He arrived back at Belgrave Square just before nightfall, bedraggled and besmirched with all the grime that comes from riding at thirty miles per hour among London’s chimneys. Slamming the front door behind him, he barred it, chained it, searched out the key from inside the shade of a gas lamp and locked it. Then he leaned against it and shouted, “Brahms! Brahms! Close the shutters all the way up! And move all the furniture over the windows. Do it now! Ophelia?”
No one answered.
“Ophelia!”
A wide-eyed maid appeared at the top of the stairs. “Good evenin’, sir,” she mumbled. “Cook kept your dinner warm and they’ve got a—”
Mr. Jelliby spun on her.
“Jane? Or is it Margaret. No matter. Fetch all the guns from over the mantelpieces, and all the swords and the carving knives, and perhaps a frying pan or two, and anything else that can be used as a weapon, and then lock up the door to the back garden. And tell Cook to go out and buy a good supply of crackers and salted pork, and lock up the attic windows in case they come in through the roof, and don’t forget the guns!”
The maid stood unmoving, her face a picture of confusion.
“Well? What’s the matter? Do as I say!”
She stammered something and began backing away down the upstairs hall. Then she turned and ran, polished heels pounding the carpet. A door slammed. Not a minute later, Ophelia arrived at the head of the stairs, the maid peeking from behind her.
“Arthur? Darling, whatever is the matter?”
“You don’t suppose we should knock him out,” the maid whispered. “I hear folks get possessed by faeries an’ start acting all strange, an’ then you have to get a club, see, or that candlestick there will do, and—”
“That’s enough, Phoebe,” Ophelia said, without moving her gaze from Mr. Jelliby’s face. “You may go sweep up the tea leaves in the sitting room. I’m sure they’ve collected a boatload of dust by now.”
The maid bowed her head and hurried down the stairs. She inched past Mr. Jelliby, casting him the most despairing look, and sped on toward the sitting room. Ophelia waited until she heard the door click. Then she hurried down herself.
She pulled Mr. Jelliby away from the front door, her pretty face crinkling with worry. “Arthur, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Mr. Jelliby cast a fearful look around him and then led his wife to a chair, whispering, “We’re in trouble, Ophelia. Terrible, terrible trouble. Oh, what’s going to happen to us? What will happen?”
“Well, if you will tell me what has happened, then perhaps I can tell you what will happen,” Ophelia said gently.
Mr. Jelliby buried his head in his hands. “I can’t tell you what’s happened. You can’t know. You mustn’t know. Oh, I stole something, all right? From someone rather important. And now they know. They know I stole it!”
“Arthur, you didn’t! Oh, you couldn’t have! With your inheritance?”
“People are being murdered, Ophelia. Children. I had to.”
“You ought to have called the police. Stealing money helps nothing in these cases.”
Mr. Jelliby made a complicated sound of annoyance. “I didn’t steal any money, won’t you listen? I stole a bird. A pisky-cursed mechanical bird.”
“A bird? From who? Mr. Lickerish? Darling, was it Mr. Lickerish?” She bit her nail. “Arthur, do you know what I suspect? I suspect you are reading crimes into his actions. Now, you will put your coat away—oh, it is sooty! Did you not have it brushed?—and sit down by the fire and drink some chamomile tea. Then you will take a hot bath and go to sleep, and tomorrow we shall see what must be done. Perhaps it won’t be necessary to rearrange the furnishings after all.”
That sounded sensible enough. Mr. Jelliby was in the safety of his front hall now. The window looked out on an emptying Belgrave Square, on carriages and people, shadowy in the dusk. The evening light was just touching the rooftops with copper and rose. What could Mr. Lickerish possibly do to him here? Out in the wilds of the city he could chase a million horrors onto Mr. Jelliby’s back. He could have him pushed from a bridge, or under a steam carriage, or order all the spiders in Pimlico to drag him to the roofs and spin him to a chimney. But here in Mr. Jelliby’s own home? The worst Mr. Lickerish could do was murder him in his sleep. And what were the chances of that . . . ?
Mr. Jelliby took off his coat and went to drink some chamomile tea.
Fog slunk among the headstones of St. Mary, Queen of Martyrs, that night. It smelled of charcoal and rot, and spread in slow shapes down the sloping graveyard. Above, clouds drifted, snuffing out the moon. Somewhere in the maze of streets beyond the wall a dog barked.
The watchman sat in his hut against the side of the church, fast asleep in the wavering glow of a lantern. Grave robbers had come and gone, finished their business hours ago and were well on their way to the physicians in Harley Street, and to certain faeries of delicate diet. No one heard the sudden shriek of wind, or saw the pillar of wings take shape out of the dark. No one saw the lady who stepped from among them. She looked around her, head snapping about like a bird’s. Then she turned and made for the gate, plum-colored skirts dragging over the damp soil.
The lady led a small child. It was a changeling girl, thin, with branches for hair. It was Hettie. She seemed to be falling asleep as they walked, stumbling over roots and sunken gravestones. Her head slumped to one side now and then, as if she didn’t know she was in a foggy graveyard, as if she thought she might nestle into her pillow and go to sleep.
“Stop dawdling, ugly thing,” the lady snapped, pulling her along. “We’re almost done.”
Her lips did not move as she spoke. The fog swallowed all sound, but even so the lady’s voice was distant, as if it were coming from behind layers of fabric. “One more little thing I must take care of tonight, and then you can sleep until your fingernails grow halfway to Gloucester for all I care.”
Hettie rubbed her eyes with her free hand and mumbled something about rats and houses.
“And hold your tongue.” The lady stepped through the gate of the graveyard, into Bellyache Street. She sniffed the air. Then she strode on over the cobblestones. Hettie could scarcely keep up, but the lady paid no attention. She dragged Hettie down Bellyache Street, into Belgrave Square. They hurried out across it, silent in the lamp-lit expanse.
They stopped in front of a tall house with a bicycle bolted to its fence. The house loomed, blacker than the night sky, not a single light tracing any of its windows. The lady eyed it a moment. Then she pulled Hettie toward the nearest lamppost and planted her under it, pointing up at the flame faery behind the glass and saying, “Do you see that? See how it presses its little orange hands against the panes and looks back at you? Now don’t move. I’ll return for you in seven breaths.” She whirled away, leaving Hettie transfixed under the streetlamp.
At the top of the steps, the lady paused and took from the folds of her dress a heavy metal cylinder. It was ancient, green with verdigris and forged with heathenish symbols. A smiling face, all fat cheeks and twinkling eyes, was etched on its lid.
The lady twisted the lid, winding it like a clock, and suddenly the face began to change. As it turned upside down it became angry, and its eyes began to darken, and its mouth drooped into a bitter frown. The cylinder sprang open.
“Arthur Jelliby,” the lady whispered, and smiled as something flew from the cylinder through the keyhole and into the plush darkness of the house. When there was nothing left inside the cylinder she tucked it back into her skirts, and collecting Hettie up off the curb, swept back toward St. Mary’s and the graveyard.
It was not a sound that woke Mr. Jelliby. Rather, it was the combined effects of being too cold, lying half out of his blankets, and feeling an uncomfortable lump in his mattress at the small of his back, like a broken spring poking out.
He sat up and felt about in the dark, trying to find the source of this discomfort. He was so tired. Had a man in pointed shoes appeared right then and asked
him to sign his name in blood inside a black book, he would have done it just to be allowed to fall back into his pillows and sleep.
His fingers touched on something smooth and cold among the bedsheets. It wasn’t a bedspring. What on earth? It wasn’t even metal.
With a groan, he heaved himself up and lit the lamp on the nightstand. He held it over the bed, surveying the wrinkled sheets. The thing that had woken him was a piece of wood. It was well polished and seemed to have grown from under the bed, piercing mattress and feather comforters until it had finally jabbed into his back.
Mr. Jelliby stared at it, his sleep-fogged mind stumbling, not understanding. Clumsily, he dropped to one knee and looked under the bed. It was a great old four-poster, built of dark wood and carved to look like a grove of weeping willows, their branches entwined to form a canopy. Now that he thought of it, the wood among the sheets looked very much—
He stiffened. Something was wrapping itself around his ankle. With a muffled yelp he jerked his leg around, whirling to see what it was. A brittle snap, like the breaking of a match. He looked down, and there at his feet was another piece of branch, lying still.
“Ophelia?” he whispered into the dark. “Ophelia, I believe you should have a look at this—”
But even as he spoke, another branch rose up behind him and snaked itself silently around his neck. With one swift movement, it drew itself tight. The lamp fell from Mr. Jelliby’s hands. It smashed to the floor and went out. His eyes bulged. He reached for his throat, gagging.
“Ophelia!” he croaked, snapping the wood from his neck. The branches were coming quicker now, left and right, crackling from the woodwork of the bed and slithering toward him. “Ophelia!”
All of a sudden, the carpet under his feet gave a violent lurch and streaked out from under him. He struck the floor like a ten-ton stone. The carpet turned, flew back at him, and began wrapping itself around him, winding and knotting. With a cry, he kicked it off and started crawling desperately toward the door.
He managed to get out into the hall and would have lain there had not the floorboards begun flipping up, slamming him in the back, in the arm. He scooted down the front stairs and stood, trembling. This was a dream, surely. He must be dreaming.
He glanced around the hall. Everything was quiet.
He went into the library and took up the decanter of brandy. In a few hours I will wake up again. Carpets and willow beds will be precisely what they are supposed to be, and I can—
The creak of wood sounded behind him. He spun, just in time to see a claw-foot table bounding across the room toward him. It launched itself into the air. It caught him square in the chest. He was hurled back—decanter and all—against the far wall. The decanter burst, leaving a dripping blot on the wallpaper. Mr. Jelliby wrestled with the table, gasping, too stunned even to shout.
He saw the cutlass seconds before it struck. It came from the coat of arms above the fireplace, whizzing point-first toward him. He dragged the table up like a shield, but the cutlass sliced through it, singing past Mr. Jelliby’s cheek and burying itself in the wall barely an inch from his left eye.
“Brahms!” he screamed. “Ophelia? Wake up! Wake up!” He ducked under the table, leaving it to thrash against the cutlass, and half limped, half crawled toward the front hall. A door banged upstairs. Voices called to each other and hurrying feet beat the floor.
By the time Mr. Jelliby arrived at the front door it was already moving. The mahogany lions carved into its frame snapped at him, straining against the edge of the beams. He gripped the door handle, but it squirmed in his hand. He let go with a cry. A brass lizard launched itself at his face, and its tail caught him on the cheek, leaving a bloody streak. From the ceiling, a plaster vine spiraled into his mouth. He bit down hard, cracking it in two.
At the top of the stairs a light appeared. Brahms stood there in his nightcap, a great kerosene lamp held aloft. It illuminated a circle of ghostly faces, all peering down in fear and wonderment at the battle raging below.
“Ophelia?” Mr. Jelliby shouted up. “Is Ophelia all right?” The hall carpet was alive, too, panthers and wildcats moving fluidly through the weave toward him.
His wife pushed through the huddle of servants, nightgown flaring white in the darkness. “I’m well, Arthur, we all are, but—”
Mr. Jelliby stamped his foot, mashing a red-eyed cat into the writhing stitches of the carpet. “It’s Mr. Lickerish! He’s sent someone. Something to—”
Another cat tore free. He felt it on his leg, a biting pain, as if the threads were sewing themselves into his skin. He clawed at it.
“Arthur, we’re coming,” Ophelia cried. Brahms made a move to descend, but the stairs folded up like an accordion, leaving the poor footman flailing sixteen feet above the floor. The others caught him and pulled him back, shouting in fear.
“Arthur, what’s happening?”
He had to get out. None of the others would be safe until he was gone. And if the front door wouldn’t let him leave, he would find another way. He hobbled down the hallway toward the library and the back garden.
Things were flying at him from all directions now. Nails ripped themselves from the floorboards, plant stands and chairs skittered after him out of the corners. The paintings on the walls let loose their inhabitants, and old men in powdered wigs suddenly attacked, clawing and whispering. A beak-nosed lady grabbed a handful of his hair and wrenched his head against her canvas.
“Did you not see?” she hissed into his ear. “Did you not see that common little maid scratch me with her hairpin? And you did nothing!”
He could smell her painted hand, turpentine and dust, the brushstrokes of her fingers scraping over his face, searching for his eyes. With a yell, he rent her canvas top to bottom and flung himself away from the wall of portraits. An umbrella closed around his leg. He tried to kick it off, staggered into a bust of some king. It spat a lump of marble straight into his eye.
“My nose does not look like that!” the bust cried. Mr. Jelliby backed away, felt the stained-glass door that led into the back garden. His hand found the knob. He rattled it. Locked. Grasping the bust by the neck, he hurled it with all his strength through the door. The door smashed. He leaped through it.
Everything became quiet.
Side tables and teakettles clattered to a halt on the threshold. The bust rolled away into the bushes.
Mr. Jelliby fell to the grass, lungs heaving, half expecting the plants to rise up and devour him, but the garden was silent. No complaining voices. No carnivorous roses or hideous wood spirits. He pushed himself up, the dew and earth cold under his bare feet. And then he heard it. A noise from the knot of rhododendrons that grew in the far corner of the garden. The sound of stone grinding against stone.
Something was moving through the branches. Several things. The leaves began to rustle. A moment later a gargoyle slid out of the shadows, dragging its stone wings behind it. An apple-cheeked elf followed, brandishing a dainty ax. A lunatic grin was fixed across its face. Stone fauns, nymphs, and a great brass frog all emerged from the foliage, each one complaining of its own particular woes.
“There you are,” a Venus whispered, and the voice that came from her throat was eerie and grating. “Why do I not have arms? What sort of imbecile carves a goddess without arms? It is your good luck, I suppose, or I would surely strangle you with them.”
Slowly, steadily, the creatures advanced, feet whispering in the grass. Behind him, in the house, Mr. Jelliby heard the furniture, the tap of wood and marble, and tinny rattling. In a few moments he would be completely surrounded.
Taking a deep breath, he ran straight at the statues. The gargoyle reared, teeth bared. Mr. Jelliby leaped. His foot caught the gargoyle in its mouth and he vaulted over it, through the air and onto the grass beyond. The gargoyle let out a grating roar, but it was too heavy to turn with any speed. Mr. Jelliby struck the garden wall at a run. He began to climb. His toes found a trellis, his hands buried themselves i
n the ancient ivy, and he scrambled up onto the top.
He turned, looking down into the garden.
They were watching him. After a moment the Venus detached herself from the others and came to the base of the wall. She stared dolefully up at him with flat stone eyes.
“This is your home,” she said. “You will have to come back someday. And when you do, we will kill you for all the wrongs you have done us.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Mr. Jelliby cried. “I didn’t carve you without arms. I didn’t hammer the nails into the floorboards or paint the pictures wrong!” But the Venus wasn’t listening to him. It simply stared, its voice droning on about all the wicked things it was convinced he had done.
Mr. Jelliby swore and dropped down onto the other side of the wall. A narrow alley ran along it, a crooked chasm between the other garden walls. It was deserted. Wrought-iron gates and doors in peeling greens and yellows opened into it at regular intervals. Rain had fallen, and the moon shone down brightly on the slick pavement, turning it into a path of cold silver. Drips of water fell, echoing, from branches and drainpipes.
Mr. Jelliby looked back at his house, dark and waiting behind the garden wall. A lamp bloomed in an upstairs window. Then voices, muffled behind the glass. The police would arrive soon, bells clanging. They wouldn’t find anything. Nothing but a willow bed, slashed portraits, and stabbed tables, all still as could be.
Pulling his dressing gown tightly around him, Mr. Jelliby hurried off into the night.
CHAPTER XIII
Out of the Alley
BARTHOLOMEW didn’t wake up because he had never truly gone to sleep. He had felt the coal scuttle slip from his hand, heard it fall and bounce, one long clear note going on and on inside his skull. He had fallen, too. Dull pain had stabbed his arm, and something inside his eyes had gone on, and he was able to see again, blurry and indistinct. The raggedy man stood at the window, a smudge against the light, waving out. Then the window had gone black, and the wings had filled the alley outside. But it had all seemed so far away. It had been as if Bartholomew were curled up, deep inside his stiff and hurting body, and what happened out in the world did not really concern him anymore.
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