The Eyeball Collector (14 page)

As I learned so painfully upon my arrival, Withypitts Hall is set atop a rocky outcrop in the mountains. It has been snowing most days since I arrived and all too often we are enveloped in thick grey fog. On the odd occasion the sky has cleared I have looked out of my four windows. The surrounding gardens are pleasantly titivated, with plenty of winter foliage, and stretch in every direction until they reach the boundary wall, ten feet tall and built from mountain rock. In the distance you can see the highest snow-capped peaks even deeper into the Moiraean Mountains range. To the east is the ancient oak forest, the home of the legendary Hairy-Backed Hog. It was often served for supper when Father was alive.

And so time is passing. The Feast draws nearer. I travelled from the west to reach the Hall, and on the days I can see the road that leads back to Pagus Parvus and on to the City. I think of you, Polly, and hope one day to see you again.

Salve,

Your friend,

Hector

P.S. The Riddle of the Evil Queen – as promised

There was once a wicked queen who lived in a wonderful palace in the mountains. She decided one day to build another palace so she sent her guards to the villages and told them to bring back all the young men to build it. Of course the young men didn’t want to leave their homes, and one demanded to speak to the queen, to complain about how unfairly she was treating them all. Impressed by his spirit the queen decided to give him a chance.

‘Come with me,’ she said, and he followed her out to the castle gardens.

She held up a small bag. ‘Into this bag my servant will put two stones, a black one and a white one. You will draw from the bag one stone. If it is black you will work for me, if it is white you will go home.’

The young man agreed, but not fully trusting the queen he watched the servant closely. To his horror his keen eyes saw the servant place two black stones in the bag.

‘Draw,’ commanded the queen.

What did the young man do?

If you cannot solve it, Polly, I promise to tell you the answer when next I see you!

Baron Bovrik de Vandolin laid down a recent copy of the
Diurnal Journal
on the bedside pot locker (a necessary evil in the tower rooms, the newly installed water closet being some distance away) and cast an eye over his breakfast tray, a sumptuous feast of coddled goose eggs and slices of Hairy-Back ham – such a delicacy! Its meat was addictive, more succulent, more aromatic, more satisfying than any other. Once you had tasted a Hairy’s ham no other swine’s could ever match it. And for Bovrik the taste was always bittersweet. He loved and hated the Hairy-Backed Hog because with every delicious mouthful he was reminded of where he had ended up and of his own true and lowly beginnings . . .

‘Those days are long gone,’ he thought with a shudder of relief as he mopped up the juices with a slice of bread. His eye flicked back to the sketch on the open page of the journal. Yes, it did him justice, and Lady Mandible too.

Looking around himself Bovrik still couldn’t believe just how well things had turned out. He resided in the highest, most spacious tower of the six at Withypitts Hall, lavishly and gaudily furnished exactly as he would have done it himself. The sumptuousness of the surroundings seemed to physically thicken the air. His bed, a large four-poster, was specially shaped to fit against the curved wall and he sat under a gold-embroidered velvet cover which fell to the floor, where its fringed hem sat in soft undulations. He was surrounded by plump orange pillows and he leaned against a tasselled short-furred bolster that stretched across the full width of the bed. The curtains were also of velvet, scarlet with thick coiled golden ties, like ships’ ropes, and golden fringes. The wooden floor – those parts which were exposed – shone almost like a mirror as a result of hours of polishing. The remainder was covered in soft-furred bearskin rugs. Sometimes Bovrik just threw himself on the fur and rolled around in its deep, enveloping loveliness. Other times he would sit in his feather-cushioned armchair, wrap himself up in his cloak and rub its expensive Jocastar fringe all over his face.

All this, of course, was done with the door locked.

Since his latest metamorphosis his life had changed immeasurably for the better and he congratulated himself daily on the success of his latest swindle. His plan had been simple enough: in the guise of an exotic foreigner (north Urbs Umidians loved the exotic) to charm his way into the wealthy circles of the City and live the rich life he had so long envied. He would find ways to relieve those around him of their valuables, large and small (to be disposed of by Badlesmire and Leavelund via their contacts in the Nimble Finger), to keep him in pocket. Perhaps trick an old, wealthy lady or two into writing him into their will, maybe even marry one . . .

And what a great start it had been. With his new wardrobe, mysterious accent and bottomless reservoir of charm, not to mention his ever-expanding collection of eyeballs, he had been welcomed with open arms into northside society. After all, as Hector himself well knew, the north side was a place where people were judged in the main on appearance. The ladies in particular had taken to him and he was invited into all the best drawing rooms. He might have arrived with only his personality but he always left with a memento – a ring, an ornament, a piece of cutlery, all items small enough that they wouldn’t be missed for a while. Indeed sometimes, if he had been shaken, he would have jangled like Christmas bells.

But it was his encounter with Lady Mandible that set him on a fateful and even more lucrative course.

Lady Lysandra Mandible was well known in Urbs Umida. Her wealth – rightly rumoured to be significant – had been rapidly attained by a succession of marriages to rich, much older men. She came to the City just when old Lord Mandible, painfully aware of young Lord Mandible’s shortcomings, was seeking a wife for him to ensure the continuation of the family line. Lysandra suited both Mandibles’ purposes eminently, and vice versa, and they were married while Bovrik, as Gulliver Truepin, was still selling hair restorer elsewhere.

It was at the Annual Northside Late Summer Ball that Bovrik was introduced to Lady Lysandra. She, having heard much about this charming and popular foreigner, thought it would be both practical and amusing to engage him to help with the Midwinter Feast. And of course she knew how it would gall so many society ladies if she was to have the delectable Baron all to herself. Bovrik, for completely different reasons, was equally happy to accept the position and lost no time installing himself at Withypitts Hall.

‘Ah,’ murmured Bovrik, running his hand over the crisp linen sheet. ‘This is living!’ This was certainly the most enjoyable and profitable swindle he had ever undertaken. He had already recouped all the money he’d spent to get here by pilfering Mandible trinkets, and he was able to do it in such style and comfort. Even if he only stayed at Withypitts until the Feast, he was sure to have significantly increased his wealth.

With a self-satisfied smile he took an engraved rectangular box from beside the bed and opened it to reveal a red velvet-lined interior with seven deep depressions, four of which were occupied with false eyeballs. There they sat, side by side, all staring the same way. At first glance they looked identical – made from glass, off-white with a jetblack pupil and a pale blue iris. Upon closer inspection, however, it could be seen that each had a jewel or precious stone in the centre of the pupil, winking in the light, and that each jewel was different: a ruby, an opal, a pearl and the most recent emerald.

‘Hmm,’ he thought, snapping the box shut. ‘Three to go, and then I will have one for every day of the week.’

He sighed deeply. Regardless of his heart’s desire, he had decided that when he had his final eyeball – by the Feast, he hoped – he would leave. Years of swindling had taught him never to push his luck in one place too long. It was a rule he prided himself on. He screwed up his face. But it pained him to think of walking away from such a wonderful meal ticket and, against his better judgement, recently he had found himself wondering if he could postpone his departure. Lady Mandible, in some ways such a kindred spirit, certainly seemed to enjoy his company. She liked his suggestions for the Feast (it was he who had first mentioned Trimalchio), and with the somewhat unseemly connections he had made over the years he was able to help her with some of her more ‘unusual’ ideas about decor and entertainment. She was obviously delighted with the so-called butterfly boy too. That had been a stroke of luck. Until his encounter with Hector Bovrik had been rather stumped as to where to find hundreds of butterflies in winter.

‘Oh, surely there is a way . . .’ he mused. He stroked his cloak thoughtfully again. The fur seemed to represent everything that was important to him.

‘And why should Jocastar not be for the likes of me?’ he thought with some bitterness. ‘I’m worth it.’

He looked out across the grounds and down the hill to the ancient oak forest and he remembered once again a day long ago when he was still young Jereome Hogsherd, son of Tucker Hogsherd, a lowly forest dweller . . .

. . . That autumn morning, young Jereome sat by the stream watching his father’s pigs (he always referred to them as his father’s, distancing himself from their ownership) rooting about and chewing on acorns. He was deep in thought as usual, lamenting his life of drudgery and pig filth, and it was some time before he realized that he was no longer alone. A solitary traveller, a rangy man with a narrow head and high cheekbones, had managed to come unnoticed up to the stream and stood quite close to him. Jereome said nothing. He had little interest in strangers, especially ones who looked impoverished. If the fellow had money (and Jereome had a unique ability to sniff it out), it would have been a different story. Certainly he would have introduced himself in the hope of taking advantage of the stranger’s purse. In fact, if Jereome had known just a little more about the stranger, his life could have taken a very different course, but that is by the by.