‘One day you will have a cloak such as this, Ludlow,’ he had said, ‘but it must be earned. Jocastar wool does not come cheap.’
Joe had not left him lacking. In the place of the cloak he had given Ludlow a large cushion stuffed with straw and two rough, but clean-smelling blankets. Every night Ludlow curled up on the cushion and covered himself right up to his ears with the blankets.
But sleep did not come easy and when he did sleep his vivid dreams caused him to twitch and mutter. More often than not he woke in a sweat after some strange dream about one of the villagers. Jeremiah, smelling so badly that Ludlow would wrinkle his nose as he slept; Obadiah, always in a hole, always digging; Horatio mixing the ingredients for one of his vile pies. The confessions of the Pagus Parvians would haunt him until the dream would turn into a nightmare. The villagers would recede into a sort of fog and his father’s face would suddenly appear above him. His hands would reach out of the mist and tighten around Ludlow’s neck until everything went black. Then he would wake up violently and leave his bed to look out of the window down the street until he was driven back by the cold.
Every morning Joe would ask, ‘How did you sleep?’ and every morning Ludlow gave the same reply, ‘Well, very well indeed.’ Joe would raise a sceptical eyebrow but he never said more.
One morning, after a particularly bad night, when Ludlow had been shaken awake five times by the hands throttling him, Joe announced he was to be away for a few days.
‘You needn’t open the shop if you prefer,’ he said. ‘The weather feels quite stormy. I doubt there’d be much custom.’
Ludlow, although he wanted to show willing, protested only feebly. He liked the thought of having the place to himself for a while.
‘When will you be back?’ he asked as Joe stepped out into the street.
‘When my business is done.’
Ludlow could sense there was little point pursuing the matter and he watched as his employer limped off up the hill past the graveyard. Joe was right. The skies were ominously dark today and the cobbles were buried under a fresh snowfall. There was little other life in the street, but it was only five o’clock in the morning. As soon as Joe was out of sight Ludlow closed the door and promptly jumped on to Joe’s bed and went back to sleep.
When he woke some hours later he thought for a moment that he had slept right through the day and into the night. In fact, it was mid-afternoon, but it was uncommonly dark and cold. Outside a screaming wind buffeted the walls and windows; inside snow had fallen down the chimney and was gathering on the hearth. The fire had practically gone out and Ludlow knew that he must revive it. When he had finally brought it back to life and had a kettle hanging over the flame he went through to the shop and stood at the door. His view of the street was somewhat obscured for the village was in the grip of a snowstorm the like of which he had never seen before. The three golden orbs were blowing wildly in the wind and snow was piling up in every corner and doorway. He could see no more than a few feet down the street.
What about Joe? he thought. He could only hope he had found shelter before the storm. Then a flash of red in the white flurries caught his eye. Someone was outside.
‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Ludlow. ‘It’s Polly.’ He opened the door and it was snatched out of his hand by the wind. Huge flakes stung his face and he was half blinded by the driving snow.
‘Polly!’ he shouted. ‘Polly!’
Polly was almost close enough to touch but she couldn’t hear him over the whine of the wind. Ludlow didn’t stop to think and he stepped out into the full force of the storm. He grabbed Polly by the arm and pulled her towards him. Her white face lit up under her hood and together the two of them leaned into the wind and collapsed inside the shop. The door slammed shut behind them.
‘What were you doing out there?’ gasped Ludlow.
Polly answered in short breathless gasps. ‘I was – coming back – from Stirling Oliphaunt’s.’ She was shivering violently, her nose bright red with the cold. ‘He doesn’t care – about the weather. He still wants me to clean for him.’
Ludlow shook his head in disbelief. ‘You could die out there. You’re freezing. Come through and have some soup. The fire’s lit. You can stay until the weather clears.’
Polly hesitated. She had only been behind the counter once, the night when she confessed to various petty crimes, mainly relating to Jeremiah Ratchet and her pilfering of small knick-knacks from his house. Although she felt that she deserved them, and she needed the money, equally she had felt the need to confess.
‘Where is he?’ she asked, looking around nervously. Polly couldn’t help feeling a little scared of Joe Zabbidou and she was always afraid what she might say if he looked at her with his cool grey eyes.
Ludlow shook his head. ‘He’s away. I’m in charge.’
Polly relaxed a little and followed Ludlow through to the fire, where she stood close enough to be singed but not quite close enough to catch alight. ‘Mr Ratchet would kill me if he knew I was in here with you.’ She laughed. ‘He don’t mind me spying for him, but he said not to fratter– fratter-something with the two of you.’
‘Fraternize?’ asked Ludlow.
‘That’s the word.’
‘What do you mean spying?’ interrupted Ludlow. ‘So is that why you come?’
‘Of course not,’ said Polly indignantly. ‘But it gives me a good excuse. Your Mr Zabbidou has Mr Ratchet tearing his hair out. Jeremiah wants so badly to know what goes on up here that he’s told me to look in the window every day and tell him what I see.’
‘And what do you see?’ asked Ludlow stiffly.
‘Junk,’ she replied.
‘And?’
She saw the look on Ludlow’s face and added quickly, ‘I don’t tell him nothing else. Not even about the book.’
‘Maybe Jeremiah should come up one night,’ said Ludlow.
‘Ooh, yes, I bet he has a secret or two.’ Polly moved a little away from the fire and looked directly at Ludlow. ‘Do you?’
Ludlow frowned. ‘Me? No. What do you mean?’
‘Don’t get your pants in a pickle,’ Polly teased. ‘I was only asking. I suppose you don’t need to sell your secrets, with what Joe pays you.’
‘Hmm,’ said Ludlow, thinking of a way to change the subject.
‘I told a lie or two when I was up here,’ said Polly suddenly. ‘When Joe said he paid for secrets, I reckoned the worser the secret was, the more money he’d give me.’ Quickly she put her hand to her mouth and shook her head, annoyed with herself. ‘I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t want you to think badly of me.’ Then she laughed. ‘Stop looking at me like that, it makes my tongue loose!’
She looked around again, more slowly this time. ‘So, where is it then?’
‘What?’ Ludlow wished Polly would stop asking him so many questions.
‘The book of secrets. The one you write in.’
‘It’s hidden,’ he said quickly, but his eyes flicked to Joe’s bed before he could help himself. Polly saw and in an instant dived for it. Ludlow lurched towards her but he was too slow. Polly stuck her hand under the mattress and grabbed the Black Book. She pulled it out, jumped on to the bed and held it out of Ludlow’s reach.
‘Let’s have a look then,’ she said mischievously, waving it above her head. ‘There must be some interesting tales in here.’
‘No,’ said Ludlow desperately, ‘it’s forbidden. Joe says so.’
Polly laughed. ‘Joe’s not here, in case you hadn’t noticed. What harm would it do?’
‘No,’ said Ludlow, but with less conviction. After all, it wasn’t as if Polly was suggesting something he hadn’t already thought of.
‘I promised Joe,’ he said weakly.
‘Joe wouldn’t know,’ said Polly slowly. ‘And you must have heard most of these secrets already.’
‘Only the ones from Pagus Parvus.’
‘Then let’s look at the others, from before Pagus Parvus, in a place
where we don’t know anyone. How could that be wrong?’
Ludlow could see how it made sense, probably because he wanted it to. He sat on the bed feeling a crippling twinge of guilt, but ignored it. This was the first time he had been left alone with the Black Book of Secrets and already he was about to betray Joe. But if he was honest with himself he wanted to read the stories as much as Polly did.
‘I suppose we could look at the beginning.’
Polly nodded eagerly. ‘The very first story, the oldest.’
‘All right,’ said Ludlow firmly. ‘But no more.’
‘Of course,’ said Polly. ‘Here you are then,’ she said, handing Ludlow the book.
‘I thought you wanted to do it,’ said Ludlow, putting his hands behind his back as if by not actually touching the book he wouldn’t be part of the betrayal.
‘But I can’t read, stupid,’ said Polly matter-of-factly. ‘We don’t all have your fine education.’
Ludlow sighed and, unable to hold off any longer, he took the heavy book from Polly’s hands. Feeling slightly sick, he slowly opened the cover, smoothed down the very first page and began.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Extract from
The Black Book of Secrets
The Coffin Maker’s Confession
My name is Septimus Stern and I have an odious secret. It has fol– lowed me for nearly twenty years. Wherever I go I know it is there, like a shadow, waiting to pounce on me when I least expect it, to torture me for another night, to make me hate myself even more than I do already.
I am a prisoner of my own mind and you, Mr Zabbidou, are my last hope of release.
I am a coffin maker by trade, and a fine one at that. Over the years my reputation spread far and wide across the country and I was never short of work. It might seem strange to you that I make my living from the misery of others, but I am not a sentimental man, Mr Zabbidou. I believe I provide a service to those in need, regard– less of the circumstances, and I earn my reward.
Very early one morning, in late autumn, a stranger came into my workshop. He claimed to be a physician and insisted that I call him Dr Sturgeon.
‘A patient of mine has just died,’ he said mournfully, ‘and I need a coffin.’
He seemed a little nervous, but that was not unusual. I said that was the business I was in and I was sure I could help him out.
‘I have been assured you are a fine coffin maker,’ he continued. ‘I want you to do something special for me.’
Again, I thought nothing of this request. I presumed he meant that I should line the box in a luxurious material, silk perhaps, or maybe use a more expensive wood. Sometimes I was asked to fit gold or silver handles and plates. All this I had done before and I told him so, but he shook his head.
‘No, that is not what I want. You see, you may recall the case recently where a young man was buried while still alive. I hasten to say it was not I who pronounced him dead. You can imagine the dis– tress this caused the family when they subsequently discovered that he had attempted to break free from the coffin and was unable.’
I said to Dr Sturgeon that indeed I did recall the case in question for I had provided the coffin. The dead man had been placed in the family tomb and a month later, following the death of another family member, they opened the tomb to find the coffin on its side on the floor. They opened the lid, but of course it was too late then. Their son was quite decayed, though it was still clear to see that his hands were no longer by his sides and, by all accounts, his mouth was open in an expression of excruciating despair.
‘I wish to ensure the same tragedy cannot happen again.’
I thought this a sensible notion and listened as he outlined his idea for a coffin with a mechanism that allowed air to circulate around it in case the deceased should ever wake up. We agreed a price and, as speed was of the essence, I started work straight away. It was not a complicated design, requiring little more than a pipe connected to the coffin that should reach the surface to allow air in (the doctor insisted this should be concealed – ‘It might upset the vicar,’ he explained) and I completed it late that night. I delivered it myself the next day to the address given, a grand country manor, some hours’ horse ride away. The doctor himself opened the door.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘The master is a little indisposed at present. He has asked that I deal with this business.’
He beckoned me in and we passed an open door and when I glanced within I saw a man, whom I presumed to be the master, sit– ting very still in a chair by the window. He was pale and old and looked quite ill. The doctor inspected the coffin thoroughly and asked many questions as to its reliability. Finally, when he was reassured that it would operate efficiently, we carried it down into the cellar.
‘It is the master’s wife who has died,’ he said. ‘She lies in the cellar where it is cool.’
‘How did she meet her end?’ I asked as we struggled with the awkward burden.
‘An ague,’ he said and was no more forthcoming than that.
Finally we reached the bottom. The temperature was consider– ably lower than upstairs and I saw the lady lying stretched out on a table. She looked pale but peaceful and, contrary to my expecta– tions, there were no signs of sickness. I don’t know what it was about the whole affair, but suddenly my suspicions were aroused. She looked so tranquil it was difficult to believe that she was dead, but certainly there were no signs of life. There was a strange smell in the room which at the time I attributed to the dampness.
‘Tragic,’ I murmured.
‘It is indeed,’ replied the doctor and despite the coolness I saw that he was sweating. He stroked the dead lady’s hand with unequalled tenderness and it disturbed me to see how he looked upon her. After all, she was not his wife.
‘So young and beautiful,’ he said. ‘The vicar is coming over this afternoon and she shall be buried in the family plot.’
Once we had deposited the coffin the doctor seemed anxious to show me to the door. ‘I think perhaps you should delay no longer,’ he urged. ‘The weather is turning and the day is wearing on. I should not like to think of you on that road at night. It is notorious for highwaymen.’
I inferred from his tone that I had outstayed my welcome and so I took off there and then. I did not feel that the weather was any worse than that morning, in fact it seemed better, but I was pleased to be gone from the place. I had been well rewarded for my work, but it left me with a nagging doubt that something was not right. For days afterwards I could not rid my nostrils of the smell in the cellar.
Some months later by chance I happened to travel to that same region again. An impulse made me take the fork in the road that led to the manor and I stopped at the gates. They were locked, but through the bars I could see that the house was closed up and the gardens were overgrown. There was a notice on the pillar that the property was up for sale and to contact the agents Messrs Cruick– shank and Butterworth in the next town. As that was my intended destination I paid a visit to their offices to enquire as to the where– abouts of the owner. I spoke to Mr Cruickshank, a most affable gentleman who answered my many enquiries comprehensively.
‘Strange affair,’ he said. ‘First the wife dies and then the master. Only the son left. He inherited the lot. He’s gone abroad and gave instructions for us to dispose of the property on his behalf. Should make him a small fortune.’
‘Son?’ I queried.
‘Aye, a doctor.’
‘How did the old man die?’ I asked.
‘Now that’s an even queerer tale. The night after the wife was buried the doctor heard screaming from his father’s room. He ran in and found his father half dead in his bed, purple in the face, hardly able to move apparently, barely able to speak. He told the doctor that he had woken to see his dead wife kneeling over him with her hands around his throat, strangling him. He died soon after. The shock killed him – he had a feeble constitution and his heart couldn’t take it. I feel sorry for the son. The poo
r chap lost a father and a stepmother in one go.’
‘You mean the dead woman wasn’t his mother?’
Mr Cruickshank shook his head. ‘His real mother died when he was but a lad and his father married again. She was the prettiest lady I ever did see, though nearly forty years his junior. Don’t know what she saw in him myself.’
I thanked Mr Cruickshank for his time and went on my way, but I was even more unsettled than before. My curiosity had been satisfied but my suspicions had not been allayed. As had been my intention all along, I paid a visit to the apothecary to purchase a cough remedy. When I entered the shop I was halted in my tracks by a potent and unmistakable smell. The very same smell I had noticed in the cellar at the manor. When he heard the bell the apothecary came out to see me.
‘What is that smell?’ I asked without delay.
‘Ah,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘it is my very own special sleep remedy. Highly effective, very powerful. It sends a person into a deep sleep and once asleep they look quite lifeless and cannot feel pain. I believe the surgeons in the hospitals might find it useful in operations.’
‘Tell me,’ I said with a quickening heart, ‘do you know a Dr Sturgeon?’
‘One of my best customers,’ he said proudly. ‘He swore the remedy was the best and only cure for his insomnia.’
I took my cough linctus and started for home with a heavy heart. Now I knew the truth of the deception into which I had been unwittingly dragged. What a convoluted plot. Only the most devil– ish of minds could have dreamed it up. After all, how can you try a ghost for murder?
You see, Mr Zabbidou, I believe the young doctor administered the apothecary’s potion to his father’s wife and tricked his father into believing she had died. Then, with the aid of my coffin, he buried her. While underground she could still breathe so, when the potion wore off and he unearthed her later that night, she was sufficiently alive to appear at her husband’s bedside and to half strangle him, knowing that his heart was feeble. So not only did the doctor inherit his estate but also his young wife. Doubtless now the two of them are enjoying the fruits of their wickedness in a far–off country.