The Eyeball Collector (12 page)

Luck was against me. All next day we suffered a terrible storm. Solomon sent word from the Pickled Trout (where he had spent the night) that we would set off when it eased. The howling wind and lashing rain battered the village until late afternoon. It was frustrating but Perigoe looked after me. And I took the opportunity to browse her bookshop. I saw on the shelves many books from my own library – no doubt all disposed of by now thanks to Badlesmire and his rawboned partner – which saddened me. But my heart lifted to see a slim volume of poetry by Beag Hickory. Another book too caught my eye: ‘Myths and Folklore, Flora and Fauna of the Ancient Oak Forest’. I bought it though Perigoe kindly charged me a reduced price. I had a feeling it might be useful.

By early evening the storm had abated and Solomon arrived with the repaired carriage. He was anxious to go, not so much to reach my destination as to be able to return to the City. Perigoe gave me a warm hug and handed over a parcel of books wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string for Lady Mandible. (She told me the lady orders some odd titles.) As a parting gift she gave me the copy of Beag Hickory’s poetry. Her kindness made me forget my inner darkness for a moment, at least.

‘Look out for yourself,’ warned Perigoe. ‘Lady Mandible is not one to be crossed. She has a silver smile, they say, but a hand of steel in a velvet glove.’

I didn’t care about Lady Mandible, though, only Baron Bovrik. I climbed into the carriage and Solomon opened the hatch to look down at me with bleary bloodshot eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to go on?’ he asked gruffly. ‘I can always take you back to the City.’

I thought of Father buried in a shallow pauper’s grave.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’

Solomon had assured me that we would reach Withypitts Hall in a matter of hours. To pass the time, and to keep my mind off darker thoughts, I took ‘Myths and Folklore’ from my bag and laid it on my lap. I had often heard about the legendary Hairy-Backed Forest Hog and wished to know more. I discovered that the hog has a particularly interesting diet, which fact I noted in view of my vengeful intent. Indeed I grew quite excited to think how my plan was starting to take shape. At that moment, however, a tremendous clap of thunder interrupted my reading and the ground shook with the ferocity of the clashing heavens. So involved was I in my book and plotting I had failed to notice the returning storm. Searing bolts of lightning lit up the sky. The repairs, and the courage of the horses, were tested to their limits as with every gust of wind the carriage rocked violently on its springs. I had to brace myself not to be flung through the door.

I dared to look out only once, to see that we were climbing, merely feet away from the edge of a precipitous drop. In the brief moments between the thunder and lightning I could hear Solomon swearing at the horses and the sound of his whip. I huddled on the seat with my cloak wrapped around me and began to pray fervently for safe delivery to Withypitts Hall. Just when I thought that fear had brought me as close to death as it was possible to be while still breathing, the carriage came to an unsteady halt.

Solomon’s face appeared at the hatch in the roof. He was red-cheeked and wet. ‘I can go no further,’ he shouted above the wind. ‘You’ll have to continue on foot.’

I pulled my hat down so hard on my head that it pinched my ears. With the parcel of books under one arm and my bag over my shoulder I opened the door, fighting to hold it in the wind, and jumped down to sink ankle deep in freezing soupy mud. I could feel the chill water seeping through the seams of my boots. Grimacing and cursing I made my way to firmer ground and looked ahead.

At first I saw nothing. The moon was behind the swollen clouds and the sheeting rain made everything blurry. But then pitchforked lightning split the inky sky and my heart faltered. In its white light my disbelieving eyes saw a vast jagged silhouette stretching across a broad mountainous outcrop like a diabolical gathering of crouching devils. Their horns were the towers and the lights burning in the windows their evil red eyes.

‘Tartri flammis!’ I breathed, and could say not another word. This behemoth before me was Withypitts Hall.

‘This is madness!’ shouted Solomon. ‘Come back with me. It’s not too late.’

I tried to answer but my words were blown back in my face so I just shook my head. Solomon shrugged in helpless disbelief. He clapped me on the shoulder, wished me luck and hauled himself back on to his seat. I stared again at the looming Hall and when I looked back the carriage had already turned and was gathering speed down the hill. Now my only choice was to go on.

I pushed on up the road, tripping and sliding and skidding, and within minutes I was soaked through. I must have battled against the storm for nigh on half an hour before finally reaching the huge iron gates that flanked the broad gravelled carriageway up to the main doors. Intermittent lightning flashes allowed me to see for only seconds at a time the full extent of the building: the six tall towers that reached up to the black clouds, the tall, narrow leaded windows, atop the arched pinnacles of which sat grinning devils and the roof edge supported by gargoyles of the most repulsive nature.

Close now to exhaustion I staggered up the steps. In the centre of the oaken door was a huge brass knocker in the shape of a hog’s head. It took all my remaining strength to lift it with both hands and bring it down upon the ancient wood. The impact resounded within and was immediately answered by a cacophony of howling dogs. Then as I waited I thought I heard a different sound, neither animal nor human but the strains of a tune, a high-pitched and mournful air that was soon swallowed by the wind.

With a ghastly groaning the door finally opened. A skeletal man towered over me and took in my bedraggled state with dull, unforgiving eyes. His etiolated pallor was like a plant that had never seen the sun.

‘Yes?’ he said. He elongated the single syllable in a low monotone.

‘I have a delivery,’ I croaked. ‘For Lady Mandible.’

‘What is it, Gerulphus?’ enquired a second, higher pitched voice. A lady came up behind him, in a voluminous skirt, with the darkest hair you have ever seen and wide shining eyes of violet hue and full blood-red lips.

‘It’s a boy, Your Ladyship,’ replied Gerulphus slowly. ‘Just a boy.’

I tried to speak but again, from somewhere within the Hall, I heard the music. It rose to a merciless crescendo, filling my ears and ringing in my head until I could hardly think.

And that is the last thing I remember. Exhaustion overcame me and in an instant everything went dark and I fell an indeterminate distance to the ground.

After his collapse on the steps of Withypitts Hall, Hector awoke in a far better place. He came to on a couch of the softest velvet in a chamber of flickering lights. From the domed ceiling above him hung a many-tiered chandelier with a hundred or more glittering candles.

Slowly he looked around and was so taken with the gilded furniture, the oriental patterned cocked wallpaper, the sumptuous dark curtains, the black marble fireplace in which roared a gloriously red and orange fire, that it was some moments before he became aware of the other people in the room.

‘He is awake, My Lady,’ said the unmistakable voice of Gerulphus. He was standing directly behind the couch.

Hector’s bemused gaze met the curious stare of the lady with the sanguine-hued lips. She was sitting opposite on a cream silken chaise longue and cooling herself languorously with a peacock-feather fan. Closing the fan with a snap she beckoned him over.

‘Come closer,’ she said. Her voice was soft yet commanding. If it was a colour, Hector thought, it would be deep brown. ‘Have a seat.’ There was a small stool beside her chaise longue and in front of it a low table set with a platter of colourful sweets. Beside that stood a tall silver spouted pot, a delicately patterned cup with matching sugar bowl, and a crystal glass and jug filled to the brim with sparkling amber liquid. Hector stood up and his feet sank into the thick grey wolfskin rug (complete with head, fangs and yellow eyes) that lay between the two couches.

He sat carefully on the edge of the stool, acutely aware of the state of his clothes. He was also aware of how ravenously hungry he was and couldn’t help but stare longingly at the dainty aromatic treats that teased his nose. They smelled of marzipan and dark chocolate and were decorated with bright red cherries and raisins and iced in swirls.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘You are Lady Mandible,’ said Hector slowly, ‘and this is Withypitts Hall.’

‘And what is your name?’

‘Hector. The Baron sent a carriage for me.’

‘Ah, the butterfly boy,’ rejoined Lady Mandible. ‘I thought as much. You are very welcome.’ She looked at him closely. ‘Are you hungry?’

Hector had always been told it was not polite to openly admit to hunger, but after his sojourn in Fitch’s Home his manners were not as they once were. Hardly able to take his eyes off the platter, he nodded vigorously.

‘Then take one.’

She pointed to the sweets and he noticed for the first time that her painted nails were neither rounded nor squared off, but sharpened almost to talons. She wore a large ring on every finger, each with a gleaming oversized dark stone.

‘Take as many as you like. I have them brought in specially. No one around here has the skills to make such delicate treats.’ She laughed, rather cruelly. ‘And very few people deserve them.’

Hector needed no more encouragement. He dropped a sweet into his mouth and was caught by surprise at the intensity of the taste, the sensation of the chocolate slowly melting, its sweetness running down the back of his throat. Before he could help himself he had eaten another and taken two more. He was ready to cram them in as well but a sudden shiver ran down his spine and he managed to stop himself. Lady Mandible’s unblinking eyes were fixed upon him, her head slightly cocked, and she was opening and closing her fan.

Gerulphus approached noiselessly, as seemed to be his way. He was like a creature that had once been alive, Hector thought, then had died and been brought back from the grave. He filled for Hector a glass from the jug of sweet ginger beer. Then he lifted and tipped the silver pot. A stream of dark liquid ran from its spout into the patterned cup. Hector looked at the manservant’s bony wrists protruding from his cuffs and could see pulsing blue veins running up the back of his hands. The bittersweet aroma of the liquid was very familiar to Hector. One of the most expensive coffees you could buy, his father used to serve it when entertaining important wine merchants. This, mingled with the taste and smell of the treats, the ginger beer and the heady perfume that wafted from his hostess, combined to make him feel a little light-headed.

Lady Mandible looked at him quizzically and reached across to take a marzipan delicacy for herself at the same time as Hector. Her fingers brushed over his hand and he flinched. Her nails were sharp as blades and her skin abnormally cool.

‘I believe you brought something for me too,’ she said.

Gerulphus handed her Perigoe’s parcel and a knife and she cut the string with a slashing motion then placed the package on the table and flattened down the oilskin to reveal a pile of books. She lifted the top one, a large brown-covered volume, and it fell open to show a full-page colour plate of a butterfly. Hector’s heart ached at the sight of the beautiful creature. It was a painful reminder of his previous life but also of his purpose. If he really wanted revenge on the Baron, he had to win this job.

‘
Argynnis paphia
,’ he said quickly. ‘A Silver-Washed Fritillary.’

‘So, the Baron was right,’ remarked Lady Mandible. ‘But what a puzzle you are. A knowledge of Latin and butterflies, and yet by all appearances you are an urchin.’

‘My father bred and collected them,’ explained Hector under her cool gaze.

‘Where are your parents?’

‘Dead. Both of them.’

‘Lord Mandible lost his father last year,’ she said vaguely. ‘Poor Burleigh, he was most upset.’ She sipped at her coffee and shrugged. ‘Now, about the butterflies. As you know, the Mandible Midwinter Feast is unrivalled for miles –’ she looked at Hector and he nodded quickly in agreement – ‘and this year I am going to make sure it stays that way forever. For that I need butterflies, hundreds of them, but they must all be big and colourful, no dull browns or bland whites.’