Printer's Devil (9780316167826)

by Bajoria, Paul

  They were being incredibly nice to me all of a sudden, all their earlier teasing quite banished.

  “How did you two do then?” I asked between mouthfuls, looking around at the piles of books.

  “Some of them turned out to be good,” Nick replied.

  Chewing, I hitched up my awful pants and crouched in front of the piles of books to look at the spines. “Crimes of the Last Century,” I read, “Being a Catalogue of Misdeeds, featuring most unsavory Murders, Poisonings, Robberies and Waylayings.”

  “Thought we might keep that one,” Nick said, almost embarrassed.

  I picked up another. “A Booke of Devils. True Hiftories of Wickednesse and Witch-Craft.” Flicking through its fragile pages, I found lots of engravings of sad-faced men being pulled apart by grinning creatures with hooves and pitchforks. “Some of these books are ancient,” I said.

  “I know. They’re falling to pieces mostly. There are even one or two in Latin,” said Nick.

  But my eye had fallen across something else — and it was more interesting than the books. “Just a minute,” I said. “Nick, have you seen this?” I lifted one of the discarded sheets of newspaper which had been used to wrap the books. “Listen,” I said, excited.

  PRECIOUS LANTERN STOLEN

  Indian Jewel removed from

  Ship at Dead of Night

  Authorities Baffled

  The SUN OF CALCUTTA, a gold lantern worth several thousands of pounds, has been reported stolen from the East Indiaman which bears its name. It had been widely rumored that the ship, lately docked, was bearing items of great value, and the popular intelligence has now been exploited, as was confirmed today by Capt. George Shakeshere. Customs authorities guarding the ship all night expressed incredulity at the loss of the object, which was first found to be missing after a routine search of the ship at dawn. For the East India Company, Mr. Follyfeather spoke of his astonishment and anger. Few eyewitnesses have come forward but a foreign gentleman in a black cloak, seen in the vicinity late last night, is urgently sought.

  “I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” I said.

  “What is it?” asked Spintwice, holding out his hand for the crumpled sheet of paper. Nick and I just stared at one another while he read it. “I suppose this is the lantern you saw when you went snooping around the ship that time, Mog?” I nodded. “And there’s your man from Calcutta again,” he added as he read further. “I’m getting rather sick of hearing about him.”

  “Follyfeather’s got some nerve,” said Nick, “going on about how shocked he is, when he’s really after it himself.”

  I was thinking hard. “I bet this is what they were talking about this morning,” I said. “They were making plans to meet tonight at the Old Tup. You know where that is? Near the prison. Just around the corner from the man from Calcutta’s hideout. I bet they’re planning to go round there and look for the lantern.”

  “It seems to me,” said Spintwice, “they were asking for trouble leaving a gold lantern on board like that. I mean, you didn’t have any trouble getting aboard, did you, Mog?”

  “No,” I said, “but I nearly didn’t get off again.”

  “Still,” said the dwarf, “it sounds almost as though it was too easy to steal. As if — someone wanted them to take it.”

  “You mean, it might have been left there to trap them?” said Nick, grasping for the dwarf’s logic.

  “Perhaps. Of course, it could be that the very people who were meant to be guarding it are the ones who’ve taken it.”

  “That makes sense,” I said, “that means Follyfeather.”

  Nick suddenly said, “I can think of someone else who could get onboard that ship any time of the day or night.” I looked at him. “My Pa,” he said. “Nobody would challenge him.”

  “We’ve got to go to the Old Tup tonight,” I said; “they’re all going to be there. You’ll come with me, won’t you, Nick?”

  “Oh dear,” said Spintwice.

  “Oh, Mog,” sighed Nick.

  12

  DARKNESS FALLS

  The Old Tup was a squat, ugly little inn crouching stubbornly between much newer brick houses, having dug its heels in centuries ago and resisted the demolition men’s sledgehammers ever since. It was notorious. Its regular clientele consisted of thieves and habitual drunkards, and it seemed a very appropriate spot for Fellman, Flethick and Follyfeather, and their assorted alliterative crew, to be gathering.

  It was even hotter tonight, if possible, than at any point during the last week. The Old Tup was built virtually right on top of the Fleet, and the stench was so strong tonight that the air almost hummed. The sunset blazed pink behind the city roofs, and the bricks of the nearby houses had absorbed so much of the sun’s heat today that they were warm to the touch as we pressed ourselves against them to watch from a convenient corner. “This place is popular tonight,” Nick whispered. “We’re not the only ones watching it. Word’s got about. Look!”

  It took a little while, but as I scanned the street in the gathering darkness, I began to be aware of numerous peeping, dodging little faces in corners and hideyholes, gathering information about what the criminal world was up to, their eyes shining in the dark like fireflies. And it was clearer than ever, after the conversation at Fellman’s, that we, too, were being watched.

  Slowly, in twos and threes, the villains gathered. They greeted one another in low monosyllables, but they said almost nothing else as they stood in the shadows, waiting. I recognized Flethick and one of the men I’d seen in his smoking den. Then Follyfeather turned up, impeccable and confident, with a man I’d never seen before. Finally, a stocky threesome strode into view, led by Fellman the papermaker. With him was a much larger man, built like a wrestler, whose face was so similar to Fellman’s that they might have been brothers; and another especially violent-looking character with a stick and a severe limp, and a withered arm held tight against his side in a short black velvet coat.

  They were a very unpleasant-looking crew indeed. I couldn’t help remembering, with a tingle of fear, the words Fellman had growled while I was hiding at the mill this morning: “Boys and bosuns is easily disposed of.” Almost as soon as the last of them had arrived, they’d melted into the darkness: but they were off up the street which led to Cramplock’s shop, and to the strange house next door where I’d found the man from Calcutta’s hideout.

  “Come on,” I said, “let’s go round the other way.”

  Trying to be as quiet as possible unlocking the heavy front door, I let Nick into Cramplock’s and followed him inside. I was really frightened now, and I wasn’t entirely sure what we were going to do: but it seemed like we’d come too far to stop now. With Lash scampering ahead of us, we went up the stairs and into my little room. Nick’s face was solemn in the low lamplight as I showed him the cupboard with no back, and the bricks which lifted out to reveal the secret crawl hole.

  “Are we going in?” he whispered.

  “Not if the snake’s in there,” I said.

  We stood there for a while, not moving. Eventually Nick said, “Well? Let’s find out!”

  I looked at him. “I can’t move, Nick,” I said, “I’m scared.”

  Nick tutted, and knelt to feel around in the hole. “This was your idea in the first place,” he said, pushing his head inside.

  “Keep your voice down,” I whispered.

  “Give me that lamp,” he said, holding out his arm.

  Slowly, Nick crawled into the hole. All I could see were his feet disappearing inside.

  “Can you see the basket?” I whispered, anxiously. I was holding onto Lash’s collar, waiting for him to start growling or barking as he sensed the snake’s presence. He sneezed a couple of times as the dust from the dislodged bricks met his nostrils, but otherwise he didn’t seem bothered. Maybe the snake wasn’t there.

  Nick’s voice was muffled, sounding a terribly long way off. “There’s nothing in here.”

  “Can you get out of the trapdoor?�
�

  There was a muffled clatter, and a few moments’ silence. Then Nick came shuffling back out, backward.

  “There’s nothing there,” he said, “I mean — nothing. No snake. No trapdoor. Just a big, empty house, all dust.”

  What was he talking about?

  “Did you hear any voices or anything?”

  “Not a whisper,” he said.

  I gathered my courage. The snake evidently wasn’t there, and we could take Lash in with us, if he’d come.

  “After you,” I said.

  Nick went first again, clutching the lamp; but as I crawled through after him, he stopped.

  “Go on,” I whispered, trying to push his backside with my head.

  “Hang on,” said his muffled voice, sounding irritated. There was a scraping sound as he climbed gingerly out the other side.

  “Whoa,” I heard him say softly.

  Something was wrong. The trapdoor was missing. The little hidey-hole wasn’t even here. All I could feel was rough, damp bricks scraping on my knees as I crawled through. Now that Nick was through the hole he wasn’t moving. He was standing, holding up the lamp, looking around. As I poked my head out, a slow creeping horror spread through me.

  Nick spoke first. He was as bewildered as I was.

  “This can’t be —“ he began.

  I knelt in the rough brick hole, staring dumbly at the scene the lamp was illuminating before us.

  Everything was gone. The walls, the floorboards, the trapdoor, the snake basket, the pedestal with its elephant statue. The stairs. The house was an empty, burnt-out shell. Blackened beams stretched out into the gloom ahead of us. Dust floated thickly in the yellow lamplight. Nick was standing gingerly on a thick plank which had once supported the floorboards of the rooms upstairs; now there were great yawning gaps through which we would fall twenty feet to the ground below if he took one false step. Above us, the ceilings had gone too. Nick lifted the lamp to light up a huge empty roof space, the wooden supports again apparently charred by fire. Everything was rotten and abandoned, just as it had been when I’d been in here that time years ago.

  “This isn’t what I expected,” Nick was saying.

  “I can’t believe my eyes,” I said, my voice trembling.

  He handed the lamp back to me and shuffled slowly along the plank, his arms held out to steady himself. What if the beam was rotten?

  “Nick, don’t,” I said.

  Halfway across the beam, he stopped, hovering, like an apparition, in midair, in the middle of the giant empty space.

  “Come back,” I urged him.

  He was agile, but the lamp was tipping him off balance a bit, and he wobbled alarmingly as he stepped back along the plank toward me.

  “I thought you said —“ he began.

  “Nick, I can’t understand this. This isn’t how it was. I don’t think this can be the right house.”

  “What do you mean, not the right house? Where else could we have ended up, climbing through the cupboard wall?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, terrified, “but this isn’t what it was like, Nick. It was properly paneled, with strong new floors, all polished. Like there was someone really living here. And there was a statue of an elephant with — Nick, it’s all gone! Like it was never here at all.”

  My head was swimming with confusion. Had I dreamt everything the other night? I remembered the details of the house with the utmost clarity. How could I have gotten it wrong? Had I been in a completely different house? But there could be no mistake. Hiding from the snake-man that night, I’d fallen through the same hole in the wall we’d just climbed through.

  There was a sudden dry clatter from the back of the house, like a gate banging. In the shock of the last few moments I’d forgotten about the villains.

  “It’s them,” I said, in a panic, grabbing Nick’s sleeve.

  “Watch it!” he hissed. “You’ll push me off!”

  We listened. There seemed to be no further sounds. They were biding their time, lurking at the back of the house, discussing their strategy, perhaps.

  “But what have they come looking for?” Nick asked in a whisper. “I don’t understand. The house is completely bare.”

  “I know,” I said, “everything is gone. But it was here, the other day. I can’t quite believe it, but I think the man from Calcutta must have just scarpered, and taken everything with him. It’s the only explanation.”

  I knew it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t possibly have stripped out all those floorboards, that staircase, those panels, not to mention the heavy and conspicuous elephant statue, in the two short days since I’d last stood there. So had the house been burnt up in another fire since then? And, if it had, how could I not have known about it?

  I sat in the hole in the bricks, with my legs dangling through, watching Nick as he moved. Quickly and acrobatically, he dropped to the floor below, with a barely audible thud. There was a sudden scrabbling and rustling as the floor around him cleared of rats. Then, for a few moments, he was gone into the shadows, and I couldn’t see him; until the lamplight picked up his movement again, over by the opposite wall. He’d done this a thousand times before: sizing up an unfamiliar house in the dark, looking for possible escape routes. I could see him looking out through a filthy old window onto the garden.

  “Can you see anything?” I whispered down to him.

  “Not really. It’s too dark. But they’ll see your lamp, Mog. Put it out, and come down.”

  “I can’t climb down there,” I whispered.

  “Yes you can. I’ll catch you. But leave the lamp.”

  “What about Lash?”

  “He’ll stay where he is, won’t he? Tell him to stay.”

  I couldn’t think of any more excuses. Resignedly, I leaned back into the hole and reached out for Lash, waiting patiently on the other side of the wall. His muzzle met my fingers in no time and started licking them.

  “Stay,” I told him, “I won’t be long, old boy. Stay there. Lie down. Good dog.”

  As I stood up, I clutched one of the bricks to steady myself, and it came away in my hand with a sharp scraping sound, making me teeter and flail in thin air for a few seconds before I stuck out a foot to stop myself falling. By a miracle, my foot made contact with the beam; but the brick plummeted ten feet to the floor, landing with a clatter near Nick’s feet; and as I tried to steady myself, I also lost my grip on the lamp. I think I screamed as it fell with a loud smash, missing Nick by inches; and then I screamed again, much more loudly, as it immediately burst into flames, sending a sheet of bright fire licking up the walls, lighting up the entire cavernous interior of the house.

  Things happened too quickly now for me to remember them very clearly. I remember being terrified, gripping the beam, trying to lower myself toward Nick’s outstretched hands without getting burnt. I remember looking down into his grim face as he grabbed my ankles, and a jarring pain in my knee as we both collapsed awkwardly to the floor.

  And I remember a sudden burst of activity at the back door, as whoever was out there heard the noise, and saw the light of the fire, and started trying to break the door down to get inside. Any moment now it was going to give way, and we’d be caught. I was too frightened to say or do anything.

  Nick’s face was frightened and black with filth, his eyes darting around for a means of escape. There was another door, leading out onto the street; but to get there we’d have to run through the rising flames. Some of the dry timbers and bundles of old paper which littered the floor had begun to catch fire, and the house was filling with smoke. For long, agonizing seconds, we both stood looking at one another’s black serious eyes, not moving a muscle.

  “Chimney,” whispered Nick suddenly, and ducked past me to investigate the huge dark fireplace, which I hadn’t even noticed.

  “Nick, we’ve got to get out,” I said, panic-stricken, as I watched him leaning into the grate to peer up the chimney. “We’ll be suffocated — burnt up. Can’t we make it to
the front door?”

  “We haven’t’ got time,” he shouted. “Over here! Quick!”

  I scrambled over the uneven floor, away from the rising flames, to join him by the fireplace. The hearth was broken, and the stone surround burnt and disfigured, but as he stuck his head up into the cavity Nick could see it was easily broad enough for a child to climb into.

  “Follow me,” he said. “I think there’s room up here. We’ll have to stay still.”

  “Don’t worry,” I muttered, pushing him from below as he heaved himself up the chimney. I knew the flimsy wooden door wasn’t going to prove to be an obstacle for long.

  And it didn’t. I’d only just scrabbled my way up into the pitch black hole, grazing my elbow on the sooty bricks as Nick pulled me up by the forearm, when I heard the door fly open and determined footsteps enter the house. I didn’t have a very good foothold, and my feet were sending quiet showers of soot cascading down into the fireplace. Looking up, I could see nothing — not even Nick. The chimney was narrow, and seemed to get narrower as it got higher. I could feel years of filth filling my hair and trickling in a gritty stream down my neck.

  There was more than one man in the house now. I could hear clattering sounds and voices from below, though I couldn’t really make out what they were saying. I was convinced we were going to suffocate up here; if the fire took hold beneath us we were completely trapped, because the only way out was up. As though he’d read my mind, Nick began moving his feet, looking for footholds so he could wriggle further up into the chimney. He was standing on my fingers. What are you doing, you idiot, I wanted to scream … but I didn’t dare make a sound.

  Below us there were several sets of footsteps clomping on the echoing floor; trying to stamp out the fire, maybe. But there were also shouts, and now there came gasps of what sounded like pain. It came like a rhythm: a thud, immediately below me, no more than a few feet away from the fireplace — followed by a groan of anguish. Another thud — another groan. Someone was being beaten up.