The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers

by Frances Jones

  ‘St. Olave’s church is this way,’ said Eliza, striking off from the main road to the quieter side streets we had ridden down earlier that morning. I knew the church by sight but had never ventured beyond its doors. It was a rather unassuming building with a large churchyard which was said to have been the location of a plague pit three hundred years earlier. I wondered what Tabatha’s purpose was in sending us there.

  The spire appeared before us over the roof tops as we drew closer. We turned into Seething Lane and dismounted outside the church.

  ‘Tabatha said to wait in the churchyard,’ I said, leading the way. ‘I wonder what for.’

  Eliza shrugged. ‘I hope she won’t be very much longer. I’m unsettled at having left her behind.’

  We let the horses graze at the edge of the churchyard, where the grass grew thick and tussocky, while we sat in the shade of the headstones and stretched our legs on the cool ground. Then we waited. Eliza grew restless and began pacing the path between the rows of headstones. I took out my pocket knife and scraped away the algae growing on the pedestal beside me.

  The church bell had already tolled midday before the sound of a horse and cart approaching reached our ears. A second later the cart, driven by Tabatha, turned in to the churchyard.

  ‘Well, well, all of Tyburn is in uproar, and rumours are already circulating about the witch’s smoke conjured at the gallows,’ she said, jumping down from the cart. ‘It couldn’t have gone better if I tried, though the City Marshall took some convincing to allow me to take the body. I said the condemned had been sentenced to die anyway, so what did it matter if he was murdered?’

  She glanced around to see that no one was about to observe her, then pulled the canvas sheet off the cart. Underneath, Emerson crouched beside an empty coffin, his clothes bloodstained, his hair and beard drenched in sweat.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Tabatha, beckoning us towards an ancient mausoleum near the centre of the churchyard. Its sides were weathered and moss-grown, their inscriptions barely legible. She pressed herself against one side and pushed with all her strength. Slowly, inch by inch, it turned inwards like a door, revealing stone steps leading down into darkness.

  ‘We can’t leave this above ground for all to see,’ she said, lifting the empty coffin from the cart and leaning it against the wall just inside the doorway. ‘This is another entrance to the catacombs. I will lead you back to the Gatehouse this way. We can’t risk Emerson being seen, but first I must find an errand boy to return the cart. I borrowed it from the drayman at Tyburn and promised I would return it to him. Leave the door ajar and follow the steps all the way down, the horses too. You will find yourselves in quite a large chamber when you reach the bottom. Wait for for me there. I won’t be more than half an hour.’

  Chapter 16

  We had hardly waited a quarter of an hour with the horses at the bottom of the steps before daylight flooded down the steps as Tabatha heaved the door open once more. She led Colonel inside then shut the door behind her, plunging us into darkness.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she called. ‘I have a light.’

  A moment later the welcome glow of a lantern spilled down the steps and illuminated a large, stone-walled chamber at the bottom. For the first time I looked at Emerson, and he met my gaze. I held it for several heartbeats before he cast his eyes down.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Tabatha.

  We walked in heavy silence which only magnified the strange sounds of the catacombs- eerie groans and echos or the drip of water which reached us each time a new tunnel opened out before or either side of us. I thought back to the first time I had entered the catacombs and my encounter with the entity that Tabatha had saved us from. I shuddered at the memory.

  Tabatha knew the way without hesitation, despite numerous turns and branches leading to yet more tunnels running in every direction. At last, the tunnel opened out into a vaulted chamber with an archway on either side leading to yet more tunnels. In the far wall a cavity had been rudely cut, most likely with a simple hammer and chisel, though the wall was several feet thick. It was narrow and uneven but large enough for us to climb through even at its narrowest point.

  ‘This cavity leads to the labyrinth beyond,’ said Tabatha.

  ‘Who made it?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tabatha replied. ‘I discovered it some years ago. The labyrinth below the Gatehouse existed before the catacombs. Someone must have broken into or out of it at some point after this chamber was made. The horses won’t fit through, though. There is a forgotten entrance to the catacombs from above ground not far from the Gatehouse. I will take them that way, return to the Gatehouse and come back for you through the labyrinth. I won’t be longer than an hour. Keep the lantern, I remember the way without the benefit of light.’

  We watched as Tabatha and the horses disappeared back down the tunnel we had come through. My pulse quickened at the thought of waiting below ground for her to return. She made the catacombs feel safe with her knowledge of every twist and turn and her courage in the face of whatever else lurked down here. The chamber she lived in was a sanctuary, protected from the darkness that surrounded it, but here, alone and exposed, it was easy to feel vulnerable to the ancient, forgotten things that lurked below the earth and held no love for things belonging to the world above.

  In spite of my fear, I crossed the chamber and sat as far as I could from Emerson. I clenched my fists and tried desperately to resist the violent thoughts passing through my mind. Eliza watched me anxiously, unsure whether to join me or stay where she was.

  ‘If my presence troubles you, Tom, I will leave,’ said Emerson after the ensuing silence had become uncomfortable. ‘I have no desire to cause you any further pain.’

  ‘We need your help. I will tolerate you,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

  Neither of us said any more until Tabatha returned. Just before the hour was up, we heard footsteps on the other side of the cavity, and she called through to us.

  ‘Ready?’

  I jumped to my feet, eager to escape the confines of the tunnels and breathe fresh air again. We climbed through one after the other, and Tabatha took up the lantern once more. My head throbbed from the closeness of the air and the tension I was trying desperately to contain. I tried to imagine how far I had walked beneath London, and the places I had passed under, unbeknown to the people who walked above. I ran my fingertips along the cold stone of the wall as I walked, savouring the coolness as an antidote to the growing heat of agitation building inside me.

  Finally, the stairway up to the trapdoor in the floor of the Gatehouse appeared before us, and the faint light of day glowed above, getting gradually stronger as we drew nearer. Peggy and Bandit were at the trapdoor to greet us, tails wagging, as we emerged blinking into the dim light of the Gatehouse. I watched as Emerson’s eyes drifted across the hall to the place where Devere had died. Even in the half-light, the haunted look in his eyes was unmistakable. I looked away, having no desire to revisit that day in my memory.

  ‘I will get you soap and water to clean yourself up,’ Eliza said to Emerson.

  ‘I’ll be in the library.’ I muttered.

  Tabatha followed and sat beside me at the table. ‘You did well,’ she said.

  ‘I cannot lie, Tabatha, for a moment I did wish the bullet had really killed him,’ I replied.

  ‘I understand,’ she said quietly, looking down at her hands clasped in front of her.

  I took a deep breath. ‘But be that as it may, we need his help.’

  Just then, Eliza appeared at the door. ‘Emerson is changing his clothes. He shan’t be long. What is the plan now?’

  ‘We do as he advises,’ Tabatha replied.

  I sat in silence listening to Eliza and Tabatha talk. My stomach was in knots as I thought of the man I must face imminently. Now that we had saved Emerson from the noose, the reality of accepting his help finally struck me. My pulse raced, and fear and anger surged within me. I drew a breath and ex
haled slowly as he stepped into the library. His beard was gone, and his hair was cropped almost to his head.

  ‘It is better that I look as little like Emerson Prye as possible, being as I am supposed to be dead,’ he said, taking a seat at the table.

  ‘Now the real work begins,’ said Tabatha. ‘Emerson, you have heard the full tale of all that has happened. What do you suggest we do to apprehend the killer?’

  ‘I must see where the victims died,’ he replied. ‘We will go to the Bookish Magician’s library first. He was first to be killed, so perhaps we may find there some indication of how the other victims were chosen- and why. Come, there’s no time to delay.’

  Chapter 17

  We took the Guild’s carriage to Finchley, a village some eight miles north of the city, where Willhem de Wit, the Bookish Magician, had lived. His library occupied a peculiar eight-sided building with narrow arched windows like arrow slits. The only door to the building was on the side furthest from the road. It was locked.

  ‘Do we know who found his body?’ asked Emerson as he fitted a small, delicate-looking plant with fan-shaped leaves to the keyhole.

  ‘Mrs. Thorne’s letter didn’t say,’ replied Eliza. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Moonwort,’ replied Emerson. ‘The alchemist’s herb. I took it from the Agriculturian’s herb garden. It is said by some to turn lead into gold. It doesn’t, but it does open locks.’

  The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Inside, the library smelt stale and dusty from weeks of disuse. Every wall was stacked floor to ceiling with books, and a large octagonal table occupied the centre of the room. On the far side, a spiral staircase led to the upper floor where the Bookish Magician’s living quarters were located.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘Clues,’ replied Emerson. ‘Anything out of place or missing- like that.’

  He pointed to the chair at the table. A length of rope lay in two pieces on the floor beside it, their ends frayed as though they had been cut in haste.

  ‘Look at the ends,’ said Tabatha, pointing to the rope. ‘It was knotted. It looks as though he- or someone -was bound to the chair then cut free.’

  ‘Or killed and then the body removed,’ I added.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Emerson. He stood over the chair and peered closely at it. ‘I wonder. He was a strange choice of victim.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘If the killer is targeting practitioners of magic, as he certainly appears to be, there are simply more obvious and easier targets than Willhem de Wit,’ replied Emerson. ‘He was a Dutch immigrant, descended from the lines of great magicians of the Dutch Republic. They called him the Bookish Magician, but his study was really words. Books were simply the vessels to contain his work, like the glass jars which hold potions. He believed words have souls, and he certainly could do extraordinary things with them, creating spells and incantations whose power was in the words alone, not the magician uttering them- a subtle but incredible achievement, for even those without a jot of magical training could thus perform magic.’

  ‘Do you think that may have made him a target?’ asked Tabatha.

  ‘Possibly,’ Emerson replied.

  While he spoke I had turned my attention to the bookshelves. Their contents were varied and included huge leather-bound grimoires with elaborate brass clasps, small printed chapbooks, and everything in-between. The Bookish Magician’s system of organisation appeared to relate to the subject of the book, with whole walls dedicated to a single strand of magic. I stopped before one of the shelves housing books on the subject of incantations. A volume from one of the middle shelves was conspicuously absent.

  ‘There is a book missing from this shelf,’ I said.

  Emerson, Tabatha and Eliza crowded round to inspect the gap left by the missing book.

  ‘Could the killer have really meant to simply steal the book but killed Willhem de Wit in the process?’ asked Eliza.

  Tabatha shook her head. ‘From what Mrs. Thorne described, the killings seem planned. There was no violence, and no obvious means of death. And why would the killer go on to steal the victim’s body from the grave if the motive had simply been theft all along?’

  ‘Tis very curious,’ murmured Emerson. He stared at the empty gap and rubbed the few stray hairs on his chin for several moments. ‘Come, I must see the Watchmaker’s workshop,’ he said at last.

  It was already late in the afternoon, and the Watchmaker’s workshop was several miles back the way we had come. I gazed out of the carriage window at the low sun winking through the trees and hedgerows that lined the road as the carriage rattled along. Swifts flitted back and forth from the eaves of the barns and farmhouses that dotted the surrounding fields, but before long we left them behind as we passed into the confines of the city. The streets slid by one by one as the carriage rolled through, stopping at last at the end of Pump Street.

  The Watchmaker’s workshop stood in darkness at the edge of the street, the shutters still closed. Mrs Thorne had not returned. The other shops in the street had closed for the day, and there was no one about to see us slip into the workshop with the help of Emerson’s moonwort.

  As with the Bookish Magician’s library, there was no indication of the sinister events that had befallen there. The walls were filled with clocks of varying sizes and types, all ticking and chiming as normal. On his workbench, the Watchmaker’s tools were still laid out, along with a book of his patrons and appointments. A tiny stump of candle remained in the lantern where it had burnt itself out. Beside it stood a delicately carved music box fashioned from rosewood. The scene looked perfectly unremarkable, but I shivered as I imagined the Watchmaker’s lifeless body slumped over the bench.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Eliza excitedly. She held up a page from a book written in a language I didn’t recognise. Along one side, the ragged edge where it had come loose from its book’s binding was visible.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ Emerson demanded.

  ‘It lay just here on the floor. It looks like it came loose from a book,’ Eliza replied.

  Emerson took the page and studied the words carefully. ‘This is written in the Saxon language,’ he said. ‘’Tis part of an incantation as far as I can tell, though I am not fluent in the ancient tongue of our ancestors. It was most certainly written by the Bookish Magician. I recognise his hand. I’d wager it is from the book missing from his library.’

  He folded the torn page carefully and tucked it into his pocket then began a slow round of the room, his eyes darting backwards and forwards across the painted clock faces and swinging pendulums of the Watchmaker’s wares, looking for any other misplaced object or hidden clue.

  He stopped before a shelf holding several beautifully crafted clockwork music boxes and stared intently at a gap where one was missing. Selecting one of the boxes, he wound the key in the back. At once, it began to play a simple tinkling tune. He smiled grimly as though having discovered something not altogether pleasant or encouraging.

  ‘This is an ordinary music box,’ he said turning to us and setting it down on the workbench. ‘The sound is produced by pins plucking at the teeth of a steel comb. ‘Tis enchanting, but it is not magic.’

  When the tune had stopped, he replaced the box on the shelf then lifted the carved rosewood box. Again, he wound the key at the back, and the box began to play. This time, the music was that of a full orchestra, with strings, brass and wind instruments all in beautiful harmony with one another. It was as though a tiny orchestra was hidden inside the box, ready to play at the turn of a key.

  ‘This is a magic music box,’ Emerson continued. ‘The sound is not produced by the box, but recorded and stored within it through magic. The Watchmaker was an expert in the crafting of these trinkets. There is one box missing from the shelf. It is clear that at least the first two victims were experts in their respective fields. I believe our killer targeted them for that purpose. He murdered the Bookish Magician to st
eal the book from which this page came, then he killed the Watchmaker to steal one of his music boxes.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ said Tabatha. ‘Theft can be carried out without resorting to murder by even the most inexperienced thieves.’

  ‘And what would a monster want with a book and a music box anyway?’ said Eliza. ‘Professor Goldwick believes the killer is a monster, after all.’

  ‘I believe Professor Goldwick may be mistaken in his assessment,’ said Emerson. ‘I do not believe the killer is a monster. I believe he is a man of flesh and blood.’

  Chapter 18

  We stood in silence for several moments listening to the music play until it stopped. The low buzz of the key as it turned, and the tick of the clocks on the walls were the only sounds to be heard. Tabatha peered over the box, idly admiring the exceptional detail and delicacy of the carving.

  ‘’Tis a travesty that the hands that made such a thing should…’ She started in fright and instinctively drew her knife as a voice spoke suddenly from within the box.

  ‘Mary, I must leave for Oxford at once. Pray do not fret, for I will return in a few days. I have discovered the reason for Willhem’s murder and must go to find Professor Goldwick at once to seek his guidance. The gentleman enquiring after a carriage clock will be here for his appointment at any moment, but I shall post a note on the door explaining my absence. This really cannot wait; I realise now that Willhem was killed for the word…’ There was a sound like a gasp of horror as the speaker was suddenly cut short, then the key stopped turning, and the box went silent.

  ‘That was the Watchmaker’s voice for sure,’ said Eliza in a trembling voice.

  ‘Yes, and I believe we may have just heard his very last words,’ said Emerson grimly. ‘Whoever it was that cut him short likely also killed him. The word? What could he mean? What did he know about the Bookish Magician’s death?’