Mortlock

by Jon Mayhew

Aunt Mag stood motionless and silent. Then she inclined her head.

  ‘You have declared war, Josie Chrimes, and war you shall have,’ she hissed.

  Josie caught a flash of Aunt Mag’s black eyes. Then the ghul turned and strode back to the coach. Josie kept watching the creature until the coach door slammed shut.

  .

  .

  Here’s a piece of good advice

  I got from an old fishmonger:

  ‘If the food is scarce

  And you see the hearse,

  Then you know that you’ve died of hunger.’

  ‘Waxies’ Dargle’, traditional folk song

  .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Stranger in theStreet

  Wiggins insisted on bringing the funeral party back to his shop for ‘light refreshments’. Josie hadn’t felt hungry but Wiggins’s offer had touched her and so she and Gimlet agreed.

  Now they stood in silence, chewing cuts of pork pie and sipping tea.

  ‘So,’ Mr Wiggins said at last. ‘In addition to making the odd casket, you work in the theatre, Mr Gimlet.’

  ‘I make stage props, sir. I believe my grand title is “engineer”, but I’m really a humble carpenter.’

  ‘Wasn’t the good Lord himself?’ Wiggins set his cup down and pulled off his glasses to polish them. ‘Where would we poor undertakers be if there was nobody to make our coffins for us?’

  ‘I’ve made a few caskets and coffins in my time,’ Gimlet said. ‘Sowerberry was always a good customer, sadly no more.’

  ‘You knew Sowerberry, then?’ Wiggins nodded with approval. ‘A fine undertaker, a fine fellow all round . . .’

  Josie gave Alfie a despairing glance as Gimlet and Wiggins compared business contacts.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Alfie said through a mouthful of pork pie. A shower of crumbs fell from his lips.

  ‘Weren’t you taught any manners?’ Josie hissed, flicking a piece of pastry from her shoulder. The image of the stranger still stuck in her mind. ‘I saw him . . . at the funeral. The stranger!’

  ‘It’s those Aunts of yours I’d be worried about.’ Alfie sprayed again.

  ‘Cardamom said to destroy the Amarant. If that man is Mortlock, we have to speak to him.’

  ‘Yeah, he also said to beware of Mortlock. Anyway, why don’t you just tell Wiggins we’ve got to go?’ Alfie said. ‘You’re too lah-di-dah with yer manners and affectations sometimes.’

  ‘Too what?’ Josie clenched her fists. ‘Anyway, who says you’re coming?’

  ‘I do,’ Alfie said. ‘I’m kind of involved, you bein’ my sister an’ all. You didn’t complain when I helped you last night. Besides, your uncle said I could help, remember?’

  Josie narrowed her eyes at him. He was right. By coming to find him and telling him what had happened, she had dragged him into it. And he was right about Cardamom, too, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept this strange boy pushing his way into her life.

  She turned to Mr Wiggins, who was still holding forth.

  ‘Of course, Mr Mould was a fine undertaker but always had a tendency to look a little self-satisfied . . .’

  Josie put down her teacup and said, ‘Mr Wiggins, I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for us.’

  ‘The least I could do.’ Wiggins beamed. ‘Attention to detail, that’s the key. I’ve always believed that a good send-off is the last right of an Englishman. If you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a headstone – a simple affair but dignified. The stonemason owed me a favour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wiggins, you are too kind,’ Josie began. A dark figure scurried past the shop window, making Josie stop. ‘It’s him again,’ she gasped. ‘Mortlock.’

  Knocking the tea tray from the table, Josie charged out of the shop into the cold, barging through the crowd as the man hurried ahead of her. She could see his head sailing away above the sea of tattered hats and bonnets.

  ‘Wait! I want to talk to you!’ she yelled, pushing and elbowing through the grumbling pedestrians. She was closing on him!

  The stranger glanced back, wide-eyed, and broke into a clumsy jog. His coat-tails flickered inches from her grasp. Josie snatched at the velvet of his jacket pocket, her fingers gripping on something smooth, then she was suddenly thrown backwards on to the muddy street. A dull pain spread across her stomach and she gasped for breath. Apples, pears and a rather heavy cabbage bounced off her head. Dazed and winded, she looked up at a fruit and vegetable barrow blocking her view.

  ‘You all right, miss?’ a round, red-faced fruit seller said, peering down at her. ‘You wanna watch where yer goin’. Walked right into me barrow. Look at me lovely apples . . . ruined. Someone’ll ’ave to pay for them, y’know . . .’

  But Josie had stopped listening. She grinned in triumph at the business card she’d snagged from the man’s pocket. A small crowd gathered around her as she sat up, muddy water oozing through her skirts, her breath returning. Dirt smeared the name at the top, but Josie could read the address quite clearly:

  .

  The Emporium

  of

  Archaic Antiquities

  .

  ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS

  OBSCURE MAPS

  ARCANE ARTEFACTS

  .

  13 Jesmond Street

  .

  Gimlet and Alfie appeared, panting and pushing their way through the onlookers. They helped Josie to her feet as Mr Wiggins came puffing into the circle.

  ‘Mr Gimlet, I’m quite happy to put the girl up for as long as you want, providing she doesn’t insist on making a habit of smashing my best china and sitting in puddles in the street,’ he said, sliding his spectacles up his nose. ‘But I will not have her under my roof if she utters that man’s name in my presence again!’

  ‘But I’m sure it was him –’ Josie began to protest.

  Gimlet raised a hand, silencing her. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wiggins, she can be quite . . . high-spirited. Come on, Josie,’ Gimlet muttered. ‘Let’s get you in and cleaned up.’

  Back in Wiggins’s parlour, Josie dried herself off and changed her muddy clothes, then went down into the shop to the others. Wiggins had taken himself off to the back room to tidy up.

  ‘I presume there was a reason for that pantomime in the street,’ Gimlet murmured, raising one eyebrow at Josie.

  ‘It was the man who’s been watching me. I got this from him.’ Josie showed him the card. ‘We should pay this place a visit.’

  ‘Archaic . . . Anti . . . what?’ Alfie said, squinting at the card. ‘What kind of a place is that?’

  ‘The Emporium,’ Gimlet snorted, snatching the card. ‘Belongs to Evenyule Scrabsnitch, another charlatan. Sells “curiosities” to gullible country squires. So-called “ancient tomes” and stuffed “quirks of nature” – rabbits with six legs, two-headed piglets and the like. A total quack.’

  ‘Well, whoever that man was, he’s been there,’ Josie said. ‘Maybe this Scrabsnitch knows him. We need to start somewhere.’

  ‘Josie, Scrabsnitch is a crook. You can’t trust a word he says,’ Gimlet pleaded.

  ‘You seem very familiar with him.’ Alfie frowned, tucking his thumbs into his braces. Josie thought he looked a bit like Mr Wiggins.

  ‘I made some cabinets for him.’ Gimlet said, looking shamefaced. ‘A glass case that magnified some specimens, made them look more impressive than they were.’

  ‘Well, Mr Gimlet, it seems to me that you can’t go around callin’ people fake when it was you as helped them in the fakery!’ Alfie said, pointing an imperious finger.

  Gimlet started to say something but then pursed his lips and folded his arms.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, the corners of his mouth turning down. ‘But take anything Mr Scrabsnitch says with a sackful of salt, that’s all. We’ll get the pony and trap though. It’s a fair way to his shop in Jesmond Street.’

  A half-hour ride brought them near to their destination. Or as near as they coul
d get to Jesmond Street. The busy day was in full swing now and carriages and carts clogged the roadway. Horses whinnied, stamping and kicking up mud. Drivers cursed each other, trying to back up so that others could pass. The steam from the horses and the breath of the drivers mingled with the light mist left from the previous night’s thick fog. A peddler’s cart and a grand coach had become entangled, their wheels buckled together. A constant swarm of pedestrians edged around the vehicles, weaving in and out, tiptoeing over horse droppings and worse.

  ‘The city gets more and more clogged up,’ Gimlet said, jumping down and backing the trap up before it became mired in the crush. They found a quiet side street and tied up the pony.

  ‘It’ll take some time to untangle that mess,’ Josie said as they entered Jesmond Street on foot.

  ‘Mr Wiggins says that one day we’ll all travel in tunnels under the streets. There’s a man in Parliament who wants to make underground railways,’ Alfie said.

  ‘I doubt that’ll happen,’ Gimlet called back. ‘The city would be choked with the smoke from the engines below.’

  ‘Something’s got to be done.’ Josie frowned as she forced herself between two portly gents. ‘Number thirteen, there it is.’

  Scrabsnitch’s Emporium of Archaic Antiquities stood out of the row of shops like a tramp at a society wedding. The other shopfronts were polished and well kept, produce hanging in the windows in uniform rows. The emporium wedged itself between them, paint peeling from the window frames, the panes of glass grimed and opaque. Its pointed frontage poked up higher than the other buildings and leaned forward alarmingly, as if it might crash into the seething street below. Josie wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I told you,’ Gimlet said, rolling his eyes heavenward. ‘Don’t expect too much here.’

  A dull metallic clank heralded their arrival as they heaved open the door. Josie looked up to see a rusty bell. She caught Alfie’s eye. It was a far cry from the polished professionalism of Wiggins the Undertaker.

  The inside of the shop was vast; it reminded Josie of a church or maybe a library. Bookshelves lined the walls, disappearing up into the shadows near the ceiling. Display cases stood in rows and piles of books and papers, stuffed animals and various articles of junk cluttered every surface. Old chairs and dull suits of armour were dotted about the room. A thick layer of dust coated everything. A few dim gaslights illuminated parts of the space and a feeble light struggled through the begrimed windows.

  ‘There’s the old faker,’ Gimlet said, nodding across the cavernous room.

  In a far corner, a high-backed armchair housed a grey old man. He was dressed in a silk smoking jacket and a matching pillbox hat. The gown had once been a deep crimson, Josie could tell, but it had faded with age. Blossoming trees swirled across the painted silk and colourful parrots sat on their branches. The old man’s face was shrouded in the frizzy grey beard and grey hair that exploded from under his hat. But Josie recognised his eyes. It was the watcher.

  ‘Mr Gimlet,’ he said, pointing at them with his long-stemmed pipe. ‘And the two youngsters. I’ve been expecting you.’

  .

  .

  Amarantus flos, sym’bolum est immortalitatis.

  Clement of Alexandria

  .

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Evenyule Scrabsnitch

  Josie frowned at the stranger in the fancy smoking jacket. ‘You’re not Sebastian Mortlock?’ She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. That would have been one piece of this puzzle in place. Now she had a new piece to fit.

  He flinched at the name, looking nonplussed, then gave an embarrassed cough. ‘My name is Scrabsnitch, Evenyule Scrabsnitch, purveyor of mystery and antiquity –’

  ‘Give over, Ted,’ Gimlet snorted, but the man’s expression did not change.

  ‘Ted?’ Josie repeated, frowning.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by that Evenyule nonsense. He uses a false name to impress the village idiots who visit this place,’ Gimlet murmured. ‘His real name is Ted, Ted Oliver, and he wasn’t expecting us.’

  ‘Believe what you want, Gimlet.’ Scrabsnitch waved a bony hand. ‘I was expecting you, once I realised the young lady had snatched a card from my pocket.’

  ‘Hardly second sight, then, Ted,’ Gimlet said, folding his arms. ‘Now, perhaps you can explain why you’ve been following Josie all this time.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to approach you,’ Scrabsnitch said, peering up at her through bushy eyebrows, his shoulders slumping, ‘and your guardian before . . . he passed away. But I was wary of the company you’ve been keeping.’

  Gimlet strode forward, grabbed the old man’s lapels and pulled him up out of the chair. Josie thought he was going to hit him. The old man hung from Gimlet’s powerful grasp, dropping his pipe.

  ‘What do you know about them?’ Gimlet snarled.

  ‘No more than I’ve observed! Put me down.’ Scrabsnitch waved his arms and kicked his feet in the air as Gimlet lowered him to the ground.

  ‘Gimlet! You’re too rough,’ Josie said and laid a reassuring hand on Scrabsnitch’s arm. ‘You must forgive my friend, Mr Scrabsnitch. He’s had a difficult time recently, as have we all.’

  ‘Here you are, mister.’ Alfie rescued the man’s pipe from the floor, while stamping out a smouldering fire that had struck up on the dry carpet.

  ‘I knew your guardian well, Josie Chrimes,’ Scrabsnitch said, his voice shaky as he settled himself back into the chair. ‘Besides, I used to visit the Erato every night. I loved your act and Cardamom was such a magician.’

  Josie couldn’t help smiling. It seemed like an eternity since she’d last performed onstage. It had been in another world, another time.

  ‘He used to frequent my shop often in the old days, with Sebastian Mortlock.’ Scrabsnitch seemed to shiver. ‘Cardamom and Mortlock came here, spending Lord Corvis’s money.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I could never pass any fakes off on them. More recently, I received this from your guardian. He gave it to me for safe keeping, he said.’

  Scrabsnitch swept aside piles of papers with his skinny arm, and a vase shattered on the floor as he thumped a large package down. Josie, Alfie and Gimlet coughed and spluttered on the dust that mushroomed up from the documents.

  ‘Gave it to you?’ Gimlet snorted.

  ‘He trusted me, Gimlet. Cardamom was never one to stand in judgement against people. He knew he could rely on me as serious scholar of the arcane. A kindred spirit almost.’

  ‘Serious scholar.’ Gimlet sneered once more.

  ‘Judge for yourself, Josie,’ Scrabsnitch said, ignoring Gimlet. ‘Is the packaging tampered with? Are any seals broken? Once he left the package, he stopped coming to the shop. I was worried about him but whenever I approached him, he had company . . .’

  ‘I saw you at the theatre.’ Josie nodded. ‘And then at the house.’

  ‘I didn’t know Edwin was in quite such mortal danger or I’d have acted differently. When I heard he had died, I knew I had to let you know about this parcel, but again, finding the right time was difficult.’ He looked over at Gimlet. ‘Some folk don’t trust me the way your guardian did.’

  Gimlet gave another snort and sauntered over to the window to look out at the chaos in the street. ‘I’ll keep a close eye out here, Josie – watch out for any unwelcome visitors.’

  Josie looked at the brown paper parcel. It seemed intact. She ripped into the packaging and drew a breath.

  Letters, maps and charts spilled on to the table. Beneath them lay a leather-bound book. She picked it up and ran her finger across the gold lettering on the cover: Sebastian Mortlock’s Journal.

  ‘They’ve all got Mortlock’s name on them,’ Josie said, her voice faint as she turned over envelopes and sheets of paper. ‘They must’ve belonged to him . . .’

  ‘Your guardian acquired these around the time of Mortlock’s disappearance, it seems. For some reason, he moved them here a matter of weeks ago,’ Scrabsnitch sai
d. ‘He must have felt they were important.’

  Josie sat down at the table and opened the book. Before she could start reading, Alfie unrolled a map, its corner poking over the book.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she hissed, flicking the map aside.

  ‘But look, it says AB-YSS-IN-IA . . . Abyssinia.’ Alfie’s eyes widened. ‘And look at that.’

  Josie leaned over the hand-drawn map, scanning over the foreign names, the pale blue splodges for waterholes and confusing lines and numbers. But right in the centre lay a green mass and, at the heart of that, a red spot with the word Amarant printed in shaky script beside it.

  ‘Then they did find it,’ Josie whispered. It made sense. Why else would they have this map?

  ‘This Amarant, have you heard of it?’ Alfie said, perching himself on the edge of a rickety table and staring boldly at Scrabsnitch.

  ‘There is a plant called the Amarant. It exists. An ordinary flower, but the ancient Greeks believed it blossomed for ever.’ Evenyule Scrabsnitch ran bony fingers through his tangle of hair. ‘They associated it with Artemis and Diana, the Greek and Roman goddesses of the hunt.’

  ‘Artemis, that’s the stage name Cardamom gave me,’ Josie said.

  ‘Maybe the Amarant was in his mind, young lady. Your uncanny accuracy with all manner of missiles would make you a queen of the hunt. The link would not be lost on Cardamom, I assure you. Milton also mentions the Amarant in his epic poem Paradise Lost – a strange and dangerous bloom indeed.’

  Josie sat forward and listened intently. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The Flower of Life.’ Scrabsnitch’s voice had fallen to a whisper. ‘The first flower in the Garden of Eden, blessed by the Lord to give any who held it power over life and death. Many men have died searching for it.’

  ‘And because of it,’ Josie sighed, looking back to the journal.

  It is agreed. We depart for Abyssinia on 20 July 1819. Corvis is generously funding the expedition. Chrimes complains about the heat before we have even embarked! Imagine: to find the Flower of Life. To have the power over life and death itself!