The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors Read online

  Cautiously Vincent descended, his ears alert to every sound, excited but unafraid. He left the trapdoor open; he did not intend to be down there for very long.

  The darkness was such that the smitelight revealed the space no more than a foot or two ahead before blackness closed in. The staircase proved to be precipitously steep and the stone steps so perilously narrow that he had to go down sideways one step at a time. The air was cool and smelled strongly of damp. Vincent could hear his every breath. His heartbeat pulsated through his fingers as they walked their way along the wall.

  ‘Spletivus!’ he whispered. ‘I must be a hundred feet below the city by now!’ In fact it was not quite that deep, but darkness has a habit of exaggerating reality.

  Finally he reached the last stair and stepped off into a narrow passageway with craggy walls and an uneven floor and low ceiling. He moved ahead haltingly, expecting at any moment to plunge into a yawning chasm or to smack his head on some rocky protrusion. The tunnel led him on, inexorably, towards . . . towards what? He did not know. He turned a corner and sensed rather than saw that the tunnel had widened out into a chamber. In trepidation about what it might reveal, he held his smitelight above his head. His jaw dropped open and he oathed involuntarily.

  The chamber walls were shelved from floor to ceiling, and every shelf without exception bowed under the weight of the most fabulous thaumaturgic paraphernalia. Vincent blinked hard. He had a sudden flashback, of his father at his bedside, telling him the tale of a man of magic who lived in an underground room. This chamber could have been that very room. But that was a bedtime story; this was real. Vincent had seen all manner of oddities in his thieving career; he had uncovered people’s darkest secrets, the ones they kept locked in cupboards and pushed to the back of drawers, but none of them could possibly come close to what he could see now.

  Slowly he turned on the spot. He saw bottles and bell jars and demijohns, their contents grotesque. He saw animal bones and grinning goat skulls, foul-smelling fungi and pungent herbs, dried leathery wings and peacock feathers, rare objects of beauty in a place of frightful sortilege. This was not the workshop of a merciful diviner or benevolent astrologer; this was the secret lair of someone who engaged in troublesome devilry. And not just that – set away from the table was a chair, bolted to the floor, with leather straps on the arms and legs and on the headrest. Its purpose was not difficult to discern: the practice of torture.

  After the initial shock of the find Vincent’s innate sense of self-preservation took over and he sprang into action. He lit a lamp and began to rummage through the contents of a large table. Its surface was practically hidden, covered as it was with an abundant array of instruments and disturbing appurtenances, some of which caused him to recoil; others he held up and regarded with morbid interest. A short, stout metal cylinder with thin pipes spiralled tightly around the outside caught his eye. It looked a little like a tavern tankard, with a handle on the side. The lidded end was rounded, the other end flat. It was very cold to the touch and was stamped with a manufacturer’s trademark. He dropped it into one of the larger pockets of his coat, another visit to the Caveat Emptorium in mind.

  As he rummaged, his practised, searching hand unearthed a very small book that was concealed beneath several layers of curious objects. It was written in what he took to be Latin, and not knowing the language he was about to put it back, when on second thoughts he put his foot up on to the table and reached down to the thick heel of his boot. The heel swung out to reveal a hidden compartment he had crafted himself. He pushed the book into the space. It just fitted.

  Satisfied that he had taken all that was useful or valuable, Vincent put out the lamp and shone his smitelight around the room one last time. It was then he saw the rectangular cabinet sitting in the shadows against the far wall. It was made of black metal and was humming softly. There was a handle on the front. Vincent went over and pulled on the handle. The door was heavier than he expected and when it opened there was a soft hiss and an outrush of cold air. The interior was cold to the touch, there were ice crystals on all the inner walls, but the cabinet itself was empty. Vincent shivered and closed the door. Then, coat pockets bulging once again with his spoils, he retraced his steps up the tunnel.

  What Vincent did not know was that if a trapdoor opens soundlessly one way, then it most probably closes soundlessly the other. And it did, merely moments after he had gone through it, the magnetic lock sliding back into place. To further compound Vincent’s plight, two large barrels of tar were rolled on to the trap door, the noise dulled by the rug.

  If only Vincent had arrived a couple of minutes later this would not have happened, but chance is a two-way street. Unfortunately for him, Vincent reached the shop only moments after Leopold Kamptulicon had left for the Tar Pit. Although the lamp vendor was out of sight, he was still within earshot. He heard Vincent’s knock, went back to investigate and watched the boy break in. He was most surprised, and put out, when he realized that this brazen intruder had discovered both the trapdoor and the secret of the lock. As soon as Vincent went down the steps Kamptulicon slipped back into the shop, closed and secured the trapdoor and reseated the window arm. Then he set off once more on his Lurid business and his unwitting meeting with Folly.

  Nobody took advantage of Leopold Kamptulicon and got away with it.

  CHAPTER 9

  PROBLEMS AND SOLUTIONS

  In another part of Degringolade, far away from the luxury of the Capodel Townhouse – where Citrine was mulling over Florian Quince’s recent revelations – but close to the underground chamber where Vincent was unwittingly trapped, Edgar Capodel shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other beside his Phaeton and blew loudly on his cold, soft hands. He didn’t like this part of Degringolade.

  ‘Domne, but hurry up,’ he urged into the night.

  As if in answer to his plea, a polished Troika drawn by three black horses pulled up on the other side of the road. Edgar ran over to it – the carriage door opened and the steps were let down.

  ‘Thank the Lord you’re here, sir,’ he said as he climbed in.

  ‘And good evening to you too, Edgar,’ replied a smooth voice from the tenebrous interior. The carriage lights were low and the man sitting opposite Edgar was a mere shadow. ‘Would you care for some Grainwine?’ he asked, taking an elegant bottle of transparent liquid and two glasses from a small cabinet built into the back of his seat. ‘You see, I have put your idea to good use.’ The cold air within the cabinet rolled out and the atmosphere in the carriage became distinctly cooler.

  Edgar nodded.

  ‘You seem troubled,’ said the man.

  ‘I am!’ replied Edgar, and gulped down a mouthful of the chilled yet burning liquid. ‘It’s Florian Quince, sir, the interfering old maggot. He says he has some of these “Depictions” and that they prove I was at the Bonchance Club drinking and gambling.’

  ‘And this means what?’ enquired the other man.

  Edgar hesitated. ‘There’s a condition in the will. I cannot inherit for five years.’

  The silence was brief but meaningful. ‘Then we need a new will. What about the Capodel Manufactory? Are you still in charge?’

  ‘Not if Quince has his way.’

  There was another silence, broken only by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass.

  ‘I’ve been stitched up and left out in the cold,’ complained Edgar bitterly. ‘Expected to live on an allowance, for Aether’s sake. And our plans—’

  ‘Stop snivelling, you fool,’ hissed the shadowy companion, displaying the first sign of anger. ‘You should have been more careful. You know how Hubert felt about gambling. How many times do you have to be told?’

  Edgar quailed at the rebuke, and noticed, not for the first time, the man’s verbal eccentricity: how he omitted the b in gambling, pronouncing it ‘gamling’.

  ‘I didn’t know what was in the will!’ he protested.

  ‘Quiet! I need to think.’

&nb
sp; Edgar sniffed and drank.

  Then the man spoke. ‘This is problematic but not insuperable. But I need you to help with the will.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, just tell me what to do,’ said Edgar. ‘And then there is Citrine. I’ve done what you said, and kept an eye on her, but she still believes that Hubert might be alive. She won’t rest until they find his body.’

  ‘Then let them find a body. We cannot allow Citrine to stand in my . . . our way.’

  ‘But . . . how?’

  ‘Leave that to me. Dr Ruislip, down at the morgue, owes me a favour or two. First things first, the will. I have a plan that can kill two birds with one stone.’

  CHAPTER 10

  THE WHITE HAIR

  ‘What are you doing in the safe?’

  Edgar was kneeling in front of the drinks cabinet which Citrine knew was actually a small safe. He started at the sound of her voice and stood up to see her in the doorway.

  ‘Nany of your business,’ he retorted, his eyes flicking to her green bag before she could conceal it. ‘Looking into the future again?’ he mocked. ‘I don’t need the cards to tell me what to do.’

  Citrine came fully into the room. ‘They don’t tell me what to do; they guide me . . .’ she began, but she knew not to continue the conversation.

  ‘Why aren’t you in bed? It’s already Nox. Memories keeping you awake, I suppose.’

  ‘You woke me, slamming the front door. You’re wearing your coat. Are you going out again?’

  ‘How perspicacious of you.’ Edgar’s handsome face was easily disfigured by his curled lip. ‘Why, are you going to tell Florian, you little spy?’

  ‘How could I spy for Florian when I am practically a prisoner in my home? Actually I’m looking for something.’

  ‘This?’ Edgar reached over the leather-topped knee-hole desk behind him and picked up a brown, boxlike contraption from the chair where it had been out of sight.

  Citrine gasped. ‘My Klepteffigium! Give it back!’

  Edgar smirked, and before Citrine could stop him he tossed the Klepteffigium into the safe, closed the door and spun the combination lock. ‘There. Now you can’t take any more nasty Depictions.’

  Citrine was fuming. ‘What? Have you gone mad? I haven’t taken any of you. If Father was here, you wouldn’t dare to treat me like this.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but the fact is dear Uncle Hubert’s gone, and he can’t rule me from the grave.’

  ‘I think he might,’ said Citrine, unable to help herself, thinking of Florian’s earlier revelation.

  Edgar’s face went dark as thunder and his hazel eyes glinted dangerously. He picked up a paperknife, the handle decorated with the Capodel crest, and pointed it at her. ‘I’m warning you, Citrine,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘nanyone will get in my way – not Hubert, not Florian and especially not you.’ He pushed her roughly aside and left the room.

  ‘One day I’ll find out what really happened,’ called Citrine after him. ‘Until then, unlike you, I prefer to believe that Father might still be alive.’

  She closed the study door, shaking from the intensity of her anger, annoyed with herself for losing her temper and more than a little alarmed at the way Edgar had brandished the paperknife. She stood in front of the safe, hands on hips, but she knew she couldn’t possibly open it. Edgar had set a new combination. With the news about the will she had an ominous feeling that things in the Capodel household were going to change, and not for the better. Frustrated, she sat behind the desk, deep in thought. It was almost 12 Nox before she jumped up.

  ‘I shall go to see Florian. He’ll tell me what to do.’

  Shortly afterwards Citrine’s Trikuklos turned on to the street outside the Capodel Townhouse and took off down the steep incline of Collis Hill. She drove across Mercator Square and continued along the cobbled side streets until she reached Malpraxis Mews, where she brought the machine to a skilful halt in the courtyard. She ran over to Florian’s green door and grasped the knocker before noticing that the door was already open. Hesitantly she stepped into the warmth of the hall. A white cat hurried towards her and weaved in and out of her legs.

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ she whispered, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. ‘Where’s Mr Quince? And why is the door open?’

  The cat ran off and Citrine went quietly down the hall to Florian’s office and poked her head around the door. The lights were low and she could not see very much, but she could smell the familiar aroma of the old legal books that were packed into the shelves on three sides of the room. But tonight there was another, different, odour. Citrine screwed up her nose worriedly. Something was scorching.

  Florian was asleep in his wing chair by the dying fire and it was one of his trouser legs that was smouldering. She went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder. Immediately, with a sharp intake of breath, she recoiled, almost tripping on something underfoot. Florian was dead. Instantly a vision of the third card flashed into her head, the three corvids pulling at the bloody entrails.

  ‘So this is Death,’ she whispered.

  Shakily she turned up the lights and gasped as she illuminated a scene of confusion. The room was in utter disarray. Papers were scattered across the floor, books teetered half off their shelves and the desk drawers were rifled and hung out of their seats.

  ‘Domna! What in Aether happened here?’

  Citrine forced herself to look closely at the aged solicitor. Florian had not died a peaceful death, that much was obvious from the grimace of horror frozen on his face. His eyes were wide, fixed in a horrified stare, the whites bloodshot; his mouth was open in a silent scream. The front of his smoking jacket was stained with blood that had run from a deep wound in his chest.

  With shaking hands Citrine closed his eyelids. She spotted a small white fleck between his collar and neck and picked it out; it was a broken fingernail. Florian’s nails were short and evenly filed; could it belong to the murderer, broken off in the struggle? The thought disgusted her. She looked closely at the old man’s neck. Certainly there were scratches on it, one deep bloodied tear and bruising. Citrine put the nail in her locket, carefully concealing it behind the tiny Depiction of her father. There was little more she could do.

  Moments later Citrine was pedalating away. Her mind was working furiously. Was it a coincidence that Florian had died so soon after the row with Edgar? She shook the suspicion from her mind. Edgar might be cruel and selfish, but he was the only family she had left. She looked out for an Urban Guardsman, but where were they when you needed them? Probably all down at the Tar Pit. It wasn’t unknown during the festival for some overenthusiastic revellers to get themselves into trouble on the tar-clagged shore. So she headed for home. Much as it galled her, she would have to tell Edgar what had happened.

  Back at the Capodel Townhouse, her Trikuklos safely stowed, Citrine looked for her cousin, but he was nowhere to be found. She hurried upstairs; he was not in his room so she went to her own. As soon as she stepped inside she noticed how cold it was. The French windows were wide open.

  Did I not close them? she wondered, and then her heart jumped violently in her chest; there was someone on the balcony. She looked around frantically for something with which to defend herself. A black pluvitectum was leaning against the wall so she grabbed it. She saw two hands part the flapping curtains and she raised the pluvitectum above her head, ready to fend off the intruder.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Edgar, disengaging himself from the curtains. ‘What’s that for? Expecting rain indoors?’

  Citrine lowered the makeshift weapon. ‘Domna, you gave me a shock!’ she exclaimed. She didn’t even bother to ask what he was doing in her room. ‘I have to talk to you; something terrible has happened. Florian is dead!’

  Edgar closed the French windows very deliberately behind him. Small spots of red began to burn on his cheeks. ‘Dead? How do you know?’

  ‘I found him in his office tonight.’

  ‘You’ve been to his office?
But it’s the middle of Nox!’ Edgar couldn’t hide his anger. The muscles in his cheeks were clenching and unclenching.

  ‘I think it was a robbery. It hadn’t long happened. Florian was still . . . warm.’

  ‘You need a drink,’ said Edgar, suddenly sounding concerned. ‘I took the liberty of bringing up a tray. Brandy is good for a shock.’

  Citrine saw then the silver tray on the dressing table and the decanter and two cut-crystal tumblers. Edgar turned his back to her and she heard the chink of the stopper. He faced her again and handed her one of the glasses. Aware all the time of his eyes fixed on her, she sipped at the golden liquid. It burned and caused her to cough, but soon it began to warm her insides right down to the bottom of her stomach. She took another, longer, draught. It was sweeter than she had thought it would be.

  Edgar appeared to have composed himself somewhat. ‘Have you told anyone of this? An Urban Guardsman perhaps?’

  ‘No, but shouldn’t we report this now?’

  Edgar brought his own glass to his mouth and allowed it to linger on his lips. Unconsciously Citrine mimicked him and took another drink. It was making her feel pleasantly warm inside, and a little light-headed.

  ‘You were wrong to go out so late,’ said Edgar. ‘And on your own. Degringolade is a dangerous place, especially for a Capodel. Look what happened to your father.’

  Citrine put her hand to her head. She felt a little nauseous and was finding it difficult to concentrate. Edgar was watching her, his head cocked to one side. He looked amused. Later she remembered thinking that it was an odd expression under the circumstances.