The Bone Magician (22 page)

He stopped in mid-sentence and groaned inwardly. What was he doing? He had virtually told Mr Snoad that he looked like a creature that
was renowned for its ugliness and foul eating habits.

The sneer on Deodonatus’s face curled even further up his cheek until his lip almost touched his nostril – not as difficult
as it might sound bearing in mind the proximity of the two features on his extraordinary visage.

‘The Gluttonous Beast,’ he muttered. ‘Aye, I have seen him and smelt him.’ He turned his head to cock a watery
eye at Aluph who, when he caught sight of the face that
fronted the head he was feeling, couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. Deodonatus harrumphed nastily.

‘I suppose you think it is right for men to be able to gaze upon those less fortunate than themselves?’

‘It’s not that I think it is right,’ said Aluph carefully, as he kneaded the top of Deodonatus’s head. He was
beginning to wonder where this was leading. ‘But it is most entertaining and er . . . well . . . there is a need in people to be entertained,’ he finished weakly.

Now Deodonatus’s face was creased into a frown.

‘So, it’s entertainment, is it? To stare at beasts who are in cages by virtue of the fact that those on one side of the bars
are deemed normal and those on the other unacceptable.’

‘Well, of course when you look at it that way, it seems less acceptable, that is not to be doubted.’ Quickly Aluph tried to
change the subject. ‘But what of the Bone Magician?’

Deodonatus was not to be swayed. ‘Bah,’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing but trickery. He’s good, I’ll give the man
that, old Benedict Pantagus. But what about the Beast? Does he not deserve our sympathy?’

Just then Aluph came across an unusually large bump
and when he probed it Deodonatus let out a
screech that would have woken the dead. He howled like a wounded animal and leaped out of the chair. Aluph’s heart went into convulsions.

‘Mr Snoad,’ he said shrinking back across the room. ‘Please accept my apologies. Such an unusual bump, it must mean
something.’

‘It – is – very – painful,’ snarled Deodonatus through gritted teeth as he sat back down. ‘Perhaps
you could be so kind as to not poke it again?’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Aluph. ‘This particular spot, so abnormally swollen as it is, denotes that you
are a man of extreme sensitivity to the human condition.’

‘Hah,’ snorted Deodonatus, by now in a thoroughly bad temper. ‘Sensitive to the human condition? Me? What a fickle
world this is! There’s not a soul out there who is sensitive to my condition. Do you know what they called me when I was a child?’

‘No,’ said Aluph, wishing with all his heart that he could leave this miserable place and get back to Mrs
Hoadswood’s.

‘They called me Toad Boy.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do
you think, you fool? Because I look like a toad.’

‘Maybe all you need is a kiss,’ said Aluph, ‘from, er, a princess.’ Fear had scrambled his brain like a plate of
Mrs Hoadswood’s eggs. In reply Deodonatus employed the full force of his sarcasm.

‘And may I ask, Mr Buncombe, what princess exists out there who might consent to kissing one such as I?’ At which point he
jumped up, took a candle from the wall and held it aloft. Aluph gulped and stepped back. Never in his life had he seen such a dreadful sight as Deodonatus Snoad’s distorted face.

‘By Jove and the Olympian Gods,’ he said classically. ‘But you are
more
wretched than the Gluttonous Beast.’

‘Aaaahhhh,’ roared Deodonatus and Aluph felt the spittle on his cheeks. ‘Get out of here, you . . . you mindless
charlatan. I might be ugly, but I’m not a fool. You couldn’t tell the future if it poked you in the eye!’

Aluph needed no further persuading. He ran across the room, flung open the door and skidded into the corridor. As he took the steps
three at a time he could hear Deodonatus inside still roaring and shouting and stamping about. Deodonatus watched from the window as Aluph
sprinted down the street. Then he took the mirror out of the desk drawer and
unwrapped it. Slowly he held it up to his face and looked. Seconds later he threw it to the floor where it smashed into a hundred pieces.

‘What a fool I am,’ he berated himself.

His eyes alighted on the two sheets on the desk. He threw them on the fire. Then he sat down and took out a fresh sheet from the drawer
and began to write. The quill scratched across the page, tearing at the paper, and all the time he muttered and mumbled to himself. Finally he rolled it up, tied it and rang for the boy. As soon as he was gone, Deodonatus – cloaked, scarfed and
hatted – went out into the night.

As they hurried along the icy pavements towards Mr Gaufridus’s shop, Juno’s eyes widened as Pin recounted in
detail what he had seen and heard in Aluph’s room.

‘And Aluph is going to tell Coggley about it all tonight,’ he finished with a flourish.

‘Coggley would benefit greatly from a poke with a Friction Stick!’ laughed Juno. ‘But how does any of this help find
the Silver Apple Killer?’

‘Well,’ said Pin, ‘I’ve been thinking. If we can find out who bought these Friction Sticks, then we can track
down the murderer.’

Juno’s eyebrows raised. ‘How do
we
do that?’

‘We
could go down to the
Chronicle
,’ Pin suggested, ‘and ask
who placed the advertisement.’

Juno looked uncertain. ‘But the killer might not have bought it from the paper, but from someone who already had one. Or,’
she hesitated for a moment, ‘maybe Aluph is the killer!’

Pin laughed and shook his head. ‘No, he’s definitely too tall.’

They turned into Melancholy Lane and Juno slowed and tugged on Pin’s arm.

‘You’re sure Mr Gaufridus won’t be here?’

‘Certain,’ said Pin. ‘The only man in there tonight is a dead one!’ But he peered in at the undertaker’s
window to make sure before he opened the door with his key. Then the two of them slipped in, passing the polished coffins and marble headstones, and descended the stairs to the basement where Pin lit a lamp. Juno looked around the workshop, at the tools
on the bench, at the half-finished coffins stacked one on top of the other or leaning against the wall. She went over to the black door of the
Cella Moribundi
, but she didn’t open it.

‘So, who’s in there?’

‘Albert,’ said Pin simply. ‘He’s quite a large fellow
though. Look,
here’s his coffin. I had to make it specially to fit him.’ He pointed in the direction of a coffin that was noticeably deeper and wider than the rest, standing almost upright against the wall.

‘Come on,’ said Pin, anxious to do the job he was paid for. ‘Let’s go in.’

Juno followed, holding her candle up high.

‘Ooh, it’s cold,’ she shivered.

‘You get used to it.’ Pin lit the candles on the walls and the small room was suddenly alive with flickering shadows.
Albert, a mountainous man, was lying on the table.

Juno went up close for a look. ‘How did he die?’

‘His horse kicked him in the head,’ said Pin, ‘but you would never know. Mr Gaufridus has done a lovely
job.’

He had indeed and Mr Albert H. Hambley looked remarkably peaceful considering the agonies he had endured just before he died. Then Juno
turned her attention to the cupboards and drawers, opening and closing them and pulling things out and asking Pin all sorts of questions, which he answered readily, as he followed behind putting it all carefully back in place.

‘So how are you getting on solving the mystery of the
Bone Magician?’ she asked suddenly,
brandishing a pair of iron pliers.

Pin looked at her sideways as he rearranged a drawer of aptly named prodding needles in order of length and thickness. ‘I
haven’t given up yet, you know. I’ll be coming with you, take my word for it.’

‘The answer is probably right under your nose,’ said Juno lightly and somewhat cryptically.

Pin stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

She wants me to find out her secret, thought Pin excitedly, but when pressed Juno wouldn’t be drawn. She continued rummaging and
eventually he became anxious. ‘I think you should stop,’ he said. ‘Some of these cupboards are private. Even I don’t go in them.’

‘OK, said Juno, ‘but look at this. It wasn’t in the cupboard; I found it behind it.’

She held out the glittering contraption and Pin paled and took a step back.

‘What is it?’ asked Juno. ‘What’s wrong?’

Pin felt his heart constrict in his ribs.

‘Fiends!’ he whispered. ‘It’s a Friction Stick.’

For a second they were both silent, each realizing at the
same time what this unwitting discovery
might mean. ‘Oh Lord,’ said Juno quietly. ‘Do you think—’

But before she could finish her question they both looked up at the sound of footsteps crossing the floor above.

‘Mr Gaufridus,’ hissed Pin. ‘It has to be. Quick. We must hide.’

Pin grabbed at Juno’s arm, pulled her into the workshop and dragged her into the nearest coffin, coincidentally Mr Albert H.
Hambley’s, managing to slide the lid into place just as the door swung open.

Out of all the coffins in the room to use as a hiding place, Pin had certainly chosen the best. Its generous sizing meant that he and
Juno fitted in quite comfortably side by side. The lid was a tight fit but Pin sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he had taken the time earlier that day to drill the holes for the name plate and the handles. Not only did they provide a stream of
refreshing cold air, but also he and Juno could see out into the workshop.

Mr Gaufridus did indeed enter the room and began to engage in some of those activities that people prefer to do when they think they are
on their own. He picked his nose and then he scratched under his arm and tugged at his
underwear, which had been causing him some trouble these last few days. But once he had adjusted himself to his satisfaction, he
went straight into the
Cella Moribundi
.

‘Pin,’ he called, ‘are you in there?’ The door closed behind him.

‘I think I’m going to sneeze,’ whispered Juno. ‘It’s so dusty.’

Pin rummaged in his pocket and found his handkerchief.

‘Cover your nose with this,’ he said and handed it to her in the darkness.

‘Can we escape?’ Juno’s voice was low and muffled.

‘I don’t know if we have time.’

Pin was right for Mr Gaufridus emerged at that very moment carrying what was unmistakably the Friction Stick. Pin felt Juno’s hand
tighten around his and knew that she had seen it too. Mr Gaufridus stood right in front of the coffin and, although his expression gave nothing away, Pin suspected that he was wondering why the lid was on. Juno squeezed her eyes tightly shut,
anticipating the removal of the lid, but Mr Gaufridus merely shook his head and went to the workbench where he examined the stick carefully. Then he held it up and turned the handle and Pin
and Juno watched in horror as
sparks began to fly around the room. Whatever doubts they might have had were gone in an instant. Each was now utterly convinced that they were in the same room as the Silver Apple Killer.

Then the unthinkable happened. Pin coughed. A small cough, hardly discernible in fact. Mr Gaufridus didn’t even hear it. Neither
did he hear the second. It was the third cough, the loudest, that caused all the trouble.

Mr Gaufridus froze on the spot and looked straight at the coffin. He approached slowly, brandishing the Friction Stick. Inside their
morbid hiding place Pin and Juno were completely helpless. Mr Gaufridus came closer and closer. Pin waited until he was only a footstep away, then shoved the lid violently outwards with his foot. Mr Gaufridus fell backwards against the bench and, for the
first time since he had known him, Pin thought that he looked ever so slightly surprised.

‘Run,’ shouted Pin, hauling Juno out by her cloak. ‘Run for your life!’