The Bone Magician

by F. E. Higgins

  By the river did wander,

  The very next minute

  She sucked him under,

  She sucked him—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Beag,’ interrupted Mrs Hoadswood. ‘Perhaps later.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Pin. ‘I thought I went in the river and yet I’m not wet.’

  ‘She’s frozen over,’ said Beag.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Foedus. Covered in a sheet of ice two feet thick. It’s what saved you. You didn’t go under. You just landed on top of it.’

  ‘So that’s why my head hurts.’

  Aluph laughed. ‘I bet the other fellow’s does too.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The chap who knocked you over the wall,’ said Juno. ‘Beag threw one of his potatoes at him.’

  ‘Caught him smack on the side of the head,’ said Beag proudly. ‘My best shot ever, I should say.’

  Pin began to laugh but winced.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ asked Mrs Hoadswood as she ladled more soup into Pin’s bowl.

  ‘Well,’ began Pin. It was all coming back now. ‘After I lost Juno I was caught by a gang of beggars. They were going to roast me for their dinner but a stranger, it must be the man you saw, came after me and saved me by poking Zeke, the ringleader, with a stick. It made him fall over. The fellow who saved me asked if I had seen the Beast and as soon as we reached the Foedus he poked me with the stick. The next thing I knew I was falling over the wall.’

  ‘A stick that makes you jump?’ Beag raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I can’t describe it,’ said Pin. ‘There was a whirring sound and when the stick touched me I got the most tremendous shock and it knocked me off my feet.’

  Beag was not convinced. ‘Are you sure? Perhaps the bump on your head has confused you.’

  ‘No,’ said Pin firmly. ‘I know it sounds strange, but that is what happened. Look, there’s a mark where the stick poked me.’

  He pointed to the front of his shirt and there was indeed a dark brown stain about chest high.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Aluph, and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Looks like a burn to me.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about this man?’ asked Beag.

  Pin frowned. ‘Not really. It was so foggy I didn’t get a clear look at him. I do remember that he tried to pick my pocket just before I fell.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Aluph thoughtfully. ‘But I don’t think that’s what he was doing.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Pin.

  ‘I think,’ said Aluph slowly, reaching into Pin’s coat pocket, ‘he was putting something in it.’ And with a flourish he withdrew a silver apple.

  ‘Well, strike me down with a peacock’s plume!’ gasped Mrs Hoadswood. ‘Pin escaped the Silver Apple Killer!’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Article from

  The Urbs Umida Daily Chronicle

  A LUCKY ESCAPE

  by

  Deodonatus Snoad

  My Dear Readers,

  I am sure that by now there are very few of you out there who have not seen, or at the very least heard about, the miracle that occurred two nights ago when the River Foedus, after groaning for hours, finally came to a halt and froze over completely. The ice has been confirmed to be at least two feet thick and already the surface is overrun with stalls selling all manner of goods: garters and laces, hot drinks and buns, ham in bread and, of course, entertainers. I believe our resident potato thrower is displaying his dubious skill to all and sundry.

  But even in the midst of all this fun and games, there are far more important matters at hand. Urbs Umida is without doubt (and I say this not meaning to offend any of you worthy citizens) a vile city existing in evil times. A city inhabited by ugly, evil, creatures, some barely recognizable as men; a city without self-respect, a city that is steeped in gloom and filth and run through by the stinking waters of the Foedus.

  And she is a city that breeds murderers.

  It is of this breed that I wish to write today and, in particular, of the Silver Apple Killer, who has had us in his fatal grip these past few weeks. Let us consider this man, and I say ‘man’ for there is no evidence that he is a woman or a beast. There is a belief, of course, that the fairer sex is not possessed of the sort of mind or strength that could carry out such terrible crimes. I myself do not hold this to be strictly true, but that is a matter for another time.

  Deodonatus laid his quill on the table and sat back in his chair. He frowned and sneered at the same time, which required significant concentration. The idea that women couldn’t be cruel? How ridiculous. It almost made him laugh, and he would have except for the pain that shot through his scarred heart when he thought of his own mother. His father had beaten him, for no reason other than the fact that his son’s face reminded him of his own shortcomings. But it was his mother who had the greatest effect on him. Her torture was different. It wasn’t physical – there were no obvious signs of it – its legacy was deep inside. She had persecuted him day and night with her poisonous looks and barbed comments. He remembered the last time he saw them both. His father standing in the doorway with that grin on his face and the full purse in his hand. And his mother, saliva glistening on her top lip as she spoke her last words to him. Had he really expected anything different?

  ‘You wretch,’ she spat. ‘You twisted wretch. Good riddance.’

  Without even knowing he was doing it, Deodonatus wiped at his cheek where all those years ago her venomous spit had landed on his skin. He picked up the quill and started to write again.

  I hardly need tell you who I think is responsible for this violence. I have long held the belief that the Silver Apple Killer and the fugitive Oscar Carpue are one and the same. It is not beyond the bounds of belief for a man enraged by grief (at the loss of a wife) to suffer a mental turn and to become, quite simply, a complete lunatic. Thus could he melt into the crowd, invisible to us all, for Lord knows there is no shortage of madmen in this city.

  As to his motive, well, insanity is motive enough. But to my mind, whether he is completely mad or not, what is more important is that we discover why these killings are taking place. To do this we must try to understand him better. He is trying to tell us something. At the very least the silver apple must show us that.

  It has been suggested to me that perhaps he considers he is doing society a service, ridding the streets of those whom he considers undesirable. But so far his victims have been simple citizens. The first was a washerwoman, the second a chimney sweep, the third a street sweeper, the fourth a coal seller, the fifth a housemaid, the sixth a gin pedlar, the seventh a peruke maker and the eighth, the most recent, who exploded, a man of no note whatsoever.

  As far as I can work out, our constable, the estimable George Coggley, considers that the murders are random, no more than a matter of bad luck on the part of the victim, and he has not yet made any connection between the eight victims. I, however, suggest to you that there must be a link. And I will go so far as to say, if we find this missing link, then we can put a stop to these dreadful acts of violence.

  My question is this. Are these people unknowingly doing something to offend the killer? Are they unwittingly bringing about their own tragic ends? Let me, in fact, be absolutely blunt. Is their fate actually their own fault?

  I finish with some surprising news. I have heard through one of my sources that two nights ago the Silver Apple Killer was thwarted. The victim, a young lad, was actually in the killer’s clutches. He was pushed into the river and doubtless his final thoughts were flashing across his mind’s eye as he fell and braced himself for the fatal dipping. But Lady Luck, as fickle a mistress as ever did live, was with him for the boy landed not in the water but on the newly formed ice. Who would have thought that at the exact moment the ice closed over the river’s surface a boy should fall on it? Seconds earlier he would have been trapped beneath it. What could so easily have been the instrument of his end became his savi
our. One man’s soup is another man’s poison. And if luck was with the boy, then what contrary force was with the killer? It’s an ill wind, as they say.

  Until next time, Deodonatus Snoad

  Deodonatus Snoad

  Deodonatus rubbed his head. He was weary these days, weary in body and soul. He took the two sheets of paper and went to the fire. He poured himself a mug of ale from a small flagon he kept beside the hearth and sat down with a contemplative look on his ugly face. Urbs Umida. He had made the City his home and it had served him well. But for all that, he scorned her people, each and every one, because no matter what they said or did, he knew that if they, his ‘Dear Readers’, saw him they would recoil from him in the same way as everyone else had done all his life.

  ‘They deserve the Silver Apple Killer,’ he said with measured malevolence.

  Deodonatus shook his head violently, as if to rid himself of such thoughts, but he achieved little more than to exacerbate the throbbing in his skull. He sighed and looked at the pages he had just written. As he read through them a strange look crossed his face, as if something very obvious had just occurred to him.

  ‘They will never learn,’ he muttered. ‘Ears had they and heard not.’ It was as true today as in the century when Aeschylus had first put the words down on paper.

  Deodonatus drained his ale and gave his room a perfunctory tidy in the course of which he knocked over a small pot on his desk. He cursed the spill and made only a rudimentary effort to mop it up. Then he sat down again and took his timepiece from his pocket and noted the hour. ‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘Not long now.’

  He reached up and took from the mantel his copy of Houndsecker’s Tales of Faeries and Blythe Spirits. The book fell open on a much-read page:

  ‘There was once a beautiful princess who had everything a princess could wish for . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Pin’s Journal

  It is late, past midnight, but I must write this now. I have an admission. I have done something tonight that does not rest easy with me, for it involves deceit and dis sembling. I admit I shy away from writing of it, but I have always held that this journal must tell my story, the whole story, not only the parts I wish others to see.

  Since I fell on the Foedus some days ago and unwittingly escaped the clutches of the Silver Apple Killer, I have thought long and hard about the bargain I made with Juno. And the more I have thought about it, the more the idea has grown on me. My future is not in this city. The only question to be resolved is this: do I go with the answer I have craved – the matter of my father’s innocence or guilt – or not?

  Time, however, is running out. In an effort to solve the mystery of Bone Magic, I have been to see Madame de Bona again, but I am still none the wiser, only sixpence poorer. Madame de Bona played her part to perfection. Benedict orchestrated the affair and Juno created the atmosphere, for that is what she does with those herbs, masking the abominable odours from the tavern. You can even smell the Gluttonous Beast up there. I thought perhaps she should swing her bottle a little less – the smell is quite overpowering – though I suppose I am more susceptible than most. I will never believe that this resurrection is real. My father always said that there is an answer to everything in this world if we seek it out. Yet what evidence have I of trickery? Even Deodonatus Snoad seems convinced.

  This whole business of bones and corpse raising preyed on my mind all day and I was so distracted that Mr Gaufridus released me early. It is not the first time that he has done this. Sometimes I think it is just an excuse to get rid of me so he can work on some new device. He likes to keep it all secret until he has finished. It is easy enough to know when he is up to something. He is a rather careless worker; I often find things on the floor that are not part of a coffin – screws and bolts and oily chain links and such like. I suspect he keeps things hidden away in the Cella Moribundi.

  My early return to Mrs Hoadswood’s afforded me the opportunity to overhear a very interesting conversation. I stopped on the stairs to savour the aroma of dinner, a habit I have developed, and as I stood there I heard Benedict and Juno arguing below. I deduced that they must be alone because the exchange was both heated and frank. I knew I should not be listening, but I could not make my feet carry me up the stairs. It became obvious that Benedict was trying to persuade Juno to perform another private corpse raising. Juno was adamant that she would not.

  ‘We agreed,’ she said firmly. ‘Sybil was the last one. And anyway, what if there is another body watcher? Will we have to drug him like we drugged Pin?’

  ‘There won’t be,’ said Benedict. ‘This fellow assured me that the family were happy for us to be there. All they wish is to say a last farewell to their poor father who died so suddenly. It’s hardly too much to ask. After next week you will be gone and need involve yourself in this business no more. Just do it as a last favour to me, an old man who hates to see others suffer.’

  Juno was quiet for a long time. She has a soft spot for Benedict, and I was not surprised when she relented. ‘Very well,’ she agreed finally. ‘But I swear to you on the memory of my own father that this is the last time.’

  Benedict seemed happy with this arrangement and they agreed to go straight from the Nimble Finger to an address over the Bridge where the family, and the body, would be waiting. And that was when I had the idea. What if I followed them to the raising? I could not miss this opportunity to witness another extraordinary act of Bone Magic. It might give me the chance I needed to solve the riddle for once and for all. My plan made, I was about to continue down the stairs when Juno started to talk again.

  ‘Pin has asked to travel with me,’ she said.

  ‘I see,’ was Benedict’s reply. ‘Well, he’s a good boy, loyal, hard-working.’

  Juno made a noise as if she wasn’t sure. ‘My only fear is that he will hold me up. When I go from here, it is with one quest in mind.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Benedict slowly, ‘that you are both on a similar quest.’

  I heard the scrape of a chair on the floor and I knew that someone was on the way so I crept back up the stairs and to my room. Shortly after I heard Juno’s door and before long I could smell her burning herbs, not those to help her sleep but to relax. By now I knew some of the combinations well.

  I settled outside the Nimble Finger around nine, and just as the bells struck the half-hour, the side door opened into the alley and out came Juno and Benedict. I followed them cautiously over the Bridge. How lovely it was to inhale the clean air of the north and to walk such wide, well-lit streets. Unfortunately it was not so easy to stay out of sight and I had to keep quite far back. It wasn’t long before Juno knocked at the glossy door of a large house in a well-tended square.

  I strained my ears to hear a brief exchange of words before they were allowed in. This all seemed far more straightforward than Sybil’s affair – at least they gained honest entry. But how should I enter the house? Certainly not in their wake. I went down the iron steps to the basement and as luck would have it a kitchen girl came out with a coal scuttle. I ducked out of sight and as soon as she started rummaging in the coal store I seized my chance and ran in.

  I was in a narrow corridor, a flight of stairs directly ahead, and I guessed the kitchen was down the other end. I heard the rustling tassels of Benedict’s pointed shoes before I saw them on the top stair and, seeing a door to my right, I slipped behind it to hide. Again I was blessed with good fortune, for in the light of the ensconced candles I realized I was in the very room where the body in question was laid out. I heard voices and saw a large chest by the wall in which I concealed myself just as the door began to open.

  The chest held blankets and cloths and made a comfortable enough hiding place. I pushed out a loose knot in the wood and through the hole I could see quite clearly into the room. I settled down with my green eye to the hole, determined to watch closely to see how Benedict worked his magic. The body, an old man, lay on the table directly ahead. Seco
nds later Benedict and Juno were led in by two young men dressed in black. They were followed by an older woman, also in mourning dress. From their dark brows and wide-set eyes I surmised that the two men were sons to the mother. They seemed in good enough humour under the circumstances, and even laughed a little and joked. Grief affects people in different ways – I had learned that much from Mr Gaufridus – but there was something about this trio that made me uneasy. I had a feeling that all was not as it se emed.

  At first everything went as I expected. Benedict and Juno, their top lips glistening with the unguent they smeared there, took their places and soon the aroma of Juno’s bottled potion came to me, though, hidden as I was, it was very faint. Determined to keep a clear head I wrapped a linen glass-cloth around my mouth and nose and was pleasantly surprised at how effective it was. I had always found the summoning potion quite cloying. Benedict raised his arms and began his now familiar spe ech. I must say they put on a fine show, the pair of them. Benedict’s robes and bearing gave him an almost kingly air and Juno’s quiet movements lent grace and solemnity to the occasion.

  I observed the trio of onlookers and concluded that they seemed not so much nervous as unusually keen for the whole thing to begin. Benedict finished his incantations and I waited eagerly for the result. The boys and their mother appeared quite transfixed by their dead father but, to my surprise, the body didn’t move. Benedict looked as if he was about to say something, but before he had the chance one of the young fellows, the shorter, leaped forward and grabbed his father roughly by the shoulders and began to shake him.