The Eyeball Collector (7 page)

‘There’s a bell for breakfast,’ continued Polly helpfully. ‘Afterwards you do your chores and then you must go out and try to earn money.’

‘For Mrs Fitch?’ asked Hector.

She winked. ‘Mrs Fitch takes some, of course. But she can only take what she knows about.’

Hector laughed. Polly looked thoughtful. ‘You know, Hector, the boys here – well, they’re good-hearted really but they’re all southsiders. You, being from the north side – well, you might find that—’

‘You think they might take against me because of where I come from?’ he finished.

‘Well . . . yes. At first anyway.’ She went to the top of the stairs and rested her hand on the banister. ‘But somehow –’ she grinned – ‘I think you will survive.’ And then she descended into the darkness.

Hector set the candle down beside the mattress on the floor and pulled the door shut. He stretched out his arms and found he could touch both the wall and door in one go. The bricks were warm to the touch. But of course, he thought, the chimney must be on the other side and Mrs Fitch probably has the fire going all day in the kitchen below. He placed his bag on the floor beside him and lay back on the mattress. He yawned widely and felt the cocoon at his neck. It brought him some comfort these days. Then, as every night now since all his troubles began, he thought of Gulliver Truepin. He doubted very much that
he
was asleep under some stairs.

‘Just wait until I find you, Truepin,’ vowed Hector again. ‘And you will pay for what you have done.’

Hector was right. At the same time as he was settling down in a cupboard under the stairs, in a smart lodging house on the north side of the Foedus his one-eyed foe was observing himself in the mirror of a much larger room. Once again, spread out on the bed coverlet – in this establishment made only of silk – was an array of clothing, but this time it had been delivered that day from the City’s best tailors and outfitters. Waistcoats and breeches, shirts and collars and cuffs, stockings and handkerchiefs – everything a gentleman’s wardrobe should contain. There was much velvet just begging to be stroked (which he did), soft satins and silks, felt and linen, all hand-stitched. And what splendid hues – scarlet and magenta, indigo and mauve, purple and gold and a particularly lovely peridot green.

Having spent at least two quarter-strokes of the clock feeling the clothing, Hector’s enemy dressed in blue with scarlet accessories. But the final touch was a coordinating glass eye. He examined again the startling new eyeball that stared back at him in the mirror. It was bright, a perfect fit, and upon closer inspection the twinkle in the pupil proved to be emanating from a small scarlet ruby. This glass eye, an early purchase with his new wealth, was an indulgence, he knew, but what was the use of all his hard work if he could not indulge himself a little? And this was merely the first. Ultimately, he had in mind a collection, one for every day of the week and every outfit. Until he could manage that, he could always make do with his hand-tailored eyepatches between times.

‘Good evening to you, sir,’ he said to the man in the full-length glass (it was himself, of course), and gave a gracious bow. Then he stood upright and eyed his reflection critically whilst smoothing down the velvet on his thighs and adjusting his frilly collar. He continued his performance, kissing the air where in his mind he judged the gloved hand of a curtsying lady might be.

Curtsying? Before him? Why, yes. You see this fellow play-acting before the mirror was no longer the swindling blackmailer Gulliver Truepin (though there would always be a resemblance, namely the prominent nose). Nay! Gulliver Truepin had been discarded along with his rags and here in his place stood a nobleman of great lineage.

The metamorphosis was complete.

It had been a busy seven days for Hector’s enemy. Directly after taking Fitzbaudly’s money (trebled, he could hardly believe it!) he had gone back to the Nimble Finger where he received, in exchange for a large chunk of that money, a thick bundle of yellowing lineage papers and documentation. Upon examination of said papers he was delighted to see that they were all written faultlessly in the legal style of the day, with flowery lettering in red and black ink and tied with authentic pale pink legal ribbon. Some of the documents had been sealed with bright red wax. None could doubt the holder of these papers.

The next step was to find accommodation that befitted his new status. Someone of such elevated descent would not set foot south of the river so our newly noble fellow had taken his luggage and slipped out of the lodging house to jump in a passing carriage. And in that short distance over the Bridge to the other side he left behind not only Gulliver Truepin and a host of other guises, but also a debt to the lodging house for, true to character (whichever one he was), he did not pay his bill.

Now, a week on, the self-satisfied swindler was enjoying the comfort of his new rooms and identity. He was immensely pleased with his transformation and could hardly take his eye off himself.

‘But what accent shall I have?’ he wondered as he sprayed his new, expensive citrus scent over himself. He fancied he needed something a little more exotic than usual. Perhaps he should amend his V’s and W’s.

‘I haf alvays vanted to come to the City,’ he said. He frowned. Too strong. Perhaps just the V. It was only to hint at his foreign provenance, after all, not to define him. He had other characteristics that would engage the ladies, said ladies being his preferred prey. (Their boredom and excessive money were usually a good combination for a practised con man.) His nose in profile might be long but from the front there was no doubting that he was actually quite an attractive fellow. And his lost eye always aroused much sympathy.

‘Oh my!’ he mimicked to the mirror in a high-pitched voice. ‘Tell me, how did you come to lose it?’

He drew himself up to his full height (aided in this instance by custom-made heel inserts). On account of the scar through one eyebrow only the other moved, but at this point the action of that other more than compensated, and along with the furrowed brow gave an air of sincerity tinged with tragedy.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said deeply, taking a step back and resting his hand on his hip, ‘it is a story I hesitate to recount . . . but if you insist, though you must be sure to tell me if you feel faint at the rather more horrific parts.’

And he practised again his tale of a lengthy duel over a Matter of Honour. A duel he had won in the end, of course.

The truth, as is often the case, was rather less exciting. As a peasant youth, still known then as Jereome, he had managed to trip over his bootlaces and land on a boar’s tusk, thus rendering his eye irreparably damaged. But such a lowly story would not do any more. Besides, a man such as he now claimed to be would never wear anything as common as bootlaces!

Yawning widely, the fiendish trickster stretched and disrobed, enjoying the feel of each item of clothing as he folded it carefully and put it away. He donned a soft embroidered nightshirt and a nightcap and before he climbed into bed he removed his false eye, gave it a little caress and placed it in a small velvet bag on his bedside table.

He reached into a drawer and took out a cutting from the
Northside Diurnal
(they too had paid
so
much more than he expected!). Although the recent downfall of Augustus Fitzbaudly still dominated the headlines, he was more interested in the society section. He turned the sheets until he came to a half-page illustration of dancing ladies and gentlemen, and read again the caption beneath the sketch:

‘A penny a go!’ shouted Hector. ‘A penny. Who today will challenge me with a riddle for a penny?’

Hector stood on a podium in the middle of Fiveways. He was well acquainted with the place these days. He was thinner than he used to be, and his clothes were more worn, but he was cheerful and energetic. His dark eyes scanned the small crowd that had gathered around him. Not so many this morning, but Hector knew there was always someone willing to part with a penny or two and soon the riddles came thick and fast.

‘What can a man break many times without touching?’

‘His promise,’ replied Hector. ‘Let’s ’ave another.’

‘Give me food and I will live; give me water and I will die. What am I?’

‘Fire. Another.’

‘What can a craftsman make that is never seen?’

‘Noise,’ said Hector. ‘Any more?’

A large man stepped forward, his arms folded across his barrel-like chest. ‘You won’t get this one,’ he said. ‘I found it in a book!’

The crowd ‘oohed’ and ‘aaahed’ and applauded. Imagine, a book!

‘We’ll see,’ said Hector evenly. He had found that those who were most sure of themselves were usually the losers. ‘Let us hear it.’

‘How does a man get down from an elephant?’

The crowd laughed. Some asked their neighbour, ‘What’s an elephant?’

Hector pretended to think, steepling his fingers and looking skyward. ‘I believe,’ he replied slowly, ‘that you can’t get down from an elephant because it comes only from a duck!’

The crowd cheered and clapped as Hector smiled broadly. Riddling, something that once had been little more than an enjoyable diversion with his father, was proving to be a lucrative skill. Sometimes he almost felt it was wrong to accept payment – he enjoyed the whole act so immensely, and it lifted for a while the sombre mood that had descended on him since losing his father. But Polly, who often stole a moment from her day and came down to hear Hector at work or bring him lunch, told him that was nonsense, that he thought about things far too much. As another penny landed at his feet, he bent to pick it up and a new voice cut through the noise.

‘Hi, young man! I have a riddle for you.’

Hector looked around. He couldn’t see to whom the voice belonged.