The Black Book of Secrets Page 3

  ‘Wooden legs,’ shouted out a voice.

  Joe disregarded this interruption and continued smoothly.

  ‘You have my word. You will not be cheated by Joe Zabbidou.’

  For a moment there was silence and then generous applause. Joe took a bow and smiled at his audience. ‘Thank you,’ he said as they came forward to shake his hand.

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Inside Ludlow jerked awake from a dream in which he was being pricked with a thousand tiny needles. He sat up to find that the fire had been revived and one of the logs was spitting, sending burning sparks on to his cheeks. Joe was nowhere to be seen, but there was bread and milk on the table, and a jug of beer, and Ludlow realized that he was very hungry. He drank some frothy milk and ate a thick slice of warm bread. He sat back, satisfied, but not for long. Hearing the commotion outside he went to the door to have a look.

  Joe was still shaking hands with the villagers. When he saw Ludlow he nodded in the direction of the crowd, who were milling around, loath to leave this object of curiosity. Joe’s arrival was an exciting event for Pagus Parvians. Few strangers ever came to their village.

  And a pity they don’t, thought Joe as he scanned the eager faces in front of him. There was that hook nose again and again, those close-set narrow eyes, the crooked smiles, each in a different combination on a different countenance.

  This place could do with some new blood, he thought. Then out loud to Ludlow he said, ‘Quite a welcome, eh, Ludlow?’

  He turned back to his audience and continued to greet them while Ludlow wondered idly if any had a pocket worth picking.

  Chapter Seven

  The Morning After

  Halfway down the street, Jeremiah Ratchet was suffering from his escapades of the night before. He had woken with a pounding headache and a raw stomach.

  ‘Cheap ale,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t know why I drink in that foul stinking city.’

  But of course he did know. He went there because he didn’t trust the tavern owners in Pagus Parvus to serve him a decent quart. The one time he had gone into the Pickled Trout at the bottom of the hill he couldn’t quite rid himself of the suspicion that the landlord, Benjamin Tup, had spat in his ale. But the accusation didn’t go down very well. Besides, he despised the other drinkers, most of whom were in his debt. Jeremiah was happy to take their money but he preferred not to drink with them. And the feeling was mutual.

  So Jeremiah went instead to the City, where he sought entertainment in the Nimble Finger Inn on the bridge over the River Foedus. There he drank wine and beer, smoked fat cigars and played cards until the early hours with a motley bunch of fellows: thieves and gamblers, resurrectionists and undoubtedly a murderer or two. Although he would never admit it, he felt quite at home in the Nimble Finger.

  Jeremiah groaned again when he remembered he had lost a considerable sum of money at the card table.

  There’s nothing for it, he thought. The rents’ll have to go up.

  Jeremiah liked simple solutions to problems, and rent increases seemed to solve most of his. He did not care about the trouble this caused his tenants. He turned over in bed, but his attempts to sleep again were thwarted by the foul air that wafted up from under the blankets.

  Too many onions, he thought as he flung back the curtain and swung his legs over the side. He squinted in the daylight and only then became aware of the noise out on the street. He stumbled and belched his way over to the window to see crowds of people making their way up the hill.

  ‘Polly!’ he shouted. ‘Polly!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she answered, jumping to her feet, for she was only over by the hearth stoking the fire and thinking about the boy with the green eyes she had seen the night before.

  ‘What’s all this noise? A man can’t sleep with the racket.’

  ‘I believe that the hat shop has been occupied, sir.’

  ‘By a hatter?’ Jeremiah loved to wear a hat, the higher the better. He felt it was a physical measure of his importance. It also gave him the appearance of being taller, for what he didn’t lack in overbearing pomposity he lacked in inches.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. There’s a rumour it’s a pet shop.’

  ‘A pet shop!’ Jeremiah spluttered. ‘Who can afford the luxury of pets in this place?’

  The thought of a single one of his tenants owning a pet was too much for Jeremiah. Although he loved to indulge himself in all sorts of extravagances, it galled him to think that others might too. So, in a fit of pique, he dressed and staggered up the hill, red-faced and nauseous, last night’s alcohol seeping through his enlarged pores. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and pulled his collar around his neck. His mood had not improved when Polly reported that she had failed to find his gloves, scarf and purse.

  ‘Blasted coachman,’ swore Jeremiah as he trudged through the snow. ‘Thieving, lying hound. Deserves to be whipped.’

  Polly waited for her master to go some way up the hill before throwing on her own tatty red cloak and following at a safe distance. Jeremiah arrived at the shop just in time to hear Joe’s speech, after which he made his presence known (though his neighbours had already caught his odour and moved away).

  Chapter Eight

  Fragment from

  The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch

  I stayed in the doorway while Joe stood on the pavement, and I watched as each person approached him. He took whichever hand they offered and enclosed it in his own. At the same time he leaned forward and said something. Whatever it was, it made the women smile and the men straighten up and inflate their chests. I couldn’t resist a grin though I didn’t quite know why.

  While Joe was still busy shaking hands, a minor commotion started up at the back of the crowd. I stuck my head out a little further and saw a bulbous man, his face glistening with sweat, pushing his way to the front. The people parted reluctantly to allow his passage. He stood in the snow in a manner that suggested he was supported solely by his own self-importance. He cocked his large head to one side to squint at the golden orbs with a yellowing eye.

  There was something very unpleasant about the man: his bulk was offensive, his stance was aggressive. I was not inclined to make myself known to him so I stayed where I was.

  I suspect Joe had already noticed him but had chosen to ignore him. Eventually, after the man had positioned himself only a matter of feet away and coughed loudly three times, Joe acknowledged his presence and introduced himself.

  ‘Joe Zabbidou,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  The man stared at Joe as if he was a snail on his shoe.

  ‘Ratchet,’ he said finally, refusing to shake. ‘Jeremiah Ratchet. Local businessman. I own most of this village.’

  When I heard the name my ears pricked up. So this was Jeremiah Ratchet, the man who had inadvertently brought me to Pagus Parvus and at the same time brought about a change in my fortunes. His rather grand statement was greeted with quiet snorts of derision from the crowd, even a hiss, and his wide forehead creased in an angry frown. He put his hands on his hips and sniffed, in the manner of a rooting hog. If I had been in that crowd, I would have pinched his purse before he could blink. He was the sort of man who deserved to have his pocket picked. Then again, I thought, as I tried to conceal a smirk, I already had it.

  The two men faced each other, Joe’s steady gaze taking Ratchet in. Everything about Jeremiah smelled of money: from his perfumed hair, to his dark woollen three-quarter length coat; from his mustard breeches, right down to the shiny leather of his riding boots. Unfortunately nothing about him smelled of good taste.

  ‘Listen here, Mr Cabbagehead, or whatever you call yourself. You’ll get no business here. You’re not needed. These people own nothing of any worth.’ Jeremiah laughed meanly and puffed out his chest even more. ‘I should know, most of them owe me back rent.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Joe, recoiling slightly. Jeremiah’s breath was quite pungent. ‘I have always found in the past that most people bene
fit from my help.’

  ‘Help?’ queried Jeremiah. ‘I don’t think we need your sort of help. I help people round here. If they need money they know whom to ask. You’ll find I provide for the village. You’ll pack your bags soon enough.’

  He turned sharply, satisfied that Joe had been well and truly put in the picture, and strode away with a sort of wide-legged gait that became more ridiculous as he gathered speed.

  ‘Jeremiah Ratchet,’ I heard Joe say softly, ‘I think our paths will cross again.’

  Somehow Jeremiah’s presence had cast a sort of gloom over the crowd and in twos and threes they set off down the hill, holding on to each other for support. Only one person lingered, a young girl. I thought I knew her face but couldn’t place it until she was almost right in front of me.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said softly. It was Polly, Jeremiah’s maid.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied, but though I racked my brain I could think of nothing more interesting to say so we just faced each other in silence. She looked cold and tired. Her knuckles were red, she wore no gloves and her fingertips were blue.

  ‘I’d better be off,’ she said finally. ‘Ratchet’d be angry if he knew I was talking to you.’ Then she turned around and skipped away. I felt a little sorry for her, with her stick legs and red nose. I couldn’t imagine Jeremiah Ratchet was the most favourable of masters.

  Joe was leaning casually on the ladder, watching us, but suddenly he looked away. I followed his gaze and saw for a second time the small hunched figure with a shovel on his shoulder. He had been right at the back during the whole show, his craggy face expressionless. Now he was going in the opposite direction to everyone else, towards the church. Joe watched him go through the gates, then beckoned to me.

  ‘Hurry,’ he said and strode off in the wake of the crooked stranger. I pulled the door to and a little thrill of excitement made me shiver all over.

  Chapter Nine

  Obadiah Strang

  An ancient graveyard surrounded the church and the slope was such that it was impossible to dig a grave without one side being higher than the other. Fortunately for its occupants, Obadiah Strang, the gravedigger, was very good at his job and took great pains to ensure that the base of each grave was level, so the poor dead soul in the coffin could achieve peace on his back and not on his side. Whenever there was a funeral the mourners were constantly on the move, shifting from one foot to the other as they tried to stand up straight. Only mountain goats that wandered in from time to time seemed at ease, able as they were to keep their balance at any angle. The graveyard must have seemed like a home from home. Not only that, the grass was particularly rich.

  Joe stepped through the rusting church gates, closely followed by Ludlow, and stopped to listen. The rhythmic sound of shovelling came to him on the wind and when he looked down the slope between the headstones he saw Obadiah Strang hard at work digging a grave.

  Stooped even as a youngster, Obadiah had finally reached the age that his bent back had always suggested. He looked like a man who dug holes for a living and over the years his hands had fixed themselves into the shape of the handle of his shovel. He had great difficulty picking up small objects but was thankful that his clawed fingers could comfortably hold a bottle of ale.

  Obadiah continued with his task for quite some time before he noticed that he had company. He clambered out with the aid of a small ladder and stuck his shovel into the pile of earth with some force. Sweat congealed in his eyebrows and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear. It was not easy to dig a six-foot-deep hole in the winter.

  Joe greeted him with a warm handshake. ‘I saw you at the shop,’ he explained.

  ‘Ah,’ said Obadiah gruffly, ‘you’re the pawnbroker. Well, I’ll tell you now, you’ll get no business from me. I’ve little more than the clothes I stand up in.’

  He looked suspiciously at Ludlow, who was hanging back behind a sinking headstone. He didn’t like the look of the boy one bit. He wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him, and that would be quite some distance seeing as there wasn’t a pick of meat on his scrawny bones. Besides, Obadiah never trusted people who didn’t blink and Ludlow’s stare was quite unnerving.

  ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘My assistant,’ said Joe smoothly, pulling him forward.

  Ludlow smiled and put out his hand, albeit hesitantly. Obadiah ignored it.

  ‘Assistant? You pay an assistant? You pawnbrokers are all the same. You claim poverty but live otherwise.’ He picked up his shovel but Joe took him by the arm.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ said Obadiah impatiently. ‘I’m busy.’

  Joe stared hard into Obadiah’s tired eyes. Obadiah wanted to look away but for some reason he couldn’t. His ears filled with a soft noise, like the sea on a shingle beach, and he felt his knees tremble. His fingertips were starting to tingle. Ludlow watched in surprise as the gruff old man seemed to soften and relax.

  ‘You look like a man with a story to tell,’ said Joe slowly. ‘Why not come up to the shop tonight. At midnight. No one need know.’

  Obadiah struggled to get the words out. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he said, ‘perhaps I won’t.’

  ‘Until then,’ replied Joe, as if his invitation had been accepted, and he blinked, breaking the spell, whereupon Obadiah had to steady himself on his shovel.

  Chapter Ten

  Fragment from

  The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch

  I didn’t really understand what had happened in the graveyard. I knew that some sort of arrangement had been arrived at, but its exact nature escaped me. As we left the church grounds I suddenly had the feeling that we were being watched. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure observing us from behind a tree. From his dress I presumed him to be the local vicar. I nudged Joe. He had seen him too and he nodded a greeting, whereupon the reverend became very flustered, turned tail and fled into the church.

  Outside the shop the pavement was empty apart from three young boys who ran away as soon as they saw Joe. He laughed as they skidded down the hill. Once inside we went through to the back and sat by the fire. After a few minutes, when Joe showed no sign of talking to me but all the signs of a man on the verge of a snooze, I asked him about my job.

  ‘Your job?’ he replied with a large yawn. ‘I’ll tell you later. For the moment just wake me if we have any customers.’

  And that was it.

  I went into the shop and leaned my elbows on the counter, contemplating my situation. The frog watched me for a minute or two and then turned away. Although I had always earned a living, I had never had a job before. I hadn’t exactly been raised on the straight and narrow. Pa and Ma together were as big a pair of crooks as ever breathed the Lord’s air. They made their living from thievery and I had little choice but to follow in their footsteps, even before I could walk. I was a small baby, and stayed slight. At the age of eighteen months Pa took to carrying me around in a bread basket on the top of his head. He covered me with a few stale loaves. I still remember the terrible swaying from side to side and the fright that kept me rigid. To this day I cannot travel in any moving vehicle without feeling sick.

  When the opportunity presented itself Pa would say out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Lud, me lad,’ and that was the sign for me to reach out and pinch the hat, and sometimes the wig, of an innocent passing gentleman. Imagine the poor fellow’s surprise as his head was bared, leaving him open not only to embarrassment but also to the ravages of the elements. Of course, by the time he looked for the culprits we had long since disappeared into the crowd.

  This caper brought in a pleasing sum, wigs and hats fetched good prices, but inevitably the time came when I could no longer fit into the bread basket. Ma suggested that I be sold to a chimney sweep. My skinny frame more than suited the narrow, angled chimneys. By then I was beginning to understand that when my parents looked at me with their glassy eyes, they saw not a son and heir but a c
onvenient source of income to support their gin habit. The life of a chimney sweep was harsh and short and I was supremely grateful when Pa decided I could earn more for them if I learned to pick pockets. Thus, with the minimum of training (spurred on by his belt), I was sent out on to the streets on the understanding that I was not to return without at least six shillings a day for the tavern.

  I had little trouble earning this, and any extra I kept for myself. I seemed to have a natural bent for such work: my fingers were nimble, my tread light and my expression innocent. Sometimes I was a little careless and my victim would feel my fingers in their pocket, but I had only to hold their gaze for a moment to convince them that it was not I who had filched their purse or wallet. If I looked at Ma that way she used to cuff me around the side of the head and hiss, ‘Don’t look at me with those saucer eyes. It don’t work on your old ma.’

  But, you know, I think it did and that was precisely why she got so angry.

  She could cuff me only if she caught me and most days I avoided her and Pa like the plague. When I had earned enough, usually by noon, and needed to warm up I went to Mr Jellico’s. I couldn’t go home even if I wanted to for Ma and Pa had rented out the room during the day to night workers on the river.

  It wasn’t such a bad life, not at first, and I didn’t know any other way. I had heard you were supposed to love your parents, but I don’t think that is what I felt for them. Some kind of loyalty perhaps, a blood tie, but not love. But once their desire for gin consumed them, my life became unbearable. It didn’t matter how much they had, they wanted more. Eventually, whatever I brought home wasn’t enough. I suppose that’s when they came up with their fiendish plan. I should have known they were up to something. They had started smiling at me.