The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers

by Frances Jones

  ‘So that is why he is targeting magicians,’ said Tabatha.

  ‘But I thought puppetry was extinct!’ I said.

  ‘It was,’ replied Emerson. ‘The incantations were lost, but evidently the Puppeteer has rediscovered them, or else found a way to replicate the spell.’

  ‘’Tis macabre!’ said Eliza. ‘And poor Mrs. Thorne! Such a violent way to die. Why didn’t you refuse, run, leave London far behind? Surely it would be better than submitting to such wickedness?!’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Jack. ‘’Tis not that simple. The Puppeteer sees everything I do. I can’t run, I can’t hide. He will find me.’ As he spoke he held up a chain around his neck, upon which hung a pendant like a brass case with a glass front. Inside the case was an eyeball. Eliza squealed and looked away.

  ‘The Puppeteer sees everything through this. He will know I’ve spoken to you.’

  Emerson snatched the chain from around Jack’s neck and crossed the room to the window, flinging the it out into the churchyard below, then he turned back to Jack.

  ‘How do you know where and when the Puppeteer will strike next?’ he demanded.

  ‘His servant finds me. The Puppeteer knows where I am at all times. He has only to look through the eye. His servant said he would kill me if I discarded the eye. I am as good as dead now.’

  ‘Who is his servant? What is his name?’

  ‘I don’t know his name.’ Jack paused and pointed at me. ‘But Tom does.’

  Chapter 21

  Emerson, Eliza and Tabatha looked at me stunned.

  ‘I don’t understand. I have never met this man before.’ I stammered.

  ‘I was there in the churchyard of St. Mary’s when you were attacked,’ said Jack. ‘You saw the man who attacked you. He stood over you with the music box. You called out his name. Don’t you remember?’

  I looked at him bewildered, but he looked back at me imploringly. I thought back to that night. I remembered the searing pain in the back of my head and the strange, haunting chanting. I shut my eyes and searched in my memory. Was there more? As the chanting resounded in my mind I saw a figure standing over me. For a few moments his face was fuzzy and unclear, then my eyes focused, and I saw he wore an eyepatch across his left eye. I didn’t know his face well, but I had seen him before. ‘Mabson!’ I murmured as he looked over me. Yes, it was he, Professor Goldwick’s servant.

  ‘Mabson!’ I cried. ‘It was Mabson, Professor Goldwick’s servant! It was him who attacked me in the churchyard! I remember it now!’

  ‘Then Professor Goldwick is the Puppeteer?’ cried Eliza.

  We all looked to Emerson. His expression was unreadable as he stared out of the window in silence while Tabatha, Eliza and I looked from one to the other.

  ‘I would never have thought it of Cuthbert Goldwick,’ he said at last, ‘but these are dark times we live in.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Tell me everything you know. How many do the dead number now?

  ‘Five in total,’ Jack replied. ‘The Bookish Magician, The Watchmaker, Thomas Greaves the apothecary, the cunning man of Blackfriars, and just yesterday the old mage of Datchet Street. He was buried here today, and I am to recover his body tonight.’

  Eliza gasped and crossed herself. Emerson looked hard at Jack, but whatever his thoughts on the revelations he had just heard, he kept his voice even and betrayed no sign of disgust. ‘How are the victims killed, and why does the Puppeteer wait until after the bodies are buried to snatch them?’ he asked.

  ‘There is an incantation in a book he stole from the Bookish Magician’s library. He had his servant steal one of the Watchmaker’s magic music boxes as well, then he spoke the incantation into the box. The Puppeteer will not risk himself carrying out the murders, so he sends his servant who plays the music box to overcome the victim and draw out their soul,’ replied Jack.

  Eliza shuddered, but Jack continued. ‘Of course, the Puppeteer’s servant must stop his ears to prevent himself from being turned into a puppet by the chant. I believe he uses wax. Once the victim has been overcome, their soul leaves their body as a white moth through their dying breath. He captures it and delivers it to his master. It would arouse suspicion if magicians began disappearing all at once, so the victim’s body is left to be found and buried so as not to attract suspicion. There is no mark of violence upon it, and so it is assumed the victim simply died of natural causes. The corpse will not decay and is recovered from the grave the night of his burial and transported under the cloak of darkness to the Puppeteer.’

  ‘I saw them!’ I cried. ‘I saw the white moths in the very top window of Professor Goldwick’s house on the morning we left! They were fluttering around the window pane. I thought I was imagining it.’

  Eliza shuddered. ‘To think we passed a night under the roof of such a man!’

  Emerson frowned. ‘What were you doing in the churchyard when Tom was attacked? What is the Puppeteer’s interest in him?’

  ‘I don’t know. His servant does not tell me how or why the puppets are chosen. I followed Tom there of my own accord. I’d grown impatient waiting to learn when the Puppeteer would fulfil his end of the bargain and help me take my revenge on Devere. His servant would tell me nothing, so I began to watch the Gatehouse, hoping to catch sight of Devere, but I saw no one enter or leave except Tom. I was curious of what had become of the rest of the Guild, so I followed him down to the docks four nights ago…’

  ‘It was you watching me!’ I cried. I couldn’t be sure whether I felt more angry, alarmed or afraid.

  ‘Yes, but then for two days there was no sign of you, and the Gatehouse stood empty. I was afraid of what had become of the Guild, fearing that Devere may be slipping from my reach. When you reappeared, I followed you to the churchyard. I saw The Puppeteer’s servant attack you before he was disturbed by the gravediggers. He had to immobilise you, you see, because you were out in the open and could run from him if he tried to overcome you with the chanting. That is why he hit you over the head. He didn’t see me, but I saw him, and I heard the chanting from the music box. He intended to make a puppet of you.’

  My heart almost stopped beating. A wave of fear swept over me while I looked with disbelief upon the young man sitting before me, callous in the extreme as he spoke with such indifference of his acquaintance’s attempt to kill me while he looked on.

  ‘But what does Professor Goldwick want with Tom?’ cried Eliza. ‘If he wanted to- oh, ‘tis too horrible to say -but he had every opportunity to do that while we were in Oxford. Why wait until we returned to London?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I cannot say. I do not know this Professor Goldwick. I have your word alone that he is the Puppeteer. I simply take my instructions from his servant- Mabson as you call him.’

  ‘No doubt Professor Goldwick didn’t expect Tom and Eliza to arrive when his letter was addressed to George,’ said Tabatha. ‘As the intended victim, I think we can surmise the purpose of the letter was to draw George away from the Gatehouse where he could be more easily overcome. You were probably of little interest to Professor Goldwick at the time, Tom, or he would have made a puppet of you there and then. I expect in telling you that it was a monster responsible for the killings he meant to send you on a wild goose chase to prevent you from discovering the truth.’

  ‘Yes, but something must have piqued his interest in you after you left Oxford,’ said Emerson. ‘Did you tell him anything concerning yourself? What did you talk about?’

  My heart raced as all eyes turned to me. I tried to remember every word that passed between me and Professor Goldwick, but my memory was foggy, and my palms felt clammy. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I tried to speak.

  ‘I asked him about branding,’ I replied, my voice cracking. ‘I told him about the nightmares and strange sensations I have experienced- heightened senses, seeing things others don’t. He asked if I had been exposed to magic previously, and I told him about the dragonskin.’

  Emerson blanched
and dropped his head in despair. ‘I think you have unwittingly made yourself a target of the Puppeteer, Tom,’ he said. ‘If it is the powers the magician possesses that he desires then there is no greater prize than one who possesses the power of a dragonskin.’

  The colour drained from Eliza’s face, and she looked at me in horror. ‘We have to stop him! What can we do?’

  Jack Fletcher shook his head. ‘I don’t think he will come for Tom again- not yet anyway. He was thwarted once, and now he has another target in sight. His servant has already left for France to make puppets of every magician at the Tournament on midsummer’s morning.’

  Chapter 22

  ‘No!’ cried Eliza. ‘We have to do something! We have to warn George!’

  Emerson made no reply but paced the floor for a long while, no doubt weighing up the dangers of each course of action open to us. To my mind, they seemed few and hopeless.

  ‘We cannot get a message to George in Paimpont,’ he said at last. ‘Even his own birds would not find the secret glade where the tournament takes place. We must put an end to this wicked depravity ourselves and stop the Puppeteer before he reaches the tourney glade.’

  ‘But midsummer is four days away!’ cried Eliza. ‘We can’t hope to cross the sea and reach Paimpont in four days!’

  ‘We will not travel by sea,’ replied Emerson. ‘Come, we haven’t any time to waste. Back to the Gatehouse!’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Jack. ‘The Puppeteer will kill me! He will know I have spoken to you. He sees everything.’

  ‘You are coming with us,’ said Emerson, dragging Jack to his feet and ignoring his howls of protest as he bundled him back down the staircase to the church below.

  Outside, the night had turned chill and damp. We piled into the carriage, and Emerson drove the horse on as though the hounds of Hell were after us. Within minutes, the Gatehouse stood before us.

  ‘I must go to the library at once. There are things I must look into before we leave,’ said Emerson. ‘Meet me in the hall before dawn. Tabatha, keep an eye on our guest.’

  Tabatha nodded and gripped Jack by his shoulder, directing him up the steps and into the darkness of the Gatehouse. I was reminded of the first time I had passed through its doors in a similar manner not yet even a year ago.

  ‘I’ll see to the carriage and horses,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Eliza, jumping into the basket beside me.

  As I drove the carriage round to the back of the Gatehouse she spoke in a low voice. ‘I had no idea you were experiencing such awful effects from…’ her voice trailed off, ‘…you know what. Why didn’t you tell me, or George at least?’

  ‘I wanted to,’ I replied, climbing down from the basket and unharnessing the horses. ‘More than once I came close, but somehow it seemed that in keeping it to myself I could pretend it wasn’t happening. It sounds foolish, but that is how I felt. I overheard George talking to you and your father while I recovered. He said that a branding is a curse and that it can eventually drive the victim to madness, even after the assailing magician’s death.’

  ‘Oh Tom! You have been worrying about that all this time? You should have spoken to me, or Father and George, or Bridget even. I was so afraid for you, but George has often said you have recovered remarkably well. If only you’d told us, we might have been able to offer you some comfort and reassurance.’

  ‘It probably would have made little difference,’ I replied. ‘No one can reverse the branding. I live each day never knowing whether it will be the day when Devere’s curse finally overcomes me.’

  Eliza set down the bucket of water she was emptying into the horses’ trough but couldn’t bring herself to look at me. ‘You cannot think like that,’ she said quietly.

  I made no reply. Her words sounded hollow; Eliza recognised the truth of what I said, and she knew that words of comfort alone could not alter what had been done to me. She glanced across at me as I hauled a pile of hay into the manger, but neither of us said any more.

  Back inside the Gatehouse, a thin rind of light showed under the door of the library where Emerson was busy poring over the books. Peggy was waiting for me in the hall and followed me to the dormitory where I threw myself onto the bed, too exhausted to undress or to bother with supper.

  ‘He stole your life too, eh?’

  I almost leapt out of bed in fright before I noticed the hunched figure of Jack sitting on the bed a few rows down.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked when I had recovered my wits.

  ‘William Devere,’ he replied. ‘He tried to have me killed and drove me to swear a reckless oath which has cost me my soul. And you- well, you are haunted by him for the rest of you life.’

  ‘Aye, but I did not bring that doom upon my own head,’ I replied. It was difficult to feel sympathy for a murderer and a man whose recklessness had brought about his own ruin, and I didn’t appreciate my very different misfortune being compared with his.

  ‘No doubt you think I was a fool to swear such an oath in the first place,’ Jack replied. ‘The truth is, I have wished from the day I swore it that I had not, but hatred and revenge are powerful motivators- for a while at least. Soon, though, you realise that life passes by without you while you dwell upon your sorrows. You cannot set it aside, you cannot forget it, you cannot continue with life until you have had your revenge, but time passes just the same. If Devere was still alive, I would happily be released from my oath and never get to taste vengeance. I wish only for peace now.’

  ‘My father used to say revenge is the privilege of one man alone, and when you stand before him you’d best hope for mercy,’ I replied.

  ‘Wise words indeed,’ said Jack. ‘Still, you are probably weary. I will say no more. Goodnight.’

  I turned over and lay with my back to him, but I did not close my eyes. I was thinking of Emerson and my own dark thoughts of revenge. I wondered if between them and the curse upon me I would ever enjoy peace again.

  Chapter 23

  I dreamt as I did each night, though not the usual nightmare that haunted my sleep. Instead, I stood in the churchyard of St Mary’s looking at five coffins lying beside their newly dug graves. Emerson stood in the corner watching me. Slowly, the coffin lids began to open, and the corpses, cloaked and hooded so that I could not see their faces, climbed out. Fear gripped me so that I couldn’t move to run. I looked over to Emerson, but I could neither speak nor cry out. Emerson looked straight ahead at the corpses and seemed not to notice me. His lips moved soundlessly as he muttered snatches of words I could not make out while the corpses made a solemn round of the churchyard, their movements slow and deliberate as though guided by an external force.

  ‘Tom, wake up.’

  My eyes flew open, and the dream melted away. It was still dark, but Emerson stood in the doorway with a lantern in his hand and a leather bag tucked underneath his arm. Jack sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, just as he had when I fell asleep. I wasn’t sure he had slept or even moved at all.

  I dressed quickly and went to join Eliza out in the hall. Peggy and Bandit were already waiting, sniffing the bundles of food and supplies with interest. A moment later, Tabatha returned from the stables. She was fretting about leaving Colonel behind, even in the care of the stablehand, who visited twice a day.

  ‘How do you mean to get us to Paimpont?’ Eliza asked Emerson as we made ready to leave.

  ‘You shall see shortly,’ he replied brusquely. Eliza didn’t press the subject any further.

  It was still dark as we left the Gatehouse, but the subtle shift in the air warned me that dawn was close. Peggy and Bandit alone seemed pleased to be out at such an hour. Eliza and I lagged behind a little so we could speak without being overheard.

  ‘I would never have believed it of Professor Goldwick if you hadn’t seen Mabson yourself,’ said Eliza in a low voice.

  ‘Nor would I, but I suppose the wolf in sheep’s clothing is able to hide among the flock. I wish we could get
a message to George to warn him. I’m mighty afraid that Bridget’s omen may come to pass.’

  Eliza turned pale. ‘I had quite forgotten about that,’ she said. ‘George was erased from the painting!’

  ‘It’s not only that,’ I replied, my voice sinking below a whisper as though even the darkness around us must not hear my words. ‘I saw something else in the painting.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Eliza.

  ‘I thought I saw threads extending upwards from the hands and feet of all the magicians- like the strings of a puppet. I didn’t understand what it meant until now.’

  ‘Do you think it means the Puppeteer will succeed in making puppets of every magician at the tournament?’ Eliza whispered, her voice trembling as though uttering the words might manifest the very thing she spoke of.

  ‘I don’t know. I just know I’m afraid. More afraid than I have ever felt before.’

  ‘What if we can’t stop him? What if even Emerson can’t? Mabson could use the music box to overcome every one of the magicians at the tournament before they are even aware of it.’

  ‘Not if we get to them first,’ I said. ‘We have to.’

  Just ahead, the masts of the ships moored in the docks rose above the river mist. The sky was lightening with the approaching dawn, and the sailors and deck hands were already at work loading cargo onto the waiting vessels. We followed Emerson along the wooden platforms to a square-rigged ship with the name Nightingale painted upon her hull. Men on the platform rolled barrels of wool and tin up wooden ramps while others on the deck loaded the cargo into the hold.

  ‘I thought we weren’t sailing to France,’ said Eliza with dismay.

  ‘We’re not,’ Emerson replied shortly. He strode up to the deck and spoke for a few moments with the man overseeing the others working on the deck. The man nodded as Emerson handed him a small purse of coins before returning to us on the platform.

  ‘The captain has agreed to grant us passage as far as Erith further upstream. From there we shall make our way to Paimpont.’