The Black Book of Secrets Part 2

*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.

*h.e.l.lo again,' she said softly. It was Polly, Jeremiah's maid.

*h.e.l.lo,' 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 s.h.i.+ver 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, s.h.i.+fting 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 gra.s.s 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 p.a.w.nbroker. 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 a.s.sistant,' said Joe smoothly, pulling him forward.

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

*a.s.sistant? You pay an a.s.sistant? You p.a.w.nbrokers 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 s.h.i.+ngle 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 fl.u.s.tered, 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 pa.s.sing gentleman. Imagine the poor fellow's surprise as his head was bared, leaving him open not only to embarra.s.sment 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 gla.s.sy eyes, they saw not a son and heir but a convenient 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 s.h.i.+llings 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.

I s.h.i.+vered when I recalled the desperate chase of the previous night. I could still feel Pa's hand on my shoulder and Ma's screeching voice rang in my head. And then there was Barton Gumbroot's glinting instrument of torture. I couldn't bear to think of it. How strange that I was so far away from it all now.

Joe was still snoring so I took the opportunity to examine the goods in the shop window. The jewellery was bright and pretty, the hurricane lamp was polished and looked in working order. The timepieces were wound and ticking. Without a second thought I put two in my pocket, but almost immediately a sharp tap on the window made me jump. Polly was right outside. She waved and I wondered how long she had been there watching me. I went out to see her. The snow was packed down where the crowd had been earlier and she stood carefully on its icy surface.

*It's quiet today,' I said.

*Same as usual,' she replied.

It was mid-morning and my ears listened out for the clas.h.i.+ng cries of street sellers shouting their wares, the travelling musicians with their fiddles, the ballad singers, the clatter of cattle hooves on the cobbles on the way to the slaughterhouse, the hissing of the knife grinder's wheel, the rows and fights that broke out on every street corner. But this was not the City and Pagus Parvus was almost silent. I heard a laugh or two and the blacksmith's hammer but little else.

*Do you want to come in?'

*Can I see the frog?' she asked.

The frog was watching us when we went in. She really was a marvellous creature, her skin bright and glistening like a damp rock. There was no sound from the back room so I carefully lifted the lid and reached into the tank. The frog seemed a little agitated as I tried to coax her with a bug and she retreated to the far corner.

*Are you sure you should?' asked Polly nervously.

*Why shouldn'ta"'

*Don't touch the frog,' barked a voice behind me and I jumped back immediately. Joe was practically next to me and I hadn't heard a sound. An icy blast came in from the open door before Polly slammed it shut on her way out.

*I only wanted to showa"'

Joe came forward and replaced the lid, pus.h.i.+ng it down firmly. *You mustn't touch her,' he said sternly. *Until you gain her trust she only allows me to handle her. Do you understand?'

I nodded and the awkward silence was broken by the sound of the door again and the hesitant enquiry of our first customer, an elderly lady wearing a monocle in her left eye. She frowned unevenly to keep it in place.

*Mr Zabbidou? I have an item to pledge.'

Joe smiled broadly.

*A lovely piece,' he said. *Look, Ludlow, a chamber pot.'

Chapter Eleven.

A Midnight Visitor *Wake up,' hissed Joe, shaking Ludlow's arm. *He's here.' Ludlow sat up slowly and listened as the church bell struck midnight. He s.h.i.+vered. The fire had died down and he could see his breath. Joe put a small log on the glowing embers and lit the lamp. He placed two gla.s.ses on the mantelpiece along with a dark brown bottle and then he went to the table and laid his black book in front of the chair.

*Sit here,' said Joe to Ludlow. *Stay very quiet and when I give you a sign, write down everything you hear in the book. I've marked the page.'

Ludlow shook off his doziness and sat at the table. He picked up the book and examined it. It was old, but well kept, thick and just too weighty to hold in one hand. On the leather cover in gold leaf were the words *Verba Volant Scripta Manent'.

In the bottom right hand corner were the initials *JZ' in large decorative gold lettering. A piece of red ribbon marked the new page and a quill lay waiting in the crease. The white pages seemed to glow in the half-light and Ludlow couldn't help but run his fingers over their smooth surface. He quickly flicked through the preceding pages; they were written with a heavy hand and crackled when he touched them. Ludlow had not been told not to pry, but he had the distinct feeling that Joe would disapprove if he did. Quietly he put the black book back down as he found it, open on the clean page.

Outside the p.a.w.nshop Obadiah Strang stood on the pavement wringing his gnarled hands. He wanted to knock but he was afraid. Perhaps the dead didn't scare him, but sometimes the living did. Losing his nerve, he turned around and was about to retreat down the hill when the door opened behind him.

*Obadiah, my dear chap,' said Joe warmly, stepping into the street and taking the man by the arm, *I've been expecting you.'

Once more, under Joe's penetrating gaze, all resistance deserted Obadiah and he allowed himself to be led into the back room and placed gently on the chair by the fire. Ludlow sat without moving, a little nervous, watching everything closely. Obadiah pushed his knuckles into the soft arm of the chair and Ludlow winced as they cracked loudly.

*Will you have a drink with me?' asked Joe. *Something special?'

Obadiah grunted and Joe poured two drinks from the bottle, handing one to Obadiah. He took his own and sat down opposite the gravedigger.

*Good health,' he toasted.

Obadiah took a tentative sip from his gla.s.s, and then another longer one. Spirits were not his usual tipple and he'd never tasted one of this calibre. He savoured the sensation of warmth as the alcohol ran down the back of his throat. Feeling his knotted shoulders relaxing, he leaned back into the chair.

*Why am I here?' he asked. This wasn't what he planned to say, but it was what came out.

*Because you need help,' replied Joe.

*And you can help me?'

Joe nodded and leaned over. *When I look at you, Obadiah, I see a man who has a secret. A secret that is such a burden it threatens to engulf you. It keeps you awake at night and gnaws at your guts every day.' He leaned even closer. *It doesn't have to be like that.'

Obadiah's eyes were s.h.i.+ning. A small tear squeezed from the corner of one and ran down the lines that scored his cheek.

*What can I do?' he whispered desperately.

Joe's voice was soothing and full of promise. *p.a.w.n your secret and free yourself of its terrible burden.'

*p.a.w.n it?' Obadiah was a little bemused from the drink, and from Joe's eyes and his soft voice. His head felt as if it was slowly sinking underwater.

*You mean you will buy my secret? But why?'

*It's my business,' said Joe. *I am a p.a.w.nbroker.'

Obadiah shook his head slowly and his brow creased with confusion. *But if I p.a.w.n it then must I claim it back? If I don't, you will have the right to sell it. And if you sell it, then it is no longer a secret.' Obadiah liked to make life easy by thinking in a simple and logical fas.h.i.+on.

*Ah,' exclaimed Joe. *I think you will find my terms quite agreeable. If you wish to reclaim your secret, you pay what you took plus a little extra. If not, I will keep the secret for you for as long as you want, a lifetime if that is your wish. In fact, if you never reclaim it, I will hold it until you are in the grave and beyond, and then I doubt you would care so much.'

*Well I s'pose that sounds fair, Mr Zabbidou.'

Joe smiled. *Let us get started. I am anxious to set a mind at ease.'

He nodded discreetly to Ludlow, who realized this was his cue. With a shaking hand he raised the quill and dipped it in the ink. He held the quill poised over the pristine page.

*And you swear you won't tell?' asked Obadiah, quivering.

Joe shook his head solemnly. *Never,' he said. *On my life.'

*Then hear this and maybe you can help. G.o.d knows, no one else can.'

For the next hour the only sound in the room was Obadiah's trembling voice and the soft scratching of a nib on paper.

Ludlow's work had begun.

Chapter Twelve.

Extract from The Black Book of Secrets The Gravedigger's Confession My name is Obadiah Strang and I have a terrible secret. It haunts my every waking hour, and at night when I finally manage to sleep it takes over my dreams.