Chapter Thirty-Four
Departure
Jeremiah Ratchet was gripped by intense glee. He longed to skip, but the icy road permitted only a short-stepped cautious haste. So instead he punched the air with his fist and let out an audible ‘Ha! Ha!’ into the night.
He was distinctly pleased with himself. He had guessed quite rightly that the Black Book was the key. To possess it now almost made up for his earlier humiliation at the hands of Horatio and the turkey. And of course, if it hadn’t been for that altercation, he would never have found out exactly what was in the book. After he had gone home with the turkey he had watched the crowd, and Joe and Ludlow, from his window. He had heard it all, every single word. What fools they were, those villagers, to trust their secrets to Joe Zabbidou. And that was when he had come up with his plan, to pretend to pawn his own secret so he could get his hands on the book. When he eavesdropped outside the Pickled Trout, that had been just the icing on the cake. How stupid Joe had been to send the blackmail letter. He had burned all of his bridges in the village and at the same time he had done Jeremiah a great favour. By the time the villagers had got rid of Joe it would be too late. Jeremiah would have the Black Book and he would use it to regain his rightful position of power in Pagus Parvus.
If he was honest with himself, in his heart of hearts Jeremiah had never thought it would be so easy to take possession of the Black Book of Secrets. But then who would have thought Joe would surrender it rather than lose his precious frog? Jeremiah was fit to burst with self-congratulation.
As quietly as this delight would allow he hurried inside, unaware that he had omitted to shut the door fully. He was also unaware of the small figure who crept in after him and followed him to the study. This stealthy intruder curled up in the darkest corner and watched and waited. The full moon shone its dusty beams through the window. They lit up the clock on the mantel to show a quarter after three. Jeremiah threw off his coat and dropped it; he pulled off his hat and tossed it aside. With every step he took snow fell off his boots and melted on the rug, leaving dark stains. He held up the prize in triumph, the red ribbon trailing from between its pages.
‘I’ll show them,’ he laughed, waving it in the air. ‘They’ll all pay for their treachery.’
Jeremiah took himself over to the dying fire and eased himself into one of his very expensive leather chairs. He glanced at the cover of the book, but couldn’t understand it, so he flung it open and laid it flat on his lap. He licked the tip of his stubby forefinger and turned the pages with obvious relish, slowly at first and then more quickly. He tittered, he giggled, he took the Lord’s name in vain more than once, stopping every so often to rub his hands together. He did this not in glee, however, but to soothe his burning palms. Saluki’s bite, if that is what she had done, was proving to be nearly as irritating as her owner.
‘My fortune is made,’ gloated Jeremiah. ‘There’re secrets in this book I couldn’t even have guessed. And not just from Pagus Parvus, from all over. As for Dr Mouldered! My, my, who’d have thought it!’
With great satisfaction he snapped the book shut and a single page fluttered to the floor to land at his feet. Breathing hard by now he leaned forward to retrieve it and held it up to the light. Its ragged edge suggested that it had been recently torn from another book. It showed a colourful picture, hand painted with some skill.
‘Frogs?’ snorted Jeremiah disdainfully and glanced curiously at the caption. Seconds later he fell back into the chair and let out a tremendous groan.
‘What has he done?’ he moaned. ‘The lanky fork-tongued devil, he has duped me.’
His hands throbbed and burned. His movements were slowing. A creeping numbness spread up his arms and throughout his body. His chest tightened, his throat swelled. It was becoming difficult to breathe. But he watched, unable even to express surprise, as the boy emerged from the half-light and came forward.
‘Wh-who’s th-there?’ he stuttered hoarsely.
The boy didn’t answer, just stared at the dying man before bending down to pick the book up from the floor.
‘Who has done this to you?’ whispered the intruder.
Jeremiah’s lips moved and silently formed a single word.
The boy shook his head and left.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Fragment from
The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch
As soon as Jeremiah was gone I turned on Joe. Even now I still couldn’t piece the puzzle together. All I knew was that he had let Jeremiah walk away with his most precious possession.
No, I thought. My most precious possession too.
That book was now part of my very existence. I couldn’t stop myself and, blinded by rage and disappointment, I beat upon Joe’s chest with my fists.
‘Why did you let him take it? You know how he will use it.’
Joe shook me off gently and infuriated me with a smile.
‘Calm down, Ludlow. Don’t you understand? This is what we’ve been waiting for.’
He poured another brandy (I had never seen him drink more than one), threw back his head and swallowed it in one go.
‘I have to say the fellow had me worried somewhat. I thought he would have been up here days ago; it would have saved us a lot of trouble. He has certainly taken his time.’
Confused, angry and burning with questions, I was determined to find the truth.
‘You mean you wanted him to do this?’
‘It’s not what I want,’ said Joe, ‘it’s what Jeremiah wants. If nothing else he was true to his nature. That man cannot bear others to have what he desires.’
‘You’re talking in riddles again. Just tell me what’s really going on. I deserve to know.’
‘What do you want to know, Ludlow? What is it you think I have kept from you?’
His calm disarmed me. My anger dissipated and I became flustered. ‘Lots of things. You said you weren’t a blackmailer yet you asked Jeremiah for a secret, just like Polly said. Would you have paid him too?’
Joe looked mildly shocked. ‘I expected better of you than such an accusation. Jeremiah, for all his faults, deserves a chance, like everyone else, to gain relief from his troubles. Do you think that his innate cruelty prevents him from feeling remorse? I had to give him the opportunity. It is part of what I do.’
‘The opportunity to do what?’
‘To say he was sorry.’
‘And if he had, what then?’
‘Well, if he had told me a secret, then I should have paid him. Rules are rules. Things would have been different, of course; as it is, he has only himself to blame.’
I tutted with exasperation. ‘And just what are these rules you live by?’
He remained silent.
‘Who are you, Joe?’
‘The truth will come later, I promise you that,’ he said finally. ‘What is important now is that you go to retrieve the book.’
I laughed sarcastically. ‘And how am I to do that?’
‘You’ll find a way, but you’d better hurry. He must be halfway down the hill already.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
Joe shook his head. ‘I have played my part. Now it is your turn.’
I threw up my hands in frustration but I didn’t waste another second. Whatever else I wanted to say to Joe, it could wait. He was right. I had to get the Black Book back. The secrets of the whole village, and others, were in there. Jeremiah already knew Perigoe’s and Horatio’s and Obadiah’s, but what about everyone else’s? There were so many secrets. I realized that until now I had thought of this whole business as a sort of game that Joe and I were playing with the villagers, all of us pitted against Jeremiah Ratchet. But it wasn’t a game any longer. It was deadly serious. I had written their confessions and now it was up to me to save them.
So I ran out of the door and down the hill, skidding and slipping and cursing in my head, both Jeremiah and Joe, and plagued by terrible doubt. Maybe Job Wright hadn’t been so far off the mark. Maybe Joe was using
the villagers and I had been too blind to see it, selfishly hanging on to this new life, so desperate for a real father that I had ignored what was going on under my nose. Was this the punishment for taking what I didn’t deserve? But it still didn’t make sense.
‘It’s not about the money,’ I said to the night. ‘There has to be another reason.’
Jeremiah had already gone inside, but in his haste the latch hadn’t caught so I slipped into the hall and followed his trail of wet footprints to the study. I squatted down just inside the door and watched as he settled in the chair. There was meat pie somewhere close by and the smell made my mouth water.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. My heart beat so loudly I thought it would give me away. I could see the top of his head and I could hear pages turning. Soon it would be too late, he would know everything. I heard the book snap shut and saw a page flutter to the floor. He leaned forward to pick it up. He said something, then groaned and fell back into the chair. All I could hear now was his noisy wheezing.
I don’t know how long I waited before tiptoeing over. He was so still I wondered if he had fallen asleep. I stood right in front of him. His eyes were open and for a second I expected him to grab me, but he just sat there, a terrible sight to behold. His face was white and his breathing was harsh and rattling. I knew I was looking at a dying man.
‘Who’s there?’ he mumbled and I could hardly hear him.
I bent down and picked the book up from the floor.
‘Who has done this to you?’ I asked
Slowly Jeremiah’s dry lips formed a silent word.
Joe.
There was nothing else I could do, so I left.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fragment from
The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch
Jeremiah’s dying word had shattered my world. When I looked into his eyes I could see no lie. I walked slowly back up the hill and my heart was leaden. I was torn up inside. All this time I had thought Joe was better than the rest of us, better than I could ever hope to be, but in the end he was as bad as my own Ma and Pa, if not worse; to my knowledge they at least had never wilfully killed anyone. Yes, like everyone else, I had wanted Joe to stand up to Jeremiah Ratchet. But I had never thought it would end like this. There was no other way to say it. Joe Zabbidou was a murderer.
But how did he do it?
I went over and over in my head the last meeting between the two of them, searching for clues. There was no weapon and Jeremiah wasn’t injured in any way. Perhaps he was poisoned. But how was it administered? It could have been the brandy. But both had drunk from the same bottle. Maybe it was in the glass.
That was it! Joe had put poison in Jeremiah’s glass before pouring the brandy. Jeremiah had drunk it in one gulp and then, presumably to Joe’s delight, he had washed it down with more.
Joe was waiting for me by the fire, a glass in his hand, and he looked as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He had even straightened out the room.
‘Did you get it?’
I handed it over.
‘Good work. I knew I could trust you.’
I wanted to say something but I was still too shocked to speak. Then I noticed his satchel on the table. It was buckled and bursting at the seams. A small drawstring bag sat beside it. Icy fear ran in my veins. I found my voice.
‘You’re not going, are you?’
He put his hand up to silence me.
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Listen.’
Something was happening outside. I could hear the murmur of voices and the sound of feet breaking through the frozen snow. I crept to the door and looked into the shop. Cloaked shapes moved on the other side of the window with faces like devils lit up in the light of flaming torches. And among them I could see the stooped outline of Obadiah Strang and beside him the tiny figure of Perigoe Leafbinder and beside her the thickness of Horatio Cleaver.
‘Come out, Joe Zabbidou,’ chanted the shadows, a hundred strong, ‘or we’ll burn you out.’
At the sight of this demonic throng my legs went weak and I staggered back to Joe in terror. ‘They’re out there, all of them,’ I hissed. ‘They’ve come for us, like Polly said. They’re going to kill us.’
But Joe stayed where he was and took a long slow draught of his drink.
‘Just be patient,’ he said. ‘Just be patient.’
‘There’s no time for patience,’ I snapped in a panic, clutching at his cloak.
He took me by the wrists and held me away from him. ‘Not yet.’
‘Come out, Joe Zabbidou, come out!’ The voices swelled into a menacing chorus. Then with a tremendous crash the shopfront window shattered and the counter was sprayed with splintered glass and the room was filled with smoke and the smell of burning oil and the sharp crackle of flames. Outside on the street they were kicking at the door and beating it down with cudgels. The noise was deafening, the smoke black and choking, the heat intensifying.
‘Come out, Joe Zabbidou,’ they cried. ‘Come out!’
Still he wouldn’t move and he wouldn’t let go. I tried to pull away, but his grip was like a vice. ‘Are you going to let me die too?’ I shouted, but he didn’t hear me. His head was cocked to one side and he was listening intently.
I began to scream and yell. The abominable cacophony outside rose to an inhuman pitch. Clouds of smoke rolled into the back room until I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. At last, out of all this madness there came another voice. A shrill voice that carried above the confusion. Polly’s voice.
‘Ratchet’s dead! Jeremiah Ratchet’s dead.’
Joe released my wrists and raised his arms in triumph above his head.
‘Acta est fabula,’ he said. ‘It is over.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Leftovers
Polly had woken in the night but she didn’t know why. Now that she was awake she felt hungry. Certain that Jeremiah would be in bed she took a candle and crept down the stairs. On her way to the kitchen she noticed that the front door was open and she closed it. So he had gone out after all. ‘I suppose he’ll be back soon enough, drunk as a lord,’ she muttered. Then she saw the light in the study and went in.
The dinner tray from the previous evening was on the desk and Polly shook her head in irritation. She hated to see good food go to waste. A slice of pie sat on the plate untouched. She nibbled at a piece of crust and immediately spat out what she took to be a bit of grit and wrinkled her nose.
‘That’s one of Horatio Cleaver’s pies,’ she said to herself. The butcher had brought it to the house personally only that evening. She made a mental note to tell Horatio what she thought of it next time she saw him. Then she noticed damp footprints on the rug that led to the fire, the hat and scarf tossed on the floor.
‘Lord above,’ she exclaimed, hastily wiping any telltale crumbs from her mouth. ‘Mr Ratchet, what are you doing here?’
Polly could see the top of his head – instantly identifiable by the shiny bald patch in the middle – above the back of the chair and his remaining hair, grey and white in colour, sticking out defiantly over his ears despite daily applications of expensive hair lotion. She rounded the chair cautiously to meet Jeremiah’s open-eyed stony gaze of death and screamed.
Nobody would ever claim that Jeremiah Ratchet was an attractive man. He had all the appearance of a toad about to burst. In death he was little changed, just less flexible, sitting stiffly in the chair. In his hand he still had the loose page, held fast between his rigid fingers. Polly wasn’t interested in what he had been reading (though she was struck by the beauty of the picture), she was mesmerized by the expression on his face. His mouth was fixed open in a sort of grimacing yawn and his eyes were unnaturally wide. It was as if he had just been told something truly shocking.
Poor Polly had never encountered a corpse at such close quarters and it took some moments for her to gather her wits. Once gathered, however, she proved to be a practical girl. With trembling fingers she reac
hed into Jeremiah’s waistcoat and found his purse, which she stuffed down the front of her apron. For a moment she beheld poor Jeremiah for the last time. Then she stepped back and hit her foot against something hard behind her. She looked down to see the coal scuttle.
‘Only the flames of hell will warm your cold soul,’ she mumbled before running out to the street and announcing to the village in her shrill voice:
‘Ratchet’s dead! Jeremiah Ratchet’s dead.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Diagnosis
During his lifetime Jeremiah had successfully kept the villagers at bay; within minutes of his death, however, his house was swarming with them. They ran up and down the stairs, opening and closing doors and pocketing what they could conceal beneath their coats. For one reason or another they all felt they deserved something.
‘I heard that his bathtub was pure gold,’ whispered one as he crammed a polished spittoon into his breast pocket.
‘And that he ate only from silver platters and drank from the finest crystal,’ said his companion, wrenching a fine brass sconce from the wall.
A third man was very busy tapping the stair panels with his hairy knuckles. He was looking for secret passages that led to underground cellars where jewellery and treasure and, more importantly, ale and wine were said to be stored.
‘’Ere ’e is,’ came the youngest Sourdough’s cry from below. ‘Oooh, ’e’s gorn black and blue.’
With a great rushing noise the crowd arrived at the study and poured in to gather around Ratchet’s chair like water meeting a rock in a stream. It was quite true; Jeremiah’s skin had taken on a rather strange mottled hue. This, combined with the yellowish foam at the corners of his mouth and his repulsive grimace, was too much for Lily Weaver. With a deep sigh she swooned and would have fallen to the floor except the crush was so great she remained standing, coming to some moments later supported on all sides by her fellow Pagus Parvians. Then she was lifted up and passed over the sea of heads, as a bottle taken by the tide, only to be dropped unceremoniously into the corridor.