The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors

by F. E. Higgins

  ‘Domna!’ she breathed. ‘He’s just freed a Lurid!’

  And behind her the pit surged and bubbled in a chorus of approval.

  CHAPTER 7

  REVELATION

  Citrine piloted her Trikuklos through the streets of Degringolade with a degree of recklessness that was most uncharacteristic. Her face was creased into an anxious frown and she was deep in thought. ‘Blast and bother it! What terrible, terrible cards! I almost wish I hadn’t gone.’

  A sudden cry and a violent jarring caused her to brake sharply and look in her mirror. There was a body lying in the gutter beside the Trikuklos.

  ‘Domna!’ She jumped down and ran over to the unmoving figure. Oblivious to the mud and detritus on the road she knelt down beside him. ‘Are you all right?’

  The fellow groaned and then sat up. ‘I think so,’ he replied. Citrine helped him to his feet, though he seemed more than capable of doing so himself. Once he was upright she was quite taken aback at his height and breadth. He was very much taller than she was and his shoulders were disarmingly broad. Even his own clothes seemed to strain at the seams. He wore a double-breasted dark pea coat with large turned-up lapels and, to Citrine’s surprise, the white toggles that fastened it appeared to be made from the teeth of an animal – evidently a very large animal.

  On his head he wore a hat that came low down the back of his neck and covered his ears. She could just see the glint of a gold earring through his black hair. His face was in shadow under the deep brim. He began to brush the dirt from his clothes with his large weather-beaten hands, and exposed a jagged tear in his trousers.

  ‘I am so dreadfully sorry,’ apologized Citrine, taking a step back. ‘It’s entirely my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’ve had such a wretched spread of cards, you understand . . . but, good gracious! Listen to me go on; that’s not your fault, of course. Are you injured in any way? I know an excellent physician, Dr Farquhar—’

  ‘No real damage done,’ said the fellow, backing off. He spoke slowly, rolling his rs, and Citrine now saw that he was not that much older than she. He picked up what looked like a long leather cylinder with a strap, akin to a bowman’s quiver, and shrugged it back on his shoulder. ‘All my timbers are in order.’

  ‘Your timbers?’

  ‘I mean, I am not hurt.’

  ‘You must allow me to take you home,’ she suggested. ‘It’s the least I can do. I have a Trikuklos.’

  He looked at her vehicle and shook his head. ‘There’s no need, miss. Worse things happen at sea.’

  Citrine was a little disconcerted at the lad’s apparent lack of concern for his well-being. ‘Oh dear, then, please, for my own peace of mind, let me give you a sequentury, as compensation for your clothes. Your trousers are torn, after all.’

  ‘All right, kew very much,’ he said after a brief pause, and, head bowed, he allowed Citrine to press a coin into his calloused palm.

  ‘And here’s your Brinepurse,’ said Citrine, stooping to pick it up from where it had fallen. He reached back to take it and hurried off, covering the ground quickly with long strides.

  ‘At least tell me your name,’ she called after him.

  ‘They call me Jonah Scrimshander.’

  ‘I’m Citrine,’ she began, but he was already gone. She climbed into the Trikuklos, still a little shaky from the encounter, and realized with dismay that her own Brinepurse was gone. The string had been cut. She looked down the empty street, but then remembered the other boy, the one outside Suma Dartson’s wagon and how he had brushed against her. She had thought it odd at the time and now she knew why.

  ‘Why, the cheek of the boy! Pretending to be interested in my Trikuklos to steal from me.’ She tutted. ‘So, the cards were right.’ She hoped that was the worst of it.

  Still mulling over the cards and the collision, Citrine pushed down hard on the pedalators and coasted silently up to the imposing white boundary wall of the Capodel Townhouse. It was one of the largest residences in Degringolade and stood out from the other houses on the hill just as the Kronometer stood out in Mercator Square. She hoped fervently that Edgar was still away. He strongly disapproved of her interest in the cards. As far as he was concerned, card-spreading was not the sort of skill a young lady of her standing should wish to acquire. Rich, educated people did not engage in such practices; they paid others to do it for them. If Edgar found out that she had been to visit Suma there was no telling what he might do. He had once threatened to lock her in her room. It was bad enough being confined to the house, without that as well.

  Citrine slipped inside and crept up the servants’ stairs to the main hall. It was a large open space with a galleried landing three-quarters of the way around it. The walls were hung with portraits of many generations of Capodels. Citrine looked up at the one of her mother. She did not remember her, she had died when Citrine was a baby, but she had inherited her vibrantly coloured hair and green eyes. Beside it was the most recent portrait, completed just before her father disappeared, of the three of them: Father, Citrine and Edgar. Edgar had the hint of a smile on his face; Citrine knew well that the artist had taken liberties with his sneer.

  Citrine worried sometimes that she might be growing immune to the wealth and luxury that surrounded her, taking it for granted. She thought of the sequentury she had given Jonah, the victim of her own carelessness, and felt guilty that she hadn’t offered more. She resolved to make it up to him if she ever saw him again. Then she caught sight of a royal-blue caped coat draped over the arm of one of the trio of French upholstered couches that were arranged around the fountain in the centre of the hall. Her frown was replaced with a smile of delight.

  ‘Florian’s here!’ She hurried down one of the broad corridors towards the drawing room but, hearing raised voices, she drew up short.

  The door into the drawing room was ajar and she could see two men inside. Florian Quince, a bespectacled older man, and her cousin Edgar, exquisitely dressed as usual, with a drink in hand (also as usual). Whatever she thought of his character, Citrine could not deny that Edgar was a handsome chap, with a square jaw, narrow nose and elegant brow. His dark hair was always in place and his eyes were an unusually attractive hazel. But there was an ever-present thin-lipped sneer on his face. Edgar had many admirers among the young girls of Degringolade – undoubtedly his wealth added to his attractiveness – but Citrine knew that he was too selfish to pay attention to any of them for long. Apart from himself, Edgar’s greatest love was for money.

  Edgar was talking stridently, in fact disrespectfully, to Florian. ‘Listen here, Quince, you’re just the company solicitor. I own Capodel Chemicals now and I run the Manufactory.’

  ‘True,’ continued Florian evenly, ‘but there are rumours in the city that you are gambling heavily, associating with undesirables and drinking. Your uncle would not have approved.’

  Citrine saw Edgar’s familiar shrug. ‘Rumours! They prove nanything. I have a dozen friends who would say they aren’t true. Besides, my private life is nothing to do with the business,’ he said. ‘And I’ll thank you not to come round here and start an argument you can’t win. Your time would be better spent sorting out Uncle Hubert’s will and handing over my share. Just declare him officially dead and let me claim my rightful inheritance at last.’

  Florian smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, I wondered when you would come to that.’

  So did I, thought Citrine from her hiding place. It’s all you’ve been talking about for the last month.

  ‘Edgar,’ said Florian, ‘you recall when you promised your uncle to give up gambling and drinking?’

  Edgar stopped mid-sip. ‘Yes, what of it?’

  ‘Well, I have proof, Depictions in fact, that you were inebriated at the card table in the Bonchance Club only last week.’

  Edgar’s face darkened. ‘Depictions? You mean images of me captured by one of those newfangled machines? Citrine has one. What’s it called again?’

  ‘A Klepteffigium.’ />
  ‘Yes, that’s it. Have you two been spying on me?’

  ‘Not I, but a reputable source. And I have been told that all is not well at the Manufactory.’

  Edgar snorted. ‘Oh, so you believe the word of a disloyal worker and a couple of Depictions over me? I am the rightful heir to the Capodel fortune, including the Manufactory, and I shall do with it as I wish.’

  ‘You forget the condition.’

  Edgar stiffened. ‘What condition?’

  ‘The condition in Hubert’s will that if you gamble, or drink to excess, you will forfeit your inheritance rights for five years. Citrine, naturally, will still inherit her share.’

  Edgar paled, visibly shocked.

  ‘Now, as you have reminded me so often, Hubert has been gone the requisite number of days to be declared legally dead. I will submit the papers to the Degringolade Office of Records tomorrow, and then we can meet to read the will.’

  ‘About time.’ Edgar took a large draught of his drink and it seemed to calm him somewhat, but Citrine could see that his hand was shaking. He shot a menacing look at Florian. ‘Hubert never said that condition was in the will. Domne! You sly old devil. You drew up the will. Did you tell him to do this?’

  Florian tapped the side of his nose and smiled. ‘Hubert knew his own mind. Of course, I will have to appoint someone to replace you at the Manufactory.’

  Edgar’s mouth dropped open. ‘No! You can’t!’

  Florian smiled. ‘I can and I will. It’s only for five years, Edgar. After that we can review the situation. Citrine’s money will be put in trust until she is older, but you will both have a very generous allowance and you may still live in the Capodel Townhouse.’

  ‘Get out!’ shouted Edgar. ‘Get out!’

  Citrine was not surprised at the ferocity of his anger. When Hubert had disappeared Edgar had taken over the reins at the Capodel Manufactory with embarrassing zeal, revelling in finally having complete control. Now it was all slipping away from him. No wonder he was so upset.

  She hid behind a pillar and saw Florian come out. Moments later she heard the front door close. Then Edgar emerged, his mouth set in a straight line, his jaw taut, clenching and unclenching his fists. He stomped past and Citrine followed him quietly to the hall. He had on his coat and hat.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, cousin?’ she asked innocently.

  Startled, Edgar whirled around. When he saw who it was he shot her a look of contempt. ‘Spread your precious cards if you wish to know how I am,’ he said nastily. ‘I have an appointment to keep.’ And he left, slamming the door behind him.

  Citrine drew back the curtain and watched as he climbed into his scarlet Phaeton and clattered out of the gates. She was suddenly gripped by a feeling of doom. She had met her thief. There were still two cards left.

  Edgar, what are you up to now? she wondered.

  CHAPTER 8

  A LUCKY FIND

  Outside the Caveat Emptorium, pondering the encounter with Leopold Kamptulicon, Vincent crossed the road and took shelter in the doorway of Claude Caballoux’s Horsemeat Shop. He fished in one of his many pockets for his smitelight, tapped it smartly against his leg and instantly it glowed brightly. In this glow – the same glow that had blinded the man almost a week ago – he examined the gas mask he had managed to conceal under his coat despite Wenceslas’s close observation. Vincent fully intended to pay a visit to the Tar Pit and to see these ‘Lurids’ for himself. He was quite sure they could not be anything other than an illusion created by the unusual properties of the tar, or a trick of the light played on the superstitious and gullible citizens of Degringolade. But the smell of tar was real enough.

  It’s like a pig’s head, thought Vincent, turning the mask over in his hand. Indeed, the porcine resemblance was quite striking. He pulled it down over his head and it enclosed his entire face. A wide glass lens covered the eyes, and from the centre projected a long ‘nose’ at the end of which was an oval filter. There was also a filter on each cheek. The whole contraption was kept in place with a strap that split around the ears and came together again at the base of the skull. Vincent saw that it did not fasten with a buckle, but instead each end of the strap was covered in a wad of rough material. When the two ends were laid on top of each other they formed a tight bond and had to be ripped apart with a degree of force. It was not a method of fastening that he had come across before. Using the fastener he attached the mask to his belt, alongside the pouch that held his treen picklocks. He tapped the smitelight again to extinguish it. It was without doubt the most useful thing he owned, and a tangible reminder of his father, who had given it to him.

  Vincent had not forgotten the silver chain around Kamptulicon’s neck or the lumps under the fingers of his glove, rings with large stones if he was not mistaken.

  Time to find out a little more about Mr Leopold Kamptulicon, he decided.

  He set off for Chicanery Lane, but it was not easy to blend in with the other pedestrians. Normally he would keep close to the walls but this proved impossible, mainly because of the amber touchstones. It also became quickly apparent to him that Degringoladians avoided stepping on cracks in the pavement. All this haphazard movement came as second nature to them, but Vincent succeeded only in drawing unwanted attention to himself by bumping into people. Eventually, concentrating hard, he achieved a sort of synchronized gait with the nimble pedestrians. He even began to touch his left shoulder intermittently, in order to blend in further.

  Chicanery Lane was reached via a series of ever-narrowing streets leading off a main road that ran south from Mercator Square. Kamptulicon’s shop was situated about halfway down the lane, indicated by a sign in the shape of a lantern projecting from the wall.

  The street was not well lit, the lamp posts were spaced far apart and the light cast was too poor to properly illuminate the lane. The acrid smell that pervaded the city was stronger here. And of course there was still that constant wailing.

  ‘I suppose that’ll be our friendly Lurids,’ Vincent said to himself, laughing.

  The area was grimly unattractive and the ongoing festival was not much in evidence. Here and there people had made half-hearted attempts to hang bunting between the lights, but already it was trailing on the ground. Vincent saw that each lamp post had a large oval badge screwed to it, stamped with the letters ‘LDTC’ – Leucer d’Avidus Tar Company, he guessed.

  Vincent peered cautiously through one side of the shop’s bow window. On a tiered display within was an assortment of lights of all sizes and shapes – brass lamps, glass lamps, hurricane lamps, candles, candle holders, candle snuffers, rope wicks and plaited wicks, glass globes, frosted globes and etched shades. On the highest tier of the display there were cans of tar, varying in price according to size and quality, but all stamped with the increasingly familiar LDTC logo.

  The display was dusty. Cobwebs stretched from handle to handle to spout to wick and back again, like a collection of little hammocks.

  Perhaps Kamptulicon has other pursuits to keep him busy, wondered Vincent presciently. The blind was down, the sign turned to ‘closed’. The interior was unlit and when he tried the door it was locked. Leopold Kamptulicon was not expecting customers.

  Vincent knocked and waited. Neither sound nor movement came from within the shop. He stepped on to the window ledge and reached up to the semicircular fanlight above the door. Sometimes these windows were neglected and came loose, but this was tightly shut. Undeterred, he set about examining the door. There were three locks.

  ‘Mysteriouser and mysteriouser,’ he mused. ‘What can this Mr Kamptulicon have to hide that requires such cautious security? Shame he didn’t reckon on Vincent Verdigris coming to town.’

  Vincent opened the pouch of treen on his belt and pulled out two long, narrow pins. He knelt in the shelter of the porch, inserted the pins into each lock and listened with satisfaction as they released one by one. Once inside the shop he locked the door behind him, but unhooked the window a
rm above, leaving it just loose enough to open from the outside. He noticed a three-legged frog over the door.

  ‘Another believer,’ he murmured. ‘Now, Leopold, show me your secrets.’

  By the glow of his smitelight Vincent could see no reason to think he was in anything other than a light shop. The counter was tidy, if dusty, with a stack of wrapping paper held down by a chunky paperweight. Scattered about the counter were small tins of Fulger’s Firestrikes – ignitable sticklets used for lighting fires – and on a shelf behind the counter were more cans of tar. Vincent oathed softly. He wasn’t used to coming away from a place empty-handed. He pocketed a couple of tins of firestrikes, just because they were there, and rounded the counter to take some tar. In doing so he tripped on the dog-eared corner of a rug. The rug folded over on itself, exposing a metal trapdoor.

  Much heartened by the discovery, Vincent pulled on the ring handle but the trapdoor didn’t budge. He looked for hinges – they could be unscrewed – or a padlock, but there was neither, only an irregular-shaped shallow hole stamped into the metal. He sat back on his heels for a minute, thinking. Something in his pocket was digging uncomfortably into his leg. Wenceslas’s acorn. He fished it out but to his surprise it was snatched straight from his hand as if by an invisible force and stuck fast to the trapdoor with a loud click. Of course! It was a magnetic lock, which could only be opened by the corresponding magnetic key.

  Vincent hoped that Kamptulicon had not taken the key with him but guessed that it would be hidden nearby. He prised off the acorn and pocketed it thoughtfully, then straightened and looked around. The paperweight on the counter stared back at him. I wonder . . . he thought. Hidden in plain sight?

  He took the paperweight and placed it in the shallow hole of the metal plate. It fitted perfectly. He gripped it firmly and turned it clockwise. There was a very soft scraping sound and the trapdoor eased, as if the pressure was off. Vincent pulled on the handle again and this time the trapdoor opened noiselessly. He shone his smitelight into the opening and saw a set of stone steps.