The Curse of Salamander Street

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Look at me, Jacob, look at me. These are not lies, Jacob. He is dead. Believe me.’ Galphus looked at Crane as he turned his head to the side.

  ‘Then you killed him and I will not rest until I have seen him for myself.’

  ‘I would advise you as a friend to remember him in life,’ Galphus said slowly as he breathed deeply. ‘He fell from the tower, Jacob, and like any Jack has broken his crown.’

  ‘You lie, I know you lie,’ Crane said as he felt for the knife on his belt. ‘I will see him and speak to any who saw him fall. One hint of treachery and I will split your face from ear to ear.’

  ‘And I will willingly allow you to do it. Look at me, Jacob. There is no treachery here. It was an accident. You can speak to anyone.’

  Crane was taken aback. He looked at the guards and then to Galphus, unsure what to believe.

  ‘So he’s dead?’ he asked, dropping his hand from the handle of his knife. ‘Fell? From the tower? How?’ Crane spoke as if the possibility of such a thing taking place began to simmer truthfulness.

  ‘He was looking across the city, he slipped and was gone.’ Galphus sighed at each word as if he were the grieving father. ‘Such promise, such a waste of life.’

  ‘Then I will see him. Who was he with?’ Crane asked.

  ‘It was I,’ smiled the young Druggle as he slyly doffed his cap. ‘I will never live with myself. I should have …’

  ‘What we all should have done in life is not to be wept over,’ Galphus said. ‘I have taken the steps of providing him a place of rest in our garden. It’s the least we can do.’

  ‘I should take him back to Whitby, bury him there,’ Crane said as he thought of the night they stood on the headland and the world stood still. ‘It’s near to his home.’

  ‘Unless he was salted or waxed it would not be wise to do such a thing, better leave him to us. Take Mister Crane and show Thomas to him,’ Galphus commanded.

  ‘It’s not possible, an accident?’ Crane murmured, his heart still not believing what he had been told.

  Crane followed on like a broken horse. He walked the dark corridors of the factory two paces behind the guard. All the while he thought of Thomas, and of how men are made by the lives they lived and the hurts they carried. Crane felt bitterness in his heart, it tainted his mouth and he could smell its stench as he breathed. He couldn’t believe Thomas was dead and yet everything around him spoke of death.

  They stopped at a small broken door that led into a narrow room. Inside was a table, and upon it the body of a boy covered in an old blanket. The light was dim, barely above the gloom.

  ‘Let me see him,’ Crane said, breathing heavily and squeezing his hands into fists.

  ‘There’s not much to see,’ the guard said as he lifted the blanket from the lad’s face.

  In the darkened room, Crane looked at the bloodied corpse. There was the lad he knew so well. The body was draped in a shawl so that all he could see was what remained of the head. He could barely see any of its features; the face was battered beyond recognition. For a second, Crane thought it didn’t look like Thomas. He stepped closer, only to be pulled back by the Druggle.

  ‘Galphus would not want you to touch him,’ the Druggle said. ‘He has been prepared for the burial and the balm would poison you.’

  Crane wished that for one moment he would be able to see Thomas’s smile again. Taking the knife from his coat he cut a lock of the lad’s hair, twisted it into a knot and buried it deep in his pocket. He closed his eyes and bit hard upon his lip. He was lost for the words that his heart cried out for him to say.

  Footsteps came from the corridor and Galphus stood by the doorway.

  ‘Look at me, Jacob, look at me … All I can say is sorry.’ He held out a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘His clothing and all that was his.’ Galphus said sombrely as his eye twitched and blinked. ‘We will say goodbye to him at dawn. Join us Jacob, bring Pallium and the girl – you were his family, you should be there.’

  Crane nodded, his hand clutching the lock of hair. ‘I’ve seen many die and killed a few myself. Never thought I would ever feel this way. He was a good lad. Doesn’t feel like he’s dead. Didn’t seem like him.’ Crane tried to smile at Galphus.

  ‘It is Thomas – there has been no other death today. Look at me, Jacob. Grief makes the mind bleary, after the funeral it will all make sense.’

  ‘I had you for a different man, Mister Galphus. Could have killed you myself when I came here. Now I know you’re a man of good intent. Forgive me,’ Crane said as if bewitched or mesmerised and finding the words hard to speak.

  ‘Forgiveness is never necessary and too esteemed. This is just life and we are but men.’

  Irrefragable Mister Ergott

  AN hour later, the moon still burnt brightly. Beadle stood in the doorway of the inn as the hall emptied of people. They all were desperate for sleep, heavy-eyed sluggards wanting to rest but fearful of the night. None of them dared go to their rooms alone. Two by two they dwindled away, agreeing to share their lodgings to be safe from the beast. Twenty of the Militia had taken to the road and set off on foot to scour the hills in search of the hell-hound. They had taken lanterns and muskets and every hound they could find, leaving the inn with out defence. Lady Tanville sat by the fire, Barghast to one side, now totally recovered. Raphah walked the courtyard in the moonlight, looking at the stars and thinking of home.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Beadle as he came near. ‘Do you think it was a dog from the hills?’

  ‘Was a creature, but not one that this world knows much of,’ Raphah said, only half-thinking of his reply, his mind caught up with what had happened. ‘It was the beast that attacked you at the tree. I saw the look of its red eyes and knew.’

  ‘Will it come back?’ Beadle asked.

  ‘Has it ever gone away?’ Raphah replied as he strode towards the door and barged past him into the inn. ‘Who was it?’ he asked Barghast as he approached the fire and turned to warm himself.

  ‘It wanted to kill me, I could tell,’ Tanville said as she looked anxiously about her for fear of the beast’s return. ‘It came in through the window.’

  ‘It left by the window, but I am not sure if it came that way,’ Raphah said.

  ‘Then how else did it come?’ Barghast asked.

  ‘The door,’ he replied

  ‘Opened the door with its clawed hands?’ Barghast jested.

  ‘You are one to speak of such things – how would you do it?’ Raphah asked, knowing he betrayed the confidence.

  ‘It’s not possible even to dream such a thing,’ Barghast said as he got to his feet. ‘No one can change from man to beast.’

  ‘What?’ asked Tanville unsure as to what was being said.

  ‘The creature was a changeling, someone who can turn into an animal at will. Someone who wished either to frighten or kill you,’ Raphah said as Barghast stared at him, not wanting him to say any more.

  ‘I agree with Barghast. No such thing,’ Lady Tanville said, the thought of a changeling shuddering her mind. ‘It was a dog from the moor, that’s all. Why should it want to kill me?’

  ‘Perhaps it has some interest in this quest of yours to find your sister in London,’ Raphah said.

  ‘My private affairs are of no concern in this matter,’ she said, most discontent that he should talk of such a thing. ‘It was a hound. Something from the fell. There are legends of these creatures throughout the north. This is not an uncommon belief. It is not a man who can change into a wolf – that is for fairytales.’ She said this hopefully, as if speaking to convince herself. ‘It was just the savage hound, nothing more.’

  ‘When the hound struck, who didn’t you see?’ Raphah asked her.

  ‘Mister Ergott, Mister Shrume and Bragg, I never saw them,’ she said as she thought of who had not been in the passageway. ‘But the inn is full of people from all parts of the land – why do you ask?’

  ‘Then we visit Mister Ergott,
Mister Shrume and Bragg. They’re in rooms next to yours, are they not?’ Barghast asked, showing more belief that the beast might be a changeling. He got to his feet and ran to the stairs. ‘Come Raphah, let us see if one of them is the beast.’

  Barghast ran up the stairs and Raphah followed. Lady Tanville prodded Beadle, who eyed the world like a harvest mouse woken at Christmas, and eventually they followed. By the time they had climbed the stairs and crossed the landing, Raphah and Barghast were at the door of a room and were listening intently.

  Barghast turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open. It slid silently ajar. Upon a table in the corner was a candle. It flickered as the drapes moved in the wind. The room was dark. There was the stench of blood and the faint odour of a dog. Upon the bed lay Mister Shrume. Barghast took a pace closer, stopped and then turned to them.

  ‘No further, Lady Chilnam. We’re an hour too late,’ he said. Shrume was dead and lay in a pool of blood. ‘It was the beast.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Raphah asked, looking about as if the creature still lurked in the room.

  ‘See for yourself, there is no question of it. We must find Mister Ergott and then Bragg.’

  ‘What kind of a beast are we looking for – a fat one?’ Beadle asked under his breath.

  ‘A beast that snaps the necks from the living and then makes off into the night, Beadle. A beast that would make a meal of you and take you like a morsel,’ said Barghast as he examined the body closely. ‘He died instantly. Strangely, he was not killed here, but by the window. His body is arranged like a Viking funeral.’

  From the high fell came the crying of a beast that called out to the moon, howling like a lost wolf. It cried as if it searched for others of its kind.

  ‘Black Shuck?’ asked Lady Tanville, as the vision of the creature from her room burnt in her mind. Beadle hid behind her, not wanting to see anything.

  ‘The creature is closer than that. He will show himself by his surprise to see me alive,’ replied Barghast as they left the room and walked along he corridor.

  It was Raphah who was the first to enter the room of Mister Ergott. All was neat and clean, the bed unruffled. Taking a tinderbox, he lit the candle, shut the open window and cast the bolt in place. He took a moment to look through the glass, across the moat and towards the fell. The cry of the dog came again, this time closer. It was as if it called from the thick wood. ‘It gets nearer,’ he said softly as he tried to make out the flickering lights upon the moors.

  Raphah chided himself for thinking the worst of Barghast. Suspicion and mistrust had covered his eyes. His looks alone had made Raphah feel that Barghast was baptised in wickedness – the gaunt white face and searing blue eyes, capped with a mop of jagged white hair, were everything Raphah had come to despise. In knowing Barghast, Raphah had lost his suspicion. He had thought him to be a threat, an enemy, a stalker with a heart of misdeeds. Now he saw him as a lost traveller, a wayfarer like himself.

  ‘The Militia search the moors,’ Raphah said.

  ‘And we are alone,’ said Lady Tanville anxiously as she and Beadle stayed close by each other. Beadle gently held her hand, more for his own comfort than hers.

  ‘All we need see now is Mister Bragg. If he is there, then it is Ergott who is our devil-hound,’ Barghast said.

  ‘Don’t like Ergott,’ Beadle sniffed. ‘Said I were ugly, as ugly as a dog.’

  ‘Then he only sees the condition of his own heart and not how you are truly seen,’ Lady Tanville said.

  ‘I go first, Raphah,’ Barghast said as they left the room and went along the passageway.

  As they approached the door they could hear the sound of talking. Bragg was boasting to himself. In one breath he sang and with another other he scolded. He was drunk, and from the noise that came from within he was trying to get even drunker.

  ‘Worse than a fool is a drunken fool,’ Lady Tanville said, following the procession closer to the door.

  ‘But at least it will loosen his tongue. Leave us and we’ll talk with him. Watch the door and beat upon it should Ergott return,’ Raphah said.

  ‘You leave us here, alone, with a mad dog roaming the inn?’ Beadle asked nervously. ‘Rather face Demurral,’ he said, forgetting who was with him.

  ‘It is you …’ Barghast said, as if he knew of Beadle from long ago. ‘I have been searching my mind as to when and where I saw you before. A face like yours should never have been forgotten. My mind must vex me in my dotage.’ He pointed at Beadle with a long finger. ‘The servant of the master, of course …’

  ‘Can’t say I remember you,’ Beadle stammered, knowing full well of the night that Barghast spoke of.

  It had been ten years before. Demurral had grown in his desires to follow his dark heart. Beadle had grown a beard and long whiskers. He had seen a picture on a rum bottle of an old sea-hawker. The man had beard and chin-wings, which Beadle thought gave him charm; they were waxed and looked like the tusks of some great ocean pig. In the weeks that followed Beadle had grown the beard, even though it came to contain more food than his platter and became the nesting place for several earwigs and a host of fleas. He had waxed and curled it until he looked like a mad sow with deranged spikes of bristle. The dark hairs made his eyes stand out as if they were on stalks and hid his jowls so that he looked like a walrus.

  It was the eve of the summer and the night was light even though the hour was late. As he had answered the ringing of the bell, the long clock had chimed the quarter hour after eleven. The sun had set beyond the sea at Whitby and a red glow engulfed the whole of Baytown.

  The visitor had called and demanded to see Demurral. Beadle now knew the man to be Barghast. He had called unannounced and entered the house without being made welcome. He had sat in Demurral’s own chair. Whilst waiting he had lit the fire and poured himself a glass of wine. All this he had done as Beadle had scurried forth for the master.

  What had then taken place had mystified Beadle since that day. Demurral had gone into the study and had bowed to the man, taking great care not to look him in the eye. The visitor didn’t speak but held out his hand as if to receive a gift. In return, Demurral had gone to his safe-chest, taken out a silk bag and placed it in the man’s hand. The man had then finished his wine, nodded to the parson and walked out without any farewell.

  No mention was ever made of the strange transaction. Later that night, as the moon had risen from the sea, Beadle had listened at the chamber door as Demurral had sobbed like a child. He had been troubled for his master, knowing that something was deeply wrong. Even though in his heart he despised the man, it pained him to hear him blubbering. Beadle had thought of the times when he had been left to cry. Even though Demurral had beaten and scolded him, all that Beadle desired was to open the door and show him some kindness. Yet it had been from that night that Demurral had changed. In handing the silk bag to Barghast it was as if he had become like a madman, and Demurral cried out of anger for the giving of a possession to someone more powerful than he.

  ‘You must remember me?’ Barghast asked again quietly as they stood outside Bragg’s door.

  ‘I haven’t the memory to bring these things to mind,’ Beadle said as he looked away.

  Raphah tapped upon Bragg’s door. Not waiting to be summonsed within he pushed the handle as he and Barghast stepped inside.

  ‘Mister Bragg,’ he said loudly. ‘We thought by your conversation you were entertaining.’

  Bragg was slumped in the chair by the fire, a flagon of wine by his side and a half-pint mug in his hand. He was slow to look up from the flames, as if he cared not who spoke to him.

  ‘Ah, Barghast – fresh from the hunt. What news of the beast that stalks our lives? Is it the one at Galilee Rocks?’ Bragg said as he sipped his wine.

  ‘Neither,’ Barghast replied. ‘Shrume is dead. Killed like a farmyard chicken, not fifty feet from this room.’

  ‘Dead? How can he be dead? I heard nothing. I have sat by the fire and entertained mys
elf. Since the hound ran from the inn all has been quiet,’ Bragg said.

  ‘And what of Ergott? We need to question him,’ Raphah said.

  ‘Who could have done such a thing?’ Bragg replied, ignoring Raphah and looking to Barghast.

  ‘Why do you travel to London?’ Barghast asked.

  ‘I am a collector of fine objects, and I take something to a customer. He buys many things from me and I offer a personal service. Why should this concern you?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you know Mister Shrume before the journey.’ Raphah insisted.

  ‘You should keep better company, Mister Barghast. There is a curse on the Ethio’s head. Remember – he was the one who sat in Ord Vackan’s chair. Look what has happened since. You vanished, Lady Chilnam attacked, Shrume dead and Ergott nowhere to be found.’

  ‘Ergott? Did I say Ergott?’ Barghast asked Bragg. ‘I only mentioned Mister Shrume.’

  ‘A mistake, a presumption, a conjecture, a …’ Bragg flustered and sweated before the fire. ‘So Shrume is dead – the tragedy … Who will be next?’ He gulped his wine eagerly and tore off chunks of bread from a loaf. He swallowed hard as his eyes flicked like a snake from Barghast to Raphah and then to the window.

  From the high fell came the calling of the hound. It cried to the moon as it ran.

  ‘There, that’s your hound. Came from the hills, Black Shuck, got in through Lady Tanville’s window and did the deed. You know what you’ll have to do. Bury Shrume before dawn, face-down or he’ll be back. Once a hell-hound has killed you then you’ll return – you of all people should know that, Mister Barghast. A man of your travels will have heard every tale.’ Bragg rambled, his piggy eyes widened to the rims.

  ‘That’s all they are, fireside tales,’ Barghast said.

  ‘Look at what’s happened since the Ethio joined us. Hell has come a-calling. We should make him walk to London. Don’t want to travel with a Jonah on the carriage. Who’d be next? There’s too much good eating on me and whatever is following us has only appeared since he arrived.’