Through all of this flows the River Foedus, her slow-moving waters thick as soup. Lord but she lives up to her name; her unrelenting stench hangs over the City like a shroud. She is not to be trusted. I have seen her shiver to shrug off the ships tied at the piers, causing them to rock violently from side to side, their creaking and groaning of protest mingling with the frightened shouts of the oarsmen and passengers on the small ferries crossing her broad back. All fear her murky waters. Few are known to have survived such a noxious dipping. And once she has them the Foedus does not surrender her victims quickly. She drags them under and sucks the life out of them, before disgorging them days later bug-eyed and bloated with lethal gases, ready to explode.
The Foedus splits the City in half and divides the people in two. The rich live on her north bank, the poor on the south. One bridge alone spans her back. Perhaps once it had a name but now it is known simply as the bridge. It is lined on either side with taverns and inns and hostels of the vilest kind and in these dark and smoky dens of vice all men, whether from the north or the south, are equal: they fight, they gamble, they drink, they murder. I too have been in the Nimble Finger Inn, the tavern so beloved of Jeremiah Ratchet and Ma and Pa.
And in a city whose lifeblood is crime, there is also punishment to stem its flow. It’s an ill wind that blows no good and, although I hate to say it now, I made a good living then out of the misdeeds of others, especially on a Wednesday: hanging day at Gallows Corner.
A hanging was as good as a holiday. The crowds enjoyed the spectacle almost as much as the poor fellow on the gibbet detested it. The prisoner would arrive in the back of a cart, having been taken from Irongate Prison and driven down Melancholy Lane to the gallows. He would have been in a sorry state when the journey began, but by the end he was wretched. It was common for the onlookers to pelt the cart with whatever came to hand as it passed: rotten fruit and vegetables from the gutters, occasionally a dead cat. I never once threw even a potato peeling at any of those poor devils. Who was to say it wouldn’t be me next week?
The crowd cheered as the criminal was led up the steps and the noose was placed around his (or as often as not, her) neck. Now I turned away, not least because this was prime pickpocketing time. When everyone stood fixated on the ghastly scene unfolding before them I moved among them, taking whatever I could get my hands on. I heard the trap door open and the cross-beam creak as the weight fell. And as the crowd roared I sneaked away before anyone noticed that their purse was gone.
Polly lapped up every word. ‘One day I will go there,’ she said, her eyes shining. And no matter what I said I couldn’t persuade her otherwise.
Although I told Polly many things I didn’t tell her about Ma and Pa. I didn’t tell her how they robbed me and whipped me or why I really left the City. And I never once said what they had tried to do to me and how it came back to me at night in my dreams. Always my father’s face looming above mine and his hands around my neck, or were mine around his?
I could never forgive Ma and Pa for what they did, but I was also grateful to them. Pickpockets, regardless of their age, were treated harshly by the courts. If Ma and Pa hadn’t chased me from the City, I know sooner or later the noose would have been around my neck and my lifeless body would have been hanging from those gallows.
Chapter Twenty-One
Stirling Oliphaunt
As the days wore on more and more villagers were benefiting not only from Joe’s generous payments for their pawned goods, but also from his midnight trade. Although they didn’t talk about their good fortune, it was obvious that something was afoot. Without a doubt Joe was the breath of fresh air the village had needed for a long, long time. The place seemed brighter somehow, as if the buildings themselves had released a huge sigh and relaxed back to allow the light in. One morning the whole street was brought to a standstill when the clouds parted for a minute or two and blue sky was seen in between.
‘It’s a miracle,’ declared Ruby Sourdough. Of course, the clouds came over again and the blue sky was gone, but it was enough to know that it did exist.
Whether this was a miracle or not, the one person in the village who was actually qualified to make such a statement was still in bed and missed the historic event.
The Reverend Stirling Oliphaunt.
For twenty years Stirling Oliphaunt had looked at himself in the mirror every morning (usually not far off noon) and congratulated himself on his posting to Pagus Parvus. A man of his ilk couldn’t have asked for a better job – his ilk being that of a lazy, slovenly boor whose purported belief in higher powers furnished him with an easy living. When he had arrived in the village two decades ago he had stood at the gates to the church and cast a bushy-browed fat-rimmed eye down the hill.
This is what I have been waiting for, he thought. That hill must be forty degrees, if not more.
In those days the villagers were a little more inclined to listen to the word of the Lord, so, much to Stirling’s disappointment, for nearly eight months he was forced to preach a sermon every Sunday. His distinct monotone and the repetitive nature of his subject (the devil, the Dark Side, hell, fire, brimstone and all related issues) ensured that he addressed an ever-dwindling audience. Eventually, as was his desire, it dwindled to none. Henceforth Stirling passed his days restfully, enjoying fine wines and good food at the church’s expense, and generally doing as he wished, which was very little. He still thought of God. There had to be one, for how else could a man be blessed with such good fortune?
Now Stirling was more than a little disconcerted by the events of the past few weeks. From his exalted position at the top of the hill, he had not failed to notice the increase in pedestrian traffic. At first he thought the villagers might be coming to him, expecting a service of some kind, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that Joe Zabbidou was the draw.
Stirling had grown used to a life of ease with little interruption and certainly no demands from his flock. When Jeremiah had approached him with the bodysnatching business plan he saw no reason to stand in his way and he was handsomely rewarded with gifts from Jeremiah’s wine cellar. This might not strike you as characteristic of Jeremiah until you consider that he drank most of his donations when he came to see Stirling on Thursdays.
Stirling had seen Joe Zabbidou, and his young assistant, that first morning in the graveyard, but he was not inclined to formally welcome the new members of his congregation. Later Polly, who came up every day to cook and clean by arrangement with Jeremiah, told him that the hat shop had a new owner.
‘A hatter?’ asked the reverend.
‘No, a pawnbroker.’
‘A pawnbroker?’
Polly didn’t reply. Stirling had a tendency to turn statement to question – it helped enormously when you didn’t have any answers. He had developed the habit in a previous parish where the locals were an inquisitive bunch who enjoyed lively theological debate and were determined that Stirling should enjoy it too.
‘A pawnbroker?’ he repeated. He considered briefly how this might affect his position in the village and concluded that it wouldn’t affect him at all. In fact, he didn’t think Joe’s arrival would have much of an effect on anyone. He was surprised, therefore, at the level of animosity Jeremiah Ratchet felt towards the newcomer.
It was late afternoon and the reverend was dozing in a chair when he was brought rapidly back to wakefulness by a tremendous thumping at the door. Polly was there to open it but was elbowed out of the way as Jeremiah strode past her into the drawing room.
‘Jeremiah,’ said Stirling. ‘A pleasure, I’m sure. Is it Thursday already?’
‘It’s Tuesday, but I have an important matter to discuss with you.’
‘Is it about Obadiah and the bodies?’
‘Not Obadiah. That blasted pawnbroker.’
Stirling roused himself to an upright position.
‘Mr Sobbi– whatever his name is? Isn’t he a harmless chap?’
‘Harmless!’ spluttered
Jeremiah. ‘Harmless! The man is the devil incarnate.’
Exhausted by his outburst, and the trip up the hill, Jeremiah fell into the chair opposite the reverend. Polly handed him a drink, topped up Stirling’s and then made herself scarce. It did not do to stay in the same room as that pair. She much preferred to listen from outside the door.
Jeremiah finished his glass in one gulp. He reached over to the table and took the decanter and set it on the hearth beside him.
‘Stirling,’ he announced, ‘that pawnbroker is very bad for business. In particular, my business. He has filled his window with the greatest collection of junk you have ever seen and, not only that, he has paid for it.’
‘How is this a problem?’ Stirling was trying to sound interested but he had the beginnings of a headache and was overcome by the urge to yawn.
‘His payments are so wildly out of keeping with the true value of the pledges that I fear soon all the villagers will be able to pay off their debts.’
‘I see,’ said Stirling.
‘And if people aren’t in debt to me how then do I make money?’ continued Jeremiah and to fully emphasize his point he leaned over and gave Stirling a poke with his fat forefinger. ‘You have got to do something. My livelihood depends on it.’
Now Stirling was awake. ‘Me? Do something? What can I do?’
‘You must convince those peasants that Joe Zabbidou is the devil’s spawn.’
‘The devil’s pawn? But is this true?’ Stirling had never before thought he might have to deal with the devil’s pawn.
‘Pawn, spawn,’ said Jeremiah with intense irritation. ‘What’s the truth got to do with it? This is business. They are to have no further doings with him upon pain of death.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Stirling cautiously.
‘Just do it,’ snapped Jeremiah.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stirling Makes a Stand
‘Good people of Pagus Parvus,’ began Stirling, ‘I beseech of you to listen to me.’
Beseech of? he thought in a sudden panic. Is that right? No matter, it would do. There was no one here an expert in the complexities of the English language. His voice quavered audibly and his hands shook. He wished he had taken a second shot of whisky to steady his nerves. It had been years since he had addressed a crowd and certainly never in such uncomfortable surroundings. It was snowing lightly and he was standing on a box in the middle of the main street, just north of Jeremiah’s house. He had thought it a good spot. He cleared his throat and raised his voice.
‘For I tell you now, I have been visited by an angel in the night.’
Until this point his audience had consisted of three mortals, namely the Sourdough boys armed and ready with snowballs. Everyone else, once they had established who he was, had walked around him, so much so that his podium was already circled by a ring of footprints in the trampled-down snow. It was only when he said the word ‘angel’ that people stopped to listen. These heavenly creatures appealed greatly to their starved imaginations. Soon there was a small crowd gathered before him, their red-nosed faces looking up at him expectantly.
‘An angel?’ enquired one.
‘Yes, an angel.’
‘You sure about that, Stirling?’ shouted Horatio. ‘Maybe it was a visitation from the bottle. Too much port can have that effect.’
The reverend reddened and carried on. ‘A great angel came from the clouds and roused me from my bed.’
‘What did this angel say?’ mocked Horatio, making no attempt to disguise his disbelief.
‘He said, “Stirling, you must tell the people of Pagus Parvus to beware, for the devil has come among you and he is tricking you with his wiles and his filthy lucre.”’
‘Wiles and filthy lucre?’ laughed Elias Sourdough. ‘What language does he speak? Is this angel from a foreign country?’
‘Money,’ said Stirling impatiently. ‘The devil is among us and luring us with his money.’
‘There’s only one devil in this town and we don’t see his money,’ said Job Wright, the blacksmith, and he pointed in the direction of Jeremiah’s house. At the same moment the upstairs curtain twitched and Stirling wondered if perhaps he should have gone a little further up the hill.
‘Not Mr Ratchet,’ he hissed, then raised his voice, ‘but Joe Zabbidou, the Devil’s Pawnbroker.’
He said this with great feeling, at the same time shaking his clenched fist at the sky. There were gasps all round and Stirling realized that finally he had their full attention. Unwilling to lose this advantage he hurried along.
‘Joe Zabbidou has come to us without warning, appearing from nowhere in the night, to entice you all into his shop with his fancy goods.’
Ludlow, who was watching all this from Horatio’s doorway, raised his eyebrow. ‘Fancy goods? A chipped chamber pot. Hardly.’
‘What does he intend to do with us?’ asked Lily Weaver.
‘What does he intend to do with us?’ repeated Stirling out of habit.
He had not anticipated this question when he had been preparing his speech. He had not thought that he might be challenged. He couldn’t recall such a thing when he was in church; granted most people were asleep then.
The silence was deafening.
‘Erm, well, let me see, ah yes, once he has lured you he will take you over to his side, the Dark Side.’
Unfortunately for Stirling, this was where he lost his tenuous hold on the audience. Pagus Parvians did not consider the Dark Side in any way threatening. They had not forgotten those long Sunday sermons from years ago when the reverend bored them half to death droning on about the very same subject. They began to shuffle their feet and talk to their neighbour or walk away. Desperately Stirling tried to recapture the moment. Jeremiah had promised him a case of the best port.
‘If you go over to the Dark Side, then you will be lost forever and will burn in the fires of hell.’
‘At least we’d be warm,’ shouted Obadiah, and the crowd laughed.
‘Do not jest about the devil,’ warned Stirling, in a final attempt to hold them. ‘You never know when he is listening.’
‘Hang about, Reverend,’ said Ruby Sourdough. ‘Here comes the beast himself. Why don’t we ask him about this Dark Side?’
Joe was indeed coming down the street at his usual jaunty pace. He had the grip of a mountain goat. Right now one or two of the villagers were wondering whether his shoes did in fact conceal those telltale cloven feet.
‘Morning all,’ he called and smiled. ‘Did I hear someone mention my name?’
Although Stirling was not being taken seriously, it did seem to some a rather curious coincidence that Joe had turned up at this particular moment.
‘’Ere, listen to this, Mr Zabbidoof,’ said the youngest Sourdough, at the front of the crowd. ‘Stirling says yore the devil come ’ere to burn us all in ’ell.’
Stirling protested immediately. It had never been his intention to actually confront Beelzebub, merely to slander him in his absence. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he protested hurriedly. ‘It is a sin to tell a lie, lad.’
‘Yes ’e did,’ said Elias Sourdough to Joe. ‘’E said you were gonna loor us wiv your tricks and wiles.’
Joe smiled. ‘I have no tricks. You know what I am, a pawnbroker. Have I ever pretended or acted otherwise? As for wiles, you are welcome to come and look for them. Perhaps they are in the window?’
At that everyone burst into raucous laughter. Stirling scowled, picked up his box and slunk away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fragment from
The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch
Stirling’s performance in the street was the talk of the villagers for three whole days. As far as they were concerned, the reverend’s humiliation was just one more in the eye for Mr Ratchet (who had watched the entire scene from his window, barely concealed behind the curtain) and another victory for Mr Zabbidou. The battle lines might as well have been drawn in the snow.
There was
no disputing Pagus Parvus had given Joe a warm welcome. It could be measured almost from the moment he defied Jeremiah Ratchet. This initial enthusiasm had not waned – just the opposite, it had increased immensely. Now at the very sight of him the villagers behaved as if he were royalty. I swear upon my evil Pa that I witnessed more than once some fellow kneeling before him. Poor Joe, he could not go from one end of the street to the other without being stopped a dozen times by well-wishers enquiring after his health and his business and even Saluki. Joe was always polite. His manner was consistently warm and friendly, but I could tell that this adulation was beginning to trouble him.
‘I did not come here to be venerated,’ he mumbled.
As I lay during long sleepless nights the same question turned over in my mind: ‘What did you come here for?’ I knew by now that things were not, and could not be, as simple as they appeared. A man arrives out of nowhere in an isolated village and hands over money from a bottomless source for worthless objects and secrets. It didn’t make sense to me, but whenever I tried to ask Joe about his past he refused to engage and immediately talked about something else.
I wondered whether Joe’s aversion to all the attention was modesty and I paid little notice to his discomfort. While he tried to avoid the limelight, I bathed in his reflected glory. When I walked the streets of the City I was nobody: in Pagus Parvus I was prince to Joe’s king. Of course, Joe was the one they wanted to talk to, his was the hand they wished to shake, but they spoke to me too, if only to say good morning. It made me smile. If they had ever seen me in the City they would have crossed to the other side of the road.
Perhaps it was the fact that the village was so isolated which made Joe (and me) even more special. But, special or not, I had a feeling that as long as Jeremiah Ratchet was in Pagus Parvus it wasn’t going to be enough.
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