‘No, Martha… of course not.’
Cassandra pushed the book aside and quickly placed the others on top of it.
‘We’ve got visitors tomorrow and all. Got to look your best come rise and shine.’
‘Visitors?’ said Cassandra, crawling back into bed.
‘Some of the Lords of Parliament, M’lady. Coming for tea they are. An early tea. Around elevenses, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Oh.’ Cassandra had about as much affection for Lords of Parliament as she did criminals. To her the two were one and the same. One lied and cheated because it was part of the job description, the other, because it was in its nature.
‘What do they want?’
‘Now, now, Princess. Don’t fret. They’re charming fellows every one of them, just awfully busy that’s all, don’t have much time for the younger generation like yourself.’
‘Lord Waldor once asked mother to send me to my room. He said children should be seen and not heard. A child? I was thirteen!’
‘Still, not an adult though, Princess. And if I remember correctly you were going on about the moons colliding into each other all through the meal.’
‘And? I wasn’t making it up… It’s a very well documented theory, that given the orbits of the moons and the circumstances of their gravitational pull, eventually, not tomorrow, but in perhaps millions of years they will crash into each other. I was only remarking how enlightening it was that previous civilisations existing before the Realm of Logic had come to the same conclusion.’
‘Yes… And you may have been right, my dear. But sometimes you need to know when to let go. Otherwise people get upset, that’s all.’
‘Well, he was a silly man, who shouldn’t have let a child upset him.’
‘That may be so, dear, that may be so.’ Martha chuckled.
‘What do they want?’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs, M’lady. But they said it was urgent. Hence the last minute invitation.’
Lords of Parliament were the only creatures in the known world who officially invited themselves places. You didn’t need to send them wedding or dinner invitations, if they were coming, they would likely have already invited themselves and let you know about it with as little notice as possible.
‘I do hope they don’t ruin the day, mother’s always in a bad mood when they visit.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they won’t. Now come. No more reading. Give yourself the beauty sleep you deserve and I’ll see you come rise and shine for some brekky.’
Cassandra knew that meant porridge. She didn’t like porridge but had somehow kept it a secret from the maid for sixteen long years.
‘Goodnight, Martha.’
‘Night, night, m’dear.’ Martha blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, and closed the door behind her for the second time in one evening.
Cassandra lay in the dark thinking about the next day, the Lords and salty rolled oats.
And she was thinking about something else as well.
A whisper in the corner of her ear.
***
That night a stranger arrived in Laburnum.
Little can be said to describe this man. His age was somewhere north of thirty and south of fifty. Where he came from remains a mystery; and if he had a name, there was not a living person who knew it. He kept to the shadows, wearing a dark greatcoat and a tattered slouch hat, which drooped its wide brim around his head and cast his face in darkness.
He’d not visited the capital for many years, but he was in no mood to reminisce. He had come for business.
Such surreptitious business will always find its way to the part of the city where questions are seldom asked: the Brewery Quarter. Where the only queries are to how much gin is left in the bottle and at what time last orders will be called.
At the ambiguous hour of four (a time both morning and night) the Quarter was filled with its usual crowd. The stranger passed through it, stopped outside one of the quieter pubs and looked up at the hanging sign. It read: “The Medicine Tap”.
The door creaked open and a few drunken heads turned. Their drunken eyes fixed on the stranger. After a brief inspection, they arrived back at their drinks and each took a sullen sip. Or for some, a sullen gulp.
The stranger approached the barman, who had been watching him incredulously from the moment the bell above the door had chimed.
‘Wot can I do you for, sir?’
‘I’m meeting someone here,’ said the stranger, his voice hoarse and deep, lingering just above a whisper. ‘Name of Job Button.’
‘Job. Aye, ’e’s expectin’ you. I understand you wanted some privacy, so we’ve got a room for you upstairs on the left.’
The stranger nodded and stepped away. But the barman, polishing a tankard so as to put something between him and the man, hesitantly called him back.
You saw all types of folk working behind a bar and the barman had developed a nick for sussing out the dangerous ones. They were usually quiet, shy individuals, who didn’t like being stared at. The stranger looked the type.
‘Uh… see… the fing is, sir… ’e said you’d fit the bill, that’s all. For the room, see? Cuz, rooms cost money, even if you ain’t stayin’ the night… I could put one o’ these ’ere gents–’
The stranger reached into his pocket and in doing so cast panic into the room, silencing the barman and nearly forcing him into an untimely bowel movement. The customers, the barman and one man’s dog all sighed relief as they watched a handful of coins trickle onto the table.
The barman grinned. ‘Ooo… Why fank you very much, sir. Erm… I’ll ’av’ me wife bring up some drinks for ya. On the ’ouse, don’t worry ’bout it.’
The stranger nodded then ventured up the stairs.
Conversations resumed and the barman counted his profits. His wife was standing arms folded at the corner of the bar.
‘’E looks like trouble!’ came her vulgar voice.
‘Shush woman! It’ll be alright. No trouble. Job promist.’
‘Job, promist did ’e? Dat’s wot you sed last time. Last time, ’e damn near killed ’imself on ah bottle of dat dere medicine. I remember it like it woz yesterday - “one more bottle can’t ’urt, I’ll be no trouble”, next fing we knows ’e’s bent ’alf way over de bar given our glasses a good cleanin’ wiv wot medicine ’e couldn’t fit in ’is belly.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I ’ope so.’
‘Pour two drinks and take ’em up will ye? And not a word you ’ere me woman? I knows wot yer like.’
‘Wot sorta drinks?’
‘Wot?’
‘Well wot sorta drinks should I be pourin’ for ’em?’
‘I don’t know. Gin?’
‘Don’t wanna waste good gin on ’em do we?’
‘Suppose not. Whisky then. But the cheap stuff.’
Upstairs there were two doors marked with badly written signs. One “vakent”. One “occopyd”. The stranger gently rapped his fist on the former, pushing it open to a dull groan.
He was met with a dark room and the silhouette of a man sat in a cloud of smoke rising from his pipe and glowing in the moonlight.
Neither said hello.
The stranger closed the door behind him.
Job Button toked on his pipe.
‘Evenin’,’ said Job.
The stranger didn’t reply.
‘I’ve got valuable information for you. Dangerous it is,’ said Job. ‘The kind of information that could get us sent to the gallows. I ’ope you know I value me life a lot, it ’as a ’igh price to be risked.’
The stranger, still ignoring him, searched the room for places someone could hide. He spied out the window, checked the door was properly shut and only then, when he was completely satisfied with their privacy, did he speak.
‘Tell me and I will decide its worth.’
Job puffed on his pipe, feeding the unwelcome silence with a further pause.
Job was a part-time
undertaker, full-time drinker, always on the look out to earn a few extra bob. He wasn’t a man people took seriously, but on this occasion it was vital that he be taken seriously. He’d had two less drinks to give him an edge of sobriety and bought a pipe, because he was sure gents with pipes looked more professional. And that was probably true, when they didn’t splutter after every toke.
‘I ’ears you’re the man to speak to ’bout certain… unusual findings.’
‘…’
‘I does a lot o’ work in Bloomhill Cemetery. You know it?’
‘…’
Clearly the stranger wanted to keep things short. He hadn’t even sat down.
‘I suppose you’ve ’eard of grave robbers. Dem ones wot go round diggin’ up the graves, robbin’ the valuables wot get buried wiv loved ones.’
‘…’
It was hard to gauge whether or not the stranger was following, his face was void of all expression, and his attention divided between the street out the window and Job.
‘Dirty work it is.’
‘I am not interested in grave robbers,’ said the stranger.
‘Ah! But these ain’t regular grave robbers. Some of ’em are. But some of the graves I find… most queer they are… most queer.’
‘…’
‘Every now and then I come ’cross a grave that’s bin robbed for summin else.’
‘…’
‘The bodies.’
Despite the extra care in dropping this punchline, Job was disappointed in the stranger’s response. He’d expected a gasp, at the very least an eye widening or a nostril twitch. He got nothing.
‘I’ve heard of this,’ said the stranger. ‘Men of science and students of anatomy digging up the dead to further their studies. It is not the sort of unusual I’m looking for.’
‘Yes, but–’
There was a gentle tapping at the door and the barman’s wife came creeping in with a tray of two drinks.
‘’Ere we are my sirs. Two on the ’ouse, courtesy of the ’usband.’
The stranger stared at Job. Job stared at the stranger. Both stared at the barman’s wife who stared awkwardly at the drinks then set them down on the side table, bowed her head and retreated.
‘Sorry to disturb ye. Beg me pardons.’ It was obvious when a conversation wasn’t meant for your ears, especially when it stopped dead as you came within earshot. The barman’s wife backed out of the room and the stranger made sure the door was closed.
Job wasn’t one to turn away a good drink. He picked up his glass and gave it an inquisitive sniff. It was whisky. An oak malt. 12 years old perhaps (actually this stuff was barely a few weeks, but he’d never know). He downed it in one and exhaled a bitter yet satisfied “Ahhhh”.
‘’S’good that. You gonna ’av’ yours?’ asked Job, hovering his hand above the second glass.
‘No.’
‘Mind if I…?’
‘No.’
‘Very well.’ The second one went down the hatch. ‘“Ahhhh” Doubly good. Right… Where was I? Oh yeah. That’s right. There’s a bit more to this grave thing. A bit more wot makes it very unusual indeed.’
‘Go on?’
‘I knows when a grave’s bin robbed by an academic. Body goes walkies. But a few of ’em ’av’ bin… different. Illogical some’d say.’
Job was a natural storyteller and it was beginning to get on the stranger’s nerves.
‘Yes?’
‘You see, when it’s smart folk wot rob the graves, they don’t do it wiv their own ’ands. They employ people wiv experience. People wot rob graves for a livin’. And I ain’t ever seen a grave robber miss up an opportunity to get their fingers on valuables.’
‘Get to the point.’
‘Wot I’m sayin’ is: how many grave robbers do you know, wot would rob a grave of its body but leave the valuables behind.’
This was worth listening to and finally drew a curious brow furrowing from the stranger’s face.
‘That is interesting,’ said the stranger at last.
Job replenished his pipe, struck a match to light it, toked it and coughed in a cloud of smoke.
‘And you think this is evidence of the Black Science?’ asked the stranger.
‘There’s more. See, when a grave’s bin robbed for a body, it’s usually fresh. It’s usually dug up a night or two after it’s bin put in the ground. Usually. But as I said, this ain’t usual. Some of them graves wot’s bin robbed… they’re old. Weeks old. I saw one that was a month gone, I swear it.’
‘And only the bodies taken?’
‘Yep. All the shinies still there. Not bad for me own pocket, if you get wot I mean.’ Job laughed. It was a horse’s laugh and was immediately followed with choking and wheezing.
The stranger took a minute to reflect. It sounded suspicious enough to him, and that was exactly what he was hoping for.
It was exactly what Job was hoping for too.
‘So? Worth a pretty penny I reckon? Wot you fink?’
‘It’s intriguing, yes. And worth a price, yes. I’ll give you a twenty five percent down payment. The rest to be paid after.’
‘After wot?’
‘I can’t take your word, you understand. I’d be a poor man if I went around handing out pounds for any old fool’s gossip.’
Job’s face sank.
It was soon revived. The stranger pulled out a red felt bag and emptied half of it into his hand. Job leant out of his seat for a closer look. What he saw made him grin. His teeth, what teeth he had, gleamed in the moonlight. As did the coins.
There was, however, another side to all this. A side that wasn’t altogether private.
Mildred, the barman’s wife, was a nosey woman. She needed to know who everyone in her tavern was, where they came from, what they were doing there, who they were involved with romantically and what they preferred on their toast in the morning. After leaving the two drinks behind, she had lingered in the hallway and pressed her ear to the keyhole.
She hadn’t heard much but what she’d heard was enough. Something about bodies and grave robbers and that rarely uttered word that all citizens took particularly seriously. “Illogical”. Not in her house, thought Mildred. There’d be none of that sort of thing.
She didn’t hang about. At once, she darted down the stairs and snuck out into the street while her husband served his guests. There she found a thirsty boy, gave him a penny and whispered into his ear. The boy ran through the sleepless crowds of the Brewery Quarter and fetched the first Watchman he could find. The guard had been quietly enjoying a pint at the end of his shift with his fellow Watchmen. But on hearing the gossip, the cohort left their drinks with near full heads of foam and rallied to the Medicine Tap. Normally the testimony of a young lad that early in the morning in the Brewery Quarter would have been laughed at. But this wasn’t a laughing matter.
There are many crimes in the city of Laburnum. They are listed and ranked in the Watchman’s Law book, which every Watchman must carry on his persons at all times.
…No.423 Relieving oneself in a private doorway. No.365 Getting oneself too drunk to make it home. No.269 Feaguing a horse with a live eel in public. No.231 Napping whilst in command of a horse cart. No.190 Handling trout in a suspicious manner. No.155 Irresponsibly dying in the middle of the street. No.130 Unintentionally giving lost people awful directions…
And so on and so on until the more serious offences.
…No.22 Arson. No.7 Theft. No.3 Murder. No.2 Treason…
And finally, a crime worse than all put together. A crime so criminal that to even discuss it, is in itself, a crime.
…No.1 Logicide: thought, behaviour or dialogue which is removed from reason and logic…
The stranger and Job Button had concluded their conversation and were about to go their separate ways when they heard it – the rising voices from below.
‘No! You can’t just go bargin’ through… Stop! Come back ’ere–’
It was muffled bu
t sounded like the barman for sure.
Then came the next muffled noise. The sound of boots. Boots clobbering their way up the wooden staircase. Job Button sprang into panic. He leapt up from his chair spilling his pipe on the floor.
‘Wot do we do?’ he said. ‘Moons collide. We’re doomed to spin! They’ll string us up, shoot us, torture us for weeks on end; or, be it worse… send us to the Hall–’
The stranger lifted his finger to his mouth and silenced the gibbering loon.
He exuded calm. He pulled the chair Job had been sitting on across the room and fixed it under the door handle – then he moved to the window.
Outside he saw the waggon and a guard on watch beside it. There were only two ways out of the room, the door and the window, and both it seemed would end in violence.
After a pause, which drove Job Button to the brink of madness, the guards began hammering on the door. The stranger turned to his anxious informant and said: ‘Listen, this is what we’re going to do.’
…
A few minutes passed.
…
The guard was hammering so furiously at the woodwork that when it opened at last, his fist remained dancing in the air.
A smiling Job Button curiously ushered him in. The guard, fooled by this nonchalant welcoming, lingered in the doorway for a few seconds before being thrust aside by another man, Laburnum’s Chief Inspector.
The first thing people notice about Inspector Forsyth is the unfortunately long nose situated in the middle of his face. Wherever the word logicide is uttered, it can be seen poking its way in and weaving around like a shark fin. As a man of the law, the Inspector was richly decorated with all kinds of badges and medals for good service. They gleamed on his chest. Hundreds of people had been found guilty of logicide and other offences since he took the chief position in office. Who knew if they were actually guilty? Most were sent to the gallows without trial. That was the way he dealt with things. Swiftly.
‘Having a nice evening to yourself were you?’ asked the Inspector. Like everything he did, he spoke swiftly too, throwing out the words with such speed so as to make Job stutter.
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