The Black Book of Secrets Part 4

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 p.a.w.nbroker'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 b.u.t.ter 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 appet.i.te 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 st.u.r.dy pair of scuffed boots (only slightly down at heel) and a set of decorative bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. The chamber pot sat in the corner next to the wooden leg. Towards the end of the afternoon Ludlow was rearranging the b.u.t.tons in the window when he became aware that he had an audience. Three boys stood outside a" the same three who had been in the crowd when Joe had first introduced himself a" 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 p.a.w.n,' 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 s.h.i.+ny-cased bugs that Saluki ate. He allowed them to drop the tasty t.i.tbits 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 t.i.ttered.

*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 s.h.i.+ps 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.'

Chapter Fifteen.

Wagging Tongues 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 p.a.w.nshop. True, they owned little of any great value, but, unlike most p.a.w.nbrokers, Joe took everything he was offered, even the most ridiculous and worthless items a" a moth-eaten, slightly mouldy stuffed cat being one such example a" 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 gla.s.s 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.'

Chapter Sixteen.

Fragment from The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch The City was grey from dirt and disease; Pagus Parvus existed in a grey light that was cast by clouds that never seemed to go away. I soon learned the weather in the region varied little from what I had experienced the night I arrived. Sitting as it was on the exposed side of a mountain, covered in snow eight months out of twelve and rained on for the other four, Pagus Parvus was not popular with outsiders, and those who lived there left it rarely. Although rumours had reached them of a vehicle that moved by itself, they had not yet seen one of these great iron beasts, and the parallel tracks it rode on were not coming in the direction of Pagus Parvus. If given a choice Pagus Parvians preferred to travel by horse and carriage, but that was a privilege of the few, so mainly they were on foot.

If it had not been for Joe there was little to keep me here, but still I began to think of it as home. My days as a pickpocket were long over and I was glad not to have to thieve any more. I continued to wear Ratchet's gloves and scarf, however. It was worth it to see how he stared whenever we met.

At night, after supper, we would sit by the fire and talk. We discussed many things but seldom reached any conclusions. Joe was a man of few expressions; his face rarely gave anything away, although he became quite animated when we talked about Saluki. That frog was treated like a queen. Joe fed her the finest bugs and snails and worms and the Sourdough boys were up almost every day just to fuss over her.

We also talked about Jeremiah Ratchet. Whenever the shop bell rang I had taken to guessing whether it would be a pledge or merely another complaint about Jeremiah. The bl.u.s.tering buffoon had practically the whole village beholden to him. He seemed to spend his days either threatening to evict his tenants or sending his masked men to do just that. Every time I heard his name I became more and more frustrated that no one in the village seemed willing, or able, to challenge him.

*Why do you think the villagers tell you so much about Jeremiah Ratchet?' I asked Joe.

*Because they are impatient.'

It was a typically brief reply. Sometimes conversations with Joe were like riddles.

*Jeremiah,' he continued, *is a heavy burden for a small place like this.'

*Then why don't they do something? There are enough of them.'

Joe shook his head. *Jeremiah is a cunning fellow. Each person is so caught up with his own predicament that he cannot see true strength is in the crowd. To overthrow Jeremiah they must work together, but he has them divided and held hostage to their fears. They believe he has informers in the village.'

*Surely the villagers wouldn't betray each other?'

*No doubt they are forced to,' said Joe. *And because they cannot trust each other then they are unwilling to plot against Jeremiah in case he finds out. They talk to me because I am a stranger and Jeremiah has no hold over me. In their desperation they think I might save them from that scoundrel.'

*And will you?' I asked. Silently I willed Joe to take him on.

*However bad the situation, I cannot change the course of things,' he replied and would not be drawn on the subject any further.

I cannot count the number of times Joe said this. It always left me wondering: was he suggesting that he knew the course of things? And although he maintained that he was unwilling to bring about change, his very presence had already had a noticeable effect on the villagers. After all, he had come to Pagus Parvus a stranger, opened his shop and in a matter of days he had gained the respect and admiration of all around him. We were all drawn to him, like the moths that fluttered noisily outside the lighted windows at night. Some people make their presence known with loud voices or grand gestures, but Joe didn't have to do that. He was a soft-spoken man who didn't waste words. But you could just feel when he was near.

As for how Joe made a living, well that was a complete mystery to me. After all, what sort of business was it to give money away? How else could you explain what he was doing? The window display was growing daily, but although he paid for many items, I rarely saw him sell anything.

And then there was the Black Book of Secrets. Pagus Parvians were quick to take advantage of the service he offered and at midnight Joe was handing out bags of coins to all and sundry. There were many secrets in Pagus Parvus. During the day the place seemed nothing more than what it was, a small mountain village. It was only in the hours of darkness that it became obvious all was not well. All those wakeful nights I spent looking down the hill, I knew that behind the windows each glowing lamp, each flickering candle told a tale. Shadows moved across the curtains, silhouettes paced in the dark, pressing their knuckles against their foreheads in frustration and guilt.

Joe listened intently to every tale of woe and, regardless of the confession, he never pa.s.sed judgement. I know he paid well, but I did not know upon what basis Joe calculated a secret's value. I did ask him once where his money came from and he simply replied, *Inheritance,' and made it clear the conversation was over.

Elias Sourdough came up one night from the baker's and admitted that he had been cutting the flour with alum and chalk. That was worth four s.h.i.+llings. When Lily Weaver came by and said she had been cheating her customers out of cloth by using a short measure, he gave her seven. Even Polly paid us a visit, sneaking out of Ratchet's house late one night to admit to stealing his cutlery. Joe, and I, knew this already. Polly had p.a.w.ned a knife and fork only two days previously but it wasn't until she was gone that we noticed Jeremiah's initials on each piece. I had to admire Polly's cheek. She knew we couldn't put them in the window (though wouldn't I have loved to have seen Jeremiah's face at the sight of his own cutlery on display). Instead Joe used them for his dinner.

Each night Joe stoked up the fire and set the bottle of liquor and two gla.s.ses on the mantel and I took the Black Book from its hiding place and filled the inkwell. Then we sat and waited, he in his chair by the fire and I in mine at the table. There was hardly a night went by without a knock on the door as the church bell struck twelve. I played my part. As the villagers gave their confessions, I sat in the shadows and wrote it all down, word for word.

Sometimes it was hard not to shout out at what I was hearing. Every so often I would sneak a look at Joe sitting by the fire resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers slightly touching. His face was like a blank page, whatever was said. Very occasionally he would bend back his forefingers for a split second, make circles in the air with the tips and then bring them back together again. But not once did his expression change.