The driver’s back was turned so Hector slipped along the pavement and crept up to the door. He sniffed, his senses alerted. Could he smell citrus? His lip curled when he read the names on the glass before him: Badlesmire and Leavelund, Solicitors and Auctioneers.
A combination of luck and intuition had brought him here. The Diurnal Journal tracked Lady Mandible’s – and therefore the Baron’s – every move. Thanks also to the journal Hector knew where they stayed when in the City: Lady Mandible’s town house. Hector had kept a close watch on the house all day. As evening fell his patience was rewarded. The front door opened and a man emerged. He set off at a quick pace towards the river. Hector was quite certain this man was Bovrik de Vandolin, but the real question was, could he also be Gulliver Truepin? From this distance and in this light he just couldn’t be sure. He followed cautiously all the way to the Bridge at which point Bovrik hailed a carriage. Hector heard him say, ‘Roebemlynde Street,’ and off he went.
Although Hector was on foot he had no trouble keeping up. It was market day, and the streets were crammed with cattle and pigs and street sellers; besides, he knew the narrow short cuts where the carriage couldn’t go, so he was already waiting in Roebemlynde Street when the carriage arrived.
Despite the fact that they were sited south of the river, Badlesmire and Leavelund’s client list had more than its fair share of well-off northsiders. Their sign might read ‘solicitors and auctioneers’, but everyone knew they had their greedy fingers in many pies. It was the place to go if you had a problem, legal or otherwise, and you didn’t want your neighbours to know what you were up to. They were happy too to act as middlemen in the buying and selling of goods they might serendipitously encounter in the course of their business.
Frustrated that he hadn’t yet had a good look at the man, Hector went back round the corner, scaled the wall at the side and jumped down into a small yard behind the offices. He positioned himself on a discarded tea chest under the window. He could see the three men within and hear their loud, self-congratulatory conversation.
‘Ah, Baron de Vandolin,’ purred Badlesmire, a large man with fat fingers. ‘Mr Leavelund and I have been expecting you.’ Leavelund, quite the opposite in build to his partner, was standing just behind him, rubbing his bony hands and drawing his lips back over his long teeth as if trying to dislodge something stuck between them.
‘Is it ready?’ asked Bovrik in a slightly Germanic accent.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Leavelund. ‘All packed and ready to go. An excellent purchase, I must say. Shame about the owner, of course.’
‘There is no excuse for stupidity,’ remarked Bovrik coldly, his one eye glaring.
‘Well, it’s an ill wind . . .’ chipped in Badlesmire. ‘Mr Fitzbaudley’s troubles have kept us busy. It’s a complicated thing to wrap up a failing business, you understand. We have disposed of everything at this stage. But as soon as we heard you and Lady Mandible were interested in this –’ he glanced at a crate on the table –‘we set it aside.’
Bovrik nodded with obvious satisfaction.
‘And you, Baron, do you have the other thing we discussed?’ continued Badlesmire.
‘I haf indeed,’ replied Bovrik, and he produced from under his cloak a gleaming white marble statuette of a Grecian water bearer. Both the solicitors smiled broadly and fussed noisily over it.
For though Hector did not yet know it, Bovrik, true to form and in accordance with his plan, was making good money on the side selling various valuables from Withypitts Hall. Only ones that Lady Mandible wouldn’t miss, of course, and there were so many trinkets in the place it had to be impossible to keep track. Besides, she was always changing things around and getting rid of discrete items. He was merely taking advantage of her whims for once rather than pandering to them.
As Leavelund put the statuette away, Hector watched Badlesmire take a bottle and three glasses from a cupboard.
‘We also had to clear Fitzbaudly’s cellar,’ he said conversationally. ‘Some very rare vintages down there. And of course the hours and hours of work we put in – well, there wasn’t even a penny left over after the bill was paid. Fitzbaudly himself is dead now of course. From shame, no doubt.’
‘I belief it’s Fitzbadly,’ said Bovrik dryly and the three of them shared a laugh and a glass of Chateau Huit du Pipe ’56.
Outside Hector clenched his fists and tried vainly to suppress his growing fury. The scent in the doorway, the Fitzbadly joke, the eyepatch and the nose; now he knew for sure. Bovrik de Vandolin was Gulliver Truepin. Even his fake Germanic accent and his popinjay clothes couldn’t disguise him any longer. As for the crate, whatever was in it could only be something that had once belonged to his father, which fact only served to infuriate him further. He watched until the three men drained their glasses and shook hands then he returned to the street corner just in time to see the Baron emerge with flushed cheeks and a very self-satisfied look on his face. He tapped his cane impatiently on the pavement as the driver loaded his new crate awkwardly on to the carriage roof.
‘Careful, my man,’ he called irritably in his clipped voice. ‘There’s glass in there.’
All those nights under the stairs, thought Hector, lying awake thinking what he would do when next he saw Truepin, the cruel instrument of his father’s misfortune and now finally, here he was, only feet away. Hector felt a rage well up from the pit of his stomach and everything around him faded until all he could see was Bovrik de Vandolin.
Time seemed to slow as he began to walk towards the Baron. He didn’t know what he was going to do, or how, but he flexed his fingers and gritted his teeth until it hurt.
Bovrik, sensing that he was no longer alone, turned around. He narrowed his one good eye and sneered with contempt at the audacity of this urchin who dared approach him. Then, just as Hector was almost upon him, something fluttered out of the carriage and landed on Bovrik’s sleeve. He looked down at it and raised his hand as if to swat it away.
‘No!’ cried Hector, stopping in his tracks. ‘Don’t!’
Bovrik lowered his hand and looked at Hector.
‘It’s only a moth,’ he said. ‘Why should I not kill it?’
Hector was breathing fast, and he could feel his face burning. The rage within was still fierce but he suddenly knew now was not the time.
‘It’s not a moth,’ he said as calmly as he could manage. ‘It’s a butterfly. Thecla betulae.’
‘A butterfly? But it is nearly winter.’
‘It must have been sheltering in the carriage,’ said Hector, and carefully he lifted it on to his hand. Bovrik flinched at his touch and shook his sleeve distastefully. Then his expression changed. ‘Do you know about butterflies?’
‘Yes,’ said Hector stiffly. ‘I know all about them.’
Bovrik pursed his lips. ‘How fortunate. I am in need of a butterfly expert. Haf you heard of Lady Mandible of Withypitts Hall?’
Hector nodded. He could feel himself gradually calming down, the fierce heat behind his eyes subsiding. He could hardly believe he had come so close to trying to harm the man. What was he thinking! In broad daylight (admittedly more greylight than daylight this side of the river) in the middle of the street outside a solicitors’! He must have been temporarily insane.
‘Her Ladyship, Lady Mandible, has asked me to procure for her some butterflies for the Midwinter Feast,’ continued Bovrik. ‘Is it something you could do?’
‘I believe I could,’ said Hector slowly. This was an unexpected turn of events. He could use it to his advantage.
‘Then come to Withypitts. I’ll send a carriage for you.’
Hector nodded and he could feel the last of his anger slowly dissipating, and a plan taking its place.
The driver, having finally managed to secure the crate, indicated that it was time to go. Bovrik stepped up quickly into the carriage. He leaned out of the window.
‘And your name, boy?’ he asked as he handed Hector a note, telling him where to wait fo
r the carriage and when.
‘Hector Fi—’. He stopped abruptly. What sort of fool was he to tell Bovrik his surname! He hoped the Baron hadn’t noticed his hesitation.
‘Just Hector.’
And then as he watched the carriage trundle away a hand reached out of the window and flung something on the ground. It rolled unevenly to Hector and he picked it up. A penny.
‘Your treachery will cost you far more than this,’ said Hector. ‘Far, far, more.’
Chapter Thirteen
A Difficult Journey
The sun was already low in the sky as Hector stood outside the Nimble Finger stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together. People were saying that it was going to be a bad winter. They still talked about when the Foedus had frozen over. Hector remembered it too. He was five and his father had taken him to have a look. He had thought the river would be white but instead the frozen water was dark grey. Opportunistic merchants had set up their stalls, fires were burning, chestnuts were roasting, the atmosphere was merry and noisy. Of course Hector had wanted to go on to the ice but his father would not allow it, so he could only watch from the bank. Hector remembered the expression on his father’s face as he observed the people moving to and fro below. He had the queerest feeling that he too wished he could be down there with them.
The sound of clattering hoofs and turning wheels rudely interrupted Hector’s thoughts. A carriage drew up.
‘’Ector?’ called the driver. ‘For Withypitts?’
‘Yes, I am he,’ said Hector.
‘I’m Solomon,’ said the driver, peering closely at Hector. The boy’s clothes were tatty, yes, but the way he spoke, like a native but not quite, and the air he had about him . . . There’s more to this dark-eyed boy than first appears, he thought. And why should a baron send a carriage for him?
‘How long will it take?’ asked Hector as he climbed in.
‘Oooh,’ said Solomon, knitting his brows and sucking air in through his teeth. ‘Depends, you see, on the weather, the roads. Been a lot of rain recently, might be snow later. I reckon as we’ll stop off on the way, small place I know further into the mountains, a village, makes the journey shorter, though much later in the year that way’s impassable with the snow.’
‘Very well,’ said Hector, and he shut the door and settled on the seat. He heard the crack of a whip, there was a jolt and then he was off, rattling down the road away from Urbs Umida, from Polly and Lottie and from his father.
It was not a comfortable ride; the seats were distinctly less well padded than those he had once known but, having learned recently that it was possible to get used to almost anything, Hector resigned himself to it. He felt as if he was leaving behind not just one life but two, that of south and north.
Soon evening swallowed the daylight and he pulled the carriage curtain closed. His thoughts turned to Bovrik and his mind filled to the brim with murderous thoughts that set his heart racing. But he smiled through his clenched teeth. The irony of the situation didn’t escape him. That Janus-faced fraud, he thought grimly, has brought about his own end by inviting me to him.
They were climbing now and the temperature was dropping. Hector pulled his father’s cloak tighter and succumbed to the fatigue that had been building all day. The cloak, and the cocoon around his neck, were the only two things he had to remember his father by.
A bone-shaking jolt woke Hector from a deep sleep and threw him to the floor. ‘Tartri flammis!’ he exclaimed, and sat back down bracing himself with his hands, only for another violent jerk to unseat him. The driver’s fears were well founded; the recent storms had wreaked havoc with the roads.
Without warning there was a tremendous thud, an ear-splitting crack and a terrible tearing sound. The carriage veered sharply to the left and toppled over to land on its side. When all was still Hector, shaken but unharmed, managed to stand up. He retrieved his bag and crawled out of the door, which was now above his head, and saw Solomon standing on the side of the road cursing and swearing.
‘We’ve lost a wheel,’ he said as he unharnessed the horses. ‘But the village is a short distance up ahead. We can ’ave the carriage repaired there before setting off again.’
So, in the eerie glow of the gibbous moon, to the rhythmic accompaniment of the horses’ hoofs, Hector and Solomon rode in parallel up the steep hill. Soon they saw the lights of the village and Hector noted a large flat-faced stone at the side of the road upon which were etched the words ‘Pagus Parvus’.
‘Pagus Parvus,’ murmured Hector. ‘Small village.’ His tutor of old would have been pleased.
‘We can get some ’elp here,’ said Solomon, sounding relieved. ‘And ’ave an ’ot meal.’
Hector looked up the moonlit street. The hill was almost impossibly steep and he imagined the villagers having to pull themselves up by the window ledges just to get safely from one end to the other. They dismounted outside a tavern, the Pickled Trout, and handed the horses over to the care of a young boy who had run out upon hearing them. Hector followed Solomon into the tavern to be met with a burst of warm air and the sound of laughter. The landlord was polishing, or at least wiping, a glass behind the bar when he saw the two visitors. ‘Solomon!’ he called out. ‘You’re most welcome, sir!’
‘Benjamin Tup!’ Solomon hailed in return. He made his way to the bar and explained briefly about the carriage and Benjamin immediately organized a couple of men to go to repair it. ‘What’s your pleasure?’ he asked the two of them.
‘Ale, for me and young ’Ector ’ere ,’ said Solomon, ‘and let’s ’ave some stew while you’re at it.’
Solomon took his drink and went to a table by the wall, slopping his overfull jug on the sawdust-covered floor. He seemed a popular fellow and was hailed heartily left, right and centre. Hector joined him and an old woman came over to greet them. She had a nervous tic that caused her to wink intermittently.
‘So, where are you two off to tonight?’ she asked.
‘To Withypitts Hall,’ said Hector.
Hector didn’t know if he had spoken particularly loudly or if perhaps he had chosen a moment when the room was particularly quiet, but as soon as the words left his mouth the entire room went silent.
‘It’s a strange sort of place for a young lad,’ remarked the old lady.
‘I hope to be employed by Lady Mandible for the Midwinter Feast,’ Hector explained. ‘But what is so strange about Withypitts Hall?’
‘Not so much the Hall,’ said Benjamin, crossing his arms and leaning forward on the bar, ‘as the inhabitants! The comings and goings from that place! Lady Mandible’s deliveries pass through the village all the time and you’ve never seen the like. A trunk fell from a cart once, split in two, and the contents scattered all over the road. Little statuettes and ornaments of hideous creatures. Stuffed animals – I couldn’t put a name to ’em – and bones, big and small. Now what would a lady want with such outlandish objects?’
All those listening murmured in agreement.
‘Off to Withypitts, eh?’ said a man, stepping out of the shadows. ‘I’ll tell you a story that’ll really make you think twice about going there.’
‘Very well,’ said Hector. ‘But I warn you, I am not easily swayed from my purpose.’
Neither, it seemed, was the man. He sat at the table and began.
‘My name is Oscar Carpue. I too hail from Urbs Umida and it was in that city I was framed, by my own father-in-law, for a murder I did not commit. I couldn’t risk waiting for the constables. I was a poor man, he was rich. What hope had I of proving my innocence? So I too fed, leaving my young son, Pin, behind, and I came to Pagus Parvus. I went back to find him as soon as I could risk it, but he was gone from our lodgings. How I miss him still.
‘As for Withypitts Hall, I hardly wish to return there either. We villagers pay little heed to the goings-on at that place. But we heard that Lord Mandible’s son married, and then soon after that old Lord Mandible himself died. More recently rumours reached
us of a one-eyed man who had been taken on by Lady Mandible. When, a couple of weeks ago, a gleaming black carriage with scarlet blinds and three attendants rode into the village we knew this was the infamous Baron Bovrik de Vandolin.
‘He was seeking a carpenter and, as that is my trade, I went to Withypitts. It’s an odd place to behold, constructed from huge blocks of dark mountain rock with much decorative stonework. If you look for long enough you see that there are creatures hiding in the carvings: fierce griffins and hideous gargoyles. The porch pillars conceal lizards and snakes in their flowering capitals. It leaves you feeling that you are always observed.
‘I set to work immediately in the great dining hall, preparing it for the Midwinter Feast. My tasks were straightforward: repairing the panelled walls, securing loose floorboards, levelling the chairs. I saw hardly a soul in my time there, but above the sound of my lathe and hammer I often heard Lord Mandible and his two cats at the harpsichord.
‘One evening, just after the clock struck ten, I heard a great commotion from elsewhere in the building. I am as curious as the next man so I laid down my tools and followed the noise to the entrance hall where I saw a most peculiar sight. A party of men, huntsmen by their garb, was standing over a creature of some sort laid out on the marble floor. It was large and dark-haired with four limbs – what I would consider both legs and arms in the manner of an ape – and an enormous skull. Its smell was pungent, of rotting meat, as if it was already dead. But as I watched I saw its chest rise and fall. It moved suddenly and a huntsman stuck a dagger up to the hilt in its side. It moaned and turned its head and I swear it looked straight into my eyes. Even now I cannot describe to you how it made me feel.
The Eyeball Collector Page 6