The Curse of Salamander Street (13 page)

The lad turned, put down the brush and stood to attention. Thomas could see his face. At best he looked as if he were a pugilist, at worst a murderer. The lad appeared to be the same age as Thomas but was of an incredible size. His face was that
of a beaten stick, battered with a broken nose that made him look like a pug-dog. The lad looked to the floor as Galphus approached and said nothing.

‘Aha!’ Galphus said brightly as if he had seen the lad for the first time. ‘Thomas, meet Smothergig.’ The lad nodded as Galphus spoke again. ‘We only know his last name. Tattooed upon his back by a
caring
blood relation. I think his friends call him Smutt … Doesn’t speak much, but sweeps well. He’ll be your companion.’

Smutt nodded again and looked Thomas straight in the eye. His own were dark and edged with black. Smutt looked mean and cold, with not a glimmer of warmth in his heart. Galphus looked at them both, slapping them on their shoulders. He turned to Thomas, took the contract of indenture and tore it in two. ‘This is for you. I will keep my half until you are twenty-one. Then you will be free to do as you wish. Smutt – Thomas is in your care, do well for him and you will do well for me.’ He spoke the last words very slowly as he stared at the lad. Smutt nodded, picked up the brush and continued to sweep, saying nothing to Thomas.

‘And I stay here?’ Thomas asked Galphus as he began to walk off the way he came.

‘No, Smutt will take you to your room and you will be given all you need. It should be there, waiting for you.’ With those last words Galphus walked away. He whistled as he went, tapping his cane against the floor merrily.

Once he was out of sight, Smutt put down the brush and looked at Thomas. He stared him eye to eye then began to take off his grey jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. The boy made a fist of his hand and pushed it slowly to Thomas’s face.

Thomas could see the broken knuckles and scars upon the skin. Smutt said nothing and nodded his head slowly as if to invite Thomas to do the same.

‘I’ll not fight you, Smutt,’ Thomas said as he stepped back. ‘Solves nothing. I would be your friend.’

‘What do you need friends for?’ Smutt asked through clenched teeth. ‘These is me friends,’ he said, holding up both his fists and jabbing the air. ‘So do you fight or do you give in to me?’ Smutt growled.

‘Neither,’ Thomas said as he walked away and looked about the room as if he didn’t care.

‘Brave talk or just a fool?’ the boy asked.

‘I want no fighting. I just want to go from this place to my friends,’ he said.

‘I can make that happen,’ said Smutt. ‘Step onto the punch and you’ll see more than your friends.’

‘Don’t make me fight you,’ Thomas said. ‘I’ve had enough fighting to last me all the days of my life.’

‘Then you’ll have one more,’ Smutt screamed as he lashed out at Thomas, missing him by a hair’s breadth. The lad danced from toe to toe, jabbing the air and snorting like a bull. Thomas looked at the dance and slowly put his hand behind his back.

Smutt jabbed again and Thomas moved his head to the side. The blow glanced against his cheek and snapped in the air like a thunderclap.

‘I don’t want to fight,’ Thomas said.

‘Then I’ll knock you to the floor and prove to them all I’m still the lord of this place. I fight everyone who comes here. It’s the only way.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ Thomas said.

‘This is my way, my rules and my workhouse. I fight everyone and when I win you do what I say.’ Smutt screamed like a madman as he lashed out again at Thomas’s face.

Thomas’s hand flashed from behind his back and the blow pierced the air like a pistol shot and smashed into the lad’s face.
It knocked him from his feet and sent him spinning to the floor. Blood splattered the boards. All was suddenly silent and the lad saw no more. He lay in a crumpled mass, unable to move. It was as if every nerve and sinew had lost consciousness. Somewhere he could hear the tap, tap, tapping of the leather hammers but nothing more. He was vaguely aware of footsteps coming towards him. He knew in his heart that they were those of his adversary. He tried to move his frozen limbs and get to his feet. All was numb. There was no pain, just a rising panic. On the cold floor it was as if he knew that the one who came had power and dominion over him and would be Lord.

N
O bugler and no hounds?' asked the hosteller as the carriage pulled up in the yard of the inn at Peveril.

‘Gone after the madman at Galilee Rocks,' the driver said. He climbed from the seat and opened the door to the coach. ‘There's been trouble, more than we expected. Could have been a wild boar or a wolf. Never seen the likes of it before.'

‘A shuck?' the hosteller asked, his eyes raised in alarm.

‘Don't go saying the likes of that,' said the driver as Beadle got down from the coach. ‘No one will ride with us if they thought that Ord Shuck was out.'

‘It was a vicious beast. If we had not fought it off then we would have all died,' Bragg boasted as he woke from his dreams and lolled about the carriage like a lairy animal.

‘Are the Militia here?' the driver asked. ‘I have need of them. We lost a passenger – well, two passengers. One went after the madman, the other has disappeared.'

‘In front of our very eyes,' Bragg said loudly as he stepped down from the coach and pulled his coat about himself. ‘Give me your best room. I was injured when I fought off the beast. I need to sleep.' The hosteller took Bragg by the arm and led
him away as Ergott and the others stepped to the ground.

Ergott followed on as the coachman set about loosening the horses and fixing the broken door. The inn loomed above them like an old castle keep. It was made of ancient stone with a small bridge that went over a deep moat. On all sides were high stone walls that surrounded the courtyard. Everything was finally made safe by two large oak doors that kept out the night. The courtyard was brightly lit by burning tallows, the walls ran with deep green ivy and above the door was the sign of the inn. It hung from a metal brace and swung with the wind. Upon it was painted the head of a man with the face of a dog and underneath were the words: The Black Shuck Inn.

Beadle scanned them quickly as he followed on. He saw that upon the wall in a high tower was a watchman. He carried a musket and had a sword in his belt. Throughout his years he had heard stories of Peveril. They had been told late at night when good men should be sleeping but Beadle would always listen, intrigued by the treachery of the place and of its importance in the world. He never thought he would ever stand in the courtyard of the Black Shuck. He had been told that it had once been a castle that had stood over the town and governed Peveril and that now the only safe place for the traveller to stay was within its walls.

He had only heard the story of the Black Shuck mentioned once in a song – a hawker had chanced upon Baytown and to earn his rest by the fire had sung of a beast so terrible that it defied nature. The man had sung again and again of the beast that had come from the night and killed a priest. The marks of his death could still be seen upon the church door. It was a beast that would howl as it ran and then would snatch its victim without a sound, so quickly that they couldn't even scream. Beadle shook the thought from his mind as his eyes were warmed by the open door and the glowing hearth within.

‘We owe you our lives,' Ergott said to the driver.

‘Not I, but your companion, Mister Beadle. If it were not for him we would have perished,' the driver said as he pulled Beadle forward from where he was skulking in the shadows.

‘Then, Beadle, I will buy you dinner,' Ergott insisted. ‘In fact I think we should all eat together and talk of what is to be done.'

‘Kind sir,' said Shrume as he stumbled across the cobbles. ‘I will be away to my bed. It is late and the things of the night do not concern me.'

‘Then that leaves Lady Chilnam and Mister Beadle, or will you both be running away from me?' Ergott asked.

‘I cannot eat, Mister Ergott. I will drink with you, but until I know what has happened to Raphah and Barghast my stomach will be empty,' Beadle said.

‘I too, Mister Ergott,' said Lady Tanville as she walked towards the door of the inn.

‘Then it will be drink and nothing more and in the morning we shall find out what has driven this world to madness. My father once said, call a girl Agnes and she'll be mad by thirty. Strange – every girl I knew with that name was as mad as cheese.'

Stepping over the threshold, Beadle saw Bragg and Mister Shrume walking up the long staircase that went off to the right and then galleried the room. The inn was empty but for an old table and several chairs that filled the space by the fire. Ergott sat as close as he could to the flames with his face in his hands. Lady Tanville warmed her cloak by the fire as servants brought them food and drink. She folded it neatly and left it upon the back of the chair.

Beadle felt uncomfortable. He looked for the way to his room, hoping that someone would point him to the barn.

Ergott looked up and smiled. ‘Mister Beadle, our saviour,'
he said as he laughed and held out a hand in welcome. ‘To this fire and to my company you are very welcome.'

‘And I to my sleep,' Lady Tanville said as she bowed to Beadle and went the way of Bragg and the others.

‘Then it is you and I,' Ergott said as he poured Beadle a drink. ‘We shall toast the night and the finding of your friend. Tell me, Beadle. Do you know Whitby?'

For the next hour, Ergott talked of nothing but the town. It was as if he were being circumspect, not wanting Beadle to believe he enquired too much. He spoke of the pubs, the ships and even of Baytown. Beadle watched the long case clock by the staircase. It seemed to drag each minute, and each minute appeared to be as long as an hour. All the time, Ergott would tease with his wand, rubbing it with his hand. He would tap out the words of each sentence and draw pictures in the air. Ergott held it by the fork and had it dance in his fingers. It was only when the flames of the fire began to fade and die that he asked Beadle a final question.

‘I hear that Whitby was ravaged by a smuggler, Jacob Crane I believe?'

Beadle spat the beer from his mouth as he choked on hearing the words. ‘I believe also,' Beadle said, caught like a rat upon a trap.

‘Then you know him well?'

‘I have had acquaintance … Once or twice,' he muttered sheepishly in an unconvincing lie. ‘Every man jack knows of Crane. The King and Crane, one king of the land the other of the sea.'

‘I would like to meet him, talk with him.' Ergott asked if, by chance, Beadle could arrange such a meeting.

‘He's gone, left Whitby by sea, bad business.'

‘That I know,' Ergott replied cautiously. He put the wand back into his pocket and stood from his seat. He took a small
cloth from the table and wiped the beer from the corner of his mouth. His face was sullen and gone was the smile of a fellow well met. ‘I saw the madman, Beadle. In the darkness on the moor. I have seen many things and never had that experience before. These are strange times. Let us hope that in the morning we will have an end to all this and be away from Peveril.'

‘I'll stay until they find Raphah, or what's left of him,' Beadle answered.

‘Raphah – the Ethio. Doesn't he do
healings
? Isn't he accused of witchcraft – healed a blind boy, or was he deaf? Stole Bragg's money and then put it back, by magic …' Ergott took a long splinter from the fire and lit his freshly stoked pipe. It crackled and spat as the black strands caught fire and smouldered in amongst the festering rye seeds. With each inhalation, Ergott began to snigger. His eyes glazed and reddened as he stared at Beadle. ‘Amazing how news can travel in the right circles. My uncle lives close to Whitby. Lord Finesterre – have you heard of him?'

Ergott didn't wait for a reply. Like a small child, he spun on his feet and danced across the wooden floor. He took the stairs two by two as he warbled to himself. Upon the landing he turned and looked angrily at Beadle as if in that instant he had been transformed.

‘I am an eagle, swooping down upon my wings to pick you from the ground like a hare, Mister Beadle. Never forget that, an eagle, always watching. Even when you can't see me.' Ergott slobbered his words and stared in a melancholy fashion. ‘Do you know … Do you know, you are the ugliest man I have ever seen? If I were you, I would wear a bag upon my head or cut off my face. Promise me one thing, Mister
Beagle
– never, never have children. One monster in the world is enough.' Ergott sniggered again as he clutched the pipe and stared down through bright, wide eyes. He stood for a minute and then as
the clock struck the first hour of the morning, in a twist of his coat tails he vanished along the landing.

Beadle counted Ergott's footsteps as he staggered along the corridor above him. He listened to the creaking of the door and then the clumsy turning of a lock as Ergott took to his bed.

For another hour he brooded like an old hen. Beadle stacked the fire, piling the logs as high as they would go, and nestled himself upon the hearth. Taking Lady Tanville's cloak from the chair, he wrapped himself in it. He nuzzled his face into the cloth and sniffed the heavy scent of wild jasmine. No one came to show him a room and very quickly the house fell silent. He dozed, half dreaming, half waking. In the distance he heard the innkeeper locking the doors and sliding the bolts to keep out the night. The cold wind whistled outside. Beadle felt safe, knowing that upon the walls an armed guard waited.

No matter how hard he tried to dream, his mind was brought back to Raphah. All he could see was the lad's face as he went off into the night. Beadle found himself doting on the lad, fretting as to what had become of him.

The old pig-candles that lit the hall waned with time. They flickered grimly in their holders. Some died away in the shallow breeze that swirled up the landing from the gap beneath the oak door that led to the courtyard. Beadle watched intently as he angrily mulled over Ergott's words. Finally he felt the onset of sleep as his eyes grew heavy and the light began to fade.

‘Don't care if I look like a dog,' he moaned to himself as he closed his eyes.

There was an unexpected and sharp footfall from the gallery, as if someone had danced across the floor in a room above. Beadle sat bolt upright. All was in darkness but for the glow of the fire. The sound came again and then he heard the soft voice whispering above him:
‘Sleep one sleep all
…
As the night shall
fall
…
Sleep once, sleep twice
…
Bed-bug, lark and mice
…
And
all shall dream, and all sleep well
…
Until the dawn shall break
the spell
…'

There was a swirl of blue light, like that of a will-o'-the-wisp. It seeped under the door, took the form of a burning orb and then took flight about the house as if summoned by the spell.

Beadle pulled the cloak tightly about him and hid himself, pretending to sleep. The footsteps came closer, walking across the landing of the gallery and then onto the staircase. One by one and step by step they drew near. Beadle held his breath as he tried to peer out through his wrinkled eyelids and feigned dreaming.

From the corner of his eye he could see the dark figure coming towards him and carrying the Hand of Glory. Upon the stairs it was held aloft and then motioned in the sign of a star as the words were chanted again:
‘Sleep one sleep all
…
As the
night shall fall
…
Sleep once, sleep twice
…
Bed-bug, lark and
mice
…
And all shall dream, and all sleep well … Until the dawn
shall break the spell
…'

The candles that were within the hand spluttered and winced as the blue orb circled around it and then vanished. Beadle pretended to snore. He gulped the air and moaned, hoping that he would be left alone. The footsteps came closer and closer and the smell of wild jasmine became stronger. A hand reached out to his neck and took hold of the hood of the cloak.

Slowly and steadily Lady Tanville gently pulled the cloak from him. Beadle carried on in his profession of dreaming. He had heard the spell and knew her to be a witch.

For Beadle, witches were dangerous creatures. Once he had visited the witch of White Moor. He had gone with a single wart upon his chin. She had given him the cure of crushed spiders, elm root and nettle. Within the hour he was unable to
speak and his head had swollen to the size of a summer cabbage. What were once his eyes had shrivelled to that of a newt. Witches were all the same, he thought. Pay them good money and await your prickly fate.

Beadle knew that the Hand of Glory was not a commonplace object. Whoever had it in their possession was not to be trusted and it was only by chance that he too had not been controlled by its charm. For those who slept would remain asleep and those awake when the spell was uttered would keep awake.

He listened as Lady Tanville took the cloak from him and wrapped it around her shoulders as she walked away. Now he knew what she was. In his heart he had known it, and now he was sure. With one eye he followed her as she walked towards the far end of the room. By the side of a large oak panel, Lady Tanville stopped and from a small bag unfolded a piece of paper. She studied this map for some time and then pressed the wooden panel in front of her face. The oak parted and she stepped inside.