The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers

by Frances Jones

  He paced the floor back and forth, every muscle tensed like a predator ready to pounce. Tabatha and Eliza glanced at one another uneasily.

  ‘I must return to the Gatehouse,’ he said, stopping abruptly and turning to us. ‘There are books in the library I need to consult with. Something in the Bookish Magician’s library lured the killer there and cost Willhem de Wit his life. Come, there is nothing more to see here. We must go at once.’

  I glanced back at the workbench as I followed the others to the door, imagining the Watchmaker seeing his killer enter his workshop, seeing his face, and perhaps for a few moments knowing what was to come.

  ‘Wait,’ I cried. Tabatha and Eliza turned back, startled. ‘The Watchmaker said he was expecting a customer at any moment. Perhaps we might find a name or address of that man in his appointment book. ‘Tis curious that he should be killed just as he was expecting to meet someone who knew he would be in his workshop right at that moment.’

  ‘Tom, you’re a genius!’ cried Eliza.

  Emerson swept up the book and flicked through the pages to the last entry. Mr Jack Fletcher of no. 3 Bride’s Lane, 4th June, noon was entered neatly under the Watchmaker’s appointments.

  Emerson frowned. ‘I know that name. Could it be? No, surely not.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tabatha.

  ‘Jack Fletcher was the name of the Agriculturian’s apprentice. His oath to the Guild did not weigh lighter than the Shadow Horse’s hair when he came to make his pledge. Devere sent him to his death in the labyrinth as penalty three years ago this coming winter. It cannot be the same man, for he is dead, but ‘tis uncanny his name should appear in the diary of a dead magician.’

  Tabatha, Eliza and I looked at one another. We were each thinking the same.

  ‘Emerson, it may be that Jack Fletcher is not dead after all,’ said Tabatha.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The cavity in the labyrinth wall!’ Tabatha replied. ‘He could have escaped. He could be seeking revenge!’

  Emerson shook his head and set the book back in its place. ‘He could not have cut himself free. He had no tools with which to do so, and that cavity must have taken months, nay, years to make.’

  ‘But who else had access to the labyrinth and had the means to repel the terror it contained long enough to make the cavity?’ said Eliza.

  ‘George,’ I replied.

  Emerson looked thoughtful. ‘’Tis possible I suppose. George pleaded with Devere that he show Fletcher clemency, and he was dismayed by Devere’s brutality towards the many others who crossed him. ‘Tis certainly possible he could have begun to chip away at the wall in secret long before he aided Fletcher’s escape.’

  ‘But the question is whether this Jack Fletcher is the same man,’ said Tabatha. ‘We ought to investigate. The address in Bride’s Lane would be a logical place to start. Come, ‘tis getting late.’

  I hesitated a moment by the workbench, held back by a strange impulse.

  ‘Hurry up, Tom,’ Eliza called from outside.

  ‘Coming,’ I replied as I slipped the Watchmaker’s book into my breeches pocket.

  Chapter 19

  Emerson took up the reins as Tabatha, Eliza and I climbed into the back of the carriage. Darkness had fallen, and a strip of orange sky in the west was all that remained of the day.

  ‘Do you really think Jack Fletcher could be the killer?’ asked Eliza as the carriage bumped along the cobbled streets.

  ‘Who knows?’ I replied. ‘I wish George was here. Things would be much clearer.’

  I said no more and stared out of the carriage window at the drizzle that had started falling silently on the heads of those whose business kept them out after dark. Tabatha and Eliza talked quietly, but I paid little attention to what they said. I was thinking of Ambrose Ruddle and his message on the headstone. Was it real, or another terrifying manifestation of my branding? Was I right to accept Emerson’s help? He had a cause now, a distraction from brooding on the evil he had wrought. The haggard look on his face was gone, and he spoke again with the same self-possession and certainty that he had while he had been the Guild of Gatekeepers’ alchemist. Meanwhile, I felt myself sliding backwards into the dark days immediately after learning of my family’s fate. The grief that was slowly showing signs of healing, like the first green shoots thrust up out of the ground after a long winter, chafed again with a rawness I hadn’t felt for a long while. The fragile threads with which I had learned to tie it up were slowly being unpicked one by one as Emerson grew stronger and I grew weaker.

  ‘Tom, this is it,’ said Eliza.

  I looked up and realised the carriage had come to a halt before a large timber-framed building with a thick chimney from which smoke poured into the night. Tabatha, Eliza and I watched as Emerson strode up to the door and knocked. A few moments passed before it opened, and the orange light of a lantern spilt out into the lane. A severe-looking woman with a pinched face and spectacles perched at the end of a sharp nose stood in the doorway.

  ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said Emerson. ‘May I enquire whether Jack Fletcher is home?’

  ‘I have no tenant by that name,’ the woman replied tersely. ‘This is a respectable boarding house, and I do not permit visitors after nightfall. Good evening.’

  She moved to shut the door, but Emerson put his hand upon it to stay her. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, might I ask whether you have any tenant by another name with a prominent pox scar above his left eyebrow? He is a young man, twenty or there about, a fraction shorter than I am, with fair hair and complexion.’

  ‘I did have a young man answering that description lodging here, but his name was John Freeman. He left a week ago, and he left no forwarding address. Good evening.’ With that, she shut the door.

  My heart sank. What had seemed so promising just an hour before now proved to be nothing more than a dead end. Jack Fletcher- if indeed it was him -could be anywhere by now.

  ‘Well, we can make a reasonable guess that Jack Fletcher was here, but he is gone,’ said Emerson, climbing into the carriage to speak with us. ‘I cannot guess what has led him to murder, if indeed it is him.’

  ‘Revenge, perhaps?’ suggested Eliza.

  ‘If it was revenge, would he not have exacted it upon Devere directly, or the Guild itself?’ said Tabatha.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Emerson. ‘Besides, I am not aware he knew any one of the dead magicians. I fear there may be more to this than we know. Still, there is little more we can do now. I will arrange for a message to be sent to Professor Goldwick in the morning explaining what we have discovered. For now, we will return to the Gatehouse. I must think more on this.’

  While Emerson spoke, I gazed out of the window and tried to ignore the rage bubbling inside me that my newly aroused grief had provoked. I recalled Professor Goldwick’s words, but even the prospect of my own anger feeding the curse upon me couldn’t quell the dark thoughts I harboured towards Emerson.

  As Emerson climbed back into the box, the lights in the windows of the boarding house went out, and the waxing moon climbed above the roofline, silhouetting a weather vane shaped like one of the sea canaries Eliza and I had seen in the enchanted cove over which Other England looked. My eyes lingered on it as my mind wandered idly back to our journey to find Ambrose Ruddle’s home. Slowly, the weather vane turned, though the air was still, in spite of the rain, with barely a breeze to ruffle the leaves on the trees. I sat up and rubbed my eyes in amazement, but sure enough the weather vane had turned to point east across the street to the churchyard of St. Bride’s which stood opposite. Could it be another message from Ambrose?

  I leaned out of the carriage window and stared into the darkness across the street. The few lights in the windows of the other houses had gone out, and the headstones and funerary monuments were only distinguishable as black masses against the night sky. On the gate of the churchyard a wren suddenly alighted and let out a lusty chirp.

  ‘Where are you going
?’ asked Eliza as I jumped from the carriage and crossed the street.

  ‘The churchyard,’ I replied over my shoulder.

  ‘Whatever for?’ she called after me.

  I didn’t reply. My feet had carried me through the gates almost before I was aware of it. Tabatha and Eliza called after me, but I ignored their urging to return to the carriage. Only Emerson followed without saying a word.

  Row upon row of headstones, from the simple wooden crosses of the poor to the elaborate monuments of St. Brides’ wealthy parishioners, passed me by until I found what it was that Ambrose wanted me to see.

  ‘The mausoleum,’ I whispered to Emerson, stopping a few feet from it. ‘Look at the door.’

  Sure enough, the heavy stone door stood open just a crack, and a slither of flickering candlelight slipped out into the darkness. Emerson drew his pistol and crept towards it, gesturing silently for me to stay back. He set his hand upon the door and flung it open in one quick gesture. It was empty.

  Chapter 20

  ‘He was here,’ Emerson said as Tabatha and Eliza joined us and looked with interest into the empty mausoleum.

  ‘He can’t be far away,’ said Tabatha. ‘The candle has hardly burnt down at all.’

  Emerson gazed through the door of the mausoleum and across the churchyard to the coach parked outside the boarding house. ‘He saw us coming,’ he muttered.

  ‘Look there!’ hissed Tabatha. Her sharp eyes had spotted a shadowy figure moving quickly around the church towards a door in the north transept.

  ‘Tabatha, take Eliza to the front doors and see that he doesn’t try to escape that way,’ said Emerson. ‘Tom, follow me.’

  He strode through the rows of headstones towards the north side of the church. I followed, my eyes scanning the churchyard, but there was no sign of the elusive figure we had seen just moments before. Emerson stopped at a side door and gestured for me to wait as he slipped inside. My heart beat several times as I stood alone in the darkness before Emerson’s hand emerged, gesturing for me to enter. With his other hand, he clasped one of the altar candles.

  ‘Up there,’ he whispered, pointing to a stone staircase hidden behind a heavy curtain to one side of the chancel.

  He drew his pistol and started up the stairs to the belfry as the candle’s flame lit the way before us. The thudding of my pulse bellowed in my ears at every turn of the staircase, but Emerson’s hand remained steady, his finger resting upon the trigger.

  At the top of the staircase the bell room opened before us. Six enormous bells hung from the spindle across the ceiling, with ropes thicker than a man’s fist trailing beside them. Emerson’s eyes scanned the room and settled upon one bell, with a large crack down its side, which had been hauled into a corner out of the way. At its base, the crack extended to a cavity large enough for a person of small frame to crawl inside. Handing me the candle, Emerson crept silently towards it. His hand darted inside, and a cry of surprise issued from within. A second later his hand re-emerged dragging a young man by his collar. He struggled and groped for something with which to fight, knocking over a table and chair as he did so, but Emerson held him fast and forced him to his knees.

  ‘Well, well, Jack Fletcher if I am not mistaken, or do you go by the name John Freeman now?’ said Emerson.

  The young man kneeling before us with Emerson’s gun directed at his chest said nothing and stared sullenly at the floor. He looked younger than Emerson had described him, skinny but still retaining the rounded features of youth. He started at the sound of footsteps on the staircase, and a moment later Tabatha and Eliza appeared.

  ‘We heard a commotion. What’s happened?’ asked Tabatha, her pistol ready in her hand.

  ‘Good gracious, ‘tis really him!’ Eliza cried as she took in the scowling face of Jack Fletcher.

  Emerson made no reply but bent the full weight of his glare upon the young man. ‘How did you escape the labyrinth?’ he demanded. ‘You did not flee unaided, of that I am sure.’

  Jack looked defiantly at Emerson for a moment before dropping his head as his eyes rested on the pistol, but he remained resolutely silent.

  ‘My patience is not limitless, Jack,’ said Emerson. ‘Four men are dead by your hand, their bodies stolen from the grave. Tell me how and why you killed them.’

  At that, Jack broke his silence. ‘I did not kill the magicians!’ he cried with all the affront and indignation of one wrongly accused. ‘I know who did, but by my word it was not me.’

  ‘If it was not you, then whom?’ demanded Emerson.

  ‘I cannot say. Kill me if you must, but I will not tell you.’

  In one swift move Emerson dragged Jack to his feet and pinned him to the wall, the barrel of his pistol pressed to his neck. Jack’s eyes bulged with fear and surprise at the sudden display of Emerson’s wrath. ‘We haven’t time for games! I know you have a hand in this foul business, and by my honour I intend to uncover what it is!’

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, and Emerson loosened his grip a little to allow him to do so.

  ‘I have sworn an oath,’ he choked.

  ‘What oath?’ Emerson demanded.

  ‘To kill the Keeper of the Guildof Gatekeepers in revenge for what he did to me, or else submit my soul to be tortured in Hell for eternity.’

  ‘George is Keeper now,’ said Emerson. ‘Devere is dead. I know it was George who helped you escape the labyrinth. Your oath will see you kill the man who saved your life.’

  At that, Jack collapsed to the floor with an agonising wail, and for several moments we could get nothing more out of him as he sobbed and beat his fists upon the floor. I looked away, all too aware that the desperate man before me was another victim of the evil Devere had wrought in life that still reverberated after his death.

  At last, Jack fell silent and looked up at us, his face red and eyes swollen from crying. ‘If I help you I forfeit my soul, but if I fulfil my oath I must kill the man who saved my life.’

  ‘Make your peace with it,’ said Emerson, ‘for I will kill you myself before you choose the latter.’

  Jack’s eyes flicked over to Emerson for a second and regarded him with a look of fear and contempt, but he said nothing and instead turned to Tabatha, Eliza and me.

  ‘I am not the killer. After I escaped the labyrinth, I swore to kill the Keeper of the Guild of Gatekeepers or suffer the torments of Hell for eternity. I was dogged by my oath, never able to fulfil it until I heard of the death of the Bookish Magician. Rumours spoke of a killer targeting magicians, and I was afraid whoever was behind his death might get to Devere before I did. I resolved to make an ally of the killer in the hope of receiving his help in fulfilling my oath, but no one knew or even suspected who might be responsible. I knew the Bookish Magician was friendly with the Watchmaker, and thought he might know more about his friend’s death. I went to his workshop to speak with him. His wife told me he was visiting a customer, so I made an appointment to see him the next day on the pretext of purchasing a clock. When I returned, I found him slumped over his workbench, dead. I panicked and fled, but I was still desperate to track down the killer.

  ‘I felt sure whoever had killed the Bookish Magician had killed the Watchmaker also, so I waited until the sun set, and then I made my way to the churchyard where he was interred to see if his body would be taken, just as the Bookish Magician’s was. Sure enough, just before midnight a man appeared and began to dig up the new grave. I was overcome with fear and tried to run, but he caught me and interrogated me. He would have killed me, but I said I would serve him if only he would help me fulfil my oath. He told his master was the Puppeteer, the greatest magician ever to have lived, and that he was not to be bargained with. He locked me in a crypt in the churchyard with the Watchmaker’s body and disappeared. Two days and nights I spent in there before he returned and said that his master had agreed to accept my offer of service, and in payment he would help me fulfil my oath. But first, he said I must kill the Watchmaker’s wife to prove m
y worth.’

  ‘Wait, Mrs. Thorne is dead?’ cried Eliza.

  Jack hung his head, and his voice dropped to barely a mumble. ‘Yes, I killed her. I strangled her, turned her body over to the Puppeteer’s servant to dispose of, then posted a note through her neighbours’ door to say she had gone away for a time.’

  ‘If Mrs. Thorne is dead then who really sent the note to George warning him about the killings?’ said Eliza, her voice quivering just a little.

  ‘’Twas the Puppeteer,’ replied Jack. ‘George was intended to be his next victim.’

  Eliza and I looked at each other in horror.

  ‘But who is the Puppeteer?’ asked Tabatha.

  ‘I don’t know his true identity,’ replied Jack. ‘His servant refers to him only as his master. ‘Tis he who carries out the killings on the Puppeteer’s instruction. He waits for the bodies to be discovered and buried, and then…’ he buried his face in his hands and began to sob. ‘And then I must remove them from the grave and hide them until his servant returns to collect them.’

  Eliza looked horrified. My stomach lurched at the thought of such depravity. Emerson, who had so far said nothing as Jack spoke, stared at him with a look that was both pity and disgust.

  ‘You knew he intended to kill the man who saved your life, and yet you stood by and did nothing?’ His voice was full of contempt and incredulity.

  ‘I had no choice,’ Jack sobbed. ‘He is too powerful. I cannot stop him.’ He cast his hands to his face and looked up as though appealing to heaven for help while he wailed in anguish.

  ‘Enough!’ Emerson glared at him so severely that he immediately fell silent and cowered in the corner. ‘We haven’t time for your histrionics. Tell us what the Puppeteer’s purpose is with the bodies of the dead.’

  Jack’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘He is building himself an army of puppets. They are dead yet alive and under his control, and he may direct the powers they possessed in life to do whatever he wishes.’