The Eyeball Collector (17 page)

Gerulphus stood up and slowly pulled on his shirt. His wounds were oozing blood and soon the white cloth was red-stained but he seemed to take no notice. To my great relief he too left the room minutes later (at least I didn’t have to see what horrors the ‘preparation’ would entail) and at last I felt secure enough to come out from my hiding place. I went back to the easel and slowly pulled up the cloth. I stared at the half-finished canvas and saw not the horned demons or the one-eyed monsters or the fork-tongued devils, but only the reddish brown with which they were painted. And I wondered for the first time what I was doing here, in a place where the bristles of a brush were dipped in human blood . . .

Lord Mandible tutted and took Percy from the harpsichord, kissed him on the nose and put him gently on the floor. ‘Go find your precious sister; go find Posset,’ he crooned. The cat trotted away as Lord Mandible flicked out his coat-tails and carefully placed his ample silk-clad bottom on the ruby-hued leather stool. It was not so easy to sit down, what with his stiff leg and his straining buttons. He blamed Mrs Malherbe’s pies. He knew he should refrain, but they were just too delicious.

With some degree of affectation he flexed and cracked his fingers, then began to play the elegant instrument in front of him. It was an Italian harpsichord, made by the renowned Funiculi brothers in Rome, and his father had played it exquisitely right up until the moment of his death – quite literally, the poor man having collapsed and died across the keyboard. It was in memory of his father that Mandible had taken up the instrument, but he lacked his father’s talent. He played vigorously but badly (not that his tutor, standing to one side, would ever dare tell him so).

‘Your Lordship,’ he said at the end of the tune, ‘may I commend you on playing every note!’ For it was true, Mandible had played every note, just not necessarily in the order or pitch suggested on the sheet. ‘It is no longer possible to draw comparisons between your playing and that of my other pupils,’ he continued with a set smile. ‘You are without doubt in a class of your own.’

This pleased Mandible greatly.

‘But, a note of caution, Your Lordship,’ warned the tutor. ‘I know you wish to play at the Midwinter Feast but I am not sure the untrained ears of your guests are ready for your particular facility.’

As if he hadn’t even spoken, Mandible declared, ‘The Midwinter Feast will be the perfect opportunity to demonstrate my talent. I have been working on a tune, now all I need are the words. Would you like to hear it?’

The tutor nodded and, resigned to the inevitable, comforted himself with the thought that of all the nights of the year for Mandible to play, the night of the Midwinter Feast was probably the best. If previous years were anything to go by, the revellers would be so drunk so quickly that, to their thickened ears, sweet music could be wrung from a strangled cat.

A knock on the door was followed closely by the entrance of Gerulphus. ‘Lady Mandible wishes to see you, Your Lordship,’ he hissed.

‘Just when I was getting to grips with it too!’ muttered Mandible. ‘Does she not realize I’m busy?’

‘She insists.’

What Lysandra had actually said was, ‘If that fool is fiddling upon his harpsichord again, I don’t care if you have to crash the lid on his rubber fingers, though it might improve his playing. Tell him to come here.’

Gerulphus had taken advantage of the long journey from his mistress’s quarters to the music room to paraphrase the message. Mandible hurried after him, his limping gait causing his trousers to crepitate rhythmically.

Lady Mandible was perfectly happy for her husband to pursue the harpsichord. It kept him busy and out of her hair (a considerable mass these days according to the latest style) as did his hours of fruitless hog hunting in the forest. It was better than the days immediately after his father’s death, which he had spent weeping and wailing around the Hall, lamenting the fact that he was not the man his father was and never would be. As far as Lysandra was concerned
she
was the man Mandible should have been and it suited her well.

When Lord Mandible arrived at his wife’s rooms Lysandra greeted him and held out her hand for his kiss.

‘Ah, my dearest one,’ he said, for no other reason than manners, and pressed his lips against her ever-cold alabaster skin. ‘Might I say you look particularly beautiful today.’

Lady Mandible acknowledged the compliment with a very slight nod, in part because her trio of coiffure maids were in the middle of trying to arrange her curls in the shape of a naval ship complete with rigging.

‘My dear,’ she said with only the merest hint of disdain (let it not be said that she was not as well brought up as her husband), ‘I wanted to ask you something but I was afraid you had already gone hunting.’

‘Why, no,’ Lord Mandible laughed – a high-pitched titter such as one would expect from a mouse, if a mouse could laugh – and he sat in a chair that he hadn’t noticed before (another of Lysandra’s recent purchases). ‘I was merely amusing myself on my instrument. Did I tell you that my tutor said I had a gift like no other?’

‘I can believe that,’ she said evenly. ‘Certainly
I
have never heard anything quite like it.’

Mandible looked pleased and crossed and uncrossed his legs twice, causing his silk breeches to crackle alarmingly. ‘So, what do you wish to ask?’

‘I wish to know if you will be providing a Hairy-Backed Hog for the centrepiece of the Midwinter Feast, or if I must send one of our other huntsmen out . . . as usual. It is, after all, only days away.’

‘Do not fear, dearest one,’ replied Mandible. ‘I will be. I am certain my luck is about to change.’

‘You might have more luck with that musket of yours if you aimed it at some of those poachers,’ said Lysandra drolly. ‘I don’t think they can run as fast as a hog.’ She threw back her head and laughed mockingly, causing a minor panic among her fretting maids. Going on past performance she was doubtful of her husband’s claim, despite his boneheaded perseverance and optimism. But she could never resist an opportunity to remind her husband of his inadequacies.

Lord Mandible hurried from their meeting, the sound of her harsh laughter still ringing in his ears. He’d show her and make his father proud. He was determined to catch a hog. The previous night he had enjoyed a marvellous dream of the Midwinter Feast. He sat at one end of the dining table in the great hall staring straight into the dead eyes of a roasted, glistening Hairy-Backed Hog, and its expression seemed to say, ‘You won, Your Lordship. You got me at last.’

The fantasy culminated in a riotous toast and when Mandible awoke his ears were still ringing with the clashing of silver goblets and the cheering of nobles. And dreams can come true with a little forward planning! At the next opportunity he would speak to that butterfly boy, he decided. It was well known around the Hall that he was always available for extra work.

Lady Mandible shooed her maids irritably from her room and went through to her bedchamber. She lay back on her bed and gazed fixedly at the silvery gauze canopy above her, her mouth turned up slightly at the corners, pondering the question of the Baron.

It caused her to sigh deeply.

Without a doubt he was a charming fellow with a ready wit and handsome face, if a rather angular profile, but could he be trusted? She had decided not. She did not regret engaging him – he had been very useful to her – and his funny eye-tricks and garish outfits amused her, but Bovrik was reaching the end of his useful life. His desire to please, his devotion and sedulous nature could no longer outweigh how intensely aggravating she now found him. Constantly at her side, always agreeing with her and stroking the velvet drapes, or running his hand over the rugs whilst exuding that ghastly lemon smell over everything. She was tired of it. And that look in his one good eye when she refused him something, like a puppy that had been kicked. Ugh! She couldn’t bear it. It made him weak. The thought made her shudder. She would never have got to where she was today if she had been so feeble. But even worse – he was stealing from her! Well, did he really think she wouldn’t notice? Gerulphus had noted everything he had taken.

Yes, there was no question about it, Bovrik would have to go and he would pay for his treachery. But all in good time and not before the Feast. Nothing was to spoil that. Until then he might still be useful. He was so good at anticipating her . . . tastes. Thinking of the Feast made Lysandra smile. It was her first as mistress of Withypitts, and she was determined it would be one to remember. She couldn’t deny that Bovrik’s suggestion of a re-enactment of Trimalchio’s Feast was a stroke of genius. But the
pièce de résistance
, the butterflies, was her idea and hers alone. No one would know what it was until the day!

Absentmindedly she reached out and picked up the latest edition of the
Diurnal Journal
, which had arrived that morning. A headline caught her eye: ‘Handsome Heir to Eastern Throne Arrives in Urbs Umida to Much Fanfare’. How interesting! She really must pop into town again soon and see what all the fuss was about. Just then, the tinkle of a bell told her that Gerulphus had arrived in the next room with her lunch tray.

‘Now, there’s someone I can truly trust, mostly anyway,’ she said aloud. Yes, mostly, because Lady Mandible judged everyone as harshly as she judged herself, and she trusted herself least of all.

It was early evening and Hector sat in his tower room, busy with his pestle and mortar. It was only a matter of days since he had followed the Baron and endured the incident with the leeches but, although he hadn’t forgotten it (or the dreadful journey back to his room), he was not going to allow it to deter him from his true purpose. He owed it to his father.

With the Feast imminent there was an atmosphere of great excitement and anticipation in every room and corridor, which only heightened Hector’s own apprehension.

A large moth flapped at his windowpane. Hector looked out at it, into the darkness, and was surprised to see a flickering light high up in the building opposite.