Poor devil! he thought. To be out on such a night!
Then he saw the boy shake his head violently and mouth the word ‘No!’ several times before hurrying on into the cheerless dark.
‘God send you a happy New Year!’ he murmured. ‘And spare you from some of this bitter wind.’
Benjamin Partridge’s head had suddenly been filled with dreams of another, more cheerful company, made up of his friends and his mother: candle-lit and fire-warmed faces to the window, waiting on his coming.
Then the wind had blown out these dreams and left nothing but darkness within him.
There seemed to come over his hastening form a curious difference. His running was grown more purposeful. At times, he seemed to outpace the wind itself—bending low and rushing with an oddly formidable air. His coat tails flapped blackly, like the wings of a bird of ill omen.
‘Coming for you, Mister Corbett. Coming for you!’
Already he could see the top of Hampstead Hill. On either side of him the trees bent and pointed, and high upstairs the tattered clouds flew all in the same direction. The dark wind was going to Hampstead, too, and it was in the devil of a hurry.
At last, he could see Jack Straw’s Castle: a square-built, glum and lonely inn scarce half a mile ahead. Doubtless, the queer customer was sat by the parlour fire, snuffling for his mixture. Then let him snuffle till the cows came mooing home! Benjamin Partridge was on a different errand now.
He continued for maybe another thirty yards. Then he stopped. To his left lay a path, leading down into the dark of the Heath.
A curious darkness. Earlier, there had been rain and certain roots and growths had caught a phosphorescence; spots of light glimmered in the bushy nothingness.
Before, these uneasy glintings might have frightened the boy, for they were very like eyes—and malignant ones at that. But now he scarcely saw them: the dreadful wind had blown out of his head all thoughts but hatred for the mean and pale apothecary who’d sent him forth.
He began to descend the path. The earth was wet and sobbed under his feet.
‘May you sob likewise, Mister Corbett—when I’m done with you!’
For the first part of its length the path dropped pretty sharply, and soon Benjamin was out of the worst of the wind. But in its place was a wretched dampness that crept and clung about him. Likewise, there was a continual breathing rustling that seemed to inhabit the various darknesses that lay about the path.
Several times he paused, as if debating whether or not to abandon his purpose and fly back to the high road and on to the inn. This path was disquieting, and it was growing worse. But each time he seemed to see Mister Corbett’s face before him, mouthing, ‘Heart and soul, Master Partridge. I want ’em.’ And Benjamin Partridge went on: for hatred, though it may harden the heart, softens the brain, renders it insensible to danger, and leads it in the way of darkness, madness, and evil . . . At the end of this terrible path, there stood a terrible house.
It was a tall, even a genteel house, often glimpsed from the high road from where it looked like a huge undertaker, discreetly waiting among the trees.
What was then so terrible about it that even the whispering darkness, the crooked trees, and the crooked sky were small things beside it? The visitors it had.
Old gentlemen with ulcers of the soul for which there was no remedy but—revenge! Ruined gamblers, discredited attorneys, deceivers and leavers, treacherous soldiers, discharged hangmen, venomous servants, murderous constables . . . coming chiefly at dusk, furtively grinning for—revenge. In this grim regiment Benjamin Partridge now numbered himself.
The path grew level. One by one the glinting eyes winked shut as scrubs obscured them.
‘And so may your eyes shut, Mister Corbett: just like that! Ah!’
Benjamin Partridge stopped. Before him stood the house. Three pairs of windows it had, but they were dark. An iron lantern swung in the porch making queer grunting sounds as it swung against its hook. Ugh . . . ugh . . . ugh . . . But the three candles within burned untroubled.
There was a lion’s head knocker on the door. A good brass knocker such as might have cost five pounds in the shop by Aldgate Forge. (Or had it been cast in a deeper forge than Aldgate, even?)
The boy shivered . . . most likely from the damp. He knocked on the door. A harsh and desolate sound. Came a flap of footsteps: very quick. Then they stopped.
The boy made as if to draw back—maybe to make off, even at this late stage? No. He knocked again.
‘Nails in your coffin, Mister Corbett.’
The door opened. The boy cried out. Candle in hand, peering out with unnaturally bright eyes, was the queer customer! He said: ‘I thought you’d call here first—’
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS SAID there was a room at the top of the house where certain transactions took place. The windows of this room were sometimes pointed out, for they could be seen from the high road, staring coldly through the trees.
It was rumoured that this room, ordinary enough in all its furnishings, held an item so disagreeable that it chilled the soul. Visitors had been known to stare at it, lose their tongues, fidget, then leave in haste never to return.
Benjamin peered past the old man into the dark of the house. His eyes glanced upward. Catching this look, the old man dropped his gaze in an oddly embarrassed fashion.
‘Are you—are you sure, young man?’
(Was there truly such a room? Or was it all a tale told by apprentices at dead of night?)
The old man sniffed.
‘Forgive me, young man—but are you sure? I must know. We don’t want to waste our time do we? You’ve considered? You’ve thought? If you change your mind now, I won’t be offended. Far from it! In a way, I’ll be pleased. There, young man! I see you bite your lip. So why not turn about and forget it all? I’ll not say anything. All will be forgot. We’ve never met! Come, young man—that’s what you really want, ain’t it? It was all a foolish idea—the black thought of a black moment. So say no more and be gone!’
He paused and stared at his young caller with a quaintly earnest air. He took a pace down so that he and the boy stood on a level. They were of a height. Maybe, even, Benjamin was a shade the taller.
‘Admit now—your heart and soul ain’t in it?’
An unlucky expression! Whatever of doubt or uneasiness Benjamin might have felt (and he felt both, for he was but human) shrank beside the sudden image of skinny, grinning Mister Corbett grating, ‘Heart and soul, Master Partridge. I want them. I demand them!’
‘Let me in,’ muttered Benjamin bleakly.
The house smelled of graveyards—as did the old man—but otherwise it was no glummer than a parlour in Bow. The old man shrugged his shoulders, as if he’d done what he could, and led the way.
‘This way, young man. Tread carefully. The stairs are treacherous. I don’t want your death on my hands!’
So there was such a room aloft.
Benjamin’s heart began to struggle in his breast. His breath came quickly and made thin patterns in the candle light. The old man paused. He jerked the candle down, thereby causing banisters and certain respectable pieces of mahogany furniture to take fright and crouch in their own shadows.
‘Remember, young man—it’s heart and soul or nothing!’
Again, fear and doubt fell away as Mister Corbett’s face was before Benjamin. His heart grew steady under a ballast of two years’ hating.
‘It’s heart and soul, all right! And I’ll tell you—’
‘Tell me nothing!’ interrupted the old man curtly. ‘No reasons, if you please! Reasons ain’t my concern. Had my fill of ’em, young man. Reasons that would freeze the ears off a brass monkey. Payment’s my concern.’
Nervously Benjamin felt in his pocket. Not much there. But he hoped with all his heart and soul it was enough to procure—Mister Corbett’s death!
‘Nothing now,’ said the old man, observing Benjamin’s action and divining its result. ‘I d
on’t aim to beggar you. My terms is fairer than that. A quarter of your earnings from now till—’
‘Till when?’
‘Till you die, young man. Just till then. And then you’re free. Paid up. Discharged. Now, no haggling if you please. This ain’t a market-place. Take my terms or leave ’em. A quarter of everything from now till Doomsday. I always deal in quarters. Always have and always will. So it’ll be fivepence out of every one and eightpence. Or, if you prosper (and please God you do!), five shillings out of every pound. No more: no less. Don’t be offended, young man. I always put my terms straight. Ask anyone . . .’
But Benjamin was not disposed to ask anyone. The terms seemed reasonably fair, future payment being a cheerfuller prospect than present expense. He nodded in as businesslike a fashion as the circumstance allowed.
The old man shook his head and, with many a painful sigh, continued upward into the night.
‘Another floor, young man. The top of the house.’
‘I know,’ said Benjamin.
Again, the old man paused. He peered down over the banister with an air of resentment, as if a confidence had been betrayed and a secret blown to the winds. He seemed to shiver before mounting the remaining stairs briskly. Benjamin followed.
‘This is the room,’ said the old man, and pushed open a door.
For no reason but expectation, Benjamin shrank back into his pitiful coat. Yet the room was quiet. A fire burned subtly in the grate, and the furnishings were as genteel as anything else in the house. True, there was a smell of graveyards, but no worse than in the hall downstairs.
‘Come inside,’ said the old man, lighting a second candle. ‘Come in and sit you down.’
His voice was grown suddenly courteous, as if long custom in that room had got the better of him. ‘Take a chair by the fire, dear sir.’
But Benjamin did not hear him. He was peering round for the dreadful item that was to chill him to the soul.
‘The chair, sir. Take a seat. This is journey’s end.’
Benjamin recollected himself, attempted to smile, then sat in a chair as ordinary as an attorney’s. Likewise the desk the old man was fumbling in, and a sideboard that supported the candlesticks—all as ordinary as sin.
There was a painting above the mantel of a tragical woman in an old-fashioned blue dress. Most likely the old man’s mother—else why was she there? And what could be more ordinary than that? No: there was nothing uncanny anywhere.
‘Now, young man—your name, if you please?’
‘Partridge. Benjamin Partridge.’
‘And . . . and the other name?’
‘Corbett. Apothecary Corbett of Gospel Oak.’
The old man wrote carefully, then sanded the paper and put it away in a drawer. While he was engaged, Benjamin peered round the room once more.
The wall facing the window was taken up with shelves. Shelves from floor to ceiling. Shelves about a foot apart and divided into pigeon-holes.
So the old man liked pigeon-holes? Nothing chilling in that. What did he keep in them? Impossible to see. Sharp shadows obscured each opening—save one. A gleam of white could be seen. Benjamin stared.
Lord! Was it—was it a pudding bowl? Yes indeed! And cracked. Benjamin all but grinned at the absurdity of it.
‘Have you,’ said the old man gently, ‘anything about you that he has touched lately? Anything will do. Just so long as he’s touched it and his warmth’s been upon it.’
Benjamin started. The old man had left the desk and was standing before him, hand outstretched. Confusedly, he felt in his pockets and found the empty jar for the ‘piece of a ghost’.
‘Yes!’ said the boy angrily. ‘Here’s something he touched! Rot him!’
‘All in good time,’ said the old man, and took the jar.
He examined it carefully . . . so carefully that his withered old lips seemed to touch it.
What now? He began to fish about in his pockets. (Lord, he must have been wearing as many coats as a hackney carriage driver!)
At last he found what he wanted. Nothing worse than a length of black ribbon.
Without another glance at the boy, he wound it round the neck of the jar and tied it in a curious knot. Then he took up a candle and shuffled over to the wall of shelves. As he drew near, he raised the candle so that by chance it illumined each and every pigeon-hole.
Now the boy’s soul grew cold as ice. He shook and he shuddered. A chill crept through his veins.
In each of the pigeon-holes lay a singular item. An item of no great value. An item that bore no relation to its neighbour—save in one thing.
Here, there was a pincushion; there, a pair of spectacles; beneath, was a silver fork; beside it, a lace handkerchief—and beside that, a child’s doll, very fixed-looking. In one hole, there lay a pistol, and in another, a piece of wax candle . . .
Items as far apart as could be imagined, with but one odd, trifling thing in common. Each had tied about it, and fastened with a curious knot, a piece of black ribbon!
‘It’s done,’ said the old man quietly. Mister Corbett’s jar had joined its neighbours.
‘Is he . . . he is . . . dead now?’ whispered Benjamin, unable to tear his eyes from that wall of mortal hate.
‘In minutes, young man. Nothing can save him now. No need to worry. If you leave directly, you’ll see it. Come, young man—it’s nearly time.’
But, try as he might, Benjamin could not look away from the shelved wall. He’d seen a hat he thought he knew. The hat of a gentleman who had lived nearby—till he’d died last month: much beloved, universally mourned.
Who had brought that hat?
The old man sensed the boy’s distress. He moved the candle away from the wall so that all the pigeon-holes sank back into their separate blacknesses.
‘Everyone fancies they recognize an item there,’ he murmured. ‘But, believe me, it’s most unlikely. It really is!’
He took the boy’s arm. ‘Now you must hurry. Back to the road, else you’ll miss him. And that would never do! After all, it’s the chief part of what you’re paying for!’
His fingers were strong. They fumbled down to the boy’s bone causing sharp pains to inhabit his arm from shoulder to finger-tips.
There were no more words between them. The old man snuffed the unnecessary candle and, holding the other, drew Benjamin from the room.
Where was the black ribboned jar? On which shelf? Vainly, the boy glared over his shoulder as he was pulled from the room. All was darkness: his own offering not to be distinguished among dolls, spectacles, and pudding bowls. Such an insignificant thing was his hatred!
Silently—save for the sound of his own rough breathing and the old man’s snuffles—they went down the stairs and back to the front door.
Not so much as a: Good night, young man, did the old man utter; still less a: Happy New Year. Maybe he thought he’d already done enough in that direction?
All he said as they stood momentarily on the porch was: ‘Remember, Benjamin Partridge of Gospel Oak, a quarter of your life’s earnings. Monthly. My usual terms. Now, hurry or you’ll miss it! His time’s all but at full stretch!’
Did he then push the boy back on to the path? Or did Benjamin stumble? He fell face down and heard the door shut and the knocker tremble faintly.
He got to his feet. His fall, and now the general night damp, conspired to make him vilely cold. He pushed his hands into his pockets and found he old man’s medicine—still undelivered.
He turned to go back. The porch light was doused. The house—more like a great undertaker than ever—was of a misty black. He shivered, and turned again towards the high road.
He’d been advised to hurry. So hurry he did: along the disquieting path that sobbed under his feet like a heartbroken child . . .
At last he reached the road. Thank God, the wind was much diminished. Overhead the clouds hung in vague, disturbing shapes—some horned, some winged, some with jaws agape.
There came
a sound of running feet. He looked along the road towards Highgate. His heart quickened. He began to sweat.
Towards him, limping and panting, spectacles agleam in the moon (whose light did nothing but bad for his leprous complexion), came Mister Corbett!
Nearer and nearer he came. Was he grinning? How ugly were his teeth!
But what now? His bony hands reached out—as if he would clutch and speak. To say what? Nothing.
Even as he reached to touch the boy his face curdled, his eyes fell up, and his mouth fell down in a long, black O.
The old man had done his business capably. Mister Corbett was dead. His body dropped down in the road. And over it stood Benjamin Partridge: revenged.
There was not much of pleasure on the boy’s face. He was not situated for it. Alone he stood, under the high night, beside the corpse of the master he’d wished dead with all his heart and soul.
‘I didn’t do it,’ he whispered uneasily. ‘I never touched him!’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘YOU ASKED FOR it, Mister Corbett! As the moon’s my witness, you asked for it! One kind word out of you and I’d not have gone to the house. As this moon above is my witness!’
Benjamin Partridge turned from the corpse and peered at the moon: his witness.
His witness! Fearfully he stared up and along the road. Who else, beside the moon, had seen? No one. Not a living soul anywhere—save his own.
With difficulty, he smiled . . . then caught Mister Corbett’s eye. Disagreeably, the apothecary’s spectacles still shone in the moonlight. Being lifeless, they’d failed to die.
‘I’m off now, Mister Corbett. And there’s nothing you can say that’ll keep me this time!’
He began to walk, but soon stopped and looked back. There lay the corpse, face upward, silently shouting to the moon.
Benjamin swallowed, but there was no moisture in his throat. He attempted to walk again. A frightening thought struck him. What if he should meet with someone while the dead apothecary was still in sight? Would not that someone put two and two together and make an unfavourable four?
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