The Bone Magician (16 page)
Authors: F. E. Higgins
‘She’s got one,’ came the young boy’s cry from the banks of the Foedus. ‘She’s got
one!’
An emergent body in the river was always a matter of interest to the Urbs Umidians. Generally the victims of the Foedus’s watery
clutches were foreign sailors from the ships that sailed up the river laden with their exotic and perfumed cargo. These ships might have spent many weeks at sea and as soon as they were able, the thirsty crew disembarked and went straight to the dockside
taverns. After a long night’s drinking many a drunken tar had slipped on a wet deck and landed in the river. And that was the end of them. In winter, when the unrelenting cold seemed to thicken the river to a gravy-like consistency, if a heavy
object, person or otherwise, hit the water, the splash was quite subdued. Even if someone did hear your fall, in a place such as Urbs Umida, you could not rely on the kindness of strangers to help you.
Of course, all these bodies surfaced eventually. The foreigners, identified as such by the tone of their skin and the look of their
face, would be carefully searched for gold (teeth and earrings) before being thrown back into the river, the thinking being that any respectable sailor would want to be buried at sea. There was also an understanding that whoever found the body was
entitled to the spoils, hence the excitement in the boy’s voice. This time he was to be disappointed, for the Foedus was merely yielding the body of Harry Etcham.
Harry, a well-rounded man when he was alive, was even more bloated in death. After he had been pushed into the river he lay submerged
for days in a tangle of weeds at the base of the third arch of the Bridge. If you looked very closely the tip of his nose was visible just under the surface.
Harry would never know who pushed him over the wall and he was neither the first to be in that position nor yet the last. The Foedus,
having held him for longer than most,
grew tired of his saturated and wrinkled body and relinquished him on the mud bank near the steps. He beached not on, but in (on account of his weight), the mud, creating a deep
depression, like some sort of expired sea creature from a bygone age. As soon as people heard the lad’s shouts, anyone who was close enough came running to see. Poor dead Harry, he had never had this much attention in his life.
It just so happened that Aluph Buncombe was crossing the Bridge at that moment. He was whistling cheerily, his clinking purse tied
securely to the inside of his breeches, having just had a very satisfactory session with one of Cynthia Ecclestope’s friends and buoyed up by the promise of further work from her circle of elegant and sophisticated companions. He arrived at the
scene at the same time as Constable Coggley, who was trying to make his way through the tightly pressed crowd.
‘Stand back, stand back,’ he growled. They did, grudgingly, and Aluph took advantage of the parting to follow the constable
closely to the steps. Coggley descended with great caution to the mud and stood over Harry’s body, his lip curled in disgust.
‘I’ll need some help,’ he called up to the onlookers, but he met only stony faces.
‘I will assist,’ said Aluph, and he came down on to the soft sucking mud. His interest in such gruesome matters was somewhat
different to everyone else’s. It was not financial or morbid, but scientific. Whatever he said in the drawing rooms over the river, Aluph did actually have a genuine interest in ‘head mapping’. Recently he had been formulating a theory
that a person’s cranial topography might be able to indicate whether that person was prone to misfortune. Aluph also speculated, and this was quite an exciting thought, that he might even be able to tell if one person was more likely than another
to fall prey to killers, understandably a topical issue at the moment.
‘Imagine if that was the case,’ he thought to himself. ‘I could help people to avoid being murdered. I could be a sort
of cranial fortune-teller.’ He didn’t need to feel his own head to know that his personal fortune would be greatly increased with such a talent. Constable Coggley looked Aluph up and down, noting his finery and monocle, and wondered what he
was doing this side of the river. He shrugged.
‘Give us a hand then, sir,’ he puffed, as with a great deal
of heavy breathing and
grunting he attempted to roll Harry over.
Together he and Aluph managed to haul Harry as far as the steps where they both rested for a few moments before Aluph said, ‘Do
you think he looks a little peculiar?’
The silence from above was deafening and when Aluph looked up he could see that the crowd had moved back from the wall. Coggley stepped
in front of Aluph to have a better look and a split second later Harry Etcham’s ample stomach exploded, showering anyone nearby (mainly the constable) with the vile putrefying juices of a rotting body. Aluph, by virtue of the constable’s
position, was shielded from the explosion and emerged relatively unscathed. Unfortunately for the constable, Harry’s putrid and icy innards were running slowly down his face.
‘Uuuurgh!’ exclaimed the crowd in unison before breaking into loud and rakish laughter. There was nothing pleased them more
than to see the local constable suffer such unpleasantness. Coggley was fit to explode himself. He shook his slimy fist at the gaggle of people above.
‘How dare you laugh at an officer of the law?’ he spluttered up at them. ‘I’ll have the lot of yer in Irongate
before you know it.’
At this the crowd
jeered and some gestured meaningfully with their fingers. Tentatively Aluph offered Coggley his
handkerchief, declining its return, and then together they managed to drag the unsightly (but significantly lighter) remains of Harry Etcham up the steps to the top where a horse and cart was already waiting to take him to the morgue.
‘Do you think he was dead before he went in?’
The constable shook his head. ‘Can’t say. Probably jumped off the Bridge.’
It was certainly not unknown for citizens of Urbs Umida to end it all in this way.
‘What about the Silver Apple Killer?’ asked Aluph. ‘Shouldn’t you look for the apple?’
‘Er, my thoughts exactly.’ Coggley fumbled inside Harry’s sodden waistcoat to find a carrot and two onions.
‘Try his other pocket,’ said Aluph, and reluctantly the constable did.
‘He’s been murdered all right,’ said Coggley grimly, and he held out his hand in the palm of which now sat a gleaming
silver apple.
Aluph took the apple and turned it over. He scored the
surface and a curl of silver came off with his
nail. ‘It’s painted,’ he said. ‘I wonder why.’
Coggley snorted. The Silver Apple Killer was the bane of his life at the moment. Every time another body was found, Coggley was summoned
to the offices of the chief magistrate and asked to account for the fact that he seemed no closer to catching the fruitily monikered murderer than he had been the previous week and the one before that. In answer to Aluph’s question, he shook his
head forlornly and with an air of desperation. ‘Who knows? I’ve seen some strange things in this city.’
Aluph thought there could be little stranger, or more malodorous, than a constable covered in the rotten juices of a dead body, but he
didn’t say so. ‘Perhaps it’s some sort of message.’
‘Perhaps.’
Aluph turned to the cart where Harry was lying and quickly ran his hands over his head. He was disappointed to find that
B
, the area of misfortune, seemed no more developed than normal. If anything it was underdeveloped.
‘Oh well,’ thought Aluph. He had plenty of other theories to work on, one of which was whether a skull could indicate the
gullibility of a person. Mentally he ran
his hands over Cynthia Ecclestope’s head again. Now that
would
be useful.
By this time the crowd had dissipated and Aluph and the constable went their separate ways, the constable back to the magistrate’s
offices to clean up, and Aluph to Mrs Hoadswood’s for a light lunch and an afternoon nap. And observing their departure, half hidden behind a stationary hay cart on the other side of the road, stood a solitary figure. He watched until the two
turned a corner and were out of sight then left the scene himself.
Pin laid the latest edition of the
Chronicle
aside with a tut and a sigh. He
reached under his mattress and pulled out a wooden box and laid it on the floor in front of him. It was a wonderful piece of craftsmanship – made for him by his father of beech taken from the thick woods that surrounded the city walls –
rectangular in shape, five inches by eight in length and width and perhaps five inches deep. Pin had looked after it well, polishing it regularly with a rag dipped in beeswax. It both served a purpose and reminded him of his father. At first he had
carried it around in his bag, but it was awkward so as soon as Mr Gaufridus had taken him on he had stowed it away safely at the back of a cupboard in the basement. Now that he was at Mrs
Hoadswood’s, Pin felt
happy leaving the box in his room, albeit concealed.
Such was the skill of his father’s carpentry that the joints were seamless, and when the lid was placed upon it, it was impossible
to see where the two, box and lid, came together. Pin felt along one edge and murmured with satisfaction when he found the spot and lifted the lid. His journal sat on top of the sheaf of yellowing papers within. He folded Deodonatus’s latest piece
and carefully put it in the box with the others. Then, as if changing his mind, he lifted the whole sheaf out and began to shuffle through them, top to bottom. They had all been taken from the
Chronicle
and, bar
one or two, were written by Deodonatus Snoad. One after the other they told the story of Fabian’s murder. It was all there, the discovery of the body, the disappearance of Oscar Carpue, and the speculation, that never-ending speculation, that Oscar
was the culprit. Pin lingered over the last one for a long time. It galled him particularly.
WHAT DRIVES
A MAN TO MURDER?by
Deodonatus Snoad
In which I consider the notorious case of OSCAR CARPUE and the MURDER of FABIAN MERDE-GRAVE
Pin shook his head and frowned. How many times had he read and reread these articles? As for Deodonatus Snoad, was no one
safe from his poisonous pen? Even Aluph had a mention the other day. He helped Constable Coggley to bring up a body from the Foedus. Another victim of the Silver Apple Killer. Deodonatus described Aluph as an ‘interpreter of lumps’, which
wasn’t quite how Aluph would have put it. He wasn’t too upset, however: as far as he was concerned a mention in the
Chronicle
could only be good for business. In fact, Deodonatus said he might avail of
Aluph’s services himself, ‘in the interest of his Dear Readers’.
‘Fiends!’ said Pin aloud. ‘The only person Deodonatus Snoad is interested in is Deodonatus Snoad.’
Disconsolately
he replaced the bundle of papers in the box with his journal on top and closed the lid firmly. Wearily he climbed on to the bed. What a day it had been. As he lay there his restless mind turned again to
the Silver Apple Killer. It was a preposterous notion that his father could be involved!
Pin closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Not only had he watched over a body the previous night, but Mr Gaufridus had been
called away in the afternoon and Pin was left to do everything – hammering, sawing, planing, drilling, and in between he must have run up and down the stairs a hundred times. There seemed to be a constant stream of enquiries all impatiently ringing
the bell on the counter. His muscles were tense and his jaw was tight.
A light knock on the door made him sit up.
‘Come in,’ he called, and Juno herself entered, cloaked and ready to go out.
‘I wondered if you wanted to come with me to see the Gluttonous Beast,’ she said. ‘After all, if we are to leave
together, you must see him before you go.’
Pin smiled. She was mocking him, he knew, but not in an unkind way.
‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed. ‘I
will
find out. But aren’t you
working at the Nimble Finger tonight?’
Juno
shook her head. ‘Benedict is feeling the cold these last few days. He doesn’t look well.’
You hardly look so well yourself, Pin thought knowingly. Juno’s skin, always pale, was almost transparent and the veins in her
temple were a vivid blue.
‘So will you come?’
Pin nodded and pulled on his boots. She was right: whether they left together or separately, it would be a shame to leave Urbs Umida
without seeing the Beast. As for the rights or wrongs of it – for Pin had his reservations – well, he would think on that later.
‘Good,’ smiled Juno, already at the door. Pin buttoned his coat and hurried to catch up.
Down at the Nimble Finger, Rudy Idolice, proud owner and exhibitor of the Gluttonous Beast, was enjoying a brief respite
from business and having a snooze on his chair. One of his few talents was the ability to sleep in virtually any position at any time.
Rudy was protective of the creature, in the same way that he was protective of any of his possessions, especially those that made him
money. On occasion, when there was
a lull in business, he would descend to the basement and stand in front of the cage to watch as it ate its way through whatever rancid scraps were put in front of it. Rudy always
referred to the Beast as ‘it’. He did not see it as a ‘he’ or a ‘she’. Perhaps if he had, he might not have found it so easy to treat it as he did. He also preferred not to look it in the eye, for even he could not
deny that there was something in there that belied its monstrous form.
Rudy had been in this business all of his life, the business of the grotesque, the repulsive, the horrific. And the more hideous it
was, the happier it made him because he knew that it would appeal to all men and women, no matter how sophisticated they considered themselves to be. At one time Rudy had an entire circus under his command. Rudy Idolice’s Peregrinating Panopticon
of Wonders. In his more lucid moments he remembered it fondly. He was younger then, of course, and had the energy of youth, and he wasn’t quite so dependent on the bottle.
At the pinnacle of his success he had five caravans and over twenty exhibits. Sometimes he boasted twenty-one, depending how he felt
about the two-headed man. What a sight that was to see him argue! And then there was the
woman who could bite her own elbow. Rudy chuckled. She was a one, all right. He used to take bets from the crowd before she came
on. There was always someone who thought they could do it too. Oh, the cracking of bones and the groans as they contorted themselves. But the woman, Matilda, she did it with such ease. It was quite unnerving to watch as her teeth clamped around her
elbow, but it was also strangely fascinating. And there had been the man with three legs. Even now Rudy had to smile when he remembered his routine. What a tap dancer! And the strangest thing was that the third leg, a genuine working jointed appendage,
was neither a right foot nor a left. He had to have a third shoe made especially for it.
Rudy reached heights in the strange world of the grotesque that he had never thought to attain. But when one reaches such heights,
there is often as much chance of going back down as continuing the ascent. Rudy fell. And what a fall it had been. Twenty years’ work destroyed in a matter of months. He openly blamed the bearded lady. Lord, but she could take a drink. It was she
who got him hooked on the gin, wheedled all his secrets out of him, including how much money he had, and then stirred all the exhibits up. What treachery! Demanding more money,
better living conditions, tea breaks. Rudy
ignored it all, fooling himself that his exhibits would stick with him, reward his care for them with their loyalty. After all, if it wasn’t for him, where would they be? But he didn’t bargain on the two-headed man. For once, he stopped
arguing with himself, put his heads together and persuaded the others to join him in revolt. They packed their bags and went to a rival show and Rudy was cast into the wilderness.
It was the Beast saved him in the end. Every time he looked at it he was taken aback again by its sheer hideousness. In truth the
Beast had not been quite so repugnant when Rudy had first encountered it, in a forest high on the side of a steep mountain near a small village, for then it led a more active life. The villagers were quite desperate to get rid of it because it was eating
its way through the small Jocastar population – its wool was their chief source of income – at a rate of one a night. When Rudy heard of the strange creature, he went immediately to the village. For a sum of money, less than he wanted but
sufficient when he considered the potential earnings, he captured the Beast, caged it and took it away.
Everywhere he took the creature it was a great success.
Rudy was not bright – he could barely read and sign his name – but he had an innate understanding of human
nature. Everyone, whatever their professed class, was fascinated by the freakish. A few days before he moved on from one place he sent a runner ahead to the next town to advertise their imminent arrival. It was often unnecessary; news of the
creature’s utter hideousness had gone before it.
Rudy Idolice stood in the half-light in front of the cage and rubbed his hands together. It was his idea to keep the lights low: it
sharpened the ears. In the gloom there was something even more terrifying about the terrible masticating and slurping of the Beast’s tongue, the snuffling and snorting, and the clicking of its nails as it tried to pick the gristle from between its
broken teeth.
Rudy hiccuped gently and congratulated himself again as he looked through the bars, jingling coins in his pocket. ‘We’re a
good team, you and me,’ he said. ‘We do all right.’
The slurping stopped. The Beast sniffed the air loudly, burped throatily and shuffled towards the front of the cage. Rudy took a step
back.
‘My word,’ he murmured, ‘but you are truly repugnant.’
The Beast looked at him with huge dark eyes and blinked slowly. Then it pursed its rubbery lips and spat a long stream
of saliva that landed on Rudy’s forehead. Rudy yelped – the saliva burned – and automatically wiped his hand across his forehead. A mistake. His hand would smell of rotten meat for three days afterwards.
‘You, Monster, are as filthy as this city,’ he muttered and returned to the comfort of his seat, and his gin bottle,
upstairs. He was still rubbing at his hand with a damp rag when he heard footsteps approaching.
‘You again?’ he asked of the customer and held out his hand for a sixpence piece before pulling the curtain aside.
