The Eyeball Collector Page 3

  ‘There is probably some truth in that,’ murmured his father.

  ‘But over the river,’ Hector enthused, ‘it’s not just that the people look different, it’s how the place feels: alive, sort of scary but exciting too. Sometimes life seems half dead this side of the Foedus.’

  Now Augustus looked alarmed. He lowered his voice and spoke sternly.

  ‘Hector, don’t be drawn in by it. It might feel alluring, exciting, different, but it is vile, vile. Every vice known to man is come alive on those streets. The place is rotten to the core, peopled with bibacious gin-swilling wretches and reprobates. In fact, I forbid you to go there again.’

  Hector felt his face fall and his father immediately softened. ‘Your future is this side, son. I have a place for you in the business.’

  ‘As a wine merchant?’ said Hector ruefully. ‘But I don’t want . . .’

  Augustus placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. ‘Don’t forget, the wine business has served us well. It provides all we have. If you do not take over the business, then who will?’

  The long silence between the two, each disappointed in his own way, was broken by the chimes of the study clock. Hector considered his father for a moment more and, doubting his escapades over the river were the only cause of his father’s anger and anxiety, he changed the subject entirely.

  ‘Have you a riddle for me before I go to bed?’ he asked. It was a game they played nightly. ‘It is your turn.’

  Augustus relaxed his furrowed brow. ‘I have indeed, and it is a hard one. E.’

  ‘E?’ queried Hector with a frown.

  ‘E, plain and simple,’ repeated Augustus. ‘Can you solve it?’

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Hector. ‘A single letter. Maybe it has lost its fellow letters.’ His father’s expression told Hector he was on the right track. ‘So how could this be?’ he continued. ‘Perhaps it comes from a word that has shrunk and all that is left is “e”.’

  His father grimaced and Hector grinned broadly before declaring, ‘I think that word could be . . . Senselessness!’

  Augustus clapped and laughed. ‘Hector,’ he said, ‘you are without doubt exceedingly clever. I know you have a great future ahead of you.’

  ‘But must I really be a wine merchant?’

  ‘No more buts.’ Augustus wagged his finger playfully. ‘Off to bed with you. I have a meeting.’

  Hector raised his eyebrows. ‘This late?’

  ‘Sometimes it has to be done,’ his father replied vaguely. ‘Come along. I’ll see you to the stairs.’

  Chapter Four

  An Unwelcome Visitor

  Upstairs on the half-landing Hector knelt and watched his father return to the study. He had an excellent view of what was going on below but, having turned down the gas light, was himself quite impossible to see. Intrigued by his father’s late-night visitor he was determined to catch sight of him. Surely his father’s odd mood had something to do with this meeting.

  He heard the rap of the front-door knocker and observed, with the keen eyes of youth, the maid usher a man swathed in black along the hall to the study. You could tell a lot about a person by the manner in which he dressed, but Hector found it surprisingly difficult to glean much from the fellow below. His attire was remarkably anonymous. The clothes fitted well but were dark as night. It was as if they sucked in every ray of light that hit them. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his forehead and he kept his head down.

  ‘Hmmm,’ mused Hector. ‘How odd.’ Hector was quite the expert on the apparel of the well-off, the well-off being the only sort of people invited into the house. But this fellow was giving nothing away and it made Hector immediately suspicious. It was not normal for someone to come here without wishing to show off their wealth.

  The maid knocked on the study door.

  ‘Mr Truepin to see you,’ she called.

  The door opened and the shadowy man went in. Hector waited until the maid disappeared and crept down the stairs. He knelt at the study door, put his face against the escutcheon and peered in through the keyhole. He sniffed and picked up the faintest whiff of citrus. He wears perfume, thought Hector, but it was not much to go on.

  He could see his father’s wide leather-topped desk and his chair but the rest of the room was out of his field of vision. Truepin was on the left, standing sideways to the desk. He had removed his hat and Hector took the opportunity to scrutinize his profile. He noticed the narrow, slightly hooked nose and the jutting-out chin. And then to his surprise he saw that the fellow wore an eye-patch over his left eye.

  ‘What a coincidence,’ he breathed. For surely this was the very same man who had glared at him on the Bridge. Better dressed, yes, his beard neatly trimmed, but he recognized the nose. How does a man lose an eye? he wondered. In battle? In a duel for a fair maiden? The truth was far less noble but Hector was not to know that.

  He looked at his father, who was standing behind the desk. He seemed nervous, plucking at his lapels, and held a sheet of paper in one hand.

  ‘So you are Gulliver Truepin,’ said Augustus coldly.

  ‘I see you received my letter,’ replied the visitor.

  Augustus’s face darkened. ‘I did,’ he said, ‘and such a piece of treachery I never did read before. I have a mind to call the magistrate right now – he is my friend, you know – and have you clapped in irons. Blackmail is the most despicable crime.’

  Truepin looked puzzled. ‘Blackmail?’ he repeated. ‘I am surprised at you, Mr Fitzbadly—’

  ‘It’s pronounced Fitz-boe-dly,’ corrected Hector’s father through gritted teeth.

  ‘As you wish.’ Truepin smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps some would call it blackmail, but I like to think of it as a business negotiation. It is the truth after all, is it not?’

  ‘I do not deal with blackguards,’ spat Augustus.

  ‘Then I will have no choice but to take my story to the Diurnal Journal,’ replied Truepin coolly. ‘They will pay for it, I can assure you. I think they would find it most interesting to know that you, Augustus, the northside’s favourite wine merchant, the man who supplies every table, every restaurant this side of the river with fine wines and ports, are nothing better than a southside cheap gin hawker!’

  Hector watched in horror as his father turned puce in the face of Truepin’s dreadful accusation. What was this man talking about? Father a gin seller? It couldn’t be! Now Augustus looked as if he might suffer an apoplectic fit.

  Truepin continued. ‘I know for a fact, Mr Fitzbadly, that you made your fortune selling gin to the southside masses, encouraging their addiction and profiting from their misery. You own more gin pipes than any other merchant.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ spluttered Augustus.

  ‘I have evidence,’ replied Truepin, ‘and plenty of people to verify my claims. What sort of man would make his money from such a business?’

  ‘And what sort of man are you,’ challenged Augustus, ‘wishing to profit from threats and accusations? And these people, these witnesses to my transgressions, where are they? All in your pay, I warrant. Perhaps my early wealth was made in this way. I’ll not deny I have sold gin in the past, but I was young; I made a mistake. I have tried to make up for it.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ sneered Truepin. ‘Your donations to orphanages and soup kitchens. Heartwarming, I’m sure. In fact, that is what led me to you. A man of your stature does not pay money to soup kitchens without good reason. Perhaps you are unique in that you have a conscience. But the fact remains, I can ruin you. We all know the fickle nature of the northsiders: friends one minute, enemies the next. But you would be lost without them. Pay me what I ask, or suffer the consequences. Consider it another donation to charity if you like – what I ask must be a drop in the ocean of your vast wealth.’

  Outside the door Hector listened to this exchange with clenched fists and gritted teeth. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Hadn’t he seen the gin-soaked wretches today? Could his father really have been
involved in such a thing? He had admitted to it, but if he said he regretted it, that he no longer dealt in such things, Hector believed him. As for the amount Truepin demanded, it was substantial, drop in the ocean or not. ‘Don’t pay,’ he urged silently. ‘Don’t pay such a villain.’

  His father paced behind the desk in an agony of indecision. Truepin looked on, his face immobile. Finally Augustus turned and Hector’s heart sank when he saw his expression. He could tell immediately what he was going to do.

  ‘Very well, you vile man,’ said Augustus slowly. ‘I will pay you. But only for the sake of my son and his future. And I’ll double what you ask for, on the understanding that you leave the City and never return.’

  ‘Treble it and it’s a deal.’

  Augustus closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I will give it to you but I curse you for the rest of your days.’

  Truepin allowed himself a short smile. ‘Curse me if you wish – words cannot harm me. Just hand over the money.’

  ‘No!’ whispered Hector, far louder than he intended.

  Truepin turned. ‘Is someone outside?’

  Augustus opened the door but Hector was already gone.

  Chapter Five

  Article from

  The Northside Diurnal Journal

  A quality daily newspaper for the discerning reader

  Not Such a Good Fit

  By

  Tarquin Faulkner

  Over the years the name ‘Fitzbaudly’ and the words ‘Fine Wines, Ports and Vintage Rarities’ have become interchangeable. The good people north of the River Foedus know that one does not come without the other. Fitzbaudly is a name to be trusted, to be relied upon, and a Fitzbaudly wine is guaranteed to be exactly as it states on the bottle – robust, honest and of superior quality.

  Alas, no more the case.

  Augustus Fitzbaudly, unlike his wines, is not what he claims to be. It has come to my attention by way of a concerned citizen that despite his airs and graces Augustus Fitzbaudly is a fraud. His money, surely a considerable fortune by now, comes not only from the sale of reputable wines, but from the gallons of cheap, adulterated gin that he sells from his numerous gin shops south of the river. We in the northside are acutely aware of how utterly ruinous is the gin habit, and how it leads one and all down the path to self-destruction. Who amongst us has not seen the drunken, wretched tramps half dead in the street over the river? We have counted ourselves fortunate that they choose to stay with others of their ilk across the water, and we have despaired as to their dreadful situation. But now you know where to lay the blame. Squarely at the feet of Augustus Fitzbaudly.

  I call upon you, each and every one, to withdraw your support for Fitzbaudly’s Fine Wines. No more should you order his Merlots and his Mataros, his Lambruscos and his Chardonnays, his Yellow Monks or his Black Turrets. It is the very least we can do to help those less fortunate than ourselves. The man is no longer deserving of our patronage. We have been cheated and it is only natural that we should feel outraged. And there are certainly other reputable wine merchants from whom to purchase your requirements. I can wholeheartedly recommend Faulkner’s of Vine Street (no relation).

  Chapter Six

  A Letter to Polly

  Withypitts Hall

  Dear Polly,

  I didn’t tell you much about me during those early days at Fitch’s Home, but you suspected all was not as it seemed. As the weeks passed you proved to be a good friend. You listened when I wanted to talk and asked no questions when I didn’t. So now I will repay your friendship with the truth – and tell you exactly what happened to land me on the home’s doorstep.

  It was the day Gulliver Truepin came into our lives that changed everything. I remember vividly the night he visited my father with his threats. Father came up to see me afterwards. He stood in the bedroom doorway looking as if he had aged years in a matter of hours.

  ‘Is everything going to be all right?’ I asked.

  He sat on the bed and looked at me directly. Perhaps he guessed I had overheard.

  ‘Hector, sometimes a person has to do things that are distasteful. It is part of life’s journey. I have regrets about my past but I thought I had put it behind me. The man who came tonight, Gulliver Truepin, is a parasite. He feeds off others’ misfortune. But what’s done is done. My concern now is only for you. My duty is to see that my errors do not stand in the way of your success and happiness. What I have built I have built for you.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  But things had changed forever.

  So much for honour among thieves. Truepin, having blackmailed my father and taken his money, still sold his story to the ‘Diurnal Journal’. I bet they paid him well, for even the merest whiff of scandal is well rewarded in Urbs Umida. Within days every news-sheet in the City carried the story of Father’s cheap-gin exploits and subsequent downfall. And although Father was the victim of a blackmailing swindler, he was portrayed as the only villain.

  It was precipitous. Like a snowball rolling down a mountain my father’s downfall gathered speed and size. No one wanted to be associated with a failure. Orders were cancelled, debts were called in and we were abandoned to our fate. What hypocrisy! But that is what the north side is like. It matters only how you look, not what is underneath, and it is vital never to let your secrets be found out. Father fell into despair and refused to leave the study. The servants abandoned us, like rats leaving a ship. Many were engaged by the neighbours. Mrs Ecclestope claimed our cook – she had always coveted her stuffed goose. Even my tutor disappeared and my days were my own.

  Eventually we had nothing left and the sale of our home and its contents was placed in the hands of the solicitors and debt-collectors Messrs Badlesmire and Leavelund. Like vultures descending on a carcass they arrived and all that horrible day I watched every single one of our possessions being removed. Father remained tight-lipped and stoical throughout until they came into his study and began to take his butterfly collection.

  ‘Now, then, Mr Fitzbaudly,’ I heard Badlesmire warn. ‘No need for a scene, my good man. No need at all.’

  But before I could react Father had lunged at him to wrest a glass display case from his arms. As I tried to pull my father back, the case dropped and shattered. The colourful wings of the huge butterfly within, the one Father had shown me so happily only days before, tore against the sharp glass pieces and scattered, staining the carpet with their dust.

  Later that night when the house was empty and the invaders had gone, I found Father in the stripped butterfly house, staring into space.

  ‘It’s Truepin that’s done this,’ I told him with venom. ‘We must find him and take him to the courts for his lies and blackmailing ways. We must have justice!’

  ‘He will be well gone from this city,’ said my father. ‘He got what he wanted.’ He turned around and I was shocked by his pallor, as if all life was draining from him.

  ‘Maybe the newspapers are right,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe I do deserve this.’

  ‘No one deserves this,’ I said hotly. ‘And who is Gulliver Truepin to sit in judgement on you anyway?’ I clenched my fist. ‘I swear if I ever find him . . .’

  Father shook his head. ‘No, violence is not the answer.’ He put out his hand and leaned on the wall as if to steady himself. ‘To refrain from imitation is the best revenge.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I was almost shouting but couldn’t help myself. ‘Surely you don’t believe that Truepin should go unpunished?’

  Suddenly Father moaned and clutched at his chest, then collapsed on to the stone floor. Instantly I dropped to my knees and took my father’s head in my lap. His eyes were wide and staring, his body was rigid and his breathing was harsh and irregular.

  ‘Hector,’ he gasped, ‘I always feared one day my secret would be discovered. I just didn’t realize how bad it would be. I’m so sorry – it was wrong of me.’

  I held back tears as I shook my head and told him it didn’t matt
er. His skin had taken on a green hue by now and his lips were blue. He struggled to take my arm, drawing me even closer to hear what he had to say.

  ‘It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you,’ he whispered. ‘Take heed. I know you’re angry now, but remember: when you run with wolves you become a wolf. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I only want justice,’ I sobbed.

  Father smiled up at me. ‘I know you will do the right thing,’ he breathed. Then his face contorted in a grimace. His grip tightened spasmodically on my arm. He emitted a long deep sigh, his fingers loosened and I knew he was dead.

  In the tenebrous shadows of the butterfly house I gripped the black cocoon at my neck until my knuckles went white. ‘Not justice then,’ I whispered, ‘but revenge.’

  Salve,

  Your friend,

  Hector

  Chapter Seven

  Fitch’s Home for Exposed Babies and Abandoned Boys

  There were no mourners at Augustus Fitzbaudly’s burial other than Hector. The vicar, grimacing in the rain, read a short passage from the Bible and hurried away to the shelter of the church, his performance directly proportional to the paltry sum he had been paid. In the absence of any other help, the gravedigger struggled to push the coffin into the grave, all the time muttering under his breath, until eventually Hector stepped forward dazedly to help. The cheap wooden box, already splitting at the joins, sat just below the grave’s edges, no more than three feet under. Hector not having the money to pay for a single plot, his father had been buried on top of someone else. He walked away to the sound of soil landing on the coffin lid. He was deeply ashamed that his father was buried in a pauper’s grave and vowed to right that as soon as he had the chance, if he had to dig him up and move him himself.