‘Well,’ said Stradigund as the charred remnants of the will floated up the chimney, ‘that will put an end to his credibility. You recall, Cadmus, that Ambrose came to me with that dangerous rumour – a writer for the Hebdomadal had told him of some beggar who had a wild story about you.’
‘Pah!’ spat Acantha. ‘You know what I think of beggars, nothing but pests they are.’
‘Perhaps we should suggest the committee employ the services of a pest controller,’ said Chapelizod and laughed longer than was necessary at his own joke.
‘So, Acantha, what of your plan for the boy?’ asked Stradigund. ‘He could cause trouble. He asks questions and is suspicious of you. Is it wise to have him in the house?’
Acantha pursed her painted lips. ‘For the time being I think he is better off where I can keep an eye on him,’ she said. ‘He’s a cunning little beast. I just want to make sure he doesn’t know anything he shouldn’t. It would look suspicious to send him off straight away. They say to keep your enemies close after all. As for the future, I have decided to send him away to the Reform School in Urbs Umida. He has acquired a certain look of defiance. That place will knock it out of him!’
Rex stifled a gasp. No! he thought. The Reform School in Urbs Umida, the most godforsaken city in the land! How then could he possibly free his father? And what of his own future? The Reform School offered no education, merely a curriculum of violence and fear. This was much, much worse than he had thought.
‘I think we should celebrate with a hearty supper,’ said Acantha. ‘Early next week perhaps, after our committee meeting?’
Stradigund raised his eyebrows. ‘Hearty?’
‘At the very least meaty,’ she replied. ‘What do you think, Cadmus?’
Chapelizod looked surprised. ‘Can you organize it that quickly?’
‘Oh, I believe so,’ said Acantha confidently. ‘My butcher is particularly good. He’ll go out of his way to help me. I’ll have the kitchen girl send him a message to bring round a nice joint. Something special.’
Stradigund shot a glance at Chapelizod who nodded enthusiastically. Rex, still reeling from Stradigund’s betrayal, was now revolted. It seemed his father’s life was no more important to this carnivorous trio than their next meal. Was there no limit to their wickedness?
‘Very well. The usual time?’
Acantha nodded.
‘’Tis a pity Ambrose will not be able to make it,’ sniggered Chapelizod.
‘He will be missed,’ chipped in Stradigund.
‘And he so liked my cooking,’ smiled Acantha. ‘Let’s have a drink to celebrate? Today has been a long time coming.’
‘Patience is a virtue,’ said Chapelizod with a broad grin. There was a little flash of light and Rex saw that he had acquired a large gold tooth. Acantha rang for the maid who arrived promptly (she dared not do otherwise), then scuttled away to return with a silver tray upon which sat three glasses and a bottle of red wine.
‘From Fitzbaudly’s,’ smirked Acantha. ‘A ’59 no less.’
Straight from Father’s cellar, thought Rex bitterly. Oh yes, Acantha, you certainly know how to enjoy yourself.
Stradigund did the honours, pouring the ruby liquid into the deep-cut crystal glasses. Acantha held hers up to the light.
‘To us,’ she said, and her eyes sparkled with the crystal. ‘And to the Society of Andrew Faye.’
The others repeated the toast then flung their heads back and took a long draught of the liquid.
‘Now, I must away to catch the boat,’ said Mr Chapelizod, and all three stood to go.
Rex raged silently behind the shelf. He realized that the odd feeling creeping through his veins all the time he watched this vile trine was one of impending doom.
Andrew Faye? he thought. Who on earth could that be?
4
A Disagreement
Rex watched as Acantha led Stradigund and Chapelizod from the library. They had nearly finished the bottle and all three were in a merry mood. All his suspicions had finally been confirmed: Acantha was in league against his father with Stradigund and Chapelizod. Stradigund’s betrayal hurt the most. Rex had trusted him, he had even confided his fears about Acantha to him, and all the time the lawyer had been plotting against him. Robert had been right: Stradigund and Chapelizod were strong allies. No doubt Acantha will pay them handsomely for helping her, thought Rex, recalling Chapelizod’s gold tooth with distaste. Maybe I should be grateful that she didn’t just kill Father. He didn’t like to think that perhaps being in the lunatic asylum might be worse than death.
But that begged the question, why not kill him? Firstly, it was not so easy. There was always the small matter of the body, usually the reason murderers didn’t get away with it. Far easier to imprison his father in such a way that no one would hear his protestations. And who would believe the ravings of a lunatic? With Stradigund to advise on legalities, no doubt Acantha was well aware the law stated that when a man died his wife did not inherit a husband’s wealth; it went first to blood relatives.
And that would be me! thought Rex. So by declaring Ambrose insane she had bypassed the laws of inheritance.
But how could she possibly have known that he was to lose his mind like that?
He kept coming back to the same answer: Acantha had a hand in his father’s breakdown. And, if so, then it was no wonder that Chapelizod and Stradigund had arrived so swiftly that night. They must have been lying in wait. Chapelizod had declared Ambrose insane within minutes of his arrival, despite barely examining him. As for the Law of a Hundred Days, Stradigund must have dug deep to find that one.
The whole ghastly scene began to replay itself in Rex’s mind. He hated to think of it; it made him feel physically ill. In an effort to block out the full horror of what he had seen he had taken to reciting a poem, a piece of doggerel, something he had heard in the town from a travelling bard.
Oh, how I love to wander, wander, wander
Wander, wander along.
And as I go, a-ho-ho-ho,
I always sing this song.
The clock struck the seventh chime of nine as Rex emerged from his hiding place. Too late, he heard Acantha’s elephantine footsteps outside in the hall and before he could do anything the door opened. He stood frozen on the spot. Acantha was framed in the doorway, her feet planted apart, her face flushed, and she was swaying ever so slightly.
‘Rex,’ she said unusually calmly. ‘I thought I told you to stay in your room.’
‘I know,’ said Rex evenly. ‘But I needed something to read.’ Thinking quickly he held up the book of gases.
Acantha blinked slowly. ‘How long have you been in here?’
‘Oh, not long. I saw you and Mr Stradigund and Mr Chapelizod come out.’
Acantha arched an eyebrow. She looked as if she was about to say something but changed her mind. A self-satisfied expression washed over her hot-cheeked face. ‘Well, perhaps you should take advantage of the library; there is plenty to learn in here.’
‘Robert teaches me well enough.’
‘Robert? Oh, I have let him go.’
Suddenly Rex knew he could stand it no longer. Her knowing, fleshy, complacent face, her barbed remarks, the way she spoke about his father. Something inside him exploded.
‘You . . . you cruel, foul-smelling witch!’ he shouted and lunged violently at her. ‘I know you sent him there because you wanted him out of the way. I know it!’ He raised his fists to beat upon her but she grabbed him by the wrists. She was strong, far stronger than he could have anticipated, and her eyes were wild. And there was that smell from her, a smell that she couldn’t disguise with all her expensive perfumes and waters. And suddenly he knew what it was.
She smelt like an animal.
‘Look at you,’ she hissed, and spit came out of the corners of her mouth. ‘Look what your father did to you.’ She thrust his arm upwards to reveal the scar. It was red and pulsating from the pressure. ‘You ungrateful wretch. I saved you
from him. I wonder if I should have bothered. If you’re not careful, lad, you’ll end up with your father. I’m warning you now. The sooner you’re gone from here, the better.’
Rex pulled away and pushed past her. He tore up the stairs, three at a time, and ran to his room, slamming the door. He threw himself on to the velvet counterpane. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t let himself. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. As he turned, a crackling noise came from under his pillow so he reached in and pulled out a small square of folded paper. He opened it and recognized immediately Robert’s handwriting. With a sinking heart he read:
My dear Rex,
This is a note written in haste and I apologize for my penmanship – all those times I complained about yours! Acantha has dismissed me. I can only suppose she wants to hire a tutor of her own choosing. I will not be staying in Opum Oppidulum – Acantha will not give me a reference – so it is doubtful that I will see you again.
I wanted to wish you luck, Rex. I fear you will need it. And I wanted to tell you not to give up hope. I know that your circumstances are not easy but you are resourceful and you know the value of perseverance. Disce pati, as the saying goes. You are your father’s son, Rex, and I am certain that you can find a way out of your difficulties. I intend to travel to Urbs Umida, not the most pleasant of places I know, but I should be able to find another position there. You can write to me at the Nimble Finger Inn until I get settled.
With very best wishes,
Robert
Postscript: I couldn’t leave without saying how good your translation was, about the slave. The verb you were looking for was compungere, to ‘prick’ or ‘sting’.
Rex folded the letter and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He knew there was not to be a new tutor. Tears stung his eyes. Compungere. He wouldn’t have known that.
5
Article from
A QUESTION OF BEGGARS
by
Cecil Notwithstanding
Although there is little doubt that Opum Oppidulum is a lovely place to live, like most towns it is not without its problems. For some months now there has been growing unrest about the rather large number of beggars on the streets. Although there is a certain amount of sympathy for these unfortunates, this does not take away from the fact that they are a nuisance and an eyesore.
I am pleased to be able to report that the mayor has put together a committee to solve this problem. Cadmus Chapelizod, the superrintendent of Droprock Asylum, is to head the commitee. Among the other esteemed members is Mrs Acantha Grammaticus, the wife of the renowned engineer Ambrose Grammaticus (unfortunately in the asylum at present owing to mental illness). Mrs Grammaticus is quoted as saying:
‘Both Mr Chapelizod and I are committed to achieving a satisfactory resolution to this problem. We have much sympathy with both parties involved, beggar and citizen alike. Mr Chapelizod and I fully intend to find a solution to ease their respective misery and if possible to put them out of it completely.’
6
The Great Escape Plan
Ambrose Oswald Grammaticus turned over slowly in his incredibly uncomfortable bed – if a pile of straw on the rocky floor of a cell not big enough to jump in could be called a bed. He groaned as his bones creaked. On the wall beside him was a tally, sets of four parallel lines crossed with a diagonal; over a hundred days crossed off.
‘Here, Ambrose, have a bit of this,’ said a voice close to him. ‘You’ve got to eat, for when we get out, you’ll need energy.’
‘Get out?’ Ambrose managed a laugh. ‘Tell me, Hooper, how are we to do that? Are we not locked in all day and all night?’ He looked over at the cell door. Yes, as he expected, the rusty iron-barred door was firmly closed as ever.
‘Don’t be like that,’ said the cheerful voice.
Ambrose had grown used to his companion’s unrelentingly sunny nature, but he still marvelled at the fellow’s ability to see the silver lining not just on some clouds, but on every cloud, no matter how black it might be. If it had been a century or so later the fellow would have been diagnosed with Felix Semper syndrome, a disease characterized by the sufferer being in a permanent state of happiness, gullible and trusting to the extreme, and completely incapable of relating to the real world. But, ironically enough, being permanently happy, Hooper was able to take his imprisonment in his stride.
‘And is that really such a bad thing?’ Ambrose often asked himself as he watched Hooper smiling day and night (not that he could tell the difference between the two in here). He could not deny that this blithe fellow had kept him from giving up for a long time. But these last few days he had felt a change. He was ill. His whole body ached, his head throbbed and he was growing weaker, racked with terrible cravings. He felt as if he had reached the end of his powers of endurance. He looked at Hooper. He was hardly any better off, not a pick of meat on his bones. He laughed to himself. They truly were a revolting pair.
‘Ah, don’t be like that, Ambrose,’ cajoled Hooper softly. ‘Never say never! Eh? What would young Rex think if he knew that his father was about to give up?’
At the mention of his son’s name Ambrose made an effort and sat up. Hooper, a short, red-elbowed man with bushy eyebrows, was proffering a bowl of what could only be described as mud soup.
‘What’s in it?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’ laughed Hooper. ‘No meat, I’ll wager, but it don’t taste that bad.’
Meat! The very thought of it caused Ambrose to quiver violently. He cradled the bowl awkwardly with his left arm and took a spoonful, and resisted the urge to spit it out. Then he took another. Revolting as it was, his starved body craved nourishment and he ate without stopping. A mouse crept out from the corner and looked at him but he kicked it away. Hooper grabbed it. ‘Something for later,’ he said, and broke its neck.
Hooper then pulled from his pocket a piece of ragged paper-thin cloth, upon which was sketched a blurred but complicated diagram. ‘What about the escape plan?’ he said. ‘You know, your Perambulating Submersible?’
My Perambulating Submersible, thought Ambrose with a smile. Hooper actually believed it was viable. Ah, well, he wasn’t going to disabuse him of the notion. The ‘idea’ was a boat that walked underwater. Hooper, having been a competent draughtsman prior to being declared insane, had very carefully drawn it (guided every step of the way by Ambrose) using a fingernail he had bitten to a point. Ambrose didn’t ask what Hooper had used for ink: he knew. His sensitive nose could smell the blood, old and dried as it was. To take his mind off it he scooped up another large spoonful of the soup.
The underwater boat might be real but the escape was merely a fantasy – at least to Ambrose – to while away the hours. Hooper, however, had taken to it with such fervour that now he really did believe it was possible and he pored over the design for hours every day suggesting changes and refinements. Ambrose secretly was really very pleased with it. In truth it was an idea he and Rex had been working on long before his present misfortunes. But they had not pursued it – Acantha had put paid to that.
‘Ah, Rex,’ murmured Ambrose, ‘what a great invention it would have been! And you, you held the key!’
‘We’ll build it,’ said Hooper excitedly, ‘and cross the lake floor, like a giant crab, and then we will be free.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ambrose encouragingly; he didn’t have the heart to point out the many, many flaws in the great escape plan.
Ambrose finished his soup and lay back down. Hooper’s optimism was in direct contrast to his own crushing feelings of sadness and despair. He had only survived this long by eking out his hope, but hope was not a limitless resource. Now he was resigned to never seeing Rex again. He thought of Acantha, although he didn’t want to, and spat with disgust on the floor. He lifted his crippled left arm, looked at it with regret then let it fall. His heart became as rock. What a fool he had been, blinded by love, to trust her. He could see it now, her shy smiles and her fluttering eyelashes, and all the while s
he was conniving against him, with that evil monster Cadmus Chapelizod. Ugh, the whole business made him feel sick. And the irony of it all was that at that moment he really was mad – from love and, he suspected, something much more sinister.
Rex had been left in her care! Ambrose hardly dared to think what suffering the poor boy had endured since he had been sent to the island. His mind went wild with possibilities, each worse than the last. He could only hope and pray that Stradigund might be able to help. But he had not even visited. In fact it was Alvar Stradigund who had introduced him to Acantha in the first place and not for the first time Ambrose’s fevered brain wondered if that was significant. I am becoming paranoid, he berated himself. I suspect even those closest to me. The truth of it is I have failed and Rex suffers on account of my failure.
As for Cadmus Chapelizod, he wasn’t fit to run a doghouse let alone an asylum. Was not an asylum supposed to be a place where troubled minds could be at ease, could even hope to heal? ‘Chapelizod’ and ‘healing’ were as words from two different languages. The residents of Droprock Island all suffered in filthy cells, subjected to the cruelty and whims of the warders, wondering if they were to be fed or not. And they all heard the screams from the cell down the end wherein the warders, and Chapelizod, performed their ‘cures’. Chapelizod had taken great pleasure in taunting him about his misfortune, telling him that he would never be released and how he now kept Acantha company.
Ambrose closed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to never wake up again. When he did wake some hours later he wished immediately that he hadn’t. He wrinkled his nose and opened his eyes, only to be confronted by Hooper’s grinning toothless face. He was so close he could smell his foul breath but he could hardly complain; his own was no better. He looked around and became aware that something was different: there was noise, unfamiliar noise, coming from outside the cell. And he could smell burning. But unusually it wasn’t flesh.
The Lunatic's Curse Page 3