Mariah Mundi

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘What about doing one for me?’ Monica asked. ‘I would make a pretty good model …’

  ‘Beg that the day never comes. For there is more to these images than meets your eye and their cost is greater than life itself,’ Luger said as he propped the lid to the sarcophagus against the wall and picked up the swords, returning them to the rack.

  ‘It would be nice to see myself. It’s not the same thing, just looking in a mirror.’ She said as she looked over her shoulder as if to see herself from behind. ‘I always want to get the view of someone else. What do you see when you look at me, Otto?’

  ‘Something finer than a waxwork and yet from another world. If only you would allow me to see your hands. Always in those gloves, always covered in silk and diamonds.’

  ‘The best way,’ she said as she curled her arms around herself as if to hide her gloved hands from view. ‘Not the best thing I have. Don’t like looking at them myself, never have been one for hands.’ Monica shuddered as if deeply chilled, and ruffled in the feathers from head to toe. ‘They were burnt as a child, scalded by my mother, and every time I see them I remember her face and hear her cries.’

  ‘Then I shall find you the finest gloves in the world, inlaid with gold and silver, gossamer and beautiful, to be a beau to your face,’ Luger said, and he took her by the hand, half listening, his eyes searching the room as if he had mislaid something very precious. The memory of Monica’s arrival came to his mind and played as a waking dream.

  Luger had stood on the steps of the Prince Regent as her carriage had trundled slowly across the cobbles and picked its way through the myriad of market stalls that littered the square perched, like the hotel, on the cliff top. The driver had doffed his cap as he saw Luger on the steps in his black tailcoat and gold waistcoat. The carriage had halted abruptly at the bottom of the marble steps, its narrow oak wheels sinking into the rutted mud, and in the cold sea fret that swirled about its wheels she had stepped into his life.

  As the first light of the morning crept across the hills deep to the south she picked her way through the mud and up the steps, where she held out a gloved hand. Bizmillah had grovelled in the street, pulling the heavy trunk from the back of the cab and tipping the driver with a silver coin.

  ‘Found her, Mister Luger,’ he had shouted as he dragged the case behind him. ‘The greatest assistant for the greatest magician. Miss Monica will be truly pleasing.’

  Luger had held her long, gaunt fingers as she tiptoed up the steps like a living ghost, through the revolving door and into the Prince Regent.

  ‘Otto Luger,’ Monica said, breaking the dream and bringing him back to the room. ‘Eyes that were so far away and not looking at me.’

  ‘It’s not right, it’s not right,’ Luger said as he dropped her hand and began to pace the room, still searching for something that had been left behind. ‘I have to know how they got in here … I need to know. Only I had the key. Only I could stop the elevator.’ He looked to Monica for an answer. ‘There are only two people in the whole world know of this place, you and I – who told them?’

  ‘Whoever it was is long gone, Otto. They’ve just had a good look around and messed up a few things. Why worry? Change the locks and throw away the keys. Call in Mister Grimm – maybe he can find him for you. Just look for a man who has lost his umbrella.’

  ‘Grimm?’ Luger echoed. He held his chest and rummaged in the pocket of his waistcoat, and pulled out a curled visiting card with gold edging. ‘He could find him and put an end to all this, and when they are captured, they will make the finest waxen image ever … I’ll go tonight. Mister Grimm is staying at the Three Mariners Inn – I shall meet him there and have done with this trouble once and for all.’

  [ 11 ]

  Grimm’s Law

  INSIDE the tunnel, Mariah clung to the brass handle of the faux window, hoping that Otto Luger would believe it to be seized shut and leave some other way. He had eavesdropped all that had been said, trying to make out the muffled words and piecing together, phrase by phrase, Monica’s curdling and luscious accent. Sacha had gone on, deep into the dark tunnel, further and further away from him, with the promise that she would return. She had crept cat-like down the rungs of the cold iron ladder that plunged to the depths of the hotel and the water below. Then stealthily she had pulled hand over hand the three hundred treads back to Otto Luger’s secret penthouse entrance, but he had not heard her return. Just two feet below him, she was unseen in the dark as she reached out and tapped his foot. Mariah looked down, hoping to see something in the crushing blackness. She tapped his foot again, pulling on his bootlace as if to tell him to follow.

  Hand over hand and foot over foot he followed her down. Far below, the sound of the sea beat against cold stone steps, filling the tunnel with spouts of thick spray. For ten minutes they never spoke as together they slowly descended through the darkness. The weight of the pitch blackness pressed against Mariah, taking the breath from his lungs. He could feel his legs begin to shake and quiver as he now staggered down the cold metal rungs of the iron ladder. Flakes of thick rust cut into his hand and fell from each thinning tread, clattering against the sides of the now sea-damp walls. He stopped and touched the wall with the palm of his hand. It ran with cold dank water that dripped and dribbled through each crack and mortar line of the intricate brickwork that he now traced with his fingers. Finally Sacha stopped and stepped on to a landing. She took the Lucifers from her pocket and struck a long match that suddenly burst into a bright flame, dazzling Mariah as he grabbed the ladder.

  ‘This way, I know how we can get to the beach,’ she whispered as he struggled to wipe the bright flash from his eyes, shielding his face from the piercing light.

  Mariah followed, the light from the matchstick flickering over the criss-crossed brick of the tunnel’s curved roof. The floor ran like a sea stream, covered with bladderwrack and sea lettuce. The walls were coated in strands of green algae that grew from the floor like house-ivy picking its path higher and higher. Sacha struck another match and held it in her cupped hand, the shadow of her fingers glimmering against the walls. They walked on, Mariah slipping on the wet stone as he tried to pick his way by stepping from one sand isle to another. With each step the black dark followed on behind, and what had been given the warming hand of light for the briefest of moments was plunged back into night. Sacha walked on as Mariah struggled to keep pace. She hopped back and forth, sure-footed on the small mounds of sand that littered the tunnel floor like tiny islands.

  ‘Nearly there,’ she said as she lit another match, the hiss of the fading Lucifer fizzing in a pool of water at her feet. ‘I was here once before, got lost down here with Felix. Never thought it would lead to the ladder. I got this far and turned back.’ Sacha pointed to a large gouge in the damp brick. ‘See – Felix scratched his initial into the wall. Just along here and then we will be out of this place.’

  Mariah didn’t reply. He kept his gaze fixed to the ground as he tried to see his way in Sacha’s shadow. Every now and then he would look behind, prompted by the hackles that stood like an old guard dog’s on the back of his neck, shivering his spine as if to say that someone or something was about to grab him in the blackness that always lurked at the edge of the light.

  Sacha stopped and turned to him, lighting his face with yet another match. She smiled as she held the flame between her fingers. ‘Did they try to follow?’ she asked as the water dripped from the roof into the tunnel.

  ‘I heard what they said,’ Mariah replied quickly. ‘It’s a waxwork of Felix, nothing more. They think it was Bizmillah who was in the room. Luger is going to see a man called Grimm – he’s staying at the Three Mariners Inn. He wants to see him tonight.’

  ‘Then we haven’t long,’ Sacha said as she turned and set off quickly. ‘If we follow Luger then we’ll see what he’s up to.’

  ‘But Bizmillah expects us to clean the illusions,’ Mariah protested.

  ‘No, Mariah, he expects you to clea
n the illusions and me to have them ready for tomorrow.’ She paused, taking in a deep breath as she filled her lungs with the cold damp air. ‘Tonight I am going to find Mister Luger and see who he is going to meet. The last thing Felix said was that the answer could be found with Mister Luger. Now that we’ve found the secret level and the waxwork, I know that Felix was telling the truth.’

  ‘So where is the Three Mariners?’ Mariah asked as he tried to warm his hand on the match that Sacha nipped in her fingers.

  ‘By the harbour, in a back street.’ She scrunched up her nose as if it was not a place to be. ‘I know it well. If we go this way we can get past Luger’s workshop and on to the beach.’ Sacha threw the match to the floor, momentarily plunging them into complete darkness. With one hand she struck more matches against the box as she led Mariah back and forth through narrow alleyways and long cavernous tunnels that echoed with the hiss of the steam generator and the bubble of the sea’s waves. She stopped by a tall black door that looked as if it had been painted on the brick of the tunnel; next to it was a long flight of steps that went down into the murk. An oil lamp hung by the handle against the wall and flickered its scanty light. Sacha threw the match away and checked the box in the lamplight.

  ‘Six left,’ she said as she counted the Lucifers one by one. ‘There’s usually a lamp lit for when he comes down here to work – we’ll be all right and then we’ll be on the beach.’

  ‘How do we get out?’ Mariah asked as he instinctively pulled against the door of Luger’s workshop.

  ‘No,’ whispered Sacha as she pulled his hand from the door and dragged him away. ‘He always locks it and I would never dare go inside. You don’t know what he’s been doing.’

  ‘Could be where he makes the manikins,’ Mariah replied. He tried to look in through the keyhole. ‘If Luger made the waxwork of Felix he could do it in there.’

  Mariah fought against her wishes for him to follow. He held firmly on to the handle and, bowing his head, peered through the large empty keyhole. From his narrow gaze he could see to the far side of a large room that was lit by the flames of a glowing fire somewhere out of his sight. His eyes flicked from one thing to another, taking in what he could and allowing his imagination to lead him on. Behind the locked door was a world of pipes and ropes that seemed to go from floor to ceiling, stacked one upon another in neat, tidy rows, strapped to the wall as in the hold of a sailing ship. At the far side was an old sofa of hard brown leather, a rip gashed across its front as if it had been cut with a sabre. There, sitting snuggled in the dumpled red silk pillows, was a large doll with a pot face, rosy-red cheeks and a sombre smile. It stared at the door as if it knew it was being spied upon. It looked directly at the eye beyond the door and smiled softly at Mariah.

  ‘Old Scratty,’ Mariah mouthed. He looked to Sacha, who stamped her feet against the cold stone. ‘The doll’s here – what’s it doing in Luger’s workshop?’

  ‘Don’t be pulling my leg, boy.’ Sacha hit him across the shoulder with the back of her hand. ‘Scratty’s locked in Bizmillah’s cupboard and of that there’s no doubt. I saw her myself before I closed the door, as did you.’

  ‘She’s here, Sacha, and she’s laughing at us.’ He looked again through the keyhole and there was Old Scratty dressed in her black velvet dress and green silk slippers. ‘See for yourself.’

  Sacha looked in at the porcelain doll that by now had sullenly closed one eye as if in a long and drawn-out wink to tease the girl. ‘Bedad, I do believe …’ Sacha stopped and looked away. ‘Someone must have put her in there – she can’t be doing it herself. With every time I see her, she looks more and more like Miss Monica. Funny thing is, she arrived on the same day Scratty did.’

  Sacha spoke to herself as Mariah walked down the steps away from the door. He stood on deep wet sand that had been freshly washed by the winter tide pounding through the grille cut into the bottom of a tall wooden door. Above his head he could hear the whirring and grinding of the steam generator. It was as if the hotel sighed and coughed like a gigantic beached whale stuck upon the rocks. Coming from far away, the shrill notes of a distant piano seemed to echo through the vaults cut into the high ceiling of the tunnel. Sacha looked up as she put her hand on Mariah’s shoulder.

  ‘I can hear it,’ she said, as if to reassure him that he was not on the verge of madness. ‘It’s from the Salon. The holes in the roof are the vents to the Steam Room where they keep the generator. If you stand near them you can hear sounds from all over the Prince Regent. Sometimes at night you can even hear the guests snoring in their rooms.’

  ‘It’s like it’s alive … as if the building were not just bricks but a living creature,’ Mariah said as he stepped towards the doorway. The Prince Regent sighed and moaned above him.

  Sacha slipped the bolts to the door and pulled the latch as if she had done this a thousand times before. As they left the fading light that guarded the entrance to the cellars of the hotel, they were quickly consumed by the still, moonless night.

  They walked together across the sand, surrounded by swirls of sea mist that came and went as they paced each yard. There were moments when the Prince Regent would loom above them and then as if conjured away it would disappear from view in a shawl of mist that hid it from their eyes. The sound of the harbour fleeted across the breeze just above the sound of small waves breaking across the beach at the edge of the low tide. Mariah looked back at the trail of soaked footprints they had left behind in the wet sand. He hesitated for a moment and turned to see the hotel vanish once more. Sacha didn’t speak as she bent her head against the night and pulled up the collar of her smock, wrapping herself in her arms.

  ‘We should go back,’ Mariah said as she walked ahead of him.

  ‘Not until we find out what Luger is doing at the Three Mariners.’

  ‘What if he finds us?’ Mariah asked, seeking an excuse.

  ‘In this fog at nearly midnight?’ she scoffed as she kicked a stone across the sand. ‘He’ll be drunk like any man and not bothered if Old Nick came to visit him.’

  ‘But what of the Kraken? You said –’

  ‘The Kraken won’t be out tonight, the tide is too far out to sea. It can only change into a man when the water covers the drowning post in the harbour. Then it can come from the sea and take the children back for a feast.’

  ‘Drowning post?’ Mariah asked as he thought out loud.

  ‘If you get caught thieving at Christmas, you get the chance to be tied to the drowning post. If you live for two tides on Saint Stephen’s Day then they’ll set you free.’ Sacha picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it into the mist. ‘Saw it done one year. The man lasted the first tide and when we came back in the morning the post was empty and the man gone. That’s when they said the Kraken was awake.’

  ‘Do you believe in the Kraken?’ he asked, hoping she would say it was all from the imagination and nothing so terrible could ever come from the sea.

  ‘Yes,’ she said plainly. She looked about herself and gave a visible shiver as the clock from the old church chimed midnight across the town.

  They walked on across the beach, coming to higher, drier sand where the sea seldom washed. It was piled against the harbour wall and led them to a row of tar-painted wooden shacks with boarded fronts and gaudy signs. Mariah read each one as they walked by, wondering what delicacies and fancies could be bought for the old penny that he rolled in his pocket. On past the huts they crossed a cobbled road that came down from the town to the harbour. It turned sharply left, deep carriage ruts cut into the stones and a fine scattering of sand covering the surface. At the end of the arcade was a bright red letterbox stuck to the side of a kipper shed. Mariah burrowed into his pocket and pulled out his crumpled card, and without saying a word he plunged it into the postbox. He closed his eyes and wished it well for its journey, hoping it would find Perfidious Albion and bring him to the Prince Regent. Sacha had gone on ahead along the harbour side.

  There, all the bu
ildings that fronted the street were covered in nets and ropes that hung like cobwebs from the hoists as they gathered dew in the night air. Every roof was slowly becoming outlined with a ridge of silver as the first tongues of frost kissed the dark buildings.

  Sacha looked back and forth. A sudden swirl of thick, icy mist rolled around her for a brief moment and she vanished from sight. Mariah chattered with the cold that ran its icy fingers across his forehead and then down his spine. Sacha appeared then disappeared; she was only an arm’s length from him as the fog filled the street and then, before he had time to reach out for her, she quickly vanished in a sudden spiral. He turned again, the mist clearing and the night sky opening up above them.

  He looked up from the road to a gigantic sign that spread itself across the white-painted walls of the building in front of them. Above his head a burnished board appeared to throw out all the reflected light of the night. It shone as if with eager anticipation, that it would be seen far out to sea and by every mariner looking for a port of rest.

  Mariah read the words: The Golden Kipper.

  ‘Captain Charity,’ he said to himself as he remembered the conversation on the train, the invitation for a dinner and the biggest fish he could ever dream of eating.

  ‘You’ve heard of him, then?’ Sacha asked as she stood in the long alleyway that ran from the foreshore into the labyrinth of tunnel-like streets clustered against the castle hill.

  ‘Met him on the train from London. He gave me a card and an invitation for dinner, then set me on the carriage to the Prince Regent. He was there when I met Isambard Black. I could see they hated each other from the first sight. I thought Charity was going to throw the man from the train.’

  ‘Would be a thing he would do. I’ve heard a lot about this man but have never seen him. Went to fight for the Queen and left this place behind – an adventurer, my father called him.’