House of Many Doors

by Ian Richards

  A light was on in the window of The Gnarled Wand. Tony could see it from his bedroom: the faint flicker of candlelight thrown up against the dirty windows.

  Ebenezer and Trina were still up.

  Interesting. Ebenezer was an expert on magic. Trina was a would-be fortune teller with a line in palmistry. Who better to ask about midnight auctions?

  There was nothing else for it. He got dressed.

  *

  The night was as cool as a graveyard. Tony slipped out silently and made his way towards the flickering windows of The Gnarled Wand. Around him the shops of Dover Street stood pale and ghostly in the moonlight, a row of old faces, their closed-curtain eyes oblivious as he picked his way across the silver cobbles, leaving clouds of breath trailing in his wake. Outside the entrance to the shop he rapped his knuckles softly on the door. There was a pause, and then the face of Ebenezer appeared at the window, peering out at him with wide, terrified eyes.

  The door was unbolted in seconds.

  ‘Tony. What are you doing here? It’s after midnight.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, Ebenezer. I saw your light on and thought that you and Trina might still be up. Can I come in for a bit?’

  Though Tony was friendly with both his neighbors—it was thanks to Trina and Ebenezer that by the age of ten he could disappear a coin better than most professional magicians—he noticed at once that something was different about Ebenezer tonight. There was no welcome for one, no friendly smile, no invitation into the shop. Instead Ebenezer looked pale and frightened. His eyes seemed to be imploring Tony to understand some hidden message. Go. Go now. Before it’s too late.

  ‘Who the devil is knocking at this time of night?’

  The voice came from inside the shop: a big, booming baritone that made Tony raise his eyebrows in surprise. Before Ebenezer could explain himself Sir Roderick sauntered into view and shoved the bookseller aside. He peered down at Tony with a contemptuous scowl.

  ‘Who on earth are you?’

  ‘Tony Lott,’ said Tony. ‘I live across the street. Who are you?’

  ‘Who am I?’ the man spluttered. ‘I, young lad, am Sir Roderick Black. And if that doesn’t have you quaking in your boots I don’t know what will.’

  Tony stared back at him blankly. Before he could say anything in response, Ebenezer broke in. ‘Tony, I’m busy tonight, I’m afraid. Why don’t you come back in the morning? We can have a chat then, all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ blasted Sir Roderick. ‘Run along, you little whelp. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.’

  The flush of anger in Tony’s cheeks was visible even in the moonlight. Sir Roderick, who was well practiced in the art of offending people, noticed at once and laughed triumphantly.

  ‘What’s the matter, scruff? Were you hoping for a dinner date with Snout’s wife? Because if I were you I wouldn’t bother. She’s the worst hostess I’ve ever encountered.’ He turned to Ebenezer and added, not unkindly, ‘Marvelous rack, though. You’ve done well for yourself on that count at least.’

  Even when making an aside Sir Roderick’s voice was loud and brash. Tony knew he should do as Ebenezer suggested and come back in the morning, but there was something so offensive and self-satisfied about the bearded face smirking over him that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  ‘I wanted information, Ebenezer’ he said, deliberately ignoring Sir Roderick. ‘About this auction Martell is going to on Saturday night.’

  ‘Are you deaf, boy?’ Sir Roderick cracked his knuckles and prodded a thick finger into Tony’s chest. ‘I told you to leave. Snout is helping me tonight, not you.’

  Suddenly he paused; his eyes flashed with suspicion.

  ‘Hold on a moment. What did you just say?’

  At once Tony knew he had made a mistake. There was a seriousness about Sir Roderick now, a dark intensity that hadn’t been present a few moments ago. He felt his stomach sink. From the way Sir Roderick was staring at him—a hungry, predatory curiosity—he knew that he had said too much. Shivering in the cold, he waited for the brute’s hand to reach out and seize him by the throat.

  Instead Sir Roderick clasped him on the shoulder and pulled him into the warmth of the bookshop. ‘You’re going to the auction?’ he laughed. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?’

  He patted Tony firmly on the back—hard enough to send him stumbling forward—then marched back to his armchair, slumped back dramatically, and finished off his most recent glass of wine.

  ‘You’re going to it too then?’ said Tony. ‘The auction, I mean.’

  ‘Going to it?’ replied Sir Roderick. ‘I should certainly think so, boy. Where else am I going to sell this?’

  Tony hadn’t time to catch his breath before the knife struck into the wall beside him, where it remained, quivering almost as much as Ebenezer.

  4 - The Black Magician Of Dover Street

  A short while later, once Sir Roderick had retrieved his knife from the wall and Tony had started breathing again—for a good thirty seconds he had remained pinned to the wall, as if the knife had actually stuck him there—the two of them sat together in corner of The Gnarled Wand and began an earnest discussion about the wonders of midnight auctions. The towering bookcases and flickering candles surrounding them instilled a menacing atmosphere that was only lessened when Ebenezer arrived with hot chocolate and a pack of digestive biscuits. Though Sir Roderick groaned aloud at this—‘Hot chocolate? Give the boy a whiskey, for goodness sake’—he nonetheless helped himself to a handful of biscuits before continuing.

  ‘Where were we? Ah yes, the auction. And my knife. Isn’t it amazing? When the hammer comes down on this little beauty I’ll be richer than you could possibly imagine. This time next week it’ll be back to the high life for good old Sir Roderick, you mark my words, Tony Lott. Maids. Manservants. The whole shebang.’

  Trina and Ebenezer hovered nervously on the periphery, unwilling to leave the boy alone in such frightful company, but reluctant to come any closer. Eventually Sir Roderick grew tired of their lurking and ordered them to pull up armchairs, too. ‘If you’re going to listen in you can at least have the decency to sit down first. All that standing about is making me uneasy.’

  They obeyed the instruction. And though each believed they were only doing so to protect Tony, neither could deny that they weren’t ever so slightly interested to hear what Sir Roderick had to say, too.

  That was the way it was with midnight auctions.

  They drew you in even if you didn’t want anything to do with them.

  ‘This weekend,’ Sir Roderick began, ‘a modest auction house will open its doors to some of the most fantastically wicked men and women to have ever lived. You’ve seen the knife I’m submitting for the auction. It’s a pretty piece, there’s no doubting that. It was used in ritual sacrifices originally. Some mumbo-jumbo death cult from Ancient Egypt, I think. I dare say this little blade has had more virgins on the end of it than I have.’

  Trina cleared her throat, but Sir Roderick either didn’t notice or chose not to.

  ‘Of course, when you’ve got something from the nastier side of history on your hands, something that would only really appeal to specialists or collectors, there’s nowhere else to go but a midnight auction. They’re wonderful occasions—without doubt the greatest events of the calendar year. The only thing that can possibly compare is a wild night of wine and women at Madame Chloe’s Go-Go club in Paris, and—’ He frowned. ‘How old are you, boy?’

  ‘Twelve,’ Tony answered.

  ‘Twelve.’ Sir Roderick looked to Trina, who shook her head.

  ‘No? Are you sure? When I was twelve I had … Oh, very well. Now as I’m sure you know already, midnight auctions only take place once a year—always at Halloween and always at midnight. My first was some twenty-five years ago. I was just a pup back then but I’d heard all about them from my grandfather, Sir Reginald. He had a big interest in the occult. His childhood sweetheart had died of TB and he was f
orever trying to bring her back from the dead. Fortunately it never worked—which is just as well, I say. I don’t think Grandma Ethel would have taken too kindly to being usurped by a reanimated corpse. She had a foul temper at the best of times.’

  Sir Roderick glugged some more wine. ‘For the most part my first auction was a fairly subdued affair. As I recall most of the sales were books. I’d imagine you’d have found it thrilling, Snout. But every midnight auction I’ve been to since has been brimming with mystery and danger. I haven’t missed a single one in the last twenty five years.’

  Tony caught his breath. ‘And you remember them all?’

  ‘Of course I do. Well, last Halloween was a bit of a blur, but that’s vintage champagne for you, I suppose.’

  It was what he had been hoping for. An eyewitness to the auction his father and Martell had attended—somebody who could fill in the gaps in the story. Yet now he had the truth in front of him he felt afraid. A giddy, nervous sensation wracked his stomach, as if he were standing on the edge of a perilous cliff rather than sitting quietly in a darkened bookshop. Instinctively he looked to the surrounding shelves, as if hoping to find reassurance in the presence of Ebenezer’s books—items of substance—physical things that could be touched and held and weighed. The titles that threw themselves at him offered only horror and damnation. Demons & Devils. The Black Locke. It was as if they were warnings, reminders that anything he learnt now would only take him deeper into the darkness.

  The inside of the shop was cold and still. The candles threw flickering shadows across the floor; tiny, darkened things that scuttled up and down the bookcases like lizards. Though afraid of what he might be about to find out, Tony pushed on regardless.

  ‘Sir Roderick, I don’t suppose you remember my dad, do you? He went to a midnight auction thirteen years ago, before I was born. You would have been there at the same time.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I would have. It wouldn’t surprise me if our paths had crossed. I like to meet new people. What’s his name?’

  ‘Lott. Thomas Lott.’

  ‘Thomas Lott … No, I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘He was there with my uncle, Joseph Martell?’

  The change in Sir Roderick’s expression was instantaneous. Yawning indifference gave way to razor-sharp intensity in a heartbeat. Tony knew at once that he had said the wrong thing. The lazy atmosphere of candlelight and conversation had suddenly turned toxic. Trina and Ebenezer sensed it too; they exchanged nervous glances, unsure how to react.

  ‘Joseph Martell is your uncle?’ Sir Roderick sounded shocked—saddened almost, as if the discovery disappointed him. ‘Oh, my boy,’ he said, affixing a sympathetic hand on Tony’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t know. But yes, I should have realized. He has a shop somewhere around here, doesn’t he? We’re right in his back yard.’

  ‘Martell’s shop is across the street,’ Ebenezer said.

  ‘And has been for over a hundred years,’ Trina added pointedly.

  Sir Roderick sighed and shook his head. ‘What a terrible shame. Joseph Martell, the Black Magician of Dover Street. It all makes sense now. That’s why you’re such a bright little thing. He taught you, didn’t he? I’ll bet he brought you up to be just as sharp as he is.’

  Tony’s world was spinning again. The Black Magician of Dover Street. Though this was the first time he had ever heard his uncle referred to in this strange manner, something about the words felt horribly familiar—as if he had heard them once long ago, but in a place or context he couldn’t quite recall.

  Trina frowned with confusion. ‘Are we talking about the same person? Joseph Martell? About this tall? Always wears a suit? He isn’t a magician, he’s an old man.’

  ‘A very nice old man,’ Ebenezer added. ‘A very ordinary old man.’

  ‘Oh, he is not,’ Sir Roderick huffed, slamming his bottle down on the table. ‘He’s a diabolical genius and I’ll fight any man who says otherwise.’ Regaining his composure he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a hip-flask. Two monstrous gulps of brandy later and he was ready to explain himself further. ‘Your uncle,’ he said to Tony, ‘is a legend—amongst certain sections of society, at least. He used to be the sharpest antiques dealer in the land. No-one knew as much as he did and certainly no-one had the same way with words. That was why they called him The Black Magician of Dover Street. He could work miracles when it came to antiques. He knew what to buy, what to sell, and most importantly of all, how to spin a story. I met him a few times. Lovely man. Frighteningly clever, but always good for a chin-wag. I was sorry when he retired.’

  ‘But Martell didn’t retire,’ Tony said. ‘He still runs his shop today.’

  ‘His shop,’ Sir Roderick said disdainfully. ‘Selling crockery and old hats to skinflints and penny-pinchers. That’s no way for a man like that to live. Back in the day he used to be a player. He used to be somebody.’

  ‘He still is,’ Tony cried.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Sir Roderick laughed. ‘He’s a has-been, my boy. A relic. He stepped out of the game and turned his back on the only place his talents were truly appreciated. I ask you, what kind of man walks away from a life of adventure, a life where he’s respected and revered? He gave it all up. And for what? An ordinary life.’ He spat out the words as if the thought disgusted him.

  ‘What’s wrong with ordinary?’ Tony shot back. But it was a weak line and he knew it. Ordinary was everything he had ever wanted to escape from. It was day after day in the shop. It was sweeping the floor and pricing up ornaments. It was shooting the breeze with potential customers and watching the world pass by from his bedroom window. It was all he had ever known.

  ‘You’re wrong anyway,’ he said, raising his chin into the air. He felt a desperate need to defend his uncle, to make these slanders untrue. ‘Martell’s life is anything but ordinary. And he hasn’t retired at all. Who do you think is taking me to the auction on Saturday?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Sir Roderick yawned. He began lighting a pipe with one of the candles. Globs of black wax dripped on the floor, covering the area around his feet in fat leopard spots. ‘The magician retired years ago,’ he said, puffing out great clouds of blue smoke. ‘He wouldn’t go back now. Not after what happened last time. And not unless he was truly desperate.’ Sir Roderick paused and took a slow, thoughtful look at Tony’s clothes. The poor quality jumper. The scuffed shoes. ‘No,’ he said, dismissing the idea with a shake of his head. ‘Even if he has fallen on hard times, even if he doesn’t have a penny to his name, he wouldn’t go back. He doesn’t have the heart for it anymore. He doesn’t have the spirit.’

  Tony had taken all he could. ‘He does too,’ he shouted back. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going to the auction on Saturday. And what’s more, what we’re selling is going to make us rich. It’s going to remind everyone how good Martell really is.’

  Because now that he thought about it, he realized that perhaps there was an ulterior motive for Martell’s return to the midnight auction scene. The money was important, yes, but so was the prestige he would gain from walking in with Anastasia’s doll under his arm. It was a shot at redemption—at ensuring his legacy was that of a hero rather than a has-been.

  And yet an important question remained.

  ‘Why did he retire in the first place, Sir Roderick?’ It was Trina who spoke, but she might have plucked the question from Tony’s lips. ‘If he was doing so well for himself, why did he stop going?’

  ‘Because of Tony, I expect’ Ebenezer offered. ‘He had responsibilities. He couldn’t take himself off to a midnight auction when he had a baby to bring up.’

  ‘Because of me?’ Tony didn’t know whether to feel guilty or touched. Martell had given up his career, his wealth, the prestige of being the Black Magician of Dover Street, all to look after him, Tony Lott, a hopeless orphan who had never known his mother or father.

  ‘So it’s your fault,’ Sir Roderick said, glugging down another sw
ig of brandy. ‘I always heard it was because he had a run-in with a gang of Albanian forgers, but now that I think about it, this explanation makes much more sense. But tell me, lad, why did the Black Magician end up raising you? You weren’t his responsibility. Didn’t your mother and father want you?’

  The question turned Tony to stone. He didn’t have to wonder how to feel now. The guilt flooded him: a creeping nausea of ice-cold blackness.

  ‘Tony’s mother died when he was a baby,’ Ebenezer said to Sir Roderick.

  ‘Really?’ A crestfallen expression came over Sir Roderick’s face. ‘Oh my, I’m dreadfully sorry, boy. I didn’t mean any harm. How awful for you. And your father?’

  ‘No.’ The blackness was complete now: he felt nothing but the most awful emptiness. ‘He ran out on me. And my mum. He abandoned us.’

  For a long moment the inside of the shop remained still and silent. He was dimly aware of Trina putting her arm around him, but the gesture felt meaningless. All he wanted now was to go home. To curl up in the cold darkness of his bedroom, to be alone, far away from everyone.

  ‘Tony, love.’ It was Trina again. She was lifting him to his feet. Walking him towards the door. ‘It’s late, my darling. You should get yourself home. Get some sleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ebenezer echoed. Somehow he was there alongside him, too. ‘You’ve got work in the morning, remember? You don’t want to be falling asleep on the job.’

  Tony nodded tiredly. Before he stepped out into the frosty moonlight, he glanced back into the shop and saw Sir Roderick sitting in his armchair, surrounded by blazing candles and a haze of tobacco smoke. He looked like something from a bad dream—devilish and yet tragic at the same time. He held up his hand to wave goodbye.

  ‘Goodnight, Tony Lott. You’re a good boy. Please don’t feel bad. I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry for dredging up the past.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Tony answered. ‘I’m an assistant antiques seller. Dredging up the past is what I do.’

  And saying goodnight to them all, he slipped into the night as silently as a shadow.