Hector did not know where he was going and for the moment he didn’t care. On he went past the gin shops and the gin pipes, always wondering if they had ever been his father’s. He passed beneath ominous street names: Fetter’s Gate, Melancholy Lane, Old Goat’s Alley, names that were soon to become all too familiar. And in the crepuscular shadows he could see movement and bustle. But he did not feel excitement nor did he feel alive, only half dead and afraid.
Earlier that day he had left for the last time the wide, well-lit streets and the tended squares of the north. He had passed the lines of shining carriages waiting outside the theatres and restaurants (where once Fitzbaudly wines had been served nightly) to cross the Bridge once again.
And now, with his father dead and buried, he felt only disbelief and numbness.
Unhesitatingly he walked on through the misty rain. He heard not one of the cries for help from the wretches all around. He felt none of the grasping fingers that pulled at his coat. Even when a wild-eyed tramp stepped right in front of him, arms akimbo, he paid no heed. The tramp, seeing the desperate stare on his face, dropped his hands and let him be. Eventually Hector sank down on the steps of yet another soot-blackened and dilapidated building and put his head in his hands. He was exhausted. So lost was he in his thoughts that he did not hear the door open behind him. But he did feel the bony arms that wrapped themselves around him and quite literally dragged him inside. The door shut with a resounding bang and the gloom enveloped him.
‘Ah, has the good Lord Himself sent us another one?’ The cracked voice came from close to his head. ‘Don’t worry, dearie, we’ll look after yer here. Has yer been left out in the cold?’
Hector managed to extricate himself from the woman’s surprisingly strong grip (he thought it was a woman – from her voice he couldn’t be sure) and turned to take a look at his captor. He realized afterwards when he saw her in daylight that this gloom was in fact the kindest light in which to view her, but for now he could see enough only to make out a short, wizened little figure of the female persuasion.
‘I’m Mrs Fitch,’ she said. ‘I knows what it’s like to be on the mean streets of Urbs Umida. I knows yer pain. But the Lord –’ here she quickly crossed herself – ‘He saved me from meself by the curious means of a tragic accident. I nearly committed a terrible crime but He showed me the way and allowed me to redeem meself. Don’t fink it has been easy, oh no, I am tested all the time. And up there –’ she glanced heavenward, though in fact her sights were somewhat lower – ‘is the greatest trial of ’em all. Poor Ned Upstairs, saved from one tragedy, gone straight into another. Stuck in a useless body.’
‘Where am I?’ asked Hector when Mrs Fitch stopped talking to take a rattling breath.
‘Why, you’re in the best place you could possibly be: Lottie Fitch’s home for Exposed Babies and Abandoned Boys.’
‘But I have not been abandoned,’ protested Hector. ‘My father has . . . died.’
‘Ah, such a tragedy for one so young,’ said Lottie, and she gave him another squeeze. ‘But don’t yer worry, we’ll look after yer. Follow me.’
Hector allowed Mrs Fitch to take him along the corridor. He followed her down the stairs into a large kitchen furnished with a long table and benches. All the while she continued to talk about the Lord and her good deeds with an occasional reference to ‘Poor Ned Upstairs’.
A girl was chopping vegetables at the far end of the table. She looked up at the sound of footsteps and smiled.
‘Ah, Polly,’ said Mrs Fitch. ‘We have a newcomer. Hector. He needs somefink to eat and then perhaps you could find him a bed. But first let’s say a very quick prayer of fanks that he came to us and didn’t succumb to the evil streets of the City.’
Instantly Polly stopped chopping and put her hands together and closed her eyes, as did Mrs Fitch, and they both mumbled a quick prayer to the Almighty. Hector, although not strictly a religious child, knew enough to join his own hands and mumble along. Mrs Fitch seemed pleased. She handed him over to Polly and left.
Many abandoned boys had come and gone in the few years since Polly began work at the Home, and she had cared for them all equally, but this boy struck her immediately as different. His dark hair flopped over his face and the eyes that stared out from under the wet fringe were black as coal. Despite his bedraggled appearance he stood erect and looked around with an air of confident enquiry. He was not plump, but obviously well fed; and he was tall, nearly as tall as she was, despite the difference in age, which she judged to be five or six years. In a practised glance she noted that his cuffs reached his wrists (not a child here had a shirt that fitted any longer) and that his cloak was of a high quality and, despite the mud, she could tell that his boots had been recently polished. This Hector, she decided, had lived well until now. He could not have been more different from the other boys at the Home if he had tried.
‘Welcome to Lottie Fitch’s,’ Polly said kindly. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
‘Yes, please,’ replied Hector, realizing that despite his grief he was actually very hungry. He had hardly eaten since his father’s sudden death.
Polly brought over a plate of bread and ham and a big mug of milk and set it down in front of him. She continued to chop vegetables and tend to the fire while he ate and drank, but she was watching him. ‘You are not from the south, are you?’ she said eventually. It was more a statement than a question.
Hector shook his head. ‘No. And you sound as if you are from outside the City entirely.’
Polly nodded. ‘I come from a village in the Moiraean Mountains called Pagus Parvus. I came to Urbs Umida to find work but it was not as easy as I imagined. I was fortunate to meet Mrs Fitch.’
That makes two of us, thought Hector as he finished his bread. ‘Have you a napkin?’ he asked.
Polly laughed. ‘Use your sleeve. That’s what we do. Saves the laundry.’ With the side of the knife she pushed all the vegetables into a pot and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Let’s find you a bed,’ she said. ‘You look worn out.’
Polly took a candle for herself and one for Hector and led him up the stairs. It was dark and in her shadow difficult to see.
‘No gas lights?’ he asked.
Polly shook her head. ‘You might find things different here,’ she remarked as they reached the landing. ‘Don’t mind the noises from up there.’ She glanced in the direction of the attic. ‘It’s only Ned.’
‘You mean “Poor Ned Upstairs”?’
‘Yes, Mrs Fitch’s husband. He’s in the attic. He fell in the Foedus some years ago, in the middle of winter. They dragged him out but he never fully recovered. He was poisoned by the water and is now abed day and night. Mrs Fitch says that it is his punishment for their sins.’
‘What sins?’
Polly shrugged. ‘I think it is to do with her son, Ludlow. No one has seen him for years. Oddly enough, he lived in Pagus Parvus himself for a while when I was there. I suspect the Fitches treated him cruelly, but he never did tell me why he left Urbs Umida. Now Mrs Fitch has visions telling her that she must save the children. Every day nearly. Messages from Above, she says, guiding her.’
Polly lifted the latch on a small door to her right. It was only just as high as Hector. She would have to bend to enter, he thought.
‘The other rooms are full at the moment,’ she said almost apologetically. ‘Three to a bed. You’ll probably be more comfortable in here for the time being.’
Hector stepped into the darkness holding his candle before him. In the light of the fame he saw that the room was little more than a space under the stairs.
‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed before he could help himself (a favourite classical expression of his tutor). ‘It’s small.’
Polly raised her eyebrow sympathetically. ‘But it’s warm.’
Hector attempted a smile. Whatever the size, it had to be better than three in a bed. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m sure you’ll get used to it.�
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I hope not to be here long enough to get used to it, he thought. Suddenly he felt an indescribably painful yearning for his own bedroom and for his father.
‘There’s a bell for breakfast,’ continued Polly helpfully. ‘Afterwards you do your chores and then you must go out and try to earn money.’
‘For Mrs Fitch?’ asked Hector.
She winked. ‘Mrs Fitch takes some, of course. But she can only take what she knows about.’
Hector laughed. Polly looked thoughtful. ‘You know, Hector, the boys here – well, they’re good-hearted really but they’re all southsiders. You, being from the north side – well, you might find that—’
‘You think they might take against me because of where I come from?’ he finished.
‘Well . . . yes. At first anyway.’ She went to the top of the stairs and rested her hand on the banister. ‘But somehow –’ she grinned – ‘I think you will survive.’ And then she descended into the darkness.
Hector set the candle down beside the mattress on the floor and pulled the door shut. He stretched out his arms and found he could touch both the wall and door in one go. The bricks were warm to the touch. But of course, he thought, the chimney must be on the other side and Mrs Fitch probably has the fire going all day in the kitchen below. He placed his bag on the floor beside him and lay back on the mattress. He yawned widely and felt the cocoon at his neck. It brought him some comfort these days. Then, as every night now since all his troubles began, he thought of Gulliver Truepin. He doubted very much that he was asleep under some stairs.
‘Just wait until I find you, Truepin,’ vowed Hector again. ‘And you will pay for what you have done.’
Chapter Eight
Metamorphosis
Hector was right. At the same time as he was settling down in a cupboard under the stairs, in a smart lodging house on the north side of the Foedus his one-eyed foe was observing himself in the mirror of a much larger room. Once again, spread out on the bed coverlet – in this establishment made only of silk – was an array of clothing, but this time it had been delivered that day from the City’s best tailors and outfitters. Waistcoats and breeches, shirts and collars and cuffs, stockings and handkerchiefs – everything a gentleman’s wardrobe should contain. There was much velvet just begging to be stroked (which he did), soft satins and silks, felt and linen, all hand-stitched. And what splendid hues – scarlet and magenta, indigo and mauve, purple and gold and a particularly lovely peridot green.
Having spent at least two quarter-strokes of the clock feeling the clothing, Hector’s enemy dressed in blue with scarlet accessories. But the final touch was a coordinating glass eye. He examined again the startling new eyeball that stared back at him in the mirror. It was bright, a perfect fit, and upon closer inspection the twinkle in the pupil proved to be emanating from a small scarlet ruby. This glass eye, an early purchase with his new wealth, was an indulgence, he knew, but what was the use of all his hard work if he could not indulge himself a little? And this was merely the first. Ultimately, he had in mind a collection, one for every day of the week and every outfit. Until he could manage that, he could always make do with his hand-tailored eyepatches between times.
‘Good evening to you, sir,’ he said to the man in the full-length glass (it was himself, of course), and gave a gracious bow. Then he stood upright and eyed his reflection critically whilst smoothing down the velvet on his thighs and adjusting his frilly collar. He continued his performance, kissing the air where in his mind he judged the gloved hand of a curtsying lady might be.
Curtsying? Before him? Why, yes. You see this fellow play-acting before the mirror was no longer the swindling blackmailer Gulliver Truepin (though there would always be a resemblance, namely the prominent nose). Nay! Gulliver Truepin had been discarded along with his rags and here in his place stood a nobleman of great lineage.
The metamorphosis was complete.
It had been a busy seven days for Hector’s enemy. Directly after taking Fitzbaudly’s money (trebled, he could hardly believe it!) he had gone back to the Nimble Finger where he received, in exchange for a large chunk of that money, a thick bundle of yellowing lineage papers and documentation. Upon examination of said papers he was delighted to see that they were all written faultlessly in the legal style of the day, with flowery lettering in red and black ink and tied with authentic pale pink legal ribbon. Some of the documents had been sealed with bright red wax. None could doubt the holder of these papers.
The next step was to find accommodation that befitted his new status. Someone of such elevated descent would not set foot south of the river so our newly noble fellow had taken his luggage and slipped out of the lodging house to jump in a passing carriage. And in that short distance over the Bridge to the other side he left behind not only Gulliver Truepin and a host of other guises, but also a debt to the lodging house for, true to character (whichever one he was), he did not pay his bill.
Now, a week on, the self-satisfied swindler was enjoying the comfort of his new rooms and identity. He was immensely pleased with his transformation and could hardly take his eye off himself.
‘But what accent shall I have?’ he wondered as he sprayed his new, expensive citrus scent over himself. He fancied he needed something a little more exotic than usual. Perhaps he should amend his V’s and W’s.
‘I haf alvays vanted to come to the City,’ he said. He frowned. Too strong. Perhaps just the V. It was only to hint at his foreign provenance, after all, not to define him. He had other characteristics that would engage the ladies, said ladies being his preferred prey. (Their boredom and excessive money were usually a good combination for a practised con man.) His nose in profile might be long but from the front there was no doubting that he was actually quite an attractive fellow. And his lost eye always aroused much sympathy.
‘Oh my!’ he mimicked to the mirror in a high-pitched voice. ‘Tell me, how did you come to lose it?’
He drew himself up to his full height (aided in this instance by custom-made heel inserts). On account of the scar through one eyebrow only the other moved, but at this point the action of that other more than compensated, and along with the furrowed brow gave an air of sincerity tinged with tragedy.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said deeply, taking a step back and resting his hand on his hip, ‘it is a story I hesitate to recount . . . but if you insist, though you must be sure to tell me if you feel faint at the rather more horrific parts.’
And he practised again his tale of a lengthy duel over a Matter of Honour. A duel he had won in the end, of course.
The truth, as is often the case, was rather less exciting. As a peasant youth, still known then as Jereome, he had managed to trip over his bootlaces and land on a boar’s tusk, thus rendering his eye irreparably damaged. But such a lowly story would not do any more. Besides, a man such as he now claimed to be would never wear anything as common as bootlaces!
Yawning widely, the fiendish trickster stretched and disrobed, enjoying the feel of each item of clothing as he folded it carefully and put it away. He donned a soft embroidered nightshirt and a nightcap and before he climbed into bed he removed his false eye, gave it a little caress and placed it in a small velvet bag on his bedside table.
He reached into a drawer and took out a cutting from the Northside Diurnal (they too had paid so much more than he expected!). Although the recent downfall of Augustus Fitzbaudly still dominated the headlines, he was more interested in the society section. He turned the sheets until he came to a half-page illustration of dancing ladies and gentlemen, and read again the caption beneath the sketch:
Northside Lords and Ladies of Urbs Umida enjoy the recent Vintners’ Ball (ports and wines supplied by Faulkner’s of Vine Street)
He stared at the picture with a wide grin. ‘Soon, very soon,’ he thought, ‘that will be me.’
Chapter Nine
The Landlord’s Pickle
‘A penny a go!’ shouted Hector. ‘A penny. Who today
will challenge me with a riddle for a penny?’
Hector stood on a podium in the middle of Fiveways. He was well acquainted with the place these days. He was thinner than he used to be, and his clothes were more worn, but he was cheerful and energetic. His dark eyes scanned the small crowd that had gathered around him. Not so many this morning, but Hector knew there was always someone willing to part with a penny or two and soon the riddles came thick and fast.
‘What can a man break many times without touching?’
‘His promise,’ replied Hector. ‘Let’s ’ave another.’
‘Give me food and I will live; give me water and I will die. What am I?’
‘Fire. Another.’
‘What can a craftsman make that is never seen?’
‘Noise,’ said Hector. ‘Any more?’
A large man stepped forward, his arms folded across his barrel-like chest. ‘You won’t get this one,’ he said. ‘I found it in a book!’
The crowd ‘oohed’ and ‘aaahed’ and applauded. Imagine, a book!
‘We’ll see,’ said Hector evenly. He had found that those who were most sure of themselves were usually the losers. ‘Let us hear it.’
‘How does a man get down from an elephant?’
The crowd laughed. Some asked their neighbour, ‘What’s an elephant?’
Hector pretended to think, steepling his fingers and looking skyward. ‘I believe,’ he replied slowly, ‘that you can’t get down from an elephant because it comes only from a duck!’
The crowd cheered and clapped as Hector smiled broadly. Riddling, something that once had been little more than an enjoyable diversion with his father, was proving to be a lucrative skill. Sometimes he almost felt it was wrong to accept payment – he enjoyed the whole act so immensely, and it lifted for a while the sombre mood that had descended on him since losing his father. But Polly, who often stole a moment from her day and came down to hear Hector at work or bring him lunch, told him that was nonsense, that he thought about things far too much. As another penny landed at his feet, he bent to pick it up and a new voice cut through the noise.
The Eyeball Collector Page 4