Gumbroot pulled at his nose with finger and thumb and cocked his head to one side. ‘That’s about the long and short of it,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘I knew you’d understand. You always were an intelligent—’
That was when Pin shut the door.
‘In fact, if you could do me the favour of leaving tonight,’ came Mr Gumbroot’s disembodied voice from the other side, ‘I’d be much obliged.’
And so later that evening Pin left. He knew if he didn’t go, the next time he came back he’d find his belongings on the street and a whole new family moved in. That’s how it was round here. He packed his bag with what little he had and took off.
‘I suppose at least now I might find something better,’ he had reasoned, trying to stay cheerful. And at least he no longer had to listen to the screams from the basement. There had certainly been something unspeakable going on down there tonight. But for all his optimism Pin was worried. Winter was never a good time to be looking for rooms in Urbs Umida and tonight most likely he would be on the street.
Chapter Twelve
An Evening’s Entertainment
From where he was standing sheltering in the doorway of the Nimble Finger, Pin could easily read the discarded handbill that lay at his feet, one of many that littered the gutters.
The Gluttonous Beast. Deodonatus Snoad – Pin spat at the mere mention of his name – had written of him recently. And the Bone Magician . . . That could be interesting. Pin had a few pennies in his pocket – he had left Barton’s owing rent – but did he want to spend them here? The decision was made for him when a large shadow fell over him. It was Constable Coggley.
‘And what might you be up to? You can’t hang about ’ere you know.’ He peered at Pin curiously. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Pin, shrinking back.
‘But I do,’ said Coggley, taking him by the chin and forcing his head upward. ‘You’re that Pin Carpue. You can’t deny your queer eyes. What you up to now, lad. Causing trouble?’
‘No,’ said Pin indignantly, jerking his face away. He pushed against the heavy inn door and it yielded slowly.
‘Have you seen your father?’ called Coggley after him. ‘You’d better tell me if you have. He’s still a wanted man.’
‘I know,’ muttered Pin, ‘I know,’ and he stepped inside.
The Nimble Finger Inn was one of many taverns that had occupied the same spot on the Bridge for centuries. It was a good spot, exactly at the halfway point, which meant people could feel that they hadn’t crossed to the other side. For if the northerners were reluctant to venture south, the southerners had no great desire to venture north. Whatever its name and whoever its owner, one thing hadn’t changed down the years: the quality of the clientele. It was often said that if you were a visitor to Urbs Umida, all you had to do was step inside the Nimble Finger to see a true representation of everything the City had to offer. It was all in there: the dirt, the smell and the good citizens themselves; the robbers, the swindlers, the cheats, the liars, the fakes and the forgers. Northerners and southerners alike and all treated equally by Betty Peggotty. Well, as equally as their purses allowed.
The floor was covered with a mixture of sawdust and straw and mud and stains of a sanguinary nature. The noise was deafening – singing, shouting, screeching, laughter. And the smells. Oh, those smells. To Pin they were like a riotous odoriferous cacophony and he breathed deeply. All the excitement of the inn came to him on the air and he savoured it. There was gambling going on, he could smell the tension; there was plotting afoot, he could smell the fear; and there was jollity and excitement. He smelt it all: the blood, the sweat, the salty tears, the drink, the fish from the dockworkers, and always the exotic aroma of faraway lands from the sailors. There was even a hint of love – only a hint, mind; the Nimble Finger was not really a courting sort of place. Having inhaled his fill he turned to the man next to him.
‘The Bone Magician?’ he asked. A grunt and a gnarled finger pointed him in the direction of the far side of the tavern where he could see a set of stairs. A man stood at the top outside an open door. Pin ascended, his curiosity awakening.
‘That’ll be sixpence,’ said the fellow on the door. ‘And you can ask a question.’
‘Whom shall I ask?’
‘Madame de Bona.’
‘Oh,’ said Pin. He could see into the room and it was already full of people.
‘Well, hand it over then,’ said the fellow impatiently. ‘They shuts the door at eight.’
Pin found himself standing at the back of a crowd in the darkened room. Feet were shuffling and muttered conversations were going on all around him and snatches came to his alert ears.
‘I ’eard as she tells the future like, this Bona woman.’
‘I suppose she can see it, being as she’s passed over ’n’ that.’
‘’Ere, listen to this, God strike me down if I tell a lie, but Molly, you know ’er what lives opposite, well she asked about ’er poor Fred, you know what fell in the Foedus the other day.’
‘Pushed weren’t ’e? Some finks she did it.’
‘Wotever. But she says to ’er, the Bona skelington, that ’e was ’appy and waiting for ’er. And don’t you know, she died the next day and went to join ’im.’
‘Never! In the Foedus?’
‘Wot? Nah, not in the river, in the grave.’
‘Wotever, there’s plenty in the Foedus these days, with that fruit killer around.’
Pin squeezed through the crowd to the front where he could see a raised platform. On a low table a foot or so from the edge there was a shallow coffin. It was roughly hewn, with a badly fitting lid, and Pin thought of Mr Gaufridus with a smile. It wasn’t up to his exacting standards. At the back of the platform was a four-panelled screen and Pin could see movement behind it.
Suddenly the crowd quietened. A man, dressed from head to toe in a black gown, stepped out from behind the screen. A silver brooch at his throat pinned in place a dark velvet cloak that fell in folds from his shoulders. The heavy material, beautifully decorated with vines and fruit stitched in amber and gold, flapped around his ankles as he walked to reveal its shimmering scarlet lining. His shoes, visible under the hem of his gown, were also of a gold fabric with a slight heel and tasselled toes that pointed upwards. With each step he took the tassels rustled quietly.
His face was concealed in the main by a large hood that fell over his forehead, shielding his eyes. His eyebrows were thick and grey and his pale skin glowed unnaturally. He wore a moustache on his upper lip, each end waxed and carefully arranged on either side of his mouth, and a narrow white beard sprouted from the tip of his chin. His sleeves were so long that when his hands hung at his sides, his fingernails were barely visible and his slender wrists were seen only when he stretched out his arms.
Then a second person came around the screen, also hooded and cloaked, in a dark cloth of plain weave, its only ornament being the gold toggles that fastened it. The figure stepped gracefully from the platform and began walking slowly through the audience, swinging a peardrop bottle on a silver chain rhythmically back and forth. A smoky mist of sweet perfume curled upwards in a lazy spiral from its slender neck. Pin’s heart began to race and his knees began to shake. He knew that smell.
‘Welcome, all,’ said the man finally. ‘My name is Benedict Pantagus and I am the Bone Magician.’
Chapter Thirteen
Pin’s Journal
I sit at this very moment in a dark corner in the Nimble Finger. I have pennies enough for a small ale and I have secured an uneven table whereupon I am endeavouring to write an account of the night’s entertainment. What a city of trickery this is! Only days ago I thought I had seen the strangest it could offer. I had not considered there could be more. And now, such a night I’ve had in the Nimble Finger, confronted once more by the people who drugged me and left me insensible in the Cella Moribundi. Can you imagine how I felt when I realized who they were? I should have
been riven with fury, but instead, with every inhalation of the aromas in the room, I was suffused with peace and calm to bear witness again, upright and awake this time, to a most intriguing performance. And this is what I saw.
Mr Pantagus, after his introduction, returned to the head of the coffin.
‘My good people,’ he said, ‘a Bone Magician is born, not made. I have inherited my skills with the dead from a long line of Bone Magicians. I from my father, and he from his, and he from his. And so it goes on through the centuries right back to ancient times. The world might be a different place today, with the advance of philosophies and sciences, but be assured, there is still room in this day and age for those of us who can bring the dead back to life.’
At this there was a ripple of assenting murmurs. Mr Pantagus gestured towards the coffin.
‘I am a privileged man. I have been charged with the care of this coffin within which lies the skeleton of one Madame Celestine de Bona. I ask now that you remain silent while I perform the ceremony that will bring about her revitalization.’
Juno, whom I now knew the second figure to be, quenched the candles around the walls, leaving for light only the four thick beeswax pillars on tall iron holders, one at each corner of the platform. Mr Pantagus removed the lid of the coffin and laid it aside. Then, by means of a series of internal latches, he dropped each side of the coffin to rest flat on the table, exposing the box’s grisly contents.
A hush descended on the room and we all leaned forward as one, our curiosity stronger than our fear, to see more clearly what it was before us. For there, in full view of this awestruck crowd, lay the arid brown bones of Madame de Bona.
I watched, awash in a confusion of emotions, open-mouthed in amazement, as Benedict Pantagus began a series of actions that I recognized immediately as identical to those I had witnessed so recently in the Cella Moribundi. And I smelled again cinnamon and myrrh, anise and artemisia, as I waited with mounting excitement for the inevitable.
The skeleton began to stir.
A shudder went through the fleshless frame from skull to toe, rattling its bones. Its jaw hung open slightly and its grinning mouth emitted a whining groan, the like of which I had only imagined in my nightmares but had never thought to hear. The crowd gasped and shrank away from the vile unearthly creature before them. There was a shrill cry at the back of the room and a young lady collapsed. Such was the entrancement of the people that she was left to come to on her own on the flo or.
If, as Mr Pantagus claimed, the skeleton had been a lady, little remained to indicate this except perhaps to the eye of an expert. She rose slowly, like a ship on the swell of a wave, and came forward until she was sitting bolt upright. She placed her hands on the coffin sides for support, her long bony fingers clicking on the wood. Finally she opened her surprisingly toothy jaws fully in what appeared to be a yawn.
Mr Pantagus had our full attention as his deep and sonorous voice resonated in the tense atmosphere.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the revitalized bones of Madame Celestine de Bona.’
We took this as our cue to applaud, doing so loudly and with an unfettered enthusiasm. Mr Pantagus’s beard twitched and I believe he smiled briefly.
‘My thanks,’ he said graciously and he gave a shallow bow. ‘Now let us move quickly on to our real purpose. Madame de Bona, alive and well as she appears, will not be with us for long. As you are aware, your sixpence allows one question. Perhaps you wish to know the fate of a loved one who has also passed over to the other side. Or maybe you have a question about yourself. Whatever the problem, Madame de Bona will attempt to provide the answer.’
The people murmured to one another, too nervous to speak directly to this strange Bone Magician and his skeleton friend.
‘Surely you are not shy?’ he asked, almost playfully. ‘Please, consider the feelings of Madame de Bona. When she was alive she was one of the world’s greatest sooth sayers. Do not deny her the pleasure of doing the same from beyond the grave.’
His entreaty seemed to work and a young man shuffled forward. His cheeks were flushed. ‘Is it true that she, Madame de Bona, can foretell the future?’
A revitalized body is blessed with foresight, indeed,’‘ replied Mr Pantagus. ‘Have you a question for her?’
‘Tell me, Madame de Bona,’ he said nervously, ‘will I ever fall in love?’
The silence was so thick it could have been split in two with an axe. Madame de Bona cocked her head to one side and it was easy to imagine that if there had been eyeballs in those sockets, they would have been rolled towards heaven in contemplation. She leaned ever so slightly in the young man’s direction and replied in a voice that surely came only from the underworld, ‘Yes.’
This single word excited the crowd greatly. I cannot deny that I too was quite moved, and the lad was pulled back roughly before he had a chance to say another word (I would have asked ‘when?’) by a large rotund man who went right up to the platform and put out his hand.
‘Madame,’ he began breathlessly, but before he could continue Mr Pantagus frowned. ‘Madame de Bona does not wish to be touched,’ he said sternly.
The man flushed and stepped back immediately, apologizing.
‘Tell me, Madame, why won’t my chickens lay?’
Madame de Bona fixed her empty sockets on the man and replied scornfully, ‘I do not answer questions about chickens.’
The man looked beseechingly at Mr Pantagus, but he only shrugged sympathetically.
After that, there followed a plethora of questions about a multitude of topics, generally the everyday concerns of citizens in a place such as Urbs Umida. There was laughter at her replies, gasps, nods and shakes of the head. By the end the atmosphere was as jolly as the tavern downstairs. Eventually Mr Pantagus held up his hand and the noise quieted and we stood hanging on his every word.
‘Just one more question,’ said Mr Pantagus finally. ‘Time is running out. Madame de Bona will soon be exhausted.’
I thought it was Mr Pantagus who sounded exhausted. His voice, deep and throaty earlier, was strained. Before I could help it I heard myself say, ‘I have a question.’
All eyes were on me and they lingered as usual, knowing that there was something different about my face, but not quite sure what.
‘Madame de Bona,’ I said carefully, ‘where is my father and why did he disappear?’
‘That’s two questions,’ muttered the man with the reluctant chickens.
Madame de Bona took her time answering. The crowd was beginning to shuffle its feet. ‘Carpue boy,’ I heard someone say from behind and I felt my cheeks flush bright red, but I maintained a steady gaze at Madame de Bona.
‘Child,’ came the soft reply, ‘your father is alive and not as far away as you think. Keep searching and you will find the truth.’
I was shaking. I wanted them to stop looking at me and whispering. At last, Mr Pantagus spoke.
‘My dear ladies and gentlemen,’ he said quickly, ‘there will be no more questions this evening. I should like to thank you all for coming to see us and we hope you will tell all your friends about us.’
As if on cue, the skeleton sank slowly back down into the coffin, her bones giving one final rattle when her skull touched the wood. The crowd cheered and clapped loudly. The door behind them was opened and they shuffled out of the fragrant room into the not-so-fragrant tavern.
I watched Mr Pantagus and Juno swiftly put the coffin together again. Then my view was blocked by people stepping on to the platform and examining the coffin. Out of curiosity I too went to look, but it was empty and there was no sign of the Bone Magician or the girl. I looked around the screen and saw a door in the wall. I tried the handle, the door opened on to a staircase and I descended to another door at the bottom. I stepped out into the alley that ran down the side of the Nimble Finger. The Foedus was to my left, to my right the thoroughfare over the Bridge.
The alley was empty. In the fresh cold air I pondere
d what I had just seen and the answer I had been given. I could feel a resurgence of hope in my heart. Perhaps my father was still in the City after all. But with the hope came anxiety. If I did see him again, then I would find out the truth. But was that what I really wanted?
Chapter Fourteen
A Chance Encounter
Out on the street Pin took his hat from his pocket and pulled it down over his ears, then raised the collar of his coat to meet it. Unfortunately there was a deficit of material in the middle, leaving the back of his head exposed. The cold gripped his skull like a vice. The warmth of the ale and the inn were long gone.
‘I cannot stay out in this tonight,’ he thought. ‘I shall be dead before morning.’
Pin could not recall a winter this cold. Even the Foedus looked more sluggish than usual. He knew he had to keep moving. He set off, not knowing where he was going, but stumbled almost immediately on something hard underfoot. A potato. He hoped that it might be hot. This was not as unrealistic as it might sound. Many people carried hot potatoes in their pockets for warmth and, of course, ultimately to eat. But this was not cooked. It still had the earth clinging to it. And it was a most peculiar shape, greatly swollen at one end, tapering almost to a point at the other. Except for its dark red skin Pin might have thought it was a carrot.
‘I’ll be having that if you don’t mind.’
Pin looked around at the sound of the voice, but he could see no one.
‘Pardon?’ he said. Then he felt a tap on his lower back and looked down to see a short, in fact a very short, solid-bodied man looking up at him.
‘Oh,’ said Pin, for want of anything better to say, and handed over the potato.
The man took it and slipped it in his pocket. ‘Many thanks,’ he said, and he held out his right hand – in his left he had a pipe – and introduced himself, taking Pin’s hand with a firm grip. His palm felt rough and muddy.
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