on the small ferries crossing her broad back. All fear her murky waters. Few are known to have survived such a noxious dipping. And once she has them the Foedus does not surrender her victims quickly. She drags them under and sucks the life out of them, before disgorging them days later bug-eyed and bloated with lethal gases, ready to explode.

The Foedus splits the City in half and divides the people in two. The rich live on her north bank, the poor on the south. One bridge alone spans her back. Perhaps once it had a name but now it is known simply as the bridge. It is lined on either side with taverns and inns and hostels of the vilest kind and in these dark and smoky dens of vice all men, whether from the north or the south, are equal: they fight, they gamble, they drink, they murder. I too have been in the Nimble Finger Inn, the tavern so beloved of Jeremiah Ratchet and Ma and Pa.

And in a city whose lifeblood is crime, there is also punishment to stem its flow. It's an ill wind that blows no good and, although I hate to say it now, I made a good living then out of the misdeeds of others, especially on a Wednesday: hanging day at Gallows Corner.

A hanging was as good as a holiday. The crowds enjoyed the spectacle almost as much as the poor fellow on the gibbet detested it. The prisoner would arrive in the back of a cart, having been taken from Irongate Prison and driven down Melancholy Lane to the gallows. He would have been in a sorry state when the journey began, but by the end he was wretched. It was common for the onlookers to pelt the cart with whatever came to hand as it pa.s.sed: rotten fruit and vegetables from the gutters, occasionally a dead cat. I never once threw even a potato peeling at any of those poor devils. Who was to say it wouldn't be me next week?

The crowd cheered as the criminal was led up the steps and the noose was placed around his (or as often as not, her) neck. Now I turned away, not least because this was prime pickpocketing time. When everyone stood fixated on the ghastly scene unfolding before them I moved among them, taking whatever I could get my hands on. I heard the trap door open and the cross-beam creak as the weight fell. And as the crowd roared I sneaked away before anyone noticed that their purse was gone.

Polly lapped up every word. *One day I will go there,' she said, her eyes s.h.i.+ning. And no matter what I said I couldn't persuade her otherwise.

Although I told Polly many things I didn't tell her about Ma and Pa. I didn't tell her how they robbed me and whipped me or why I really left the City. And I never once said what they had tried to do to me and how it came back to me at night in my dreams. Always my father's face looming above mine and his hands around my neck, or were mine around his?

I could never forgive Ma and Pa for what they did, but I was also grateful to them. Pickpockets, regardless of their age, were treated harshly by the courts. If Ma and Pa hadn't chased me from the City, I know sooner or later the noose would have been around my neck and my lifeless body would have been hanging from those gallows.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Stirling Oliphaunt As the days wore on more and more villagers were benefiting not only from Joe's generous payments for their p.a.w.ned goods, but also from his midnight trade. Although they didn't talk about their good fortune, it was obvious that something was afoot. Without a doubt Joe was the breath of fresh air the village had needed for a long, long time. The place seemed brighter somehow, as if the buildings themselves had released a huge sigh and relaxed back to allow the light in. One morning the whole street was brought to a standstill when the clouds parted for a minute or two and blue sky was seen in between.

*It's a miracle,' declared Ruby Sourdough. Of course, the clouds came over again and the blue sky was gone, but it was enough to know that it did exist.

Whether this was a miracle or not, the one person in the village who was actually qualified to make such a statement was still in bed and missed the historic event.

The Reverend Stirling Oliphaunt.

For twenty years Stirling Oliphaunt had looked at himself in the mirror every morning (usually not far off noon) and congratulated himself on his posting to Pagus Parvus. A man of his ilk couldn't have asked for a better job a" his ilk being that of a lazy, slovenly boor whose purported belief in higher powers furnished him with an easy living. When he had arrived in the village two decades ago he had stood at the gates to the church and cast a bushy-browed fat-rimmed eye down the hill.

This is what I have been waiting for, he thought. That hill must be forty degrees, if not more.

In those days the villagers were a little more inclined to listen to the word of the Lord, so, much to Stirling's disappointment, for nearly eight months he was forced to preach a sermon every Sunday. His distinct monotone and the repet.i.tive nature of his subject (the devil, the Dark Side, h.e.l.l, fire, brimstone and all related issues) ensured that he addressed an ever-dwindling audience. Eventually, as was his desire, it dwindled to none. Henceforth Stirling pa.s.sed his days restfully, enjoying fine wines and good food at the church's expense, and generally doing as he wished, which was very little. He still thought of G.o.d. There had to be one, for how else could a man be blessed with such good fortune?

Now Stirling was more than a little disconcerted by the events of the past few weeks. From his exalted position at the top of the hill, he had not failed to notice the increase in pedestrian traffic. At first he thought the villagers might be coming to him, expecting a service of some kind, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that Joe Zabbidou was the draw.

Stirling had grown used to a life of ease with little interruption and certainly no demands from his flock. When Jeremiah had approached him with the bodys.n.a.t.c.hing business plan he saw no reason to stand in his way and he was handsomely rewarded with gifts from Jeremiah's wine cellar. This might not strike you as characteristic of Jeremiah until you consider that he drank most of his donations when he came to see Stirling on Thursdays.

Stirling had seen Joe Zabbidou, and his young a.s.sistant, that first morning in the graveyard, but he was not inclined to formally welcome the new members of his congregation. Later Polly, who came up every day to cook and clean by arrangement with Jeremiah, told him that the hat shop had a new owner.

*A hatter?' asked the reverend.

*No, a p.a.w.nbroker.'

*A p.a.w.nbroker?'

Polly didn't reply. Stirling had a tendency to turn statement to question a" it helped enormously when you didn't have any answers. He had developed the habit in a previous parish where the locals were an inquisitive bunch who enjoyed lively theological debate and were determined that Stirling should enjoy it too.

*A p.a.w.nbroker?' he repeated. He considered briefly how this might affect his position in the village and concluded that it wouldn't affect him at all. In fact, he didn't think Joe's arrival would have much of an effect on anyone. He was surprised, therefore, at the level of animosity Jeremiah Ratchet felt towards the newcomer.

It was late afternoon and the reverend was dozing in a chair when he was brought rapidly back to wakefulness by a tremendous thumping at the door. Polly was there to open it but was elbowed out of the way as Jeremiah strode past her into the drawing room.

*Jeremiah,' said Stirling. *A pleasure, I'm sure. Is it Thursday already?'

*It's Tuesday, but I have an important matter to discuss with you.'

*Is it about Obadiah and the bodies?'

*Not Obadiah. That blasted p.a.w.nbroker.'

Stirling roused himself to an upright position.

*Mr Sobbia" whatever his name is? Isn't he a harmless chap?'

*Harmless!' spluttered Jeremiah. *Harmless! The man is the devil incarnate.'

Exhausted by his outburst, and the trip up the hill, Jeremiah fell into the chair opposite the reverend. Polly handed him a drink, topped up Stirling's and then made herself scarce. It did not do to stay in the same room as that pair. She much preferred to listen from outside the door.

Jeremiah finished his gla.s.s in one gulp. He reached over to the table and took the decanter and set it on the hearth beside him.

*Stirling,' he announced, *that p.a.w.nbroker is very bad for business. In particular, my business. He has filled his window with the greatest collection of junk you have ever seen and, not only that, he has paid for it.'

*How is this a problem?' Stirling was trying to sound interested but he had the beginnings of a headache and was overcome by the urge to yawn.

*His payments are so wildly out of keeping with the true value of the pledges that I fear soon all the villagers will be able to pay off their debts.'

*I see,' said Stirling.

*And if people aren't in debt to me how then do I make money?' continued Jeremiah and to fully emphasize his point he leaned over and gave Stirling a poke with his fat forefinger. *You have got to do something. My livelihood depends on it.'

Now Stirling was awake. *Me? Do something? What can I do?'

*You must convince those peasants that Joe Zabbidou is the devil's sp.a.w.n.'

*The devil's p.a.w.n? But is this true?' Stirling had never before thought he might have to deal with the devil's p.a.w.n.

*p.a.w.n, sp.a.w.n,' said Jeremiah with intense irritation. *What's the truth got to do with it? This is business. They are to have no further doings with him upon pain of death.'

*I'm not sure,' said Stirling cautiously.

*Just do it,' snapped Jeremiah.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Stirling Makes a Stand *Good people of Pagus Parvus,' began Stirling, *I beseech of you to listen to me.'

Beseech of? he thought in a sudden panic. Is that right? No matter, it would do. There was no one here an expert in the complexities of the English language. His voice quavered audibly and his hands shook. He wished he had taken a second shot of whisky to steady his nerves. It had been years since he had addressed a crowd and certainly never in such uncomfortable surroundings. It was snowing lightly and he was standing on a box in the middle of the main street, just north of Jeremiah's house. He had thought it a good spot. He cleared his throat and raised his voice.

*For I tell you now, I have been visited by an angel in the night.'

Until this point his audience had consisted of three mortals, namely the Sourdough boys armed and ready with s...o...b..a.l.l.s. Everyone else, once they had established who he was, had walked around him, so much so that his podium was already circled by a ring of footprints in the trampled-down snow. It was only when he said the word *angel' that people stopped to listen. These heavenly creatures appealed greatly to their starved imaginations. Soon there was a small crowd gathered before him, their red-nosed faces looking up at him expectantly.

*An angel?' enquired one.

*Yes, an angel.'