by Jon Mayhew
‘You go to your room, my dear.’ Aunt Mag had wrinkled her hooked nose at Josie. ‘We’ll look after Edwin.’
‘That’s all right,’ she had protested, giving a tight smile. ‘I’ll stay with him.’ Then she had looked down at her shoes, waiting for the Aunts to leave her alone. There was no way she was going to leave Cardamom on his own with these monsters. Now she sat by the armchair as her guardian continued his deep sleep.
As dawn light illuminated the grimy windowpanes, Josie gazed out into the street. People were starting to move about. She wanted to bang on the glass and scream to the passing neighbours, ‘Help us!’ But what would they do? Just stare or shake their heads and walk away. Ordinary folk might like to watch the Great Cardamom on the stage but they didn’t mix with him. He kept himself to himself. Hardly anyone even knew he lived here. She turned back to the room.
‘Uncle!’ she hissed, shaking his shoulder. He jerked awake, looking at her with dark, haunted eyes. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Aunt Mag swept in through the sitting-room door. ‘Do be careful, Josie,’ she scolded. ‘Your guardian looks frail. Don’t bother him with your childish games!’
‘But he’s not well!’ Josie scowled at the old woman. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘Done to him? Why, my dear, whatever do you mean?’ Aunt Mag’s eyes shone brightly. She smirked as she tilted her head to one side. The two other Aunts stepped into the room behind her. ‘He’s just under the weather. That’s all, isn’t it, Cardamom?’
The Great Cardamom turned towards Josie. ‘Yes . . . under the weather . . . that’s all . . .’ His eyes were bleak and empty.
‘We’ll soon have him back on his feet!’ beamed Aunt Mag, fussing with the old man’s necktie. ‘Now, prepare some tea. Then go to your room. We have important things to discuss with your lovely guardian – in private!’
Josie looked from Aunt to Aunt. She stared at Cardamom, silently pleading with him to stand up to them. But he just stared back dully. She waited, hoping for something – anything. Then, shoulders drooping, she turned and left the room.
Josie hurried down to the scullery to make tea. She carried a tray back up the hallway, clattering the china and teapot and scalding her fingers in her haste not to miss anything. Entering the sitting room, she thrust the tray into Aunt Mag’s hands. Shutting the door behind her, she paused in the hallway.
Should I? she thought. Then she crouched down at the keyhole.
‘There now,’ Josie heard Aunt Mag chirp, though she couldn’t see much. ‘Young Josie has been sent to her room. So, it’s just the four of us.’
‘What do you want?’ Cardamom said. Each word dripped from his mouth like molten lead. Josie winced to hear his voice sound so thick and heavy.
‘We want? Oh no, Mr Chrimes. We live only to serve. Ours is a humble existence. But if you were to ask what our master wants . . . Well, that would be a different story.’
‘Your master?’ Cardamom repeated. Josie could hear her heart beating loudly in her chest.
‘Why, Lord Corvis, of course.’ Aunt Mag’s voice softened. ‘He breathed new life into our broken bodies, made us what we are today.’
‘So where is it?’ Josie heard Aunt Veronica snap. ‘You betrayed your old friend, didn’t you?’
‘No!’ Cardamom protested. ‘He brought it upon himself – it wasn’t my fault. I never meant to . . .’
‘Never meant to what?’ Aunt Mag hissed. ‘Never meant to steal the Amarant?’
Josie frowned and pressed her face closer to the keyhole. She remembered the Amarant from the letter.
‘What?’ Cardamom groaned. ‘I never stole it. We swore an oath. We all did.’
‘Well, somebody didn’t keep to their promise,’ Aunt Mag said, sounding like a governess chiding a toddler. ‘Because when Lord Corvis went to check, the Amarant had been taken. And if it wasn’t Lord Corvis, then it must have been you or Mortlock who returned.’
‘Why don’t we finish him now and be done with it?’ whispered Aunt Veronica. ‘I despise this place. I hunger!’
‘Patience, sister,’ Aunt Mag replied. ‘You know if we kill him now we may never find the Amarant. Lord Corvis promised that he would use it to make us completely alive if we brought it back for him.’
Josie stifled a gasp. Finish him? Who were these hideous crones that they could chat about killing her guardian?
‘I know, but –’ Aunt Veronica’s voice snapped her back to attention.
‘Do you want to go back to what you were before? The Amarant will give us full life. That is all that matters. Mortlock can’t be found. Only this man is left. He will tell us all we need to know.’
Josie was just able to see Aunt Jay look over her shoulder towards the door. ‘Then what about the girl?’ she asked. ‘She’s becoming a liability . . .’
‘No,’ Aunt Mag retorted. ‘She may have value. If this one refuses to talk, we might be able to squeeze some information out of her –’
‘My fault,’ Cardamom murmured, interrupting. ‘No less than I deserve . . .’
Josie bit her lip and straightened up. She wanted to burst in and rescue her guardian but what could she do? With a backward glance towards the door, she tiptoed upstairs.
None of it makes sense, she thought. They talked about Corvis and Mortlock. Didn’t Mortlock write that letter? But he’s gone, they say. And what was that about the Amarant?
Josie couldn’t decide what to do next. Should she escape and get help? But she didn’t want to leave her guardian with these women. They might look old and frail but they meant to kill him if they didn’t get whatever it was they wanted. Maybe the diary and the letter might hold some clues, but they lay on the floor by Cardamom’s chair.
There was a knock at the front door.
Josie started back downstairs, but Aunt Jay was at the front door already and, by the time she reached the bottom step, Aunt Mag appeared behind her. She gripped Josie’s upper arm, making her wince. She was stronger than any old woman had the right to be and dragged Josie back up the stairs. Josie tried to twist her head round to see who was at the front door, but Aunt Mag’s body was in the way. She recognised the voice, though.
It was Mrs Yates: ‘Ill, you say?’
Josie opened her mouth to cry out but Aunt Mag’s hand, cold and clammy, slapped down, gagging her.
‘Yes, a trifle indisposed,’ she heard Aunt Jay croak. ‘He hasn’t been right since last evening. A touch of fever. I don’t think we’ll need your services any more.’
‘But I’m owed a week’s pay,’ Mrs Yates grumbled. Josie wriggled and squirmed under Aunt Mag’s grasp. She could hear the clink of coins.
‘Here, I think you’ll find that this more than covers your costs. Now, goodbye.’
The door slammed shut. Aunt Mag steered Josie up the last few steps.
‘The housekeeper,’ Aunt Jay explained over Josie’s head to Aunt Mag. ‘Just had to dismiss her, I’m afraid!’
‘Let go of me!’ Josie cried, pulling away from Aunt Mag and stumbling backwards down the hallway into the sitting room. Aunt Mag’s black-button eyes twinkled and sparkled like polished jet as they stared deep into Josie’s. Josie felt herself coming to a halt, frozen to the spot by that icy glare.
‘It seems we’re short of a domestic,’ hissed Aunt Mag. ‘Maybe the extra activity will keep you from interfering.’ She gave a syrupy smile that quickly slid from her face. ‘Go and fill the copper. Boil some water. Now!’
.
.
‘I will lay here an’ die,’ he said,
‘I will lay here an’ die;
In spite of all the devils in hell,
I will lay here an’ die.’
‘Clerk Colvill’, traditional folk ballad
.
CHAPTER FOUR
Night Bird
Silence hung over the sitting room as Josie tidied up around her guardian. She snatched up the old newspapers from the floor by Cardamom’s chair. Aunt Ver
onica sat close by, glowering at her.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, craning her neck to catch a look at the newspapers.
‘Just tidying up.’ Josie tried to keep her breathing steady. She could feel the pile of papers trembling in her grasp. ‘Uncle never tidies after himself.’
‘Very well.’ Aunt Veronica leaned back in her seat. Josie allowed herself a smile of triumph as she swept out of the room, past the other Aunts. She could feel the thick cover of the diary hidden among the papers. Without looking back, she hurried upstairs to her room and locked herself in.
She sat on her bed and spread the papers out. There it was – the diary. It had seen a lot of harsh treatment. The spine had more or less crumbled away and the two leather-bound covers were kept together with a thick black ribbon. The leather of the covers had been worn to the texture of sandpaper. Loose, yellow pages were sewn together inside.
Josie could just make out the name Edwin Chrimes in faded gold lettering on the front. A stab of guilt made her hesitate. This is private, she told herself. She bit her lip. Uncle had forbidden her to read this, but if she didn’t, then how could she help him? She pulled at the black ribbon, undoing the clumsy bow. The diary sprang open, paper sliding out over her blankets.
The pages resembled the letter she’d read the night before; crumpled and torn, yellowed with age. The writing was faded and hard to make out. She scanned the pages, wishing she’d spent less time on throwing knives and more on her reading and writing. Names, appointments, places: none of them meant anything to Josie. With a sigh, she flicked through the diary, opening some of the folded letters between the pages. And then there it was: the word ‘Amarant’. Josie smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper.
Wednesday, 2 March 1820
We found it. The Amarant. The power over life and death lay within our grasp yet we left it where we found it. Such horrors as I have seen should never travel beyond these treacherous desert lands. I fear our lives may never be the same again . . .
‘The power over life and death,’ Josie whispered, her finger tracing the faded words. She read on.
My dear friend Mortlock was wise to tell us to abandon it even after all our trials. Corvis worries me, however. Can he ever be trusted to forget the cursed flower?
‘Friend?’ Josie murmured. But didn’t Mortlock send the letter calling Cardamom a thief? And there was that other name, Corvis.
‘Josie?’ Aunt Jay screeched from the foot of the stairs. ‘Where are you, girl?’
‘Coming,’ Josie called back. She cursed under her breath and bundled the papers beneath her pillow. The diary would have to wait.
Josie lay in bed. A thud sounded on the landing outside, as if something were hopping about. It made her wince and mutter, dragging her to half-wakefulness. After the drudgery of the day – polishing, scrubbing and cleaning – even poring over the contents of the diary could not keep her awake. At some point she had fallen into a dark, tormented sleep. Now, something scraped at the other side of her door, ever so gently.
Scratch, scrape.
Knuckling her eyes and pushing her hair back from her face, Josie stumbled out of bed. The cold of the floorboards stung the soles of her feet and she groaned.
Scratch, scrape.
She eased the door open. Darkness filled the landing, but a darker shadow filled the doorway. A huge black crow perched on the banister rail. It was massive, as big as Josie – bigger, with vicious black, beady eyes, a long sabre beak, ragged black feathers. It cocked its head and peered at her, claws click, click, clicking as it shifted along the rail towards her.
Josie struggled for breath. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to scream but found she couldn’t. She stood, frozen to the spot, her heart hammering at her ribs. The bird edged closer, stretching its neck out. With a gasp, Josie threw herself back into her room, scrabbling at the bolt on the door. Then she buried herself in the bedclothes.
She tried to catch her breath. What was that? Some creature of the Aunts, set to guard her? The eyes of the bird looked horribly familiar: black and full of guile. Josie shuddered at the memory.
There was no battering at the door. The creature didn’t try to get in. But, every now and then, a gentle scratching made Josie flinch and pull the bedclothes closer round her.
‘I can come in whenever I want to,’ the noise seemed to gloat. ‘You may think you’re safe, but I can come in. Whenever I want.’
Josie watched the closed door, hardly daring to move. It was going to be a long night.
Morning found Josie still bundled in her bed, sweating and shivering. The light made her brave. She listened.
No sound.
She unbolted the door and opened it a crack.
The banister rail was bare.
Had she dreamed it? Was it all just a silly nightmare?
The Aunts sat silently as Josie walked into the sitting room. They stared at her over the rim of their teacups. Cardamom’s chair stood empty, one flattened cushion declaring his presence the night before and his absence now.
‘Poor man,’ Aunt Veronica said, cocking her head. Josie’s stomach lurched. What had happened? ‘He couldn’t get out of bed this morning,’ Aunt Veronica continued. ‘So very weak.’ The final word sounded like an accusation, as if Cardamom were to blame for his own frailty. Josie turned to the door. She had to see him.
‘No, don’t go rushing upstairs, my dear,’ Aunt Jay said, smiling and blocking the door. ‘He will need some breakfast. Some toasted bread and a sip of warm milk. Be an angel and go and prepare it for him.’
‘And then he’ll need a long rest,’ Aunt Mag added. Her eyes flashed as she beamed at Josie. ‘We’ve sent word to the Erato theatre. I don’t think he’ll be performing for quite a while!’
‘We said he might have the fever,’ Aunt Jay said, inclining her head. ‘Strange how a simple word – “fever” – can keep folk from visiting.’
Josie turned towards the kitchen, tears stinging her eyes. I won’t cry in front of these women, she thought, clenching her fists. But she definitely had to get out and find help. As she made Cardamom something to eat, she thought hard.
‘Gimlet will know what to do,’ she muttered. ‘Maybe he’ll come to see how Cardamom is. Then he’ll see how wrong things are here.’ But she knew there was little hope of this. He’d be so absorbed in his scenery-making that he might not even notice Cardamom’s absence from the theatre – not until it was too late. If the Aunts had told the theatre managers that Cardamom had some kind of fever, people would stay away for fear of infection. Thousands had died from a cholera outbreak only last August.
But Josie had to get someone. A doctor or a policeman – anyone! These women were evil, she knew that much. Something had to be done.
Josie would have to get away and find Gimlet herself. She peered through the grimy kitchen windowpanes at the outside world. Rain pelted down, making the sooty walls of the houses opposite shine. Carriages rattled past and a few passers-by hurried along, bent almost double.
But one figure stood still and upright, just across the road. Josie caught her breath. She recognised the tall, shabby man straight away. He’d been watching them at the theatre door. As if sensing he’d been spotted, he turned suddenly and hurried down the street.
No, don’t go! The thought screamed in Josie’s head. Whoever he was, he might be able to help.
She rushed down the hallway to the front door and made a grab for the handle. A rustling flurry of crinoline and silk made her turn. Aunt Veronica loomed over her, tall and dark, face tight.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she said, clicking her tongue and bobbing her head.
‘Yes,’ said Josie. ‘Yes, I was just getting some fresh air, that’s all.’
‘But look at the weather.’ Aunt Veronica smiled, stepping forward. ‘You’ll catch your death . . .’
‘I only want to step out for a minute.’
Aunt Veronica was too close now: Josie could feel her breath on her hair,
see the liver spots on her hands as the old woman grasped her wrist. Josie winced at the strength of her grip.
‘I don’t think it would be wise to go outside right now, Josie.’ Aunt Veronica’s face twisted as she forced Josie’s hand away from the door handle. ‘What would your guardian think of us if we let you go running about in the pouring rain?’ The sugary smile returned once more. Josie staggered back, massaging her wrist. Her stomach tightened as she fought against the tears. The man would be long gone now.
‘Quick sticks,’ said Aunt Veronica, clapping her hands. ‘There are dishes to be done in the kitchen and this floor needs mopping. Half the mud from the street’s been walked in!’
With a heavy heart, Josie walked back through the shadowy hall to the kitchen.
Scotland Yard
3 November 1844
Sir,
I am writing to inform you that our search for Sebastian Mortlock has proved unsuccessful. Our officers have made enquiries at his lodgings and in the surrounding neighbourhood but with no success. It is very possible that he has gone abroad again, as our detectives understand he has travelled extensively in the past. Should he contact you at any point in the future, we would be grateful if you could inform us.
Your servant,
Chief Inspector T. Mealor
Josie folded the letter, slumping back against her bedstead. Whoever Mortlock was, he and Cardamom had fallen out over something and then Mortlock had vanished. The other letter had accused Cardamom of being a thief. What could he have taken that would cause the two to fall out? Where was Mortlock now? Josie thought about the man who had been watching them. Could that be him? It might make sense, returning after all these years to get back something Cardamom had stolen. But Uncle isn’t a thief, she thought, shaking her head.
A shadow fell across Josie. She clutched the letter to her chest as she realised she’d forgotten to lock the door. Aunt Mag glared down at her.
‘What have we here?’ Aunt Mag snatched at the letter. She gathered up the other papers and the diary and brought her face close to Josie’s. ‘Some bedtime reading for us.’