The Black Book of Secrets

  I cannot forgive myself for the part I played. You’re the only person in the world who knows this, Mr Zabbidou. I hate to think that anyone else should ever find out what I did. They say you are a man of your word and I believe them. Now I think I can sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fragment from

  The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch

  After I finished reading the coffin maker’s secret we both looked at each other guiltily.

  ‘Poor beggar,’ said Polly quietly. ‘It wasn’t even his fault.’

  ‘There’s a little bit more,’ I said. ‘Right at the bottom of the page.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Quae nocent docent.’

  Polly looked blank.

  ‘I think it must be Latin.’

  ‘Latin?’

  ‘It’s another language. Joe uses it sometimes. He says you can say more with fewer words. He likes that.’

  ‘Well, you’d better not ask him what it means,’ said Polly quickly, ‘or he’ll know you’ve been snooping.’

  I said nothing. I couldn’t help feeling Joe would know anyway. I closed the book and put it away.

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ said Polly and I was glad.

  So we sat and waited for the storm to ease. Just the two of us, in front of the fire drinking soup and wrapped in blankets to keep warm. I think we both knew we were wrong to read the book, but Polly tried to shrug it off with a laugh.

  ‘He’ll never know,’ she said, trying to convince herself. ‘Don’t fret so much.’

  By early evening the wind had died down and the snow had eased. Polly stood up and stretched. ‘I’ll be off,’ she said. ‘Mr Ratchet’ll be looking for his supper.’ Before she went she looked at me nervously.

  ‘You won’t tell him, will you, Ludlow?’

  I shook my head. ‘If he finds out, I’ll say it was just me.’

  She grinned. ‘He’ll forgive you. Just stare at him with your big green eyes.’

  Somehow I didn’t think that trick would work on Joe.

  Four days later, although the worst of the storm was over, it was still dark and wintry and very cold. I kept the shop locked up. The hours passed slowly. I fed Saluki and swept the floor and dusted the display. I had plenty of time to think about what Polly and I had done and by the fourth day I had managed to convince myself that I need not have worried. After all, no one had come to any harm. We didn’t do it out of malice, just curiosity. At the back of my mind was the nagging doubt that Joe had set a trap for me and, although it hurt me to think that he didn’t trust me, it was worse to know that he was right. But did that make it fair? Was there any person out there strong enough to resist looking?

  The night before his return I was nearly asleep by the fire when I thought I heard a noise outside. By the time I opened the door on to the street there was no one there, only footprints under the window, large footprints. I knew who made them, not from their size but from the smell that lingered in the air. A Jeremiah Ratchet smell.

  On the fourth morning Saluki set up a tremendous croaking and a few seconds later someone began rattling at the door. ‘Ludlow,’ called a voice, ‘let me in.’

  It was Joe. I was very pleased to have him back and I only hoped that I could hide my guilty feelings. He came in, looked the place over and clapped me on the back.

  ‘Good to see you kept the shop in order in my absence,’ he said. I had made sure that everything was in its place.

  ‘There was a terrible storm,’ I said before I could stop myself. ‘Polly came by and sat with me for a while.’ I hadn’t meant to tell him that but when Joe looked at me in a certain way I just had to say what was on my mind. I stared at the floor. I didn’t want to reveal any more of my thoughts.

  ‘I know,’ he replied.

  ‘You know?’ Had he read my mind?

  ‘I’ve just seen her in the street, going to the butcher’s. She told me all about it.’

  My heart shuddered. I hoped that was all Polly had said.

  ‘Anyone come knocking?’ Joe asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I think Ratchet was sniffing around though.’

  ‘Shouldn’t surprise me. He’s an inquisitive fellow. He’s certainly not the first to spy at the window.’

  Joe didn’t just mean me. I remembered when Dr Mouldered came up, Joe told me afterwards he was certain someone had been outside. But right now I was interested in Ratchet. ‘Why don’t you do something about him’ I urged. ‘Is it really so unreasonable of the villagers to ask?’

  Joe sighed. ‘You must be patient, Ludlow.’

  ‘Why? What are we waiting for? Do you know what’s ahead?’

  This seemed to amuse him. ‘Have you seen my crystal ball,’ he asked. ‘If you have, I should very much like to know where it is.’ He was half laughing, but then he became serious again.

  ‘I am no seer, Ludlow, believe me. If I was, do you think I would be doing this?’ He gestured around the room.

  I wasn’t going to let him off the hook this time. ‘What exactly are you doing, Joe? Who are you? Why did you come here?’

  He leaned back on the counter and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘I am just an old man, Ludlow, trying to help those in need.’

  ‘But the book, the money. You give all the time. What do you get back?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be about taking. Don’t you think it’s enough to give? Why should I expect anything in return?’

  I was beginning to understand, but it was not easy. I suppose I was still a thief at heart. My whole life in the City had been about taking for myself and taking care of myself.

  ‘You’ve seen their faces,’ Joe continued. ‘You know how they feel when they come at midnight and how they feel when they leave. Why should I want more than that?’

  ‘But they want more,’ I said.

  ‘And that, Ludlow, is precisely my problem.’ He turned on his heel and went into the back room. I followed him. He pulled the Black Book out from under the mattress and stood by his bed looking around.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘perhaps we should put the book somewhere else.’

  I couldn’t imagine where. The room was hardly big enough for a choice of hiding places.

  ‘Aha,’ he exclaimed after a few moments. ‘I have just the place. You can look after it.’ He swooped down and slid it under my cushion.

  I was quite taken aback and struggled not to show it. ‘Do you think it will be safe?’

  ‘In your hands?’ said Joe with a wink. ‘I’m sure of it. And now, speaking of books, there is a volume I wish to have. Come with me.’

  And so we went to see Perigoe Leafbinder.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Perigoe Leafbinder

  Perigoe Leafbinder had been in the book business for over thirty years, as she liked to remind anyone who came into her shop, and if a book had been printed, she knew about it. Perigoe made a reasonable living but not necessarily from the locals (despite there being little else to do in the dark evenings but read, few had acquired the skill). She operated a very efficient delivery service, by means of a horse and trap, to the north side of the City, where lived the rich and idle who bought books purely to demonstrate their style and intellectual superiority. Perigoe had learned early that it was not difficult to make money out of other people’s vanity.

  She was a small woman, almost a dwarf, with a pinched face and a rather crooked smile. In recent months her left eye had developed an irritating twitch, which increased when she was nervous, a state she was in most of the time, with the result that she was constantly winking. Her flared nostrils supported a pair of round spectacles, almost as if they had been designed for the purpose. They made the arms of her spectacles redundant for they never fell off even when she bent over. Since her husband’s death some three years previously Perigoe had taken to wearing black almost exclusively and, given her size and apparel, was often difficult to see in the dim light. She took
great pleasure in emerging from dark corners and tapping browsers on the back, making them jump.

  Joe entered the shop, leaving Ludlow outside, and stood for some minutes in the silence surveying his surroundings. He had to stoop somewhat and when he took off his hat his wild hair brushed the oak beams that traversed the ceiling. The walls were shelved and freestanding bookcases stood close together in parallel lines across the floor. Joe walked between them, running his long fingers across the dark spines of the books. There seemed no particular order to the place: novels sat beside scientific works, art beside mathematics, antiquarian volumes beside new.

  Perigoe appeared as if from nowhere and poked him with a wizened forefinger.

  ‘Mr Zabbidou, I believe.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. Perigoe always spoke as if she thought someone was eavesdropping.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ replied Joe. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Leafbinder.’ He took her bloodless hand in his and kissed it with great ceremony.

  Perigoe allowed her hand to linger, remembering for an instant a time when she might have blushed at such a gesture.

  ‘How may I help you?’ she asked and winked three times.

  ‘I seek a book,’ said Joe, ‘about animals, amphibians in particular, by S. E. Salter. I was hoping that you might possess such a volume.’

  ‘Well, I believe I do,’ said Perigoe and glided across the floor, almost as if she was not in possession of feet, to find it. She returned quickly and handed a book to Joe, a slim volume with a hard cover and colour plates. He held it firmly between thumb and forefinger and looked her deep in the eyes. Perigoe found it difficult to avert her gaze.

  ‘I thought you might wish to share a drink with me,’ he suggested. ‘Tonight, perhaps?’

  Perigoe nodded slowly and her eyelid flapped like a sheet in the wind. She wanted to look away but for some reason she was unable. Soft music filled her head, like early-morning birdsong, and her bony fingertips were beginning to prickle as if she had been stung by nettles.

  ‘At midnight?’

  Perigoe nodded again.

  ‘Until then,’ said Joe, breaking the spell, and he went to the door. He held up the book.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  Perigoe’s heart was fluttering like a trapped moth and she had to steady herself on a shelf. ‘There’s no charge,’ she whispered.

  Joe reached for the doorknob as a dark shadow on the other side filled the frame. He could hear the sound of heavy breathing and moments later Jeremiah Ratchet burst in like an over-fermented bottle of ale popping its cork. When he saw Joe he snorted scornfully. Joe merely stepped back to allow him entrance, tipped his hat in greeting and slipped out without a backwards glance.

  As they made their way back to the shop Ludlow wondered what business Jeremiah had with Perigoe. Surely he was not a man of letters. Ludlow tried to read the title of the book Joe now held, something about amphibians, but it was obscured by the folds of his cloak.

  To the outsider, compared to most others in the village Perigoe Leafbinder had a good life. She ran a successful business and did not want for money. She had enjoyed her married life, and now she was equally satisfied with widowhood. But still she stood under the three golden orbs at midnight. Like so many of her fellow Pagus Parvians, she harboured a ruinous secret that would not leave her be. She raised her arm in the light of the expectant three-quarter moon.

  Joe opened the door before she could knock.

  ‘Mrs Leafbinder,’ he said, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  Perigoe glided in silently and Joe led her to the back room.

  ‘So what is it you do up here late at night?’ she asked and her eyelid twitched rapidly.

  ‘I buy secrets.’

  Perigoe adjusted her spectacles nervously as she considered what she had just heard. Finally she said, ‘I have a secret I’d like to sell. Will you take it?’

  ‘But of course,’ replied Joe and handed her a glass. ‘I am sure that any secret of yours would be of the highest quality and worth a good sum of money.’

  Perigoe blushed and winked twice, took a small sip of the syrupy liquid and began.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Extract from

  The Black Book of Secrets

  The Bookseller’s Confession

  My name is Perigoe Leafbinder and I have a wretched admission.

  The Leafbinders have been in the business of books for nearly two centuries and I am proud to carry on the tradition. I have spent thirty years of my life in this shop and God willing I should like to spend another thirty, but if I cannot free my tortured mind I doubt I’ll see out another year.

  There is in existence a book of which three copies are considered immensely valuable. The story itself is not of any great interest or literary worth, merely the simple tale of a mountain shepherd. What makes the book sought after is the fact that the thirteenth line on the thirteenth page is printed backwards. No one knows how this happened; some believe the printer was in league with Beelzebub and the words were turned during one of his devilish ceremonies. Others say the letters were reversed by a flash of lightning from heaven, a sign of approval from the greatest shepherd of them all, the Lord himself. Or maybe it was the printer’s young apprentice – he liked a drink and enjoyed a joke. Whatever the reason, out of the two hundred printed copies of the book this mistake occurs only in three.

  The whereabouts of two of the three misprinted books is known: one is in a museum in a foreign city, the other is with the family of the shepherd who wrote the tale. They live with their sheep on the mountains and are rarely seen. They have kept it for generations and refuse to sell it at any price. They say that money is of no value to them. The third book had been missing for almost two hundred years. It was thought to no longer exist.

  To possess this volume would bring instant fame and wealth and I, like many others, have dreamed for years of finding it, but in vain.

  Some months ago I was in my shop when I heard the bell and I saw a frail old woman making her way slowly between the bookcases. She walked stiffly with the aid of two sticks. Her left elbow was held tightly against her side, making her slow progress even more painful, and I could see at once that she concealed something beneath her cloak.

  I stepped out into her path and greeted her and I led her into the office, where she leaned her sticks against the desk. It was nearly six and I was looking forward to closing up and retiring for the day. In an effort to hurry things along I enq uired rather brusq uely, ‘Madam, how may I help you?’

  She eyed me with suspicion, and asked, ‘Do you buy books?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What would you say this is worth?’

  She took a tatty volume in maroon leather from beneath her cloak and proffered it across the table. She seemed unwilling to let it out of her grasp and I had to tug with some strength to relieve her of it. She kept her little black eyes on me all the time.

  I examined the novel, rather carelessly at first, for I felt it could not be of much value. The leather cover was stained and worn, the title was illegible, and it looked as if it had been q uite badly treated.

  But when I opened it I was q uite unprepared for what I saw. There on the title page were the words: ‘The Loneliness of the High Mountain Shepherd by Arthur Wolman’.

  My heart lurched in my chest. Could this be the missing third copy? The old lady’s eyes were boring into me all the time as I carried out my examination. Casually I turned the pages. They were brown with age and mould and some were stuck together. I reached page thirteen and I was close to apoplexy when I read it. The thirteenth line was reversed.

  ‘.yadnus a no peehs ym raehs ot dekil I’

  ‘Hmm,’ I mused as if in two minds about something. And indeed I was. Imagine, in my hands I held a book that could bring me acclaim and riches, but only then did I realize I could not afford to buy it. In my dreams I had never considered how I would pay for it; I had only ever thought that somehow the book would be mine. r />
  I reasoned that I had two choices. I could pretend the book was worthless and offer the old lady a token amount of money or I could tell her the truth and then she would go away and sell it to someone who could pay.

  The q uestion was: did she know the value of the book? I could feel droplets of sweat on my forehead and it took all my concentration to stop my hands from shaking. Her eyes were like needles in my skin.

  ‘Well?’ she said rather testily.

  My answer sealed my miserable fate.

  ‘It is an interesting volume,’ I said slowly, ‘but it is not particularly valuable.’ Those words set me on a path from which there was no return.

  She looked disappointed and for one brief instance I allowed myself to hope. Could it be possible she was ignorant of its true worth?

  ‘But,’ I said, trying to reassure her, ‘it just so happens that I have a customer who has an interest in this author, so I should be glad to give you ten shillings for it. I am sure you agree that is a generous offer, considering its rather poor condition.’

  I smiled, charitably, I thought. The old lady smiled back, in a mean-mouthed tight-lipped sort of way.

  Then she opened those thin lips and hissed, ‘You filthy liar. You low-down cheat. Do you think I am a fool? That because I walk with sticks I have feathers in my head?’

  I had been found out. I stood up and tried to placate her growing fury.

  ‘Perhaps I made a mistake. Let me look again.’ But it was too late. I was beyond redemption.

  ‘This book is worth many times what you have just offered me and yet you choose to insult me. You are nothing but a crook. Give it back to me.’

  She reached across the table and snatched at the book and all I could think was that my dream was being taken with it.