The Black Book of Secrets (7 page)

Ludlow woke the next morning to the smell of warm
bread. Joe was standing in front of the fire toasting the heels
of a loaf on the end of the poker.

‘Just in time,’ he said, as Ludlow emerged from his
nook. ‘Did you sleep well? I was a little disturbed myself.’

‘Well enough,’ mumbled Ludlow, yawning.

Joe dropped the toast on to a plate and sat down at the
table. ‘I forgot to lock the door last night. We could have
been murdered in our beds.’

Ludlow’s cheeks burned as hot as the toast.

Joe continued smoothly. ‘So, now you’ve had a chance
to think it over, will you stay? It’s not a difficult job. You
would be a great help to me.’

‘I should like to stay,’ said Ludlow. ‘Very much.’

‘Then it is settled. Time for breakfast.’

In the City, Ludlow’s breakfast might have been a
mouldy crust or hard porridge. In Pagus Parvus, in the back
room of the Secret Pawnbroker’s, it was a veritable feast.
The table was laden with toasted bread, boiled hen’s eggs,
thick slices of pink ham, a slab of golden butter and two
jugs, one of beer, the other of fresh milk. There was even
cutlery, but Ludlow did not let this slow him down and he
ate as if he were a condemned man. Joe looked on, marvelling
at the boy’s appetite as Ludlow gulped down a
second cup of milk then eyed the pork pie that sat in the
middle of the table.

‘The butcher dropped it up this morning,’ said Joe.
‘And the baker brought the bread by. Such hospitality.’

‘Maybe they just want you to buy more of their old
junk,’ muttered Ludlow.

Joe took another large bite of toast and washed it down
with a mouthful of beer. He dabbed at his chin with a napkin
that lay across his knees. Ludlow had not seen such gentility
before and self-consciously he wiped his mouth with his
sleeve. Then for once he waited until he had swallowed
before speaking.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I feel sorry for Obadiah. I think he
is a good man.’

‘Being good isn’t always enough,’ Joe said.

‘I suppose you’ve heard many stories like his?’

Joe nodded. ‘And many far worse. But that is little comfort
to the poor man. He is right to be scared. If he is
caught, then he will certainly be put in prison or hanged
from the nearest tree.’

‘And Jeremiah? What about his part?’

Joe frowned. ‘He would deny everything. After all,
what proof is there that Jeremiah is connected? It is a poor
man’s word against a rich man’s. The verdict is as good as
decided already. I fear Jeremiah has such a grip on this village
that no one here would dare accuse him, let alone try
to convict him.’

‘Do you think the money is enough?’

‘For now,’ said Joe. ‘He will be able to pay his rent at
least. But I wonder what else Jeremiah has up his sleeve’

‘Perhaps we can help him in other ways,’ said Ludlow.

Joe shook his head. ‘No, no. I must not interfere in the
course of things. Our job is to keep secrets. Once it is in
the book, the matter is closed. In fact, we should not even
be speaking of it now.’

‘So is there nothing we can do?’

But Joe was silent.

Business came in fits and starts all day and by closing time
Joe’s display benefited from the addition of a flower vase in
the Grecian style, a pair of leather braces with silver clips
(one missing), a sturdy pair of scuffed boots (only slightly
down at heel) and a set of decorative brass buttons. The
chamber pot sat in the corner next to the wooden leg.
Towards the end of the afternoon Ludlow was rearranging
the buttons in the window when he became aware that he
had an audience. Three boys stood outside – the same three
who had been in the crowd when Joe had first introduced
himself – their heights descending from right to left. They
pressed their faces against the window but they appeared to
be shy about coming in. Joe went to the door.

‘May I help you young fellows?’ he asked and fixed them
with his stare.

The youngest proved to be the bravest. ‘We have nothing
to pawn,’ he said, ‘but we want to see the frog.’

Joe laughed. ‘But of course, come in,’ and the three
piled in, the youngest pushed to the back now that the invitation
was extended.

They were the Sourdough (to rhyme with ‘enough’)
brothers, sons of the bakers, Ruby and Elias. They went up
to the tank and looked in awe at the colourful creature who
repaid their interest by promptly turning her back to them.

‘What’s it called?’ asked the middle one of the three.

‘She,’ corrected Joe. ‘Her name is Saluki.’

‘What does she eat?’

Joe showed them the bags of sticky writhing worms and
shiny-cased bugs that Saluki ate. He allowed them to drop
the tasty titbits into the tank through a hatch in the lid.

‘Can I hold her?’ This time it was the youngest who
spoke.

‘May I,’ corrected Joe. ‘I know that you
can.
After all,
it is not difficult to hold a frog. What you seek is my permission.’

‘May I?’ asked the boy, twitching with frustration.

‘No.’ This request was made again and again on each
subsequent visit (the Sourdough brothers came daily), and
although Joe agreed that the boys had to be admired for
their optimism and persistence, he always refused on the
grounds that Saluki was not the sort of frog that liked to be
held.

‘Would she jump away?’

‘She’s a tree frog,’ replied Joe. ‘More of a climber than
a jumper.’

‘Where did you get her?’

A dreamy look came into Joe’s eyes. He hooked his
thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and rocked back and forth
on his heels.

‘She comes from a land on the other side of the world,
where the earth curves to the south and there are all sorts
of creatures that you couldn’t even begin to imagine.’

‘Did you catch her?’

‘She was a gift,’ he said, ‘from an old man to a young
lad, such as yourselves.’

The Sourdoughs tittered.

‘Yes, even I was young once,’ said Joe.

Joe had a tale for the boys almost every day they came
up to the shop. He mesmerized them with stories of the faraway
lands he had visited, where the mountains spewed fire
and molten rock; of the forests where the trees were so tall
it was always cold night on the forest floor and yet their
leaves were burned by the sun. He spoke of ships and cities
that lay together on the bottom of the ocean; of the frozen
wastes where the sun never set. But there was one thing he
never told them about, no matter how hard they pleaded,
no matter how urgently they begged.

‘Tell us about the wooden leg,’ they implored.

But Joe always shook his head. ‘Not today,’ he would say.
‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

Polly would have liked to spend as much time in the shop
as the Sourdoughs, but while Elias and Ruby were happy for
Joe to entertain their boys, Jeremiah was not so lenient and
Polly’s visits were shorter and less frequent. She and
Ludlow still enjoyed their brief chats over the counter,
although actually it was more a case of Ludlow listening and
Polly talking, for once she got started it was no easy task to
stop her. ‘I don’t know what it is about this place,’ she
giggled more than once, ‘but every time I come in here
my tongue just runs away with itself.’

Ludlow liked to listen. He was curious about the village
and its inhabitants, Jeremiah in particular, and Polly was
more than happy to tell him about the goings-on in the large
house down the hill.

She told him of Jeremiah’s habits (generally bad) and
tempers (the same) and unreasonable demands (many and
often). Ludlow soon realized that life had not treated Polly
well. She was bright but suffered the disadvantage of little
education. In those days ambition wasn’t as free and easy as
it is today, and although Polly was far from satisfied with her
lot she was resigned to it. Her parents had died when she
was only a baby, and Lily Weaver, the local seamstress, had
taken her in. Lily taught her to sew, indeed Polly showed
some skill, but Lily quickly realized there wasn’t enough
work in the village for the two of them and soon she became
nothing more than an extra mouth to feed. Fortunately, or
rather unfortunately, for Polly, it was about that time Jeremiah
Ratchet made it known that he was in need of a maid.
So Polly had wrapped up her few belongings in an old spotted
linen cloth, tied it to a stick and walked across the road
to Jeremiah’s, where she had lived and worked for the last
six years.

‘It’s not as bad as you might think,’ said Polly. ‘As long
as I do what I’m supposed to then he can’t complain overmuch.’
But Polly always looked tired and hungry and
Ludlow almost felt guilty that he worked for Joe, Jeremiah’s
complete opposite.

‘It was better when Stanton Cleaver was around,’ Polly
told him one day.

‘Stanton Cleaver?’ asked Ludlow.

‘The butcher’s father. When I first came to Jeremiah’s,
he and Stanton use to eat together nearly every night of the
week. It gave me some peace.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Ludlow.

‘He had a bad heart, at least that’s what Dr Mouldered
said, and he died very suddenly. They buried him so quickly
no one even saw the body. Everyone thought Stanton was a
great man but I’m not so sure. He treated Horatio, his son,
really badly. Anyway, after Stanton died Jeremiah didn’t
have any more friends in the village, so he started gambling
in the City. He’s still at it and I never know if he’s going to
come in late or early, but whatever the time, he’s always
drunk.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t understand why you left the
City to come to this place, stuck out here in the middle of
nowhere. Was it really that bad?’

‘It’s much worse than I told you,’ said Ludlow grimly.
‘You’d hate it, Poll. It’s full of all sorts of nastiness.’

‘Some people say that you left the City because you
committed a crime,’ said Polly. ‘They think you’re on the
run.’

Ludlow frowned. ‘Let them think what they want.’

‘And what about Joe?’ she persisted. ‘Where did he
come from?’

Ludlow shrugged. The few times he had asked, Joe had
avoided the question very successfully. Ludlow did not actually
know very much about his new master. Even in the
exotic stories he told to the Sourdough brothers Joe somehow
managed to give little away.

‘Anyway,’ said Polly with a grin, ‘no matter. He’s got
Jeremiah in a proper lather. You should hear how he curses
the pair of you. One day he really will explode!’

Whatever Jeremiah Ratchet thought of Joe and Ludlow, the
villagers made good use of the pawnshop. True, they owned
little of any great value, but, unlike most pawnbrokers, Joe
took everything he was offered, even the most ridiculous
and worthless items – a moth-eaten, slightly mouldy stuffed
cat being one such example – and paid good money as he
promised. Ludlow could not imagine even Lembart Jellico
accepting such a pledge.

As most customers came in wheezing after climbing the
hill, Joe instructed that a chair be set by the door and it was
gratefully received. Ludlow watched them from behind the
counter, gasping and coughing and complaining. Eventually
the noise would subside and they would come over to show
whatever sorry item they had brought. Joe would hold it up
to the light and turn it this way and that. Sometimes (but
very rarely) he would take out his jeweller’s glass and examine
the object close up. All the while the customer stood by
hardly breathing, fists closed and white-knuckled, hoping
that Joe would take the useless object. He did of course and
they were all grateful, immensely so, and thanked Joe profusely.
Often that was the end of business and they would
back out of the door still saying thank you. But sometimes
the person hung on, hopping from one foot to the other,
pretending to be interested in Saluki.

Eventually Joe would turn around and ask quite innocently,
‘Is there anything else?’ The hint of a smile danced
at the corner of his mouth.

Invariably they would talk about Jeremiah Ratchet.

‘You must be a brave fellow, Mr Zabbidou. There’s not
many would stand up to Jeremiah.’

They were referring to that first day when Joe had dared
to disagree with Mr Ratchet. It had made a great impression
upon the villagers.

Joe’s response was always the same. ‘I simply stated the
truth.’

‘He’s thrown another family out on the streets, you
know,’ they would continue, undeterred by Joe’s apparent
indifference. ‘At least, he had those brutes do it for him.
They wear masks over their faces so we don’t know who
they are. And for the sake of a few pennies’ rent, Mr Zabbidou.
It’s not right.’

If they expected Joe to do something about it, they were
disappointed. He merely shook his head sadly.

‘A terrible business,’ he said. ‘A truly terrible business.’