The Black Book of Secrets (10 page)

If Joe was a source of interest to the villagers, then equally
I was a source of interest to the younger members – namely
Polly and the Sourdoughs. I’d not had friends before and
where I came from, people’s only loyalty was to money. But
the Sourdough boys weren’t like that. They were good
company and made me laugh and I liked them. Except perhaps
for the oldest. I always had the feeling that I couldn’t
quite trust him. You never really knew what he was
thinking.

Polly, however, was less interested in Saluki and more
interested in stories from my past. ‘Tell me about the City,’
she urged. ‘I want to know everything.’

So I told her: about the dark, enclosed streets with the
houses so close together that the sun could never break
through; about the broken pavements littered with rotting
food, dead animals, dogs and putrefying rats; about the
pools of rancid water and the swarms of flies that hovered
in clouds above the surface. I told her about the people, sitting
in the gutter and begging for money to go into the
taverns, or lying drunk, thrown out of the same; and I told
her about the unbearable coldness of the winter, when
people and animals died and froze where they lay.

Through all of this flows the River Foedus, her slow-moving
waters thick as soup. Lord but she lives up to her
name; her unrelenting stench hangs over the City like a
shroud. She is not to be trusted. I have seen her shiver to
shrug off the ships tied at the piers, causing them to rock
violently from side to side, their creaking and groaning of
protest mingling with the frightened shouts of the oarsmen
and passengers on the small ferries crossing her broad back.
All fear her murky waters. Few are known to have survived
such a noxious dipping. And once she has them the Foedus
does not surrender her victims quickly. She drags them
under and sucks the life out of them, before disgorging
them days later bug-eyed and bloated with lethal gases,
ready to explode.

The Foedus splits the City in half and divides the people
in two. The rich live on her north bank, the poor on the
south. One bridge alone spans her back. Perhaps once it had
a name but now it is known simply as the bridge. It is lined
on either side with taverns and inns and hostels of the vilest
kind and in these dark and smoky dens of vice all men,
whether from the north or the south, are equal: they fight,
they gamble, they drink, they murder. I too have been in
the Nimble Finger Inn, the tavern so beloved of Jeremiah
Ratchet and Ma and Pa.

And in a city whose lifeblood is crime, there is also punishment
to stem its flow. It’s an ill wind that blows no good
and, although I hate to say it now, I made a good living then
out of the misdeeds of others, especially on a Wednesday:
hanging day at Gallows Corner.

A hanging was as good as a holiday. The crowds enjoyed
the spectacle almost as much as the poor fellow on the
gibbet detested it. The prisoner would arrive in the back of
a cart, having been taken from Irongate Prison and driven
down Melancholy Lane to the gallows. He would have been
in a sorry state when the journey began, but by the end he
was wretched. It was common for the onlookers to pelt the
cart with whatever came to hand as it passed: rotten fruit
and vegetables from the gutters, occasionally a dead cat. I
never once threw even a potato peeling at any of those poor
devils. Who was to say it wouldn’t be me next week?

The crowd cheered as the criminal was led up the steps
and the noose was placed around his (or as often as not, her)
neck. Now I turned away, not least because this was prime
pickpocketing time. When everyone stood fixated on the
ghastly scene unfolding before them I moved among them,
taking whatever I could get my hands on. I heard the trap
door open and the cross-beam creak as the weight fell. And
as the crowd roared I sneaked away before anyone noticed
that their purse was gone.

Polly lapped up every word. ‘One day I will go there,’
she said, her eyes shining. And no matter what I said I
couldn’t persuade her otherwise.

Although I told Polly many things I didn’t tell her about
Ma and Pa. I didn’t tell her how they robbed me and
whipped me or why I really left the City. And I never once
said what they had tried to do to me and how it came back
to me at night in my dreams. Always my father’s face looming
above mine and his hands around my neck, or were mine
around his?

I could never forgive Ma and Pa for what they did, but
I was also grateful to them. Pickpockets, regardless of their
age, were treated harshly by the courts. If Ma and Pa hadn’t
chased me from the City, I know sooner or later the
noose would have been around my neck and my lifeless
body would have been hanging from those gallows.

As the days wore on more and more villagers were
benefiting not only from Joe’s generous payments for their
pawned goods, but also from his midnight trade. Although
they didn’t talk about their good fortune, it was obvious
that something was afoot. Without a doubt Joe was the
breath of fresh air the village had needed for a long, long
time. The place seemed brighter somehow, as if the buildings
themselves had released a huge sigh and relaxed back
to allow the light in. One morning the whole street was
brought to a standstill when the clouds parted for a minute
or two and blue sky was seen in between.

‘It’s a miracle,’ declared Ruby Sourdough. Of course,
the clouds came over again and the blue sky was gone, but
it was enough to know that it did exist.

Whether this was a miracle or not, the one person in
the village who was actually qualified to make such a statement
was still in bed and missed the historic event.

The Reverend Stirling Oliphaunt.

For twenty years Stirling Oliphaunt had looked at himself
in the mirror every morning (usually not far off noon)
and congratulated himself on his posting to Pagus Parvus.
A man of his ilk couldn’t have asked for a better job – his
ilk being that of a lazy, slovenly boor whose purported
belief in higher powers furnished him with an easy living.
When he had arrived in the village two decades ago he had
stood at the gates to the church and cast a bushy-browed
fat-rimmed eye down the hill.

This is what I have been waiting for, he thought. That
hill must be forty degrees, if not more.

In those days the villagers were a little more inclined to
listen to the word of the Lord, so, much to Stirling’s disappointment,
for nearly eight months he was forced to preach
a sermon every Sunday. His distinct monotone and the
repetitive nature of his subject (the devil, the Dark Side,
hell, fire, brimstone and all related issues) ensured that he
addressed an ever-dwindling audience. Eventually, as was
his desire, it dwindled to none. Henceforth Stirling passed
his days restfully, enjoying fine wines and good food at the
church’s expense, and generally doing as he wished, which
was very little. He still thought of God. There had to be
one, for how else could a man be blessed with such good
fortune?

Now Stirling was more than a little disconcerted by the
events of the past few weeks. From his exalted position at
the top of the hill, he had not failed to notice the increase
in pedestrian traffic. At first he thought the villagers might
be coming to him, expecting a service of some kind, and he
breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that Joe Zabbidou
was the draw.

Stirling had grown used to a life of ease with little interruption
and certainly no demands from his flock. When
Jeremiah had approached him with the bodysnatching business
plan he saw no reason to stand in his way and he was
handsomely rewarded with gifts from Jeremiah’s wine
cellar. This might not strike you as characteristic of Jeremiah
until you consider that he drank most of his donations
when he came to see Stirling on Thursdays.

Stirling had seen Joe Zabbidou, and his young assistant,
that first morning in the graveyard, but he was not inclined
to formally welcome the new members of his congregation
.
Later Polly, who came up every day to cook and clean by
arrangement with Jeremiah, told him that the hat shop had
a new owner.

‘A hatter?’ asked the reverend.

‘No, a pawnbroker.’

‘A pawnbroker?’

Polly didn’t reply. Stirling had a tendency to turn statement
to question – it helped enormously when you didn’t
have any answers. He had developed the habit in a previous
parish where the locals were an inquisitive bunch who
enjoyed lively theological debate and were determined that
Stirling should enjoy it too.

‘A pawnbroker?’ he repeated. He considered briefly
how this might affect his position in the village and concluded
that it wouldn’t affect him at all. In fact, he didn’t
think Joe’s arrival would have much of an effect on anyone.
He was surprised, therefore, at the level of animosity Jeremiah
Ratchet felt towards the newcomer.

It was late afternoon and the reverend was dozing in a
chair when he was brought rapidly back to wakefulness by
a tremendous thumping at the door. Polly was there to open
it but was elbowed out of the way as Jeremiah strode past
her into the drawing room.

‘Jeremiah,’ said Stirling. ‘A pleasure, I’m sure. Is it
Thursday already?’

‘It’s Tuesday, but I have an important matter to discuss
with you.’

‘Is it about Obadiah and the bodies?’

‘Not Obadiah. That blasted pawnbroker.’

Stirling roused himself to an upright position.

‘Mr Sobbi– whatever his name is? Isn’t he a harmless
chap?’

‘Harmless!’ spluttered Jeremiah. ‘Harmless! The man
is the devil incarnate.’

Exhausted by his outburst, and the trip up the hill, Jeremiah
fell into the chair opposite the reverend. Polly handed
him a drink, topped up Stirling’s and then made herself
scarce. It did not do to stay in the same room as that pair.
She much preferred to listen from outside the door.

Jeremiah finished his glass in one gulp. He reached over
to the table and took the decanter and set it on the hearth
beside him.

‘Stirling,’ he announced, ‘that pawnbroker is very bad
for business. In particular, my business. He has filled his
window with the greatest collection of junk you have ever
seen and, not only that, he has paid for it.’

‘How is this a problem?’ Stirling was trying to sound
interested but he had the beginnings of a headache and was
overcome by the urge to yawn.

‘His payments are so wildly out of keeping with the true
value of the pledges that I fear soon
all
the villagers will be
able to pay off their debts.’

‘I see,’ said Stirling.

‘And if people aren’t in debt to me how then do I make
money?’ continued Jeremiah and to fully emphasize his
point he leaned over and gave Stirling a poke with his fat
forefinger. ‘You have got to do something. My livelihood
depends on it.’

Now Stirling was awake. ‘Me? Do something? What can
I do?’

‘You must convince those peasants that Joe Zabbidou is
the devil’s spawn.’

‘The devil’s pawn? But is this true?’ Stirling had never
before thought he might have to deal with the devil’s
pawn.

‘Pawn, spawn,’ said Jeremiah with intense irritation.
‘What’s the truth got to do with it? This is business. They
are to have no further doings with him upon pain of death.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Stirling cautiously.

‘Just do it,’ snapped Jeremiah.

‘Good people of Pagus Parvus,’ began Stirling, ‘I beseech
of you to listen to me.’

Beseech of? he thought in a sudden panic. Is that right?
No matter, it would do. There was no one here an expert
in the complexities of the English language. His voice quavered
audibly and his hands shook. He wished he had taken
a second shot of whisky to steady his nerves. It had been
years since he had addressed a crowd and certainly never in
such uncomfortable surroundings. It was snowing lightly
and he was standing on a box in the middle of the main
street, just north of Jeremiah’s house. He had thought it a
good spot. He cleared his throat and raised his voice.

‘For I tell you now, I have been visited by an angel in the
night.’

Until this point his audience had consisted of three mortals,
namely the Sourdough boys armed and ready with
snowballs. Everyone else, once they had established who he
was, had walked around him, so much so that his podium
was already circled by a ring of footprints in the trampled-down
snow. It was only when he said the word ‘angel’ that
people stopped to listen. These heavenly creatures appealed
greatly to their starved imaginations. Soon there was a small
crowd gathered before him, their red-nosed faces looking
up at him expectantly.

‘An angel?’ enquired one.

‘Yes, an angel.’

‘You sure about that, Stirling?’ shouted Horatio. ‘Maybe
it was a visitation from the bottle. Too much port can have
that effect.’

The reverend reddened and carried on. ‘A great angel
came from the clouds and roused me from my bed.’

‘What did this angel say?’ mocked Horatio, making no
attempt to disguise his disbelief.

‘He said, “Stirling, you must tell the people of Pagus
Parvus to beware, for the devil has come among you and he
is tricking you with his wiles and his filthy lucre.”’

‘Wiles and filthy lucre?’ laughed Elias Sourdough.
‘What language does he speak? Is this angel from a foreign
country?’

‘Money,’ said Stirling impatiently. ‘The devil is among
us and luring us with his money.’

‘There’s only one devil in this town and we don’t see his
money,’ said Job Wright, the blacksmith, and he pointed in
the direction of Jeremiah’s house. At the same moment the
upstairs curtain twitched and Stirling wondered if perhaps
he should have gone a little further up the hill.

‘Not Mr Ratchet,’ he hissed, then raised his voice, ‘but
Joe Zabbidou, the Devil’s Pawnbroker.’

He said this with great feeling, at the same time shaking
his clenched fist at the sky. There were gasps all round and
Stirling realized that finally he had their full attention.
Unwilling to lose this advantage he hurried along.

‘Joe Zabbidou has come to us without warning, appearing
from nowhere in the night, to entice you all into his
shop with his fancy goods.’

Ludlow, who was watching all this from Horatio’s
doorway, raised his eyebrow. ‘Fancy goods? A chipped
chamber pot. Hardly.’

‘What does he intend to do with us?’ asked Lily Weaver.

‘What does he intend to do with us?’ repeated Stirling
out of habit.

He had not anticipated this question when he had been
preparing his speech. He had not thought that he might be
challenged. He couldn’t recall such a thing when he was in
church; granted most people were asleep then.

The silence was deafening.

‘Erm, well, let me see, ah yes, once he has lured you he
will take you over to his side, the Dark Side.’

Unfortunately for Stirling, this was where he lost his
tenuous hold on the audience. Pagus Parvians did not consider
the Dark Side in any way threatening. They had not
forgotten those long Sunday sermons from years ago when
the reverend bored them half to death droning on about the
very same subject. They began to shuffle their feet and talk
to their neighbour or walk away. Desperately Stirling tried
to recapture the moment. Jeremiah had promised him a
case of the best port.

‘If you go over to the Dark Side, then you will be lost
forever and will burn in the fires of hell.’

‘At least we’d be warm,’ shouted Obadiah, and the
crowd laughed.

‘Do not jest about the devil,’ warned Stirling, in a final
attempt to hold them. ‘You never know when he is
listening.’

‘Hang about, Reverend,’ said Ruby Sourdough. ‘Here
comes the beast himself. Why don’t we ask him about this
Dark Side?’

Joe was indeed coming down the street at his usual
jaunty pace. He had the grip of a mountain goat. Right now
one or two of the villagers were wondering whether his
shoes did in fact conceal those telltale cloven feet.

‘Morning all,’ he called and smiled. ‘Did I hear someone
mention my name?’

Although Stirling was not being taken seriously, it did
seem to some a rather curious coincidence that Joe had
turned up at this particular moment.

‘’Ere, listen to this, Mr Zabbidoof,’ said the youngest
Sourdough, at the front of the crowd. ‘Stirling says yore the
devil come ’ere to burn us all in ’ell.’

Stirling protested immediately. It had never been his
intention to actually confront Beelzebub, merely to slander
him in his absence. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he protested hurriedly.
‘It is a sin to tell a lie, lad.’

‘Yes ’e did,’ said Elias Sourdough to Joe. ‘’E said you
were gonna loor us wiv your tricks and wiles.’

Joe smiled. ‘I have no tricks. You know what I am, a
pawnbroker. Have I ever pretended or acted otherwise? As
for wiles, you are welcome to come and look for them. Perhaps
they are in the window?’

At that everyone burst into raucous laughter. Stirling
scowled, picked up his box and slunk away.