The Bone Magician

by F. E. Higgins

  He pulled up the blanket and felt its roughness under his chin and was reassured that this was very real. He heard the creaking of the floorboards below and guessed that the others were off to bed too. His mind drifted and he thought of Sybil and Mr Pantagus, and Madame de Bona and, of course, Juno. Perhaps they could be friends, he thought, and determined to speak to her properly in the morning. Then his eyes closed and his breathing slowed and he was asleep.

  In the room below, Juno also lay in bed, but she was wide awake. It intrigued and troubled her that the boy with the strange eyes had turned up out of the blue. She had not thought they would cross paths again after that night with Sybil and then at the Nimble Finger. ‘He certainly recognized me,’ she mused as she turned over. ‘All through supper, whenever I looked up, there he was staring at me.’

  Juno knew about Oscar Carpue – who didn’t? But she also knew that Mrs Hoadswood wasn’t the kind of person to judge someone by the actions of others, related or not. She would be the first to say that there were many in Irongate Prison whose only crime was poverty.

  What a strange collection we are, she thought. Beag and Aluph, Benedict and myself, and now an undertaker’s assistant with a murderous past, admittedly by association . . . And so her thoughts ran on and time passed and still she could not sleep. She knew what would help. She lay for a minute, in two minds, thinking about what Benedict had said earlier, but then she pulled out her trunk. She’d worry about that another day.

  Pin wasn’t sure what woke him. He thought perhaps a bird landing on the roof, but whatever it was it gave him a shock and he lay still with his heart pounding like a paviour’s hammer. The darkness was almost complete except for the faintest glow from the fire. Where was he?

  Mrs Hoadwood’s, he remembered with a gleeful feeling. He curled up and closed his eyes, drawing the blanket up over his ears. If he could only recapture his dreams! But his nose began to twitch and he could smell something, a peculiar sweetness on the air, creeping into his room.

  He sat up on one elbow and sniffed. Quietly he left the bed, lit the candle from the embers and followed his nose across the room and down the stairs. Once in the corridor it was immediately obvious where the smell was coming from – hazy smoke was seeping out from under the door directly opposite. He stood with his nose pressed against the wood. It was an irresistible smell, and hardly thinking of what he was doing he grasped the handle, but before he could turn it the door opened and he found himself face to face with a white-faced ghoul.

  ‘Fiends!’ He jumped back. ‘You nearly gave me an apoplectic fit! I fancied you to be a shade.’

  Juno laughed and pulled him in, shutting the door behind him. ‘I should have thought in your line of work you’d have met your fair share of them already.’

  Pin reddened. He looked around the room. It was furnished sparsely, very much like his own, but larger. ‘I’m sorry. I followed the smell . . .’

  ‘Ah, my little secret!’

  Juno went over to the fire, took away the burner and covered it with a lid. She knelt on the floor and held her hands out to the flames.

  ‘Join me.’

  Pin sat down beside her. ‘What were you burning?’

  ‘Herbs,’ she replied. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright, but Pin wasn’t so sure it was from the heat. She reached across to the bed and pulled out the trunk. ‘I have some for every occasion,’ she said, opening the lid and showing Pin the pots and packets. She pointed them out.

  ‘Heliotrope for good luck, caraway seeds for good health, cumin for tranquillity. And here, cinnamon and anise—’

  ‘For summoning,’ said Pin with a smile which Juno returned.

  ‘And tonight,’ she continued, ‘I was burning jasmine and lavender with a drop of bergamot oil, to help me sleep.’

  ‘Your conscience must be pricked,’ laughed Pin, ‘about what you did to me.’

  Juno looked guilty. ‘You mean that night with Sybil and Mr Belding? I’m sorry, but I had to give you the sleeping drug; we couldn’t afford to have you interfere.’

  ‘It’s the strangest thing I have ever seen,’ said Pin. ‘A body coming to life in that way.’

  ‘So you were awake.’

  ‘Only just. I’m not sure it wasn’t a dream.’

  ‘Don’t you believe what you saw?’

  ‘I know what I saw,’ said Pin. ‘But I also know it can’t be real.’

  ‘What about Madame de Bona?’

  He laughed. ‘That’s a good trick.’

  ‘But you asked her a question! Weren’t you pleased with the answer?’

  ‘If it was true! But I think my father has gone from here. I have looked for weeks.’

  ‘Madame de Bona doesn’t lie.’

  Pin looked at her sharply. Was she teasing? He couldn’t tell. ‘I should have asked who killed my uncle. That would have solved a lot of problems. I wonder what Madame de Bona would have said to that.’

  Juno grinned. ‘I am sure you would be satisfied with the answer, whatever it was.’ She yawned widely and stretched. ‘You’ll like it here,’ she said. ‘You’re in good company. You can have my room when I go. It’s bigger.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘Not for a week or two. Benedict is staying here, Mrs Hoadswood insisted, but I want to leave the City.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Pin with feeling. ‘There’s nothing here for me any more.’

  ‘I could say the same thing.’ Juno yawned again and Pin rose and went to the door. He sniffed the air gently and watched as she put the herbs away. He was surprised to feel disappointed that she was not going to be around much longer. She saw him watching and smiled.

  ‘We have something else in common, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We are both looking for someone.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking for my father,’ said Pin. ‘Who are you looking for?’

  ‘The man who murdered mine.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Pin’s Journal

  Well, it has been a week now since I met with Beag and Aluph – already Mr Buncombe allows me to address him as such – and it is my sincere belief that I have not spent such a marvellous seven nights as this in my entire life. I cannot recall similar feelings of satisfaction and contentment since my mother died. Father went into such a decline after that and he was never the same again. As for Uncle Fabian, how I wish I knew the events of that terrible night. How I seethe when I think of him! Could it be possible that Father felt such anger too, that he lost control and took him by his scrawny throat?

  It does me no good to dwell on such matters, however, and for now I prefer to think on my new friends, for already the welcome has been such that I consider them to be just that. Juno has proved to be an intriguing companion and we have spent many hours together discussing most things under the sun until the late hours. She is extremely knowledgeable about nature’s bounty and I have developed quite a fondness for her aromatic practices – they are most conducive to easeful sleep – and indeed, for her own aroma; she smells of juniper. She may be serious by nature, but she has a keen wit and I fancy I sense a growing connection between us.

  Mr Pantagus in the main keeps to himself; he seems rather frail, but Beag is a remarkable fellow, an entertainer of no mean talent. Most evenings after supper – to date a superb array of Mrs Hoadswood’s pies and ale – Beag is called upon to sing or tell a story. Last night we were treated to a fine rendition of ‘Old Mackey Donnelly’s Donkey’. Beag sang the verses to the tune of ‘The Wild Rover of Bally Hooley’, and we joined in the chorus. It goes something like this:

  Old Mackey Donnelly

  Put his donkey out to grass

  But the cheeky donkey turned

  And bit him on the . . .

  Then the chorus comes in with:

  . . . As sure as roses bloom in spring

  As sure as night ’comes day

  I’ll be back to Bally Hooley ’fore the

  Making of
the hay

  The verses are numerous – I am sure Beag makes them up as he goes along – but it is a most enjoyable way to pass the time and certainly takes your mind off your worries.

  I have a growing admiration for Aluph Buncombe. I enjoy watching him at the table for he eats with a quiet delicacy, in complete contrast to the others, which reminds me of my mother. She was always very strict about my manners and Aluph shames me into remembering what once came naturally to me. Not only is he well spoken, but he dresses immeasurably better than the rest of us. As is currently fashionable across the river, he sports a bunch of lace at his neck to which is pinned a brooch of a different colour stone every day. Today it was a ruby. I cannot be sure of its authenticity, but it is very pleasing to the eye. There is lace at his cuffs and he wears a well-fitted waistcoat with gold embroidery. I do suspect his monocle is an affectation, as it spends more time dropping out of his eye than in it. Aluph and Beag, despite their apparent differences, are the greatest of friends. They are drawn together by the heartfelt belief that each is destined for greater things.

  Tonight there was no singing, but the conversation over supper was far-ranging and most interesting. Aluph noticed that I was admiring his outfit and said as much with his attractive and practised smile (and when I say practised, I mean exactly that, for I see him daily in front of the looking glass in the hall).

  ‘Aluph ain’t like the rest of us,’ said Mrs Hoadswood.

  ‘Sometimes I think we’re lucky to be graced with his presence at the same table.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Hoadswood, you say the nicest things,’ said Aluph, and his coruscating smile lit up the room. ‘You see,’ he continued, turning back to me. ‘It is essential in my profession that I dress thus.’

  ‘What is your business, Mr Buncombe?’ I asked with genuine interest, for I knew he worked irregular hours – but at what?

  ‘Well, my dear boy,’ he said, quite brimming with self-importance, ‘it is difficult to explain.’

  ‘He reads lumps,’ said Beag gruffly.

  Aluph shook his head. ‘That, Beag, is not strictly true, and I should have expected more from a man who claims such learning as yourself.’

  ‘Lumps?’ I was intrigued.

  ‘Head lumps – I mean bumps,’ Aluph corrected him self. ‘I read the bumps on people’s heads.’

  I failed to see the difference between lumps and bumps but out of common courtesy refrained from saying so.

  ‘For what reason?’ I asked.

  Aluph came around the table to stand beside me. ‘There are many reasons.’

  ‘But mainly for money,’ laughed Mrs Hoadswood.

  A fool and his money are easily parted,’ muttered Beag‘ softly.

  Aluph seemed oblivious to all this and cast a critical eye over my head. ‘From the unique shape and texture of a person’s head, I can tell what sort of character they have,’ he declared confidently. ‘It is a philosophical and scientific matter known as Cranial Topography. It’s also about untapped potential. You know what you are now, but do you know what you could become?’

  ‘Once an addlepate, always an addlepate,’ said Beag.

  Then Mr Pantagus spoke, to no one in particular, from the far end of the table.

  Although I know little about the science of head‘ lumps,’ he said mildly as Aluph grimaced, my‘ own expertise being in another field altogether, I have to admire Mr Buncombe’s unswerving dedication to the subject. Whatever I think about the matter, there are plenty of people in this city who are only too willing to have their heads read. I wish him luck and I hope they are pleased with what they hear.’

  ‘I can assure you, dear Benedict,’ said Aluph, ‘that my customers are always satisfied.’

  As are mine,’ replied Mr Pantagus, and there was a‘ twinkle in his eye.

  Aluph turned once more to me. He pursed his lips slightly when he saw the unkempt state of my hair – I understand now that he is used to rather better coiffured tresses – but undeterred he spread his fingers wide and dug his hands into my knotted tufts and began to run his fingertips slowly over my forehead, my crown, above my ears and down to the nape of my neck. He was silent except for the occasional ‘ah’ or ‘uhuh’ or ‘hmm’.

  ‘What have you found?’ I asked, unable to hold back any longer.

  Aluph wiped his hands carefully on a bright green lace-edged handkerchief he carried in his waistcoat pocket. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘your head is what I would call dolichocephalic in shape. That is, rather longer than it is wide.’

  I wondered if this was good or bad.

  ‘I can tell from this,’ continued Aluph, tapping firmly on my left temple, that‘ you are a boy of great intelligence and I sense that you have an appreciation for the finer things in life.’

  ‘What else?’ I asked.

  Aluph smiled benignly. ‘I am afraid I can say no more without payment.’ He looked hopeful; I felt he expected a coin or two, but he was soon disabused of this notion.

  ‘Profound, indeed,’ remarked Beag with a grin.

  ‘Mr Hickory,’ said Aluph with commendable restraint, as a ‘ potato thrower —’ he emphasized the word potato quite strongly – ‘I can hardly imagine that you have much to contribute to this discussion.’

  Beag would not entertain any slur on his potato-throwing talents. He stood up and raised his clenched fists. ‘Buncombe,’ he snarled, ‘if you don’t hold your tongue I’ll give you a bump you’ll be feeling for the next six months.’ He thrust his fist across the table and Aluph leaned back quickly.

  ‘Please, gentlemen,’ intervened Mrs Hoadswood sharply, rising to her feet. Her eyes were fiery. Beag sat down again with a grunt and Aluph adjusted his cuffs. Then Mr Pantagus asked the question that had been on the tip of everyone’s tongue for days. I knew it would come.

  ‘Well, Pin, what do you know of Fabian Merdegrave’s mur der?’

  And so I told them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Tale and a Deal

  ‘The murder of Uncle Fabian has its roots in the past. When my mother said she wished to marry a southerner it caused terrible trouble and split the Merdegrave family. Grandfather said he never wanted to see her again and disowned her. Grandmother was not so violently opposed to the marriage but would not go against his wishes. When Grandmother was still alive Mother used to take me in secret to see her. She gave us money and small gifts and smuggled out pieces of Mother’s jewellery from the house. Mother was always hopeful that one day her father would relent and the rift would be healed.

  ‘Despite this, we were happy enough. Father was a skilled carpenter and he taught me all he knew; Mother cooked and sold her wares in the market. In the evening she taught me to read and write for she wanted me to get ahead in life. My learning, and love of it, set me apart from the other children on the street, but when I complained, Mother told me that I had a choice – to forge my own way or to follow the pack. It was her greatest desire that I should make something of myself and I know she didn’t want me to stay in the City. Sometimes she told me stories about her childhood over the river, about the beautiful house she lived in with so many rooms she couldn’t count them, about the servants who provided for their every need and about her wonderful toys. I wondered why she ever left but she said to me that there was more to life than owning objects. That sometimes the most precious things of all couldn’t be touched by a human hand. I didn’t understand then, but I think I am beginning to understand now.

  ‘The trouble started when Fabian, my mother’s brother, found out about the secret visits. He was a drinker and a gambler and would take any wager down at the Nimble Finger. He was always in trouble, owing money to all sorts of people. When Jeremiah Ratchet, a rich man from out of town, employed some violent fellows to collect his debts, Grandfather ran out of patience and refused Fabian any more money. So Fabian came to us and threatened to tell about our secret meetings. This would have put Grandmother in a terrible position so my father gave Fabian what
he could, because my mother asked him, but not the jewellery, which he hid.

  ‘Then Grandmother died and we thought Fabian would not bother us any more. We moved into cheaper lodgings and didn’t see my uncle for a long time. We thought we might be able to live in peace again, but before long my mother fell ill and couldn’t work. Father sold all the jewellery to pay for cures, but nothing helped. When she died he fell into a terrible melancholy, losing all interest in life and work. I tried my best to fulfil his promises, but my woodworking skills were not yet up to his and the jobs became fewer and fewer and our debts grew.

  ‘Not so long ago, before he was murdered, Fabian found out where we were and came looking for money again. My father was furious and sent him away, but he returned when I was alone and he started asking about my mother’s jewellery. I told him the truth, that whatever we had we had pawned, except for one piece, a silver picture locket, that had been buried with her, in keeping with tradition. He seemed to believe me and I was glad when he left. I truly thought we were rid of him.

  ‘When Father heard about Fabian’s visit he flew into a terrible rage. ‘‘The gutter scoundrel,’’ he ranted. ‘‘He has used you, a young lad, for his own greedy ends.’’ He pulled on his coat. ‘‘I know where he’ll be,’’ he said. ‘‘I have to get to him before it’s too late.’’