Authors: F. E. Higgins
The Bone Magician (8 page)
The Urbs Umida Daily Chronicle
BEASTLY GOINGS ON AT THE NIMBLE FINGER
by
Deodonatus Snoad
My Dear Readers,
I am sure that by now there are very few of you out there who have not seen, or at the very least heard of, the latest goings on in the
Nimble Finger, that inn of ill-repute – well earned I might say – on the Bridge. If nothing else one must commend the landlady, Betty Peggotty, for her business sense. Who could forget the mermaid she had on show just a few weeks ago? Granted
her tail was a
little limp and perhaps she was not as pleasing to the eye as one would imagine such a divine aquatic creature to be – she seemed quite advanced in years; perhaps that is how she was caught in the
first place – nevertheless, she was for all intents and purposes a living, breathing, occasionally gasping, mermaid.
Prior to that, if I recall correctly, Mrs Peggotty had on show a centaur by the name of Mr Ephcott. Although I never spoke to the fellow,
I heard that he was surprisingly well-read and displayed exquisite manners. A little stiff-legged, particularly in his hind legs, but certainly a most pleasing entertainment. And that, after all, is what we poor citizens of Urbs Umida are looking for, is
it not?
Mermaids, centaurs and other such exotic creatures aside, I must say I think the good Mrs Peggotty has now surpassed herself. Not only
does she have the place full from morning to night with drunken hordes (some would consider them entertainment enough!) filling her coffers, but of late she has a wild creature of another kind altogether in her cellar – namely the Gluttonous Beast.
The place is a veritable circus!
My duty as always is to you, Dear Readers. So with this in mind I went to see for myself this Gluttonous
Beast. And I can confirm that everything I have heard is true. He is an horrendous creature of indeterminate species and insatiable appetite. It is deemed imperative that he be contained behind bars. His temper is unpredictable and he
feeds on raw meat of the foulest kind, though he has a particular taste for Jocastar, that sheep-like animal so prized for its wool. There is nothing like a beast with expensive taste, I say. He is not alone in this city!
Beasts aside, I must move on, although it pains me, to other, graver, matters. It is with great regret and heartache I report that the
Silver Apple Killer has struck again. Another body, the fourth, was dragged from the Foedus early this morning. None of us has yet forgotten the matter of Oscar Carpue and the murder of Fabian Merdegrave. Mr Carpue, to my mind certainly the most likely
culprit, has yet to be found. Many think that he has fled the City to evade the gallows. But I am not of that opinion. What, I wonder, could he tell us of the Silver Apple Killer? After all, birds of similar plumage fly as one. It is hardly beyond reason
to think that the two, the Silver Apple Killer and Oscar Carpue, might in fact be one. Granted no apple was found in
Fabian’s pocket, but who knows the workings of a murderer’s mind?
Think on it, Dear Readers, and you are bound to agree!
Until next time,
Deodonatus Snoad
Deodonatus signed off with a satisfied flourish, rolled up the paper and tied it with string. Evil was everywhere. It was
in human nature. As was the love of power, a power Deodonatus wielded with his written word. What pleasure it gave him to wander the streets at night to hear the people talking about what he had written!
Deodonatus had an avid following among the readers of the
Chronicle
. There were daily meetings
in the coffee houses and taverns and gatherings on street corners just to hear what Deodonatus had to say on the latest issues in the City. They didn’t always understand what he wrote, but they believed it (for if it was printed in the
Chronicle
it had to be true) and they were proud to be called ‘Dear Readers’. It made them feel as if someone out there actually cared and that was as much as was required to have
their lifelong loyalty. Conversely, Deodonatus held his audience in contempt.
Impatiently he pulled a handle that hung from the ceiling just by the door, and from somewhere in the house came the muffled tinkling of
a bell. A minute later there was the sound of light footsteps up the stairs and then a knock at the door. Deodonatus opened it a couple of inches.
‘Have you got something for me, Mr Snoad?’ This was followed by a yawn – the hour was late.
Deodonatus handed the cylinder of paper through the crack.
‘Out by tomorrow, eh?’ said the boy. ‘We’re all looking forward to reading it.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Deodonatus. And shut the door.
Pin knelt on the floor and carefully poured some water into the coconut shells he had placed under each leg of his bed.
It was the best way he knew to stop bugs and lice crawling into his mattress. As soon as he thought of ‘bugs’, he was immediately minded of Deodonatus Snoad. He had seen his latest piece in the
Chronicle
.
‘That sleazy cockroach,’ thought Pin venomously. ‘How dare he! Suggesting
again
that my father might be the Silver Apple Killer.’
Wasn’t it enough that in the weeks after Fabian Merdegrave was throttled Deodonatus had written daily about Oscar Carpue’s
supposed part in his death? And every day he slandered him and accused him of murder. ‘Without a
potato peeling of evidence,’ thought Pin. ‘Absence is hardly the same as guilt.’ He clenched his
fists and ground his teeth. Deodonatus cared little for the truth. ‘The man is lower than a sludge beetle. If I ever meet him I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ It was a sentence he finished variously but usually it involved violence.
Pin lay back on his bed with a sigh of exhaustion. He didn’t lie for long. The mattress felt no more than a straw or two thick and
the boards beneath were as hard as rock. Barton Gumbroot was not the sort of landlord who ever considered his lodgers’ comfort. As far as he was concerned, Pin should think it a bonus to have a bed at all; most rooms had just a mattress on the
floor.
Even now, days after his strange experience in the
Cella Moribundi
, Pin couldn’t get it
out of his head – or his nose. The aroma of the artemisia and myrrh lingered in his shirt, a constant reminder to him of that eerie night.
Although he could not show it, Mr Gaufridus was a sensitive man in his own way and, when he saw Pin the morning after his experience
with poor Sybil, he knew immediately that something had happened. Pin seemed decidedly distracted, toe-pulling and sole-pricking well beyond the call of duty. Regardless of Pin’s dedication to
his work, the broken
door lock and muddy footprints in the
Cella Moribundi
also testified to the presence of rather more than one boy and a dead body.
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ asked Mr Gaufridus.
Pin was not the ablest of dissemblers. Under Mr Gaufridus’s icy gaze he told him everything and it was a relief to let it out.
‘It was all like a dream,’ finished Pin. ‘I’m not sure it happened at all, and of course I was drugged. I am
convinced that I have been the victim of some cunning illusionist. For what I saw is simply not possible.’
Mr Gaufridus, also a practical soul, was of the same opinion. He was not wholly unsympathetic to Pin’s plight – after all,
the boy had been rendered senseless – and there was certainly little evidence that Sybil had enjoyed a brief respite from her eternal rest. Sybil herself was taken away to the churchyard later that morning and as Mr Gaufridus closed the door in her
wake Pin hung his head, gripping the soles of his tatty boots with his toes.
‘I should have heard them, I should have stopped them,’ he said miserably. ‘Do you still wish me to work
here?’
Mr Gaufridus harrumphed loudly. He would have
smiled if he could. He liked the boy. Pin worked hard. He
could not be blamed for what had happened. Yes, he might threaten that there were plenty of others out there on the streets who would pull toes for a living, but he had to admit that he was doubtful about their true number. He was also certain he would
not find anyone as honest and conscientious as Pin. As for whether his father was a murderer or not, unlike many Urbs Umidians, Mr Gaufridus was rather ahead of his time in the respect that he felt guilt should be proven, not assumed.
‘Yes,’ he said kindly, though he couldn’t help adding sternly for measure, ‘but don’t let this happen
again.’
So Pin sat on the edge of his bed and tried not to think any more about Sybil or Deodonatus Snoad. Footsteps sounded on
the wooden stairs outside. He recognized that heavy tread and groaned. Barton Gumbroot might be light-fingered, but he certainly wasn’t light-footed.
He waited for the inevitable slapping sound. Barton always used the flat of his hand and not his knuckles when he knocked. Pin went to
the door and his lip curled. Barton’s peculiar odour signified his presence even through
the wooden door. He smelled of many things, but overwhelmingly of dried blood (someone else’s) and bad breath (his
own).
Barton Gumbroot stood outside in the gloomy corridor in his usual attire: a grey shirt (perhaps it had once been white) with wide
sleeves pulled in by strings at the cuff, a suspiciously stained waistcoat and a dark pair of cloth breeches of indeterminate origin. His neckerchief was stiff with dried food and his boots were spattered with mud and other matter that did not require
closer examination.
But it wasn’t Barton’s clothes that concerned Pin. It was the shifty look on his face. Pin knew it meant one of two
things. He was either going to ask for more money (as he had done three times already in the recent past) or he was going to ask him to leave.
‘I’ve got some news for you, lad,’ Gumbroot began, rubbing his knuckles with the palm of his hand, the dry skin
rasping softly.
Pin folded his arms across his chest and stood with his feet wide apart. He had found it was the best way to deal with the man. He
looked him up and down, his face expressionless.
‘What
is it?’
‘Rent’s going up.’
‘But you know I cannot pay any more than I do,’ protested Pin.
Barton looked around the door and sized up the room. ‘I could have four times as many people in here.’
‘You mean four people.’
Gumbroot looked confused. He wasn’t one for mathematics. He sniffed. He was always slightly nervous at evictions. This was not
out of any concern for those he was about to throw out, but more because he feared the ructions it would cause. To be evicted from Barton Gumbroot’s lodgings was usually the last straw for desperate people and desperate people do desperate
things.
‘Don’t play clever with me, young lad. I need you out by the morning.’
‘I don’t suppose I have any choice,’ said Pin bitterly.
Gumbroot pulled at his nose with finger and thumb and cocked his head to one side. ‘That’s about the long and short of
it,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘I knew you’d understand. You always were an intelligent—’
That was when Pin shut the door.
‘In fact, if you could do me the favour of leaving
tonight
,’ came Mr Gumbroot’s disembodied voice from the other side, ‘I’d be much obliged.’
And so later that evening Pin left. He knew if he didn’t go, the next time he came back he’d find his belongings on the
street and a whole new family moved in. That’s how it was round here. He packed his bag with what little he had and took off.
‘I suppose at least now I might find something better,’ he had reasoned, trying to stay cheerful. And at least he no
longer had to listen to the screams from the basement. There had certainly been something unspeakable going on down there tonight. But for all his optimism Pin was worried. Winter was never a good time to be looking for rooms in Urbs Umida and tonight
most likely he would be on the street.
