The Black Book of Secrets (14 page)

My name is Perigoe Leafbinder and I have a wretched
admission.

The Leafbinders have been in the business of books
for nearly two centuries and I am proud to carry on
the tradition. I have spent thirty years of my life in
this shop and God willing I should like to spend another
thirty, but if I cannot free my tortured mind I doubt
I’ll see out another year.

There is in existence a book of which three copies
are considered immensely valuable. The story itself is
not of any great interest or literary worth, merely
the simple tale of a mountain shepherd. What makes
the book sought after is the fact that the thirteenth
line on the thirteenth page is printed backwards. No
one knows how this happened; some believe the printer
was in league with Beelzebub and the words were
turned during one of his devilish ceremonies. Others say
the letters were reversed by a flash of lightning from
heaven, a sign of approval from the greatest shepherd
of them all, the Lord himself. Or maybe it was
the printer’s young apprentice – he liked a drink and
enjoyed a joke. Whatever the reason, out of the two
hundred printed copies of the book this mistake occurs
only in three.

The whereabouts of two of the three misprinted
books is known: one is in a museum in a foreign city,
the other is with the family of the shepherd who wrote
the tale. They live with their sheep on the mountains
and are rarely seen. They have kept it for generations
and refuse to sell it at any price. They say that
money is of no value to them. The third book had
been missing for almost two hundred years. It was
thought to no longer exist.

To possess this volume would bring instant fame and
wealth and I, like many others, have dreamed for
years of finding it, but in vain.

Some months ago I was in my shop when I heard
the bell and I saw a frail old woman making her way
slowly between the bookcases. She walked stiffly with
the aid of two sticks. Her left elbow was held tightly
against her side, making her slow progress even more
painful, and I could see at once that she concealed
something beneath her cloak.

I stepped out into her path and greeted her and
I led her into the office, where she leaned her sticks
against the desk. It was nearly six and I was looking
forward to closing up and retiring for the day. In
an effort to hurry things along I enq uired rather
brusq uely, ‘Madam, how may I help you?’

She eyed me with suspicion, and asked, ‘Do you
buy books?’

I nodded.

‘What would you say this is worth?’

She took a tatty volume in maroon leather from
beneath her cloak and proffered it across the table.
She seemed unwilling to let it out of her grasp and
I had to tug with some strength to relieve her of it.
She kept her little black eyes on me all the time.

I examined the novel, rather carelessly at first, for
I felt it could not be of much value. The leather cover
was stained and worn, the title was illegible, and it
looked as if it had been q uite badly treated.

But when I opened it I was q uite unprepared for
what I saw. There on the title page were the words:
‘The Loneliness of the High Mountain Shepherd by
Arthur Wolman’.

My heart lurched in my chest. Could this be the
missing third copy? The old lady’s eyes were boring into
me all the time as I carried out my examination.
Casually I turned the pages. They were brown with age
and mould and some were stuck together. I reached
page thirteen and I was close to apoplexy when I
read it. The thirteenth line was reversed.

‘.yadnus a no peehs ym raehs ot dekil I’

‘Hmm,’ I mused as if in two minds about something.
And indeed I was. Imagine, in my hands I held a book
that could bring me acclaim and riches, but only then
did I realize I could not afford to buy it. In my
dreams I had never considered how I would pay for
it; I had only ever thought that somehow the book
would be mine.

I reasoned that I had two choices. I could pretend
the book was worthless and offer the old lady a token
amount of money or I could tell her the truth and
then she would go away and sell it to someone who
could pay.

The q uestion was: did she know the value of the
book? I could feel droplets of sweat on my forehead
and it took all my concentration to stop my hands
from shaking. Her eyes were like needles in my skin.

‘Well?’ she said rather testily.

My answer sealed my miserable fate.

‘It is an interesting volume,’ I said slowly, ‘but it
is not particularly valuable.’ Those words set me on
a path from which there was no return.

She looked disappointed and for one brief instance
I allowed myself to hope. Could it be possible she was
ignorant of its true worth?

‘But,’ I said, trying to reassure her, ‘it just so happens
that I have a customer who has an interest in
this author, so I should be glad to give you ten shillings
for it. I am sure you agree that is a generous offer,
considering its rather poor condition.’

I smiled, charitably, I thought. The old lady smiled
back, in a mean-mouthed tight-lipped sort of way.

Then she opened those thin lips and hissed, ‘You
filthy liar. You low-down cheat. Do you think I am a
fool? That because I walk with sticks I have feathers
in my head?’

I had been found out. I stood up and tried to
placate her growing fury.

‘Perhaps I made a mistake. Let me look again.’
But it was too late. I was beyond redemption.

‘This book is worth many times what you have just
offered me and yet you choose to insult me. You are
nothing but a crook. Give it back to me.’

She reached across the table and snatched at the
book and all I could think was that my dream was
being taken with it.

‘I will take this elsewhere,’ she said, still tugging. ‘To
someone with integrity.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I cried, close to tears. ‘A moment’s
weakness. After all, I am only human. I can be
tempted.’ I was still holding on to the book. I couldn’t
bear to let it go.

‘Pshaw,’ she spat. ‘I have heard enough.’

We struggled across the desktop. First she would hold
sway, then I, until finally I gave one mighty wrench
and the book came free. The old lady fell backwards
and I watched in horror as her head cracked on the
arm of the chair and she crashed to the floor in a
crumpled pile of skin and bone. I ran to her and
dropped to my knees at her side leaning close to see
if she was still breathing.

She hissed in my ear, ‘
yadnuS a no peehs ym raehs ot dekil I,
’
and then expired, her final breath fogging my spectacles.

‘Oh, Lord above,’ I muttered. ‘Now what do I do?’
It was not usual for a customer to die in the shop
and I was unsure of the correct procedure. And while
I dithered the voice of the devil, surely it could only
be he, piped up in my ear.

‘Take the book,’ he whispered. ‘Take the book. Who
will know?’

I should like to say that I argued, that I engaged
in a debate about the immoral nature of his suggestion,
but that would be untrue. Instead I picked it
up from where I had dropped it and stuffed it behind
Gibbon’s ‘
Decline and Fall
’ on a high shelf above the
desk. When I turned around I was startled to see
Jeremiah Ratchet standing in the open doorway. I
had no idea how long he had been there.

‘My dear Perigoe,’ he asked, ‘what on this miserable
earth are you doing?’

‘She has died in my shop,’ I wailed. ‘She just collapsed.’

‘So I see,’ he said.

Dr Mouldered arrived and Ratchet stood to one
side eyeing the scene. His presence made me feel distinctly
uncomfortable.

‘Heart attack,’ pronounced Mouldered after the
briefest of examinations. Ratchet gave one of his loud
snorts and Mouldered closed his bag and hurried away.
To my intense relief the undertakers arrived not long
after, the body was removed and Jeremiah left.

That night after dark I came up with a plan. I
wanted to sell the book but I had to be careful. I
couldn’t be sure who else knew the old lady owned it.
I had heard of someone in the City who would pay
me a good price for such a book and who could be
trusted not to reveal my identity. Of course, there
would be no celebrity, no fame, but it was a small
sacrifice. If I went now, I could be back before dawn
and no one would be the wiser. I hid the book in my
cloak and stepped outside straight into Jeremiah
Ratchet.

‘My dear Perigoe,’ he said in that loathsome way
of his, ‘I wonder what business has you leaving Pagus
Parvus at this time of night.’

‘My own business,’ I replied sharply. ‘Now step away
and allow me to pass.’

He stayed where he was. ‘I have been thinking over
the events of this evening: the death of that poor
unfortunate woman, the book
. . .
’

‘The book?’

‘There is a price for keeping secrets,’ he said.

His tone frightened me. ‘What you are suggesting, Mr Ratchet?’

‘I think that you are on your way to the City to
dispose of the book, the very one you stole from the
old lady this afternoon, for a rather large sum of
money that you will keep all to yourself.’

‘There is no book, Mr Ratchet.’

‘Well,’ said Jeremiah, ‘then we have a problem.
You see, if you do not find the book, which I know is
here, then I will be forced to tell the magistrate that
I witnessed that woman’s death at your hands. The
penalty is hanging, you know, for murder.’

‘Murder?’

‘I saw everything,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I watched you
attack that old lady and then push her to the ground,
only to wrest the book from her dying hand.’

‘That is not how it happened,’ I protested, but
Jeremiah merely laughed.

‘Consider what I have said carefully, Mrs Leafbinder.
I am sure you will come round to my way of thinking.’

I am ashamed to say that I cursed the duplicitous
scoundrel for a full minute but I knew when I
was beaten.

‘Tell me what you want, Mr Ratchet,’ I said finally.

‘It’s q uite simple, my dear. I wish to have the pick
of your shelves whenever I choose and a small payment,
shall we say five shillings, on a weekly basis.’

‘And what of the book?’

He pretended to give the matter some consideration.
‘Well, I could take it to the City of course, but
I think I shall wait. Perhaps after a few years I will
sell it for its full value. Meanwhile, if you would be so
kind as to hand it over, I shall keep it safe.’

What a heartless, sadistic man stood in front of
me. I had no choice but to take his terms. I knew
Ratchet would not hesitate to go straight to the magistrate,
whom I did not doubt could be persuaded with
money to believe anything Ratchet wanted, and I
would be hanged for murder.

‘I’ll be back on Friday for my fee,’ he said and
went off with the precious book under his arm.

Needless to state, he has been as good as his word.
Every Friday he collects his money and takes whatever
else he pleases. As for ‘
The Loneliness of the High
Mountain Shepherd
’, I lie in bed every night and curse
my greed and stupidity a thousand times. Meanwhile
Jeremiah is bringing my business to its knees.

I cannot change what I have done, Mr Zabbidou,
and I am sorry for it. All I want is to sleep again,
to forget.