The Eyeball Collector (5 page)

‘Hmmm,’ mused Hector. ‘How odd.’ Hector was quite the expert on the apparel of the well-off, the well-off being the only sort of people invited into the house. But this fellow was giving nothing away and it made Hector immediately suspicious. It was not normal for someone to come here without wishing to show off their wealth.

The maid knocked on the study door.

‘Mr Truepin to see you,’ she called.

The door opened and the shadowy man went in. Hector waited until the maid disappeared and crept down the stairs. He knelt at the study door, put his face against the escutcheon and peered in through the keyhole. He sniffed and picked up the faintest whiff of citrus. He wears perfume, thought Hector, but it was not much to go on.

He could see his father’s wide leather-topped desk and his chair but the rest of the room was out of his field of vision. Truepin was on the left, standing sideways to the desk. He had removed his hat and Hector took the opportunity to scrutinize his profile. He noticed the narrow, slightly hooked nose and the jutting-out chin. And then to his surprise he saw that the fellow wore an eye-patch over his left eye.

‘What a coincidence,’ he breathed. For surely this was the very same man who had glared at him on the Bridge. Better dressed, yes, his beard neatly trimmed, but he recognized the nose. How does a man lose an eye? he wondered. In battle? In a duel for a fair maiden? The truth was far less noble but Hector was not to know that.

He looked at his father, who was standing behind the desk. He seemed nervous, plucking at his lapels, and held a sheet of paper in one hand.

‘So you are Gulliver Truepin,’ said Augustus coldly.

‘I see you received my letter,’ replied the visitor.

Augustus’s face darkened. ‘I did,’ he said, ‘and such a piece of treachery I never did read before. I have a mind to call the magistrate right now – he is my friend, you know – and have you clapped in irons. Blackmail is the most despicable crime.’

Truepin looked puzzled. ‘Blackmail?’ he repeated. ‘I am surprised at you, Mr Fitzbadly—’

‘It’s pronounced Fitz-
boe-
dly,’ corrected Hector’s father through gritted teeth.

‘As you wish.’ Truepin smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps some would call it blackmail, but I like to think of it as a business negotiation. It is the truth after all, is it not?’

‘I do not deal with blackguards,’ spat Augustus.

‘Then I will have no choice but to take my story to the
Diurnal Journal
,’ replied Truepin coolly. ‘They will pay for it, I can assure you. I think they would find it most interesting to know that you, Augustus, the northside’s favourite wine merchant, the man who supplies every table, every restaurant this side of the river with fine wines and ports, are nothing better than a southside cheap gin hawker!’

Hector watched in horror as his father turned puce in the face of Truepin’s dreadful accusation. What was this man talking about? Father a gin seller? It couldn’t be! Now Augustus looked as if he might suffer an apoplectic fit.

Truepin continued. ‘I know for a fact, Mr Fitz
badly
, that you made your fortune selling gin to the southside masses, encouraging their addiction and profiting from their misery. You own more gin pipes than any other merchant.’

‘How do you know this?’ spluttered Augustus.

‘I have evidence,’ replied Truepin, ‘and plenty of people to verify my claims. What sort of man would make his money from such a business?’

‘And what sort of man are you,’ challenged Augustus, ‘wishing to profit from threats and accusations? And these people, these witnesses to my transgressions, where are they? All in your pay, I warrant. Perhaps my early wealth was made in this way. I’ll not deny I have sold gin in the past, but I was young; I made a mistake. I have tried to make up for it.’

‘Ah yes,’ sneered Truepin. ‘Your donations to orphanages and soup kitchens. Heartwarming, I’m sure. In fact, that is what led me to you. A man of your stature does not pay money to soup kitchens without good reason. Perhaps you are unique in that you have a conscience. But the fact remains, I can ruin you. We all know the fickle nature of the northsiders: friends one minute, enemies the next. But you would be lost without them. Pay me what I ask, or suffer the consequences. Consider it another donation to charity if you like – what I ask must be a drop in the ocean of your vast wealth.’

Outside the door Hector listened to this exchange with clenched fists and gritted teeth. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Hadn’t he seen the gin-soaked wretches today? Could his father really have been involved in such a thing? He had admitted to it, but if he said he regretted it, that he no longer dealt in such things, Hector believed him. As for the amount Truepin demanded, it was substantial, drop in the ocean or not. ‘Don’t pay,’ he urged silently. ‘Don’t pay such a villain.’

His father paced behind the desk in an agony of indecision. Truepin looked on, his face immobile. Finally Augustus turned and Hector’s heart sank when he saw his expression. He could tell immediately what he was going to do.

‘Very well, you vile man,’ said Augustus slowly. ‘I will pay you. But only for the sake of my son and his future. And I’ll double what you ask for, on the understanding that you leave the City and never return.’

‘Treble it and it’s a deal.’

Augustus closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I will give it to you but I curse you for the rest of your days.’

Truepin allowed himself a short smile. ‘Curse me if you wish – words cannot harm me. Just hand over the money.’

‘No!’ whispered Hector, far louder than he intended.

Truepin turned. ‘Is someone outside?’

Augustus opened the door but Hector was already gone.

Article from

A quality daily newspaper for the discerning reader

Not Such a Good Fit
By
Tarquin Faulkner

Over the years the name ‘Fitzbaudly’ and the words ‘Fine Wines, Ports and Vintage Rarities’ have become interchangeable. The good people north of the River Foedus know that one does not come without the other. Fitzbaudly is a name to be trusted, to be relied upon, and a Fitzbaudly wine is guaranteed to be exactly as it states on the bottle – robust, honest and of superior quality.

Alas, no more the case.

Augustus Fitzbaudly, unlike his wines, is not what he claims to be. It has come to my attention by way of a concerned citizen that despite his airs and graces Augustus Fitzbaudly is a fraud. His money, surely a considerable fortune by now, comes not only from the sale of reputable wines, but from the gallons of cheap, adulterated gin that he sells from his numerous gin shops south of the river. We in the northside are acutely aware of how utterly ruinous is the gin habit, and how it leads one and all down the path to self-destruction. Who amongst us has not seen the drunken, wretched tramps half dead in the street over the river? We have counted ourselves fortunate that they choose to stay with others of their ilk across the water, and we have despaired as to their dreadful situation. But now you know where to lay the blame. Squarely at the feet of Augustus Fitzbaudly.

I call upon you, each and every one, to withdraw your support for Fitzbaudly’s Fine Wines. No more should you order his Merlots and his Mataros, his Lambruscos and his Chardonnays, his Yellow Monks or his Black Turrets. It is the very least we can do to help those less fortunate than ourselves. The man is no longer deserving of our patronage. We have been cheated and it is only natural that we should feel outraged. And there are certainly other reputable wine merchants from whom to purchase your requirements. I can wholeheartedly recommend Faulkner’s of Vine Street (no relation).

Withypitts Hall

Dear Polly,

I didn’t tell you much about me during those early days at Fitch’s Home, but you suspected all was not as it seemed. As the weeks passed you proved to be a good friend. You listened when I wanted to talk and asked no questions when I didn’t. So now I will repay your friendship with the truth – and tell you exactly what happened to land me on the home’s doorstep.

It was the day Gulliver Truepin came into our lives that changed everything. I remember vividly the night he visited my father with his threats. Father came up to see me afterwards. He stood in the bedroom doorway looking as if he had aged years in a matter of hours.

‘Is everything going to be all right?’ I asked.

He sat on the bed and looked at me directly. Perhaps he guessed I had overheard.

‘Hector, sometimes a person has to do things that are distasteful. It is part of life’s journey. I have regrets about my past but I thought I had put it behind me. The man who came tonight, Gulliver Truepin, is a parasite. He feeds off others’ misfortune. But what’s done is done. My concern now is only for you. My duty is to see that my errors do not stand in the way of your success and happiness. What I have built I have built for you.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

But things had changed forever.

So much for honour among thieves. Truepin, having blackmailed my father and taken his money, still sold his story to the ‘Diurnal Journal’. I bet they paid him well, for even the merest whiff of scandal is well rewarded in Urbs Umida. Within days every news-sheet in the City carried the story of Father’s cheap-gin exploits and subsequent downfall. And although Father was the victim of a blackmailing swindler, he was portrayed as the only villain.

It was precipitous. Like a snowball rolling down a mountain my father’s downfall gathered speed and size. No one wanted to be associated with a failure. Orders were cancelled, debts were called in and we were abandoned to our fate. What hypocrisy! But that is what the north side is like. It matters only how you look, not what is underneath, and it is vital never to let your secrets be found out. Father fell into despair and refused to leave the study. The servants abandoned us, like rats leaving a ship. Many were engaged by the neighbours. Mrs Ecclestope claimed our cook – she had always coveted her stuffed goose. Even my tutor disappeared and my days were my own.