The Eyeball Collector Read online

  ‘The riddle is this,’ said Bovrik with a quick look at Lady Mandible who was listening eagerly, her hands clasping and unclasping, her rings flashing. ‘What was the question and whom did he ask?’

  Hector’s heart was in his mouth. If only he had known what Lady Mandible was planning! But flattered by her attention, drawn in by her cold beauty, he had not even asked the riddle’s purpose. Instead, he had taken great pride in making it as complicated as he could. He had been used. And now this innocent man was to suffer. ‘When you run with wolves, you become a wolf,’ he muttered to himself, remembering again his father’s last words. And he felt for the first time a proper twinge of doubt. These thoughts, along with the smug look on Lady Mandible’s face as she enjoyed the power she held in her hands at this moment with her tasteless game, made bile rise in Hector’s throat.

  But then the prisoner spoke. ‘The answer is simple, kind sir,’ he said with a small bow laced with a generous amount of sarcasm. He then calmly proceeded to give the correct response.

  As he did so, Hector finally realized what was so familiar about this young man: his voice. He was the rhyming riddler from the square in Urbs Umida. Hector was aghast. Could he have been following him this whole time, he wondered, as he remembered too the shadowy figure in Pagus Parvus who had seemed to be watching him? Surely he wasn’t that keen for his answer to ‘The Landlord’s Pickle’? What was this fellow up to?

  Bovrik reddened in anger as he read the same answer on the paper before him. Hector could barely conceal his relief, despite his wonder at the strange coincidence of his repeated encounters with this riddler. Then he saw Lady Mandible’s face, an impassive mask. Would he be in trouble now?

  But when she caught his eye she merely shrugged and said, ‘Interesting. He’s cleverer than I first thought.’ Turning away again she added, ‘Leave the poacher here anyway.’

  Hector swallowed a protest. The prisoner obviously did not know so well.

  ‘But Your Ladyship,’ he said quietly, ‘I answered correctly. You said I should then be allowed to go free.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Lysandra flippantly as she swept from the room, ‘just because I can.’

  Bovrik followed, shooting Hector another dirty look as he passed. Hector glanced desperately at the accused and watched helplessly as, once they had all exited the cell, Bovrik locked the door with obvious delight and stationed the guard there. Would Hector ever be able to uncover the mystery behind this unflappable stranger?

  At the bottom of the tower stairs, as Lady Mandible and the Baron walked away from him, a hand grabbed Hector by the shoulder and spun him around. He found himself staring straight into the eyes of Lord Mandible.

  ‘Hector?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a job for you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Musings

  Baron Bovrik de Vandolin, still chewing on his breakfast, took out his box of eyeballs and set it down on his desk. He opened the lid and his smile widened when he saw what lay within: six staring eyeballs arranged in order of acquisition. The second from last, inset with an emerald, had been purchased using the proceeds of the sale of a small silver plate he had found in a dark corner of a far corridor and the last, jade, by means of a medieval toasting goblet.

  ‘Only one more,’ thought Bovrik, ‘and the set will be complete.’

  He took them out one by one and polished them with a soft cloth before replacing them so they all stared in the same direction. It was a daily ritual. Only then would he decide which to wear. Today he chose the third across. Its pearly pupil would go nicely with his waistcoat. With a swift and practised movement, a duck and a shake of the head, the chosen eyeball was in. He hoped it would please Lady Mandible and now that was more important than ever.

  Bovrik sighed deeply when he thought of her and sat heavily in his chair. He clutched the velvet cushion to himself and frowned. He couldn’t deny it any longer: Lady Mandible had changed towards him. He had not failed to notice lately how many messages were relayed to him via that dratted Gerulphus rather than personally. And had she not made her plans for that poacher without involving him at all until the last moment? But what had changed? Surely she could not have found out about his true identity? No, that was impossible. It had to be something else. He had grown used to this life of abundance. Sometimes he actually shivered as he walked Withypitts’ corridors, such was the wondrous effect on him of their luxury. To Bovrik, living at Withypitts Hall was the closest thing to heaven he thought a person could experience on earth. And it was certainly as close to heaven as he would ever get, being bound for hell at the earliest opportunity.

  Increasingly, he found himself choosing to ignore his old maxim ‘A good swindler knows when to go’. And now, instead of taking Lady Mandible’s change towards him as proof of his very own saying, he chose instead to seek ways to make himself indispensible and secure his future at the Hall. He went to his desk and withdrew a leaflet from the drawer. He read it through again and laughed. It was something he had come across during a recent foray in the City. To be honest it had repelled him slightly, but now it occurred to him it might be something she would appreciate. The time had come to make use of it. It could only raise him in her estimation. And he had his own plans for the Feast too . . . The truth of it, he had to admit, was there was only one way he could stay forever. If he could just get rid of Lord Mandible, perhaps eventually he, Baron Bovrik de Vandolin, could step into his shoes . . .

  Excitedly Bovrik snatched up his Jocastar cloak and buried his face in it. Reassured once more as to his baronlike appearance, suddenly everything seemed possible – even the highly improbable!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Premature Arrival

  A very slight noise, a noise he wasn’t supposed to hear, caused Hector to stop what he was doing and to listen. Could he be imagining it? No, there it was again. A fluttering sound. No doubt about it. He could feel his palms moistening. There shouldn’t be any fluttering. It was too early. The Feast wasn’t until tomorrow evening. He put down the mortar and turned around. He walked slowly up and down the trestles, looking for the source of the sound. A movement on the floor of the tank beside him caused him to exclaim loudly, ‘Tartri flammis!’

  His hands flew up to his mouth as he watched in horror the large butterfly that was flapping around there, disturbing the layers of damp bark and dark earth. He hadn’t noticed it at rest earlier, because its vibrant colours were smeared and acted as camouflage, hiding it in the debris. Its body was large but its wings were horribly malformed, one quite literally torn to shreds, the other a crumpled mess. With fast-beating heart Hector opened the door and reached in to retrieve the struggling creature. It hauled itself painfully on to his palm and sat quietly resting as he withdrew it.

  Hector felt both pity and revulsion at the same time. Anxiously he examined the interior of the tank again. This butterfly seemed to be the only one that had hatched out. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he had at first thought. This one couldn’t survive though. But even in its agony, it seemed a terrible thing to do to kill it. So Hector hesitated and did not see until too late the shadow that was cast over him like an engulfing monster.

  ‘What haf you got there?’

  Bovrik’s voice caused Hector to half leap out of his skin. He turned quickly and found himself staring directly into the glinting pupil of the fake Baron’s false eye.

  Bovrik was mildly surprised at Hector’s reaction. It was rare he saw the boy discomposed in this way. In fact, Hector displayed little emotion around him. He moved closer, a smile of curiosity playing around his mouth. The ends of his moustache twitched.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s a butterfly,’ stammered Hector. Immediately Bovrik’s face darkened and his eyebrows knitted together.

  ‘A butterfly? Already?’

  ‘I know,’ said Hector, looking down at the quivering creature. ‘It has come out early.’
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  ‘That much is apparent,’ said Bovrik coldly.

  ‘It’s injured; it cannot survive.’

  ‘Are there any others?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured Bovrik, and he walked slowly around the room examining the cocoons. ‘These are different.’ He was standing by the tank in the corner. The cocoons within were smaller and much darker.

  ‘Just another species,’ said Hector. ‘To add some variation.’

  Bovrik remained silent.

  ‘I can bring the rest out when they are needed,’ said Hector evenly, always surprised at how easily he disguised his utter contempt for the man.

  ‘Let’s hope so. And what of this?’ Now Bovrik was holding up the mortar.

  Hector darted over to him and took it back. ‘It’s for the butterflies. You mustn’t touch it.’

  Bovrik looked at him sharply. ‘You know what you are doing, I suppose,’ he said finally. ‘Far be it from me to interfere.’ He completed his circuit and came to stand in front of Hector again. ‘But nothing more can be allowed to go wrong. Things must be perfect for Her Ladyship.’ Then, almost under his breath Hector thought he heard him add, ‘Especially now.’ The Baron pointed at him. ‘Show it to me,’ he demanded.

  Hector held out his hand and Bovrik took another look at the struggling butterfly.

  ‘I suppose one is not such a tragedy,’ he said, and then without warning he snatched it up and squeezed it within his closed fist until its innards oozed out from between his fingers. Hector stifled a gasp, taken aback by the savagery of his action. Bovrik opened his hand and held it out to Hector.

  ‘Get rid of it,’ he said.

  Hector swallowed hard. Slowly he pulled the dead insect off by a wing and placed it on the table.

  You monster! he thought with a ferocity he hadn’t known was in him. His heart felt squeezed dry, but he did not allow his expression to betray him.

  ‘I don’t have time for any more mistakes, boy. I have far more important things to attend to. Remember, I found you on the streets of Urbs Umida. I can put you back there.’

  ‘And I, you,’ Hector whispered to himself as he watched Bovrik turn on his heel and hurry out. ‘Or worse.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A Letter to Polly

  Withypitts Hall

  Dear Polly,

  I hardly know where to start. I am filled with disguist at how I allowed myself to be used to punish the prisoner, to nearly bring about his death. That is Lady Mandible’s strength. In her presence men become weak, and I am not even a man. And I am still sickened at the thought of the crushed butterfly in Bovrik’s palm.

  However, I must warn you now, if you thought Gerulphus and his leeches were sufficiently repulsive, or that Lady Mandible’s paintings in blood were no less than an abomination, then cover your eyes and read no further.

  Only horror lies ahead. I have just witnessed a most disturbing theatre.

  After Bovrik left the Hatchery in such a rush, I followed him. I could not help thinking that a man in such a hurry was worth keeping an eye on.

  This time I was determined not to lose him. The hour was already late and not many servants still frequented the halls, so I was able to follow without detection. Eventually, after many twists and turns, we came to a small, narrow corridor. I thought it was a dead end. A tapestry hung on the far wall, but Bovrik drew it aside to reveal a door, through which he passed quickly. I ran lightly to the door and knelt at the keyhole to see within.

  Polly, how I wish now that I had not, for some memories may never be erased!

  Lady Mandible sat in a dark chair and Bovrik stood to her side. A third person, a man, stood before them. Together the loathsome pair watched, as did I from my secret place, in speechless, fascinated revulsion. The whole episode took perhaps twenty minutes, maybe a little more, and it was done. And well done, if such a thing is possible. The man, a Frenchman I think, stood in the centre of the room as if on a stage and held the animal delicately by its rear legs in his long thin fingers, in the same way one would hold a chicken drumstick. He bit at it, and not at all tentatively as one might expect. He looked as if he might actually enjoy the taste. As he chewed, the tufts of fur caught at the corner of his mouth trembled until the tip of his tongue darted out and pulled them in. The smaller bones crunched between his teeth, the larger ones he sucked clean and then discarded. All the time his expression was one of intense concentration. There was no blood. The creature was obviously already dead. For myself, I suspect that it had been cooked to make it more palatable. Boiled rather than roasted, I found myself thinking in a strangely distanced fashion, for surely if the latter then the fur would have been scorched off, in the same way that the wiry hair of the Hairy-Backed Forest Hog is scorched off before the animal is placed on the spit.

  He did not eat the head and I was glad, for there was something about the idea of seeing those velvet triangular white-tipped ears going into the man’s mouth that I thought I should not be able to stand. Finally, having reached the end of this grisly meal, he produced from his pocket a large linen napkin with creases as sharp as one of Mrs Malherbe’s kitchen knives, and dabbed at his mouth and cleaned his fingers.

  Lady Mandible was immediately on her feet and applauding with unfettered enthusiasm. She even clasped Bovrik’s hand, if momentarily, and thanked him breathlessly. It was the most emotional I had ever seen her. Bovrik too seemed impressed, though a little paler. Are they so indulged that only such extreme depravities can reach or stir them?

  They came towards the door. Quickly I hid in the folds of the tapestry and they passed by me, only inches away. Lady Mandible came first with her bright eyes and those scarlet lips stretched across her pearly teeth. She was laughing. Bovrik was at her side, showing off his latest eyeball. I believe he must have arranged the event for her amusement. The Frenchman followed them both, preening in Lady Mandible’s continued praise.

  Presumably the bizarre performer was paid a great deal. I imagine that would be the first requirement if one was expected to . . . to eat a cat as entertainment. For that is what he had just done, Polly. I am sickened and ashamed that I stayed to watch. Surely I was not like this before this twisted place! Surely the Hector of old would have long turned away, just as he would not leave an innocent man to fester in a tower, however difficult it might be to reach him.

  But, Polly, the worst of it was, the cat was Posset!

  And there is yet more to come. Still in a daze I entered the vacant room. In the dim light I made my way to Lady Mandible’s chair; it was warm to the touch, and I lowered myself into it. I sat back and waited for my nerves to settle. Hardly aware I was doing so, I began to stroke the velvety armrests. It was not smooth leather I felt beneath my fingers but some sort of fur, incredibly soft fur. With growing unease I ran my hand to the end of the armrest. The texture suddenly changed. Now it was hard and unyielding. I could feel knuckles and joints and fingers. For a brief moment I was paralysed with horror. Then I leaped up from my seat with a stifled scream.

  I had been sitting in the grotesque beast chair of which Oscar Carpue had spoken in Pagus Parvus. I stumbled towards the fireplace, my heart thudding, only to be confronted with another appalling manifestation. Over the mantel, where I should have expected a looking glass, I saw instead a hunting trophy. But it was not a stag or a hog, it was the beast’s head. His cold, soulless eyes stared down at me and I felt an indescribable sadness.

  Every time I think I have seen the worst this abominable place has to offer, I am proved wrong. As for the despicable man who plays at baron, I can hardly wait until the Feast is over and my task is completed. Then I shall be gone from here, for I swear, if I have to stay a moment longer, I fear for my sanity and my character.

  At last it is time to bestir the butterflies and begin my plan in earnest.

  Salve,

  Your friend,

  Hector

  Part the Third

  The Midwinter Feast

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bsp; Extract from the Menu at

  Trimalchio's Feast (c. AD65)

  Gustatio accompanied by honeyed wine

  Sweet dormice sprinkled with honey and poppy seeds

  Plums and pomegranate seeds

  Small birds, Beccaficos', in spiced egg yolk

  Fercula accompanied by Felarian wine

  Foods of the Zodiac

  Aries – chick peas, Taurus – beef, Gemini – kidneys,

  Cancer – crown of myrtle, Leo – African figs,

  Virgo – sterile sow's womb, Libra – scales of tarts and honey cakes,

  Scorpio – scorpion fish, Sagittarius – eyefish, Capricorn – lobster,

  Aquarius – goose, Pisces – two red mullets

  Roasted wild boar with dates suckled by cake

  Piglets stuffed with live thrushes

  Boiled whole pig stuffed with sausages and black pudding

  Mensa Secunda

  Pastry thrushes stuffed with raisins and nuts

  Quince apples and pork disguised as fowl and fish

  Oysters and scallops

  Snails

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  We’re All Going on a Boar Hunt

  Down into the kitchens, into the sweat and steam, the hissing and crackling, the spitting and cursing and shouting, the fetching and carrying, the scraping and peeling and chopping and washing and salting and pounding, the squealing and chirping, a young lad came running on the morning of the Midwinter Feast.

  ‘I have news!’ he shouted over the din. ‘I have news!’ Mrs Malherbe, her face red and shining with perspiration, stopped her stirring. Something in the boy’s tone told her that this was news of great import.