The Black Book of Secrets (4 page)

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).

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 benefit 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.

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.