Printer's Devil (9780316167826) (25 page)

It was plain that Spintwice needed something hot to drink to revive him, and Nick and I offered to go and make cocoa while
he sat and recovered his composure.

“Why don’t you calm down?” Nick asked quietly, once we were out of earshot in the little scullery. The hiss from the water
heating up in the kettle was quite loud enough to make our conversation inaudible in the next room.

“There’s definitely something not quite right,” I said. “The more we see of that man, the more magic he seems.”

“Well we can’t do anything about him just now.”

“I’d just love to know where he goes with the camel now he’s got it back,” I said.

“Mog,” Nick said, “you said yourself, he’ll be miles away by now. We couldn’t begin to find out where he’s gone.”

“We’ve got a pretty good idea, Nick. He’s probably gone back to that house next door to Cramplock’s.”

“And what are you going to do? Go in and fight him?” He suddenly looked dreadfully tired.

I stirred, uselessly. “I just think we ought to be doing
something
,” I said. “He’s got the camel, and he’s
got a snake which bites people, and he’s got —”
My bangle
, I thought; but I stopped myself from saying it. “I’m afraid more people are going to get killed,” I said instead. “Where’s
your Pa?”

“How should I know?” snapped Nick, irritable now. “I’m not going anywhere where I stand a chance of meeting my Pa. Or anybody
else,” he added, “murderers or snake charmers or anyone. We can’t stop them. We’d just be taking a stupid risk.”

He poured the boiling water into three little mugs, and stirred cocoa into them. I carried the tray back through the little
door into the parlor, steam pouring off the mugs like factory chimneys. Mr. Spintwice was looking much happier, and had produced
a big glistening ginger cake from somewhere. He’d placed it on a low table in front of him, and was making a fuss of Lash,
who was sitting between his feet, licking the little man’s fingers affectionately. No wonder Nick liked coming here so much.
My resistance was being broken down, and I was both exasperated and delighted.

“You’re exhausted, Mog,” said Nick, coming in to join us. “You spent most of last night running around after criminals, and
so did I. We all need a rest. Just forget about the man from Calcutta for a bit.”

I eyed the cake, my heart torn. “You’re right,” I sighed.

Mr. Spintwice beamed even more broadly than usual. “I think I would really be happier,” he said quietly, “if you two stayed
here. Just tonight.”

When I woke up the sun was in my eyes, and at first I wasn’t sure where I was; but after a few seconds it dawned on me. I
also realized that it was Sunday, and I didn’t have to work; which was rather lucky, since the first sound I heard was the
jangling of the parish bells calling people to church, and if it had been a working day I’d have overslept by three hours.
We’d both slept at Spintwice’s; and as I lifted my head I saw that I was alone in the big spare bed, with nothing more than
a crumpling of the sheet beside me to indicate where Nick had slept. I remembered a few tired murmurs we’d exchanged before
we went to sleep, but you couldn’t call it a conversation. I had dropped off in no time at all, the troubled whirling in my
head of the recent events and mysteries pacified, at least for a while, by the dwarf’s good nature. For the first time in
about a week, I’d had no dreams — or, if I had, I couldn’t remember them when I woke up. Now the sun
pasted bright cutouts on the plaster wall, and I sat propped up on one elbow watching Lash, curled at the foot of my bed with
his tail under his chin a bit like the dog on the watermark. He twitched, whimpered a brief “Good morning,” and yawned hugely.

I could hear faint voices from another room. I stretched luxuriously under the sheet, staring up at the ceiling where a large
fly was revolving in agitation, caught in a spider’s web, buzzing like clockwork. Details and questions began to return, lazily,
to my mind.

“Nick,” I said later, as Spintwice served up bacon and bread for breakfast, “I’m going to explore today. Will you come?”

“Explore where?”

I chewed contemplatively. “Not sure,” I said. “Back to the Three Friends, maybe.”

“You’ll have to be careful, in broad daylight,” said Nick.

“I shan’t do anything silly,” I said, a bit impatiently. “Are you going to come?

Spintwice looked from one to the other of us. “I’d rather hoped,” he said, “that Nick might help me with something this morning.
I got a box of books the other day and I haven’t had time to look at them or sort them out. I thought you might enjoy giving
me a hand.”

This was too much for Nick to resist, of course, and
I realized it would be. I promised to come back in the afternoon and tell them what I’d found out; but Lash and I were alone,
and swift, as we left the shop and joined the life of the streets. Darting through the narrow lanes of Clerkenwell, we headed
towards the City.

After a short time we passed a row of tall, well-kept brick mansion houses with railings outside, the servants’ quarters in
the basement, and a short flight of steps up to a grand front door with a hanging basket of flowers above. They were the kind
of houses where fashionable doctors and merchants lived. A couple of hopeless beggars, old men in broken hats which opened
up at the top like round boxes, were wandering along pestering the servants at the doors. Waiting outside one of the houses
was a black carriage drawn by a patient, aristocratic-looking horse.

I stopped and grasped one of the spiked railings. I’d seen this horse and carriage before.

Just to make sure, I crossed the street to take a look at the horse from the other side: and sure enough, along its right
flank, there was an unmistakable smooth, long scar.

At that very moment a gentleman in black and grey, with shiny shoes, stepped briskly out of the nearest house and down the
steps to the carriage. I didn’t have time to hide, but just had to try and look as inconspicuous as possible on the other
side of the road, picking at the leaves
on an overhanging tree and hoping he wouldn’t notice me. I watched him carefully. He had a haughty face, his nose held high
and his cheeks sucked in, as though there were an off-putting smell beneath his nostrils. There was a low murmur of conversation
as he greeted someone who was already in the carriage: the man known as his Lordship, presumably. Someone called an instruction
to the driver and, as he lifted the reins, the driver turned his head back towards the carriage window and repeated the address
with perfect clarity.

“Fellman’s in the City Road,
Milord
. Gee up!”

The carriage moved off. I couldn’t believe my luck. Fellman was the name of the crooked papermaker Cramplock had told me about!

My only problem now was keeping track of where they were going. They were moving quickly and smoothly, the carriage black
and polished, the red wheels spinning almost silently as it sped along the street. I scampered along the flagstones with Lash
beside me, keeping my distance behind the carriage in case I was being watched from the back window; but I soon lost sight
of it, and it didn’t take me long to realize I had no chance of catching it up. The road was good and it would be at its destination
in just a few minutes. I stopped running.

The air began to smell fresher and fresher as we walked on, the houses around us were newer, and soon
there was even a glimpse of open fields and distant green hills between some of the buildings. When we reached the City Road
I began looking up and down for signs of the well-dressed man, but well-dressed men were not such a novelty around here, and
I knew he wouldn’t have attracted anyone’s attention. I asked a man if he knew where Fellman’s was, and he pointed obligingly
up the road in the direction of the Angel. There was no sign, he told me, but Fellman’s mill was well known.

In spite of the Sunday sunshine the buildings here seemed to admit very little light. Two rows of tall, dark-bricked houses
formed a forbidding narrow gorge, in which there was scant sign of human activity. As I turned into the street, Lash lingered
and started sniffing around by the corner, as though reluctant to swap the sunlight for this chilly gloom. I told him not
to be so silly; but I felt goose bumps of sudden cold as, further up the street, I noticed the unmistakable, imposing black
carriage of His Lordship, silent and waiting.

I led Lash up the street, quietly, and before we’d got as far as the carriage the strangest smell met my nostrils. On our
right was a high brick arch, with a grubby rectangular plate on which I could just make out the three words “High Stile Passage.”
Venturing through the arch I found myself in a small, overgrown courtyard, in which the unpleasant smell was stronger still.
This was the paper mill all right, though there wasn’t much sign of
industry here today: the workshop which stretched along one side of the yard had bars across the windows, with no sign of
light or movement inside. Lash trotted over to one corner of the cobbled yard where there was a huge tub with something rotting
and smelly in it to keep him amused. A couple of large iron bins stood in another corner, and when I lifted a lid I found
a soupy, reeking mess of wet, gluey linen which made me turn up my nose and drop the lid back on with an overloud
clang
.

To my surprise, when I tried the door of the workshop it yielded with a soft creak.

“Lash!” I whispered sharply.

He came trotting back; and, leaving the door ajar, I tied his lead to a fencepost around the back of the yard, sternly instructing
him to stay quiet until I came back outside. He licked his lips and sat down to wait.

The familiar smell of damp paper greeted me as I tiptoed inside. I was in what seemed to be a storeroom, with piles of boxes,
shelves full of paper, old sacks, and a big iron bin exactly like the ones outside. I fingered some of the paper on the piles.
It was coarse, yellow stuff which looked as though it had been here for years, judging by the thick layer of dust I blew off
it. Fellman, it seemed, might be having trouble selling his papers these days. “It’s all done by machine now,” Cramplock never
tired of telling me whenever he started a newly opened ream. Lifting a sheet up
against the light, I wasn’t surprised to find the familiar sleeping dog shape boldly watermarked.

To my right, through an open door, I could see the workshop with vats and benches and drying frames, and to my left another
small door — behind which, as I listened closer, I could hear men’s muffled voices. I couldn’t make out a word that was being
said, though there seemed to be more than two people talking in there. As I tiptoed back towards the door, I spotted some
unmistakable words, in bold black type, on a scrap of filthy paper beneath my feet.

the Most REMARKABLE CURIOSITY
that Ever was Seen!

CAMILLA

the PRESCIENT ASS

This was what I’d printed myself only the other day! I picked it up — it was definitely one of my posters. How had it come
to be here?

Actually, it was
half
of one of my posters. It had been torn quite cleanly in two, and folded. When I turned it over I found there was writing
on the back. And I recognized that as well.

They are closing in. I have lied.

But they already know too much

and they are watching the shop.

Im only warning you
.

WHC

I struggled through the crabbed handwriting with difficulty. There was no mistaking it. This had been written by Mr. Cramplock.

But almost as soon as I’d read it, voices and clatters from behind the door suddenly made me jump. Someone was coming! Stuffing
the piece of paper into my pocket, I cast about for somewhere to hide. The only place seemed to be the big iron trash can.
Jumping inside, I found it had some smelly pieces of old torn sheets in the bottom; but I sank down into them and pulled the
lid over me, just in the nick of time.

Through the chink under the lid I could see some men emerging through the door. There were three: the high-nosed gentleman
whose carriage I’d followed; then a fat man I’d never seen before, dressed in nasty old clothes; and then — with a sudden
tingle of excitement I recognized the man Nick and I had encountered in the Doll’s Head, and whose newspaper we’d stolen!

It looked as though the two of them were preparing to leave; but they were lingering, only a couple of feet away from the
bin where I was hiding. I tried my hardest not to breathe.

“This letter explains it all,” the haughty man was saying, in a voice so pompous and drawling that it was difficult to understand.

There was a guttural cough, almost a laugh. “I don’t doubt that it does,” came the reply, “but you knows very well I can’t
read it. I just makes the paper, and I leaves it to other people to put whatever they wants onto it, and take whatever they
wants off of it.”