The Black Book of Secrets (5 page)

I didn’t really understand what had happened in the graveyard.
I knew that some sort of arrangement had been
arrived at, but its exact nature escaped me. As we left the
church grounds I suddenly had the feeling that we were
being watched. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure
observing us from behind a tree. From his dress I presumed
him to be the local vicar. I nudged Joe. He had seen him too
and he nodded a greeting, whereupon the reverend became
very flustered, turned tail and fled into the church.

Outside the shop the pavement was empty apart from
three young boys who ran away as soon as they saw Joe. He
laughed as they skidded down the hill. Once inside we went
through to the back and sat by the fire. After a few minutes,
when Joe showed no sign of talking to me but all the signs
of a man on the verge of a snooze, I asked him about my
job.

‘Your job?’ he replied with a large yawn. ‘I’ll tell you
later. For the moment just wake me if we have any customers.’

And that was it.

I went into the shop and leaned my elbows on the
counter, contemplating my situation. The frog watched me
for a minute or two and then turned away. Although I had
always earned a living, I had never had a job before. I hadn’t
exactly been raised on the straight and narrow. Pa and Ma
together were as big a pair of crooks as ever breathed the
Lord’s air. They made their living from thievery and I had
little choice but to follow in their footsteps, even before I
could walk. I was a small baby, and stayed slight. At the age
of eighteen months Pa took to carrying me around in a
bread basket on the top of his head. He covered me with a
few stale loaves. I still remember the terrible swaying from
side to side and the fright that kept me rigid. To this day I
cannot travel in any moving vehicle without feeling sick.

When the opportunity presented itself Pa would say out
of the corner of his mouth, ‘Lud, me lad,’ and that was the
sign for me to reach out and pinch the hat, and sometimes
the wig, of an innocent passing gentleman. Imagine the
poor fellow’s surprise as his head was bared, leaving him
open not only to embarrassment but also to the ravages of
the elements. Of course, by the time he looked for the culprits
we had long since disappeared into the crowd.

This caper brought in a pleasing sum, wigs and hats
fetched good prices, but inevitably the time came when I
could no longer fit into the bread basket. Ma suggested
that I be sold to a chimney sweep. My skinny frame more
than suited the narrow, angled chimneys. By then I was
beginning to understand that when my parents looked at me
with their glassy eyes, they saw not a son and heir but a
convenient source of income to support their gin habit. The
life of a chimney sweep was harsh and short and I was
supremely grateful when Pa decided I could earn more for
them if I learned to pick pockets. Thus, with the minimum
of training (spurred on by his belt), I was sent out on to the
streets on the understanding that I was not to return without
at least six shillings a day for the tavern.

I had little trouble earning this, and any extra I kept for
myself. I seemed to have a natural bent for such work: my
fingers were nimble, my tread light and my expression
innocent. Sometimes I was a little careless and my victim
would feel my fingers in their pocket, but I had only to hold
their gaze for a moment to convince them that it was not I
who had filched their purse or wallet. If I looked at Ma that
way she used to cuff me around the side of the head and
hiss, ‘Don’t look at me with those saucer eyes. It don’t work
on your old ma.’

But, you know, I think it did and that was precisely why
she got so angry.

She could cuff me only if she caught me and most days
I avoided her and Pa like the plague. When I had earned
enough, usually by noon, and needed to warm up I went to
Mr Jellico’s. I couldn’t go home even if I wanted to for Ma
and Pa had rented out the room during the day to night
workers on the river.

It wasn’t such a bad life, not at first, and I didn’t know
any other way. I had heard you were supposed to love your
parents, but I don’t think that is what I felt for them. Some
kind of loyalty perhaps, a blood tie, but not love. But once
their desire for gin consumed them, my life became unbearable.
It didn’t matter how much they had, they wanted
more. Eventually, whatever I brought home wasn’t enough.
I suppose that’s when they came up with their fiendish plan.
I should have known they were up to something. They had
started smiling at me.

I shivered when I recalled the desperate chase of the previous
night. I could still feel Pa’s hand on my shoulder and
Ma’s screeching voice rang in my head. And then there was
Barton Gumbroot’s glinting instrument of torture. I
couldn’t bear to think of it. How strange that I was so far
away from it all now.

Joe was still snoring so I took the opportunity to examine
the goods in the shop window. The jewellery was bright
and pretty, the hurricane lamp was polished and looked in
working order. The timepieces were wound and ticking.
Without a second thought I put two in my pocket, but
almost immediately a sharp tap on the window made me
jump. Polly was right outside. She waved and I wondered
how long she had been there watching me. I went out to
see her. The snow was packed down where the crowd had
been earlier and she stood carefully on its icy surface.

‘It’s quiet today,’ I said.

‘Same as usual,’ she replied.

It was mid-morning and my ears listened out for the
clashing cries of street sellers shouting their wares, the
travelling musicians with their fiddles, the ballad singers,
the clatter of cattle hooves on the cobbles on the way to the
slaughterhouse, the hissing of the knife grinder’s wheel,
the rows and fights that broke out on every street corner.
But this was not the City and Pagus Parvus was almost
silent. I heard a laugh or two and the blacksmith’s hammer
but little else.

‘Do you want to come in?’

‘Can I see the frog?’ she asked.

The frog was watching us when we went in. She really
was a marvellous creature, her skin bright and glistening
like a damp rock. There was no sound from the back room
so I carefully lifted the lid and reached into the tank. The
frog seemed a little agitated as I tried to coax her with a bug
and she retreated to the far corner.

‘Are you sure you should?’ asked Polly nervously.

‘Why shouldn’t—’

‘Don’t touch the frog,’ barked a voice behind me and I
jumped back immediately. Joe was practically next to me
and I hadn’t heard a sound. An icy blast came in from the
open door before Polly slammed it shut on her way out.

‘I only wanted to show—’

Joe came forward and replaced the lid, pushing it down
firmly. ‘You mustn’t touch her,’ he said sternly. ‘Until you
gain her trust she only allows me to handle her. Do you
understand?’

I nodded and the awkward silence was broken by the
sound of the door again and the hesitant enquiry of our first
customer, an elderly lady wearing a monocle in her left eye.
She frowned unevenly to keep it in place.

‘Mr Zabbidou? I have an item to pledge.’

Joe smiled broadly.

‘A lovely piece,’ he said. ‘Look, Ludlow, a chamber pot.’

‘Wake up,’ hissed Joe, shaking Ludlow’s arm. ‘He’s here.’
Ludlow sat up slowly and listened as the church bell struck midnight. He shivered. The fire had died down and
he could see his breath. Joe put a small log on the glowing
embers and lit the lamp. He placed two glasses on the mantelpiece
along with a dark brown bottle and then he went
to the table and laid his black book in front of the chair.

‘Sit here,’ said Joe to Ludlow. ‘Stay very quiet and when
I give you a sign, write down everything you hear in the
book. I’ve marked the page.’

Ludlow shook off his doziness and sat at the table. He
picked up the book and examined it. It was old, but well
kept, thick and just too weighty to hold in one hand. On
the leather cover in gold leaf were the words ‘
Verba Volant
Scripta Manent
’
.

In the bottom right hand corner were the initials ‘JZ’ in
large decorative gold lettering. A piece of red ribbon
marked the new page and a quill lay waiting in the crease.
The white pages seemed to glow in the half-light and
Ludlow couldn’t help but run his fingers over their smooth
surface. He quickly flicked through the preceding pages;
they were written with a heavy hand and crackled when he
touched them. Ludlow had not been told not to pry, but he
had the distinct feeling that Joe would disapprove if he did.
Quietly he put the black book back down as he found it,
open on the clean page.

Outside the pawnshop Obadiah Strang stood on the
pavement wringing his gnarled hands. He wanted to knock
but he was afraid. Perhaps the dead didn’t scare him, but
sometimes the living did. Losing his nerve, he turned
around and was about to retreat down the hill when the
door opened behind him.

‘Obadiah, my dear chap,’ said Joe warmly, stepping into
the street and taking the man by the arm, ‘I’ve been expecting
you.’

Once more, under Joe’s penetrating gaze, all resistance
deserted Obadiah and he allowed himself to be led into the
back room and placed gently on the chair by the fire.
Ludlow sat without moving, a little nervous, watching
everything closely. Obadiah pushed his knuckles into the
soft arm of the chair and Ludlow winced as they cracked
loudly.

‘Will you have a drink with me?’ asked Joe. ‘Something
special?’

Obadiah grunted and Joe poured two drinks from the
bottle, handing one to Obadiah. He took his own and sat
down opposite the gravedigger.

‘Good health,’ he toasted.

Obadiah took a tentative sip from his glass, and then
another longer one. Spirits were not his usual tipple and
he’d never tasted one of this calibre. He savoured the sensation
of warmth as the alcohol ran down the back of his
throat. Feeling his knotted shoulders relaxing, he leaned
back into the chair.

‘Why am I here?’ he asked. This wasn’t what he planned
to say, but it was what came out.

‘Because you need help,’ replied Joe.

‘And you can help me?’

Joe nodded and leaned over. ‘When I look at you, Obadiah,
I see a man who has a secret. A secret that is such a
burden it threatens to engulf you. It keeps you awake at
night and gnaws at your guts every day.’ He leaned even
closer. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’

Obadiah’s eyes were shining. A small tear squeezed from
the corner of one and ran down the lines that scored his
cheek.

‘What can I do?’ he whispered desperately.

Joe’s voice was soothing and full of promise. ‘Pawn your
secret and free yourself of its terrible burden.’

‘Pawn it?’ Obadiah was a little bemused from the drink,
and from Joe’s eyes and his soft voice. His head felt as if it
was slowly sinking underwater.

‘You mean you will buy my secret? But why?’

‘It’s my business,’ said Joe. ‘I am a pawnbroker.’

Obadiah shook his head slowly and his brow creased
with confusion. ‘But if I pawn it then must I claim it back?
If I don’t, you will have the right to sell it. And if you sell
it, then it is no longer a secret.’ Obadiah liked to make life
easy by thinking in a simple and logical fashion.

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Joe. ‘I think you will find my terms
quite agreeable. If you wish to reclaim your secret, you pay
what you took plus a little extra. If not, I will keep the
secret for you for as long as you want, a lifetime if that is
your wish. In fact, if you never reclaim it, I will hold it until
you are in the grave and beyond, and then I doubt you
would care so much.’

‘Well I s’pose that sounds fair, Mr Zabbidou.’

Joe smiled. ‘Let us get started. I am anxious to set a
mind at ease.’

He nodded discreetly to Ludlow, who realized this was
his cue. With a shaking hand he raised the quill and dipped
it in the ink. He held the quill poised over the pristine page.

‘And you swear you won’t tell?’ asked Obadiah, quivering.

Joe shook his head solemnly. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘On my
life.’

‘Then hear this and maybe you can help. God knows, no
one else can.’

For the next hour the only sound in the room was Obadiah’s
trembling voice and the soft scratching of a nib on
paper.

Ludlow’s work had begun.