The Black Book of Secrets (6 page)
Read The Black Book of Secrets Online
Authors: F. E. Higgins
The Black Book of Secrets
My name is Obadiah Strang and I have a terrible secret.
It haunts my every waking hour, and at night when
I finally manage to sleep it takes over my dreams.
I might only be a humble gravedigger but I am
proud of it. I have never cheated anyone: they get
six feet, no more, no less. I have always led a simple
life. I need very little and I ask for nothing. I was
a contented man until some months ago when I fell
foul of my landlord, Jeremiah Ratchet.
It had been a difficult week, short on gravedigging
and even shorter on tips. When rent day came around
I didn’t have it. No doubt you already know of Jeremiah
Ratchet. He is a hated man in these parts and
I feared what he would do to me. But he surprised
me and suggested that I pay double the next week.
Like a fool I accepted his offer. But when rent day
came again he claimed that I owed him eighteen
shillings not twelve.
‘Six shillings interest on the loan,’ he explained with
an oily smile.
Of course, I didn’t have the extra money and a
week later the debt had increased again. I paid what
I could and tried to reason with him but Jeremiah
Ratchet must have a hole where his heart should be.
After four weeks I owed so much I could never hope
to pay.
That was his intention all along.
‘I have a suggestion,’ he said the next time he
came over, ‘a way for you to work off your debt.’
Although I distrusted the man by now, I had no
choice but to listen.
‘I need you to do a job for me, something eminently
suited to your skills. I will provide the tools.’
Then he explained to me his despicable plan and
I flew into a rage and threw him out. He stood on the
path and called back to me. ‘If you will not do it, I
will evict you. You know where I am if you change your
mind. I’ll give you a week to think it over.’
That night I cursed myself again and again for getting
myself into debt to the monster. By the time the
sun rose I knew that I had no choice. I sent for Ratchet
and he came to the cottage to explain what I had
to do. He handed me my only tool: a wooden spade.
‘Quieter than a metal one,’ said Jeremiah. ‘Anyone
in this business knows that.’
And what a business, the business of bodysnatching.
That night, some time after one, I went to the
churchyard with a heavy heart. How I hated myself
for what I was about to do. I knew the grave in
q uestion. Hadn’t I dug it myself the previous day and
watched the coffin lowered into it that very afternoon?
And now here I was digging it up again. With
every spadeful of dirt I thought of that scoundrel
Ratchet. His wealth was made off the backs of the
poor. He must have half the village in his debt.
It was raining now and the moon hid herself behind
the clouds, ashamed to witness what I was doing. The
wind whipped around my head. Water streamed off
my hat. The cold froze my hands. The dark clay was
sticky with water. It took a supreme effort to raise
the shovel; it released only with a loud sucking noise
as if the earth herself had come alive and was trying
to pull it, and me with it, into the bowels of hell
below.
As the earth piled up on the side my sweat
mingled with the driving rain. In my chest my heart
pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. At last I hit wood.
I dropped to my knees and scraped the coffin clean
with my hands. The lid was held down by a single nail
at each corner. I forced the edge of the spade underneath
and began to lever it up. The wood splintered
and cracked and split. ‘Sweet Lord, forgive me,’ I muttered
and crossed myself as a bolt of lightning ripped
the sky apart. In its fiery light I gazed down on the
poor soul within.
He wasn’t a rich man, I could tell from the q uality
of the finish on the box and the cheap fittings, but
who was in these parts? Rich or poor, like us all he
ended up in the dirt. He was young though, and his
handsome face was unmarked by the accident that
had killed him – he had fallen under the wheels of a
cart. His pale hands were laid across his chest and his
ashen face was peaceful. His earthly worries were over.
Mine had just begun.
I hesitated only a second, then took the poor chap
by the shoulders and dragged him out of the coffin and
up on to the side of the grave. I looked up at the
heavens and I swore that this was the first and last
time I would do this. I thought that, the soul gone,
a body would be lighter, relieved of the burden of life,
but I felt as if I were lifting a dead horse. I dragged
him across the grass between the headstones to the
church gates, where Jeremiah had said there would be
someone waiting.
I saw them. Two men dressed in black, their faces
and heads hidden beneath hoods. Without a word they
took the body and threw it on to the back of their
cart between barrels of ale. They covered it with straw
and then took off.
I waited until I could no longer hear the horses’
hooves before returning to fill in the grave. I worked
like a man possessed, shovelling with the energy of a
demon, and when it was finally done I went home.
I woke the next day convinced I had dreamed it
all, but there by the fireplace was the wooden shovel.
I could hardly bear to look upon myself in the mirror.
Whatever my reason for doing it, I was still no better
than a common bodysnatcher. Resurrectionists, they liked
to call themselves, but to give a person a fancy name
don’t change his nature. Doubtless the corpse was now
far away, likely as not in the City, under the knife of
a surgeon in the anatomy school and all in the interest
of science. At least that’s what the doctors said.
They paid good money for bodies, and Jeremiah was
lining his pockets with it, but never had I thought I
would be involved in such a grisly, sinful business.
Jeremiah came knocking that night.
‘My men say you did a good job.’
It was not a compliment I wished to accept.
‘And where are the valuables?’ he asked me.
‘Valuables? What are you talking about? Isn’t it
enough that I unburied a body for you? Now you want
more?’
He shrugged. ‘I have it on good authority that that
young man was buried with a silver timepiece and a
gold ring. Belonged to his father. Strange custom, to
bury what could be sold for cash.’
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Ratchet
wanted me to be a thief for him as well as a bodysnatcher.
‘I did what you asked,’ I said. ‘The debt is paid.’
He shook his head.
‘I think not, Mr Strang. After all, you owe q uite
a considerable sum and you haven’t collected the valuables.
Next time you will have to be more careful.’
‘Next time?’
I didn’t dare to argue any more for then I saw
what a fix I was in. The penalty for grave robbing
was prison at the very least, but only if you were
lucky enough to survive the lynching by the dead man’s
relatives.
That was over six months ago and Jeremiah has
called on me again and again to do his dirty work.
I don’t like to think how many bodies I have
unearthed. All I know is if I am caught, Jeremiah
will not be the one to suffer.
That man enjoys the fruits of my wickedness and
I can do nothing about it. I lie awake until the small
hours, tortured by my actions. I am betraying the trust
of the villagers, a trust I have built up all my life.
If they knew they would string me up as soon as they
got hold of me.
Jeremiah Ratchet. How I detest that man. If I
thought I could get away with it, I’d take a swing at
his big fat head with my shovel.
Ludlow hesitated at that last sentence, but he had been
instructed to write everything he heard so he did. He stole
a look at Obadiah, who was as ashen-faced as the very
corpses he unearthed. Then he put down his quill, laid a
sheet of blotting paper between the pages and closed the
book. Obadiah sat back in the chair, exhausted, and covered
his face with his hands.
‘You’ve got to help me, Mr Zabbidou. I’m a broken
man, unworthy of life.’
Joe laid his hand firmly on Obadiah’s knee.
‘Rid yourself of those murderous thoughts,’ he said.
‘They will only eat at your soul. There is a natural justice
in this world. Perhaps it is not as swift as we should like,
but believe me, Jeremiah Ratchet will feel its force. Now,
go home and you will sleep, and you will not dream.’
Obadiah sighed deeply.
‘You know, Mr Zabbidou, I believe you might be right.’
He stood up to go but Joe held him back.
‘Your payment, as agreed.’ Joe handed him a leather bag
of coins and Obadiah’s eyes widened when he felt its
weight.
‘I’m most grateful to you, Mr Zabbidou,’ said Obadiah.
‘I can make good use of this.’
‘And so you should,’ replied Joe shaking his hand
warmly. ‘So you should.’
‘And what of Jeremiah?’ he ventured nervously.
Joe merely blinked once slowly. ‘Be patient, Mr Strang.
Be patient.’
The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch
Thus ended my first long day with Joe Zabbidou. It was
after two when Obadiah left and Joe stood at the door and
watched him go down the hill and into his cottage. He
waited until the lights were extinguished and the place was
in complete darkness before coming back in and locking up.
I stayed at the table staring blankly at the closed book, my
mind spinning at what I had just heard. Now I understood.
It’s a book of secrets, I thought, and Joe is the Secret Pawnbroker.
It was difficult to believe that Joe had allowed me
to touch such a book, let alone write in it. How I desired
to throw it open and read it from cover to cover! What
other tales of desperation and despair would I find in there?
I could hear Joe moving around in the shop and talking
to the frog. Quickly I opened the book, flicking from page
to page, and I read the opening lines of one confession after
another:
‘My name is Eleanor Hardy and I cannot live with my lies any
longer . . .’
‘My name is George Catchpole and I have a most shameful
secret . . .’
‘My name is Oscar Carpue. In a fit of mindless rage, gripped by
madness, I . . .’
That was all I managed to read before Joe came whistling
back into the room. I snapped the book shut and jumped
awkwardly to my feet, knocking over the chair.
‘Let us see how you have done,’ he said, ignoring my
confusion and taking the book from the table. I watched
nervously as he examined what I had written.
‘Excellent work, boy,’ he said, placing the red ribbon on
the next clean page and closing the book. ‘I doubt I could
have done better myself.’
A sudden burning flushed my cheeks. I was not used to
praise. To cover my embarrassment I pointed to the golden
words on the cover.
‘What language is this?’
Joe’s face lit up. ‘Ah, Latin,’ he said. ‘The language of
precision. “What is spoken flies, what is written never dies.”
Remember those words, Ludlow. People believe what they
read, whatever the truth of it.’
Joe held up the book and spoke quietly. ‘The stories we
have in here are very precious to their owners and, as a
result, of monetary value to others. They have confided in
me, confessing their deepest secrets, and it is my duty to
protect them. Wherever I go, there is a criminal element,
loyal to no one, who would pay well for this and use it for
financial gain or worse. But these confessions have been
trusted to us, Ludlow, and we must not speak of them outside
this room.’
Joe did not seem to be including me among those criminals.
But just then my hand felt something cold in my pocket
and my heart skipped a beat. The timepieces. I still had
them. He must not have noticed they had gone. I resolved
to return them as soon as possible.
I nodded solemnly. ‘I can keep a secret,’ I said.
‘I believe you think you can, Ludlow. But I also know
what it is to be human. Temptation is a curse to all men.’
‘I can do it,’ I said firmly. ‘Just give me the chance.’
For a moment I thought he might say no, but he laughed
and said, ‘What is life if you don’t take a chance now and
again? I knew a fellow once who only made decisions on the
toss of a coin. Should he get up or stay in bed? He tossed a
coin. Should he eat or should he not? He tossed a coin. He
lived thus for nearly two years until he was struck down by
illness. So he tossed a coin to decide whether or not to send
for the physician and the coin said yes.’
‘And he was cured?’
‘Well, unfortunately for him, the physician was not the
best. His diagnosis was somewhat awry and the medicine he
gave was rather too strong so the poor chap died the next
day.’
I didn’t understand what Joe was trying to tell me.
‘You see, Ludlow,’ he explained, ‘life is a gamble whatever
way you play it. Now, where were we?’ He patted the
Black Book of Secrets and his tone became more serious.
‘Of course, if you are to work for me, there are a few things
you need to know. First, we always start on a clean page. I
make it a rule to go forwards, never to go back.’ He smiled
knowingly and stared into my eyes. He knew I had looked
in the book.
‘And second, when we are finished we must keep it
somewhere safe from prying eyes.’
I watched as he put the book in no more safe a place than
under his mattress. Was this some sort of test? Was he
tempting me to steal it?
As I continued to stare he asked me a curious question.
‘Do you believe in luck, Ludlow?’
I had thought about this more than once in my life. ‘I
believe some people are luckier than others. Such as those
who are not born in the City.’
Joe laughed. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘a most unfortunate
birthplace. Most born there die there. But you have managed
to leave.’
‘Then I must be lucky.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is not just luck. Maybe it was
Destiny herself brought you here to me.’
‘Destiny? More like my own two feet!’ Then I asked
him, ‘Which do you believe in, luck or destiny?’
Joe considered for a moment before replying, ‘We make
our own luck, Ludlow, by our actions and our state of mind.
As such you control your own fate. Only one thing is certain:
none of us can escape the grave.’
Then he surprised me further by handing me a shilling.
Although it was unexpected I took it.
‘For a job well done. Add it to the other coins in your
purse,’ he said and winked.
We went to bed soon after that. When I heard Joe’s snoring
I felt in the crevice behind the brick for my purse and
dropped in the shilling. Then I settled down again, wrapped
up in the cloak. Sleep evaded me, for my mind was restless.
I turned over and thought of Obadiah and Jeremiah
Ratchet. Poor Obadiah, he was right to be disgusted at himself;
grave robbers and bodysnatchers were considered
below contempt. What a cruel irony, for a gravedigger to
have to unbury the dead. As I pitied the gravedigger, my
contempt grew for Ratchet. He might have brought me to
the village, but that was more by luck than design.
An hour passed and still I was awake. My mind was thick
with confusion. I knew that had Ma and Pa been here they
would not have thought twice about hitting Joe over the
head and taking the Black Book of Secrets. As for the bottle
on the mantel, that would have been downed long ago.
They would have expected no less of me. My instincts
– to lie, to steal, to cheat – were bred into me practically
from birth. But here, in Pagus Parvus with Joe, they seemed
wrong.
I lay in an agony of indecision. My conscience tried to
stop me but I am ashamed to admit, despite Joe’s kindness
to me and his warning, I gave in. How could I be expected
not to do what had come naturally to me my whole life?
Carefully I eased the book out from under his mattress and
tucked it in the crook of my arm. I wrapped the cloak
around me and crept through to the shop. The frog watched
me with accusing eyes and I could hear Joe’s deep and noisy
breathing. I was surprised to find that the door to the street
was unlocked. I pulled it open and stepped outside. It had
all been so easy. Not a floorboard had squeaked, not a hinge
had creaked. Snow was falling lightly and a glow fell on the
street from the lights in the windows. Like last night most
of Pagus Parvus was still awake. If I went now I could go
down that hill and never be seen again.
Suddenly I felt the timepieces jarring against my leg
and I stopped. I laughed quietly at my own stupidity. What
was I thinking? It was the middle of the night, the middle
of winter. Behind me was a warm bed and food and someone
who seemed to care for me; ahead of me was nothing
but white snow and bitter cold.
I hurried inside and placed the timepieces back in the
window. With a shaking hand I slipped the Black Book back
under the mattress, willing Joe not to wake, and crept over
to the fireplace. As I curled up beside the orange coals I
chastized myself.
It was hard to believe that only a day or so ago I had been
in the foul City, living the precarious life of a common thief
and facing at the hands of my own parents a terrible
betrayal. Yet here I was now earning a living, and one more
mysterious and exciting than I could ever have imagined.
‘Ludlow,’ I said to myself, ‘you are a fool.’
I looked at Joe, fast asleep, and I knew whatever happened
tomorrow, and the next day and the next, I never
wanted to go back to the City. I might have to live with my
past, but here, with Joe, I had a future.
