The Curse of Salamander Street (9 page)

‘Then we must meet him,’ Crane said, wiping the dust from his hands and slipping on his frock coat. ‘I have always wished for an uncle, especially one who is jovial! Perhaps he will take me under his wing, as he has you, and I too may prosper. The Salamander Inn shall be visited with haste and we all shall eat merrily.’

Thomas slapped his hands against his chest and turned to Kate as if he wanted to push her from the house and into the street. He grinned at the thought of food, as his stomach rolled over for yet another time. He was sure that in the distance he could hear the chiming of a church clock.

Kate held her place, unwilling to move. It was as if she wanted to speak, to hold Pallium in conversation for a moment longer. Her eyes glanced quickly from Crane to Pallium and then to Thomas, betraying her agitation.

‘Mister Pallium,’ she said, her voice croaking with indecision. ‘There’s a picture in my room – where did it come from?’ She asked the question quickly, wanting to rid her lips of the words before she could think of their consequences.

Pallium nodded his head slowly back and forth as if he mulled the question in his mind like a morsel of chocolate. He smiled, then frowned, his forehead wrinkled like the eyelid of a tortoise. He looked to Crane as he began to speak like an excited child.

‘Wonderful picture, Galphus bought it for me and as soon as I saw her face I fell in love. Never was there one so pretty, but beauty like that comes at a great price.’ Pallium stopped for a moment and thought, his eyes withering within their frames. ‘Not a question I would have expected. If you had asked about the magichord I could understand, for it is a fine piano, but the picture?’

‘It was that she looked so young … And the bars across the frame. I have never seen the likes before.’ Kate stumbled in her answering.

‘Nor will you again. The portrait is unique. An ageless painting of that which will age no more.’

‘Did you know the girl?’ Kate asked.

‘Not for even a minute of a day. Galphus had the picture delivered. She looked so lost and I wanted to give her a home. I find her entertaining.’

‘And I find my stomach screaming to my wits,’ Crane interrupted. ‘Kate loves to talk, Mister Pallium. It is the finest thing she does.’

T
HE baying of the coach hounds quickly ceased as the wheels of the heavy carriage began to turn slowly through the rutted mud that led from the inn to the open road. The light of the morning grew brighter but was shielded from the earth by thick, dark clouds that glimmered just brighter than dusk. The coach trundled on, gathering speed as the lamps flickered.

Beadle pulled the blanket about him and wrapped the oilskin around his shoulders. The first shards of hail began to fall like teeth of ice, clattering upon the stacked baggage that was strapped to the roof. Raphah and Beadle were perched high above the ground in their one-guinea seats outside the coach, exposed to the driving hail that began to tear at their skin. Together, they swayed on a thin running board above the ground that whisked ever quicker beneath their dangling feet. To the front the driver cracked the whip above the horses’ heads and the bugler called the hounds to his side. The beasts ran in and out of the spinning wheels, yelping with discontent; some dashed ahead, snapping at the horses legs’ and splattering through the deep puddles of the narrow road.

Beadle could feel a tingle of excitement growing within as the carriage sped onwards. His heart leapt in his chest and he smiled, rubbing his hands. Faster and faster they went, gaining speed with each yard. The hail beat down as the squall from the Fell burst like a dam above them. All was glistening white as hounds wailed and cried, struck by stones of ice, and the horses snorted steaming breath as they lathered on. Relentlessly the coach went on in the dark of morning, buffeted this way and that as it pounded the road. The storm broke harder. Wind whipped the horses with icy fingers that stripped the dying leaves from even deader branches.

Beadle gasped as the breath was taken from him. He pulled the oilskin to cover his face and keep off the gale. Without a word, he and Raphah slipped from their fragile seat to the lee of the cases and huddled together, shaken by the coach.

‘Do you think
he
will follow?’ Beadle asked Raphah as they were beaten against the baggage and twisted in the oilskin by the rocking of the carriage. ‘I keep thinking I’ve got away. That now I’m on the coach to Peveril, I am free. With every yard of every mile, another step away from Demurral.’ He tried to smile, but the happiness of his escape suddenly faded. An uncertain thought of the pursuer began to grow uneasily in his mind. ‘Never thought I’d face him again, never. Never thought I’d ever, ever see you – and look at us now.’

Raphah didn’t speak. He pulled the oilskin over their heads and braced himself for the journey. Above the sound of the rumbling wheels and the snorting horses, he could hear the heated conversation through the leather hatch by his feet. Bragg shouted with moans of complaint with every stone and rut that jolted him from his seat.

Within the darkness of the carriage the five passengers sat in a haze of thick smoke. In the deepest, darkest corner, snuggled in the leather seat and wrapped in a velvet scarf, was a young
man. In his hand he held a large wooden pipe, filled to the brim with roasting tobacco. It flumed from the rim and rolled about the carriage as if heavier than the air.

The man listened to Bragg’s moans and complaints as with each rut he was tossed to the side and held his guts as if they were to spill from his pants.

The man never spoke, but puffed on his pipe, his wide, owllike eyes surveying each person. A weasel-faced man called Mister Shrume picked and plucked thick hairs from his nose one by one. Sat to his right was Barghast. Bragg filled the half of the seat opposite with his fat rump. By his side and pressed into the corner so she could not move was Lady Tanville. Her face was lit by a tallow lamp that jarred back and forth with each roll of the carriage.

‘Do you never stop complaining?’ Barghast quizzed Bragg as he moaned yet again and contorted his face even further.

‘If only they would slow down and transport us in sedation,’ he complained bitterly.

‘Then we would never get to Peveril and never get to London,’ Lady Tanville said quickly.

‘I find it delightful, quite delightful,’ said the young man as he slurped upon the pipe and mopped his dribbling chin. ‘It’s as if we are at sea and tossed upon a storm.’

‘If I had wanted to be at sea then I would have travelled by ship and not by coach,’ spluttered Bragg as he coughed. ‘Do you seek the pleasures of London too?’

‘I travel on business and that business takes me to many places,’ the man said as he tapped the pipe upon his boot then stomped on the burning embers with his foot. From a neat leather bag he filled the bowl with what looked like mouldy dried grain mixed with strings of black seaweed. Without consideration, he leant across the carriage, opened the lamp and lit the brew.

‘What is that business, Mister …?’ Lady Tanville asked.

‘Ergott, Vitus Ergott. I am a dowser.’

Barghast leaned forward and smiled. ‘Interesting,’ he said above the rattle of the wheels. ‘And for what do you search?’

‘Whatever my wand and I are paid to enquire for. Some would have us look for gold, others water and still more a precious item they have lost. All I need is my clear seeing and diving wand. I express the intention in my mind and allow the spirits to take me to that place. Simple, really, and quite delightful.’

‘Do you always find what you seek?’ Lady Tanville asked.

‘Is that a request for my services?’ Ergott replied with a raised eyebrow and a smile as he puffed on his pipe through withered lips.

Lady Tanville didn’t speak, but ruffled herself within her coat as she put a hand to her face.

‘Peradventure, Mister Ergott,’ Barghast said as he leant across Shrume and tapped the man on the arm. ‘Does your divination take you to the city?’

‘Delightfully, yes. All paid for and a first-class seat. Apparently I am highly recommended.’

‘And will you tell us of your quest or does it have to be a secret?’ Tanville asked as she smiled at him.

‘I search for lost children. Taken without consent and sold into slavery. With my wand I will find them, for that is sure. My
employer
has given me an element of each child and therefore I know I will be drawn to them.’ Ergott spoke in a matter-of-fact way as he tapped the side of his pipe and looked at Barghast and then to Lady Tanville. The coach fell silent and even Bragg stopped his moaning as all the inhabitants thought on what he had said.

‘And when you find them?’ Tanville asked.

‘They will be liberated from their captor and he will be put before the Crown.’

‘You speak as if you know who has them,’ Barghast said.

‘That is my only clue. I only know the name of the man who I search for. A man so vile and sinister that I would not mention his name in such company. When I took on the adventure I sealed myself never to speak his name until he was fettered and being dragged to Tyburn.’ The look on Ergott’s face changed suddenly as if the quarrelsomeness of his thoughts marred his youthfulness.

‘I have met many wicked men, Mister Ergott. Perhaps I could help you in your task?’ Barghast asked, reclining against the leather seat as the coach rocked violently.

‘Delightful, and kind. But I work alone. In all my investigations I find it better to keep close counsel. I even try to hide the conclusions from my own thoughts as there are creatures that can listen to whispering wits as if they were shouted from the rooftops.’

‘How childish,’ Lady Tanville said, her voice cold.

‘Far from it. Who is to say that all we have not said has been eavesdropped by some creature right now,’ Ergott said.

‘With the noise of this troublesome carriage they would be driven deaf, Ergott,’ Bragg replied.

‘In my dowsing I have seen many things. I once heard of a man who could transform himself into a dog. It could even be you, Mister Bragg.’ Egrott pointed his pipe towards the fat man and smiled.

‘Preposterous!’ Bragg squealed like a pig.

‘But possible,’ Ergott said, returning comfortably to his pipe as he pulled his velvet scarf about his neck and lifted the collar of his coat against his neck. ‘Tell me Bragg, what is it that takes you to London?’

‘I am a collector of fine art and ancient artefacts,’ Bragg replied.

‘And you, Barghast?’

‘I am just a traveller, always have been.’

They were the last words spoken within the carriage. It gathered even more speed as they travelled the toll road to Peveril. Within the hour the storm had given way and the clouds parted. The sun rose from behind the hills to the south and lit the long road that wound its way across the country. Each beast settled into its canter. The carriage trundled on and on. The hounds barked and gave chase.

Beadle peeked from beneath the oilskin where he had slept. From his pocket he took a boiled egg and cracked the shell. Breaking it in half, he shared it with Raphah as they sat upon the high bench and look towards the forthcoming hills that loomed in the distance.

In the midmorning they stopped at an inn and changed the horses. Raphah watched Barghast and Mister Ergott in deep conversation by an old yew tree. Bragg had stamped and complained as Shrume strutted up and down looking for fungi amongst the blades of sheep grass. For the rest of the day they travelled. Mile faded into mile, each one dull and giving nothing to the memory. By late afternoon the hills to the south loomed above them. With each passing hour they appeared to get no closer, but grew even higher.

‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Beadle shouted to the driver.

‘Three hours to Peveril,’ he shouted above the rattle of the carriage. ‘Two before we get to …’ The driver stopped as if he didn’t want to say the name of the place. The bugler elbowed him in the ribs and nodded his head to tell him to say no more.

‘To where?’ Beadle pressed.

‘To a place where we might need this,’ the bugler said, pulling the butt of a blunderbuss from its long leather sleeve and showing it to Beadle and Raphah. ‘The Galilee Rocks. Not a place to be as darkness falls. Full of lepers and madmen. They’ll attack the coach given half the chance.’

‘What about the Militia – won’t they protect us?’ asked Raphah.

The bugler laughed. ‘The Militia are more frightened than we are – see the madman and you’ll know why.’

‘See him?’ asked the driver without turning his face from the road. ‘You’ll hear him from three miles. Screams like a dying dog. Why do you think we run with hounds? Only thing that’ll keep him away.’

‘But he’s never stopped you?’ asked Beadle as he pulled the oilskin about him.

The driver laughed warily. ‘Some have gone to Galilee Rocks and never come back.’

‘Can’t you rush the horses through and out the other side?’ Raphah asked.

‘Only if you could fly. Imagine a hill that stands before the entrance of a deep valley. There you’ll find Galilee Rocks. The road takes you to Peveril but it twists down the side so steep that the brakes will hardly keep the carriage from rolling on. It’s as if a knife has cut the hill in two and sliced out the rock. Trouble is, we have to stop the carriage and all walk down the rise as we hand-brake the wheels. Far too dangerous to drive down with passengers. Too steep. That’s where we’ll take our chances.’ The driver tapped the large wooden hand-brake on his left.

‘And the madman?’ Beadle enquired nervously.

‘Will be somewhere waiting for us. Thinks he owns the place and doesn’t like visitors. Would take an extra day if we went by Casterton. So we face the madman and hope for the best.’ He laughed.

Beadle watched the sun as it tarried towards the west. He tried to count the hours as he watched the horizon. Raphah seemed unconcerned and slept quietly on, wrapped in his blanket.

The two hours passed slowly. In the journey they had
stopped only once. Beadle was cramped and stiff. His muscles ached and he wished he were in a warm bed having drunk three quarts of beer. He held the thought in his mind and tried to remember what it felt like to be drunk, but the cold wind took whatever warmth he got from his remembering.

There was no conversation from the carriage for Beadle to be distracted by. All he could hear were his own anxious thoughts as they raced through his mind. If he closed his eyes he could see the face of Demurral peering at him in the darkness. The wind that blew from the hills seemed to whisper to him to return, to go back and face his master.

Within the mile the carriage began to slow. About them the coach hounds grew anxious and grumbled to each other in low growls. The road twisted up the side of the hill. Far in the distance, Beadle could see Galilee Rocks for the first time. Strewn across the horizon were mounds of outcropped limestone. They had fallen year on year and littered the way with vast upturned boulders that gnarled from the earth like dragon’s teeth. In amongst the stones grazed a herd of thin pigs. They squealed upon the approach of the hounds and disappeared amongst the wizened trees that could barely grow from the ground in the face of the wind that sought to uproot them.

Raphah woke from his slumbering to the sound of Bragg shouting in discontent. ‘What a man thinks in his heart, so is he,’ Raphah said as the moaning from the carriage went on.