House of Many Doors

by Ian Richards

  In frustration he hurled his knife at the boy’s bed. It impaled a pillow and sent a cloud of feathers rising up into the air.

  ‘Damn it, Kepler, he’s not here. The house is empty.’

  Kepler, who had been standing in the doorway like a shadow, flicked on the light. ‘Disappointing,’ he said. ‘But not entirely unexpected. Phase two it is.’

  He hit the switch again and darkness consumed them.

  *

  Tony and Vanessa had been watching this grim little drama play out from the beginning. It had been her idea to leave Martell’s Antiques, and his suggestion that they move across the street into The Gnarled Wand. From the upstairs window they had a perfect view of Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler breaking into the shop and creeping inside. For several moments the street had been motionless but for the rain. Then a light had switched on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It went out again only to be replaced by the light in the next room over.

  ‘They’re looking for you, Tony.’ Vanessa stood at his shoulder, concealed by the same darkness that hid him. In front of them the rain fell in heavy curtains. The way it freckled in the puddles below lent the night a sense of disintegration—of unreality.

  ‘Martell was right. He said they’d come.’

  ‘Thank goodness you listened to me and got out of there. It was nice of Trina and Ebenezer to put us up.’

  It was. He had known they would, though. They were good like that.

  Presently Kepler emerged again from the front of the shop. He looked up and down the length of the street—his eyes passing over the windows of The Gnarled Wand as he did so—then turned away and marched back to his car. He disappeared in an angry sweep of headlights, leaving the street dark and desolate and awash with rain.

  ‘No sign of the dwarf,’ Vanessa murmured. ‘He must have stayed behind.’

  The thought of Mr. Krook waiting with the lights off for them to return was terrifying. Even though Tony had no intention of going anywhere near Martell’s Antiques while that psychopath was there, it made him uneasy, knowing how close the dwarf was to them. He went to bed that night afraid to turn out the light. When he finally did, plunging the room into darkness, his heart tripped into overdrive. It took him several minutes to convince himself there was no-one else in the room with him, and even then he wasn’t entirely sure …

  By morning the rain had stopped. Ebenezer served them breakfast in the kitchen and talked about how they had to remain out of sight of any customers who came looking for books. ‘As long as only me and Trina know you’re here, you should be all right. But these men chasing you—the dwarf, especially—I’ve get the feeling they have experience in finding people who don’t want to be found. It’s best to stay on the safe side.’

  He was right, of course. Trina ensured they had plenty of books upstairs to keep them occupied, and though Vanessa offered to help pass the time by telling him stories about her life in Crete, Tony found it impossible to concentrate. He felt powerless. Martell was in danger and here he was, forced to cower away in a book-filled bedroom. That wasn’t how the great men and women of the past had acted. They were brave and decisive—they didn’t let anything stop them. But what could he do? He had no idea where Martell was being held or how to find him, and he had a pair of trained killers on his trail. The moment he stepped out of The Gnarled Wand he was likely to find Mr. Krook’s knife lodged in his throat.

  And so the waiting.

  The boredom.

  ‘It’s not enough, Vanessa’ he said that evening. They sat together in the room, watching the comings and goings on the street beneath them. ‘We need to do something.’

  ‘No,’ she corrected, ‘we need to keep you alive. And we’re doing that. Despite Snout’s cooking.’

  Kepler came again that night. He let himself into the shop and left again shortly afterwards. There was still no sign of Mr. Krook, but Tony knew he was there, lying in wait, wrapped up in darkness and silence. He imagined the dwarf was enjoying himself, too. He was the kind of man who would relish stalking his prey: someone for whom the long hours only added a build-up of anticipation before the final, sickening thrill.

  The following morning Kepler arrived again, and this time he brought with him a bright yellow poster that he carefully displayed in the window of Martell’s Antiques.

  It said:

  UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

  KROOK & KEPLER ANTIQUES

  OPENING SOON

  Then, without missing a beat, Kepler adjusted his suit and went inside.

  Over the course of the day Ebenezer found out from the other residents of Dover Street that Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler were passing themselves off as old friends who had taken over the running of the shop in Martell’s absence.

  ‘They’re saying he’s had a breakdown,’ he explained. ‘It’s not a very convincing story, but nobody has any reason to think they’re lying. Apparently Martell sold them the store and moved to Paris. You did too, Tony. I wanted to argue otherwise but doing so risked tipping our hand.’

  ‘The whole thing has the stink of a trap about it,’ Trina added. ‘They’re trying to draw you out, Tony.’

  ‘They must suspect you’re close,’ Ebenezer agreed. ‘They’re going to slander your uncle and take over his shop in the hope that it will provoke a reaction from you. And whatever you do, Tony, you must not react. That goes for all of us. If they get even a hint that we know what they are saying is false then we’re all in trouble.’

  You must not react. The words made sense, but Tony found it hard not to let what was happening across the street get to him. Martell’s Antiques had been his home since birth. To see it defiled—to peer through the window and see them ransacking his uncle’s bedroom, tossing his belongings aside like they were nothing—it hurt more than he could have imagined. He thought of his childhood, being brought up in a world of antiques and stories, learning geography with the help of the tobacco-brown globe in his bedroom, nursing Pushkin as Martell showed him photographs of distant relatives and told the story of Martell’s Antiques from its grand opening to the present day. Over two hundred years of family history in the hands of a pair of cold-blooded killers. It was a coup. A brutal, bloodless coup, and one he could do nothing about.

  In the days that followed, Tony kept up to date on events by spying through the windows and pressing Trina and Ebenezer for anything they had picked up during the course of their day. There was no doubt that Krook and Kepler had moved into Martell’s Antiques—he shuddered to think which of them would be sleeping in his bed—but what exactly they were doing in there remained a mystery. At first it had seemed to be a straightforward attempt to wreck the place. Tony himself had watched on in horror as they tore Martel’s bedroom to pieces, upturning furniture, tossing books against the walls, and shredding the pillowcases with Mr. Krook’s knife. Amidst the swirling feathers the room had resembled the inside of a snow-globe. And yet there was something about their presence in the shop that didn’t quite ring true. If it really was all a ruse to lure him out into the open then it relied upon the assumption that he would be stupid enough to return to a building with their names on the door. He could believe that they didn’t think much of him, but would they really advertise themselves so publicly if their sole aim were to kill him? Surely they would be better off interrogating neighbors or prowling the streets instead?

  The simple truth, though he hated to admit it, was that if Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler had truly wanted to find him, they probably would have.

  What game were they playing then? Why did they spend hours each day inside the shop? What were they doing in there?

  He didn’t know—and it gnawed on him more every day.

  Vanessa tried to keep Tony busy by teaching him more tricks and illusions, but he lacked the focus to pull them off and only ended up more frustrated.

  ‘We have to get in there,’ he said one afternoon, after comprehensively failing to learn how to levitate. ‘We have to see what they’re up to.’

>   ‘Don’t be silly, chimney sweep.’ She sat on the windowsill, watching the sunset. The last of the daylight painted the rooftops in slick, wet hues of pink and gold. ‘We know what they’re up to. They’re trying to annoy you. And doing a very good job too, I should say. Listen to yourself. You’re actually talking about going over there. Tell me, what do you think would happen then? I’m being serious. What would be the consequence of doing that?’

  She was right, and from the way she tilted her head to one side and looked at him, he knew that she couldn’t be argued with. But the inaction, the inertia. It ate away at him.

  Tony shook his head. ‘What about Martell, though? They’re our best chance of finding out what happened to him. Our only chance.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And they’re also violent psychopaths who want to kill you. Can you see our dilemma?’

  ‘But we have to do something, Vanessa. We can’t hide forever.’

  ‘What would you like us to do, Tony, go over there and ask them what’s going on? Maybe we could round up a gang—me, you, the Snouts, the cat? I’m sure they’d give themselves up in a heartbeat.’

  ‘You’re being sarcastic.’

  ‘And you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘What about magic?’ Tony said, gesturing to Ebenezer’s books. ‘There must be a trick of some sort we could use to help us.’

  ‘Well, there is one, yes.’ She paused, considering the matter carefully. ‘But it might be dangerous. In fact, it would be dangerous. Very dangerous, come to think about it.’

  ‘I don’t care, Vanessa.’

  She looked at him sadly. ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  Without allowing him to answer, she climbed off the windowsill and cleared a space on the floor. ‘Right then, chimney sweep, if it’s magic you want, then it’s magic you’ll get.’ She rolled up her sleeves and cracked her knuckles. The sound was like dry twigs snapping. ‘But trust me,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’re going to like it …’

  21 - In The House Of Many Doors

  Martell awoke with a start. Firefox stood at the end of the bed, looming over him like a craggy tree. How long had he been there? Hours? Days? It was impossible to tell. The potion he had consumed—and he shuddered at the thought of what ingredients went into such a concoction—lingered in his system even now. He felt sluggish and cumbersome. His thoughts were sticky and slow.

  By contrast, the fairy appeared in excellent spirits. He grinned and giggled and rubbed his hands together with delight when he saw his prisoner had awakened. ‘You’re awake. Wonderful. Tell me, Black Magician, how are you feeling this miserable morning? I trust you enjoyed learning the illustrious history of this fine old house?’

  Martell recalled the hallucinations that had shaken through him the night before. As a consequence of what he had experienced the story had wormed its way into every fiber of his being. He knew it all now. He understood it instinctively. Marshwood was a gateway—the point where a hundred different realities intersected. Firefox was the house’s prisoner, but there was a way for him to escape, a riddle that had tormented the fairy for years. For a brief moment Martell had the crazy idea that the liquid he had swallowed had been the blood of the house itself, drained from a slit cut into some godforsaken wall. But no, that was ridiculous. He put such thoughts aside and concentrated his attention on sobering up as quickly as possible. As his encounter with the Rag-and-Bone men had shown, he offered no physical threat at all these days. His only weapon in this place would be his wits, and when it came to dealing with someone as insane as Firefox, he wondered if wits would be enough.

  You’d better hope so, old man. Because otherwise you’re going to be a guest at this Mad Hatter’s tea party for a long time to come.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Your potion did its job, yes. I know why I’m here. You want me to solve the riddle.’

  Firefox raised his eyebrows, as if offended by such matter-of-factness. But the grin soon returned, sharp as a knife slash. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And if I can’t?’

  ‘Then I’ll kill you.’ A giggle then, childish and uncontrollable. ‘Oh, come, come, Black Magician. You’re supposed to be an expert when it comes to antiques. No-one has your levels of expertise. I dare say you’ll solve it in an instant.’

  Reaching into his jacket pocket he produced a small, dark object, roughly the size of a cigar box. ‘This is the cause of all our troubles.’ He tossed it over. ‘What do you think?’

  Martell caught the box and inspected it carefully. It appeared to be made of dark oak. An old design, and certainly not one he recognized. Shaking it produced no sound and trying to open the lid proved no more enlightening—it was sealed tight, presumably by some sort of enchantment.

  ‘The contents of this box,’ Firefox said, ‘will one day unlock every door in Marshwood.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re the antiques man, you tell me. The riddle is written around the edges.’

  Martell looked. Sure enough, there was an inscription carved into the wood. He held it up to the greasy glare of the nearest lantern.

  I have no top or bottom,

  No beginning or end,

  I am a gift, a treasure,

  Mankind’s greatest pleasure,

  But alas, on me do not depend.

  I can wreck lives if I’m callously mistreated,

  Inspire hatred and loathing and rage

  I hold blood and bone

  I am worthless alone

  I can be either the key or the cage.

  When he had finished he read it through again, making sure that he hadn’t missed any of the details. He had never liked riddles and this one was no exception. I have no top or bottom, no beginning or end … He could see why nobody had been able to solve it before now. It meant nothing to him.

  Firefox watched on intently, scrutinizing every muscle movement in his face, every flicker of his eyelids.

  ‘And the solution is …?’

  There was a tension in the room that hadn’t been there a few moments earlier. Martell knew he was being judged—assessed—and his fear deepened considerably. What would Firefox do when he didn’t get the answer he expected? Would he really go to all the trouble of bringing someone here just to murder them?

  The answer is yes. Because he is a psychopath. Now quickly, use your head. You don’t have much time.

  As a bead of sweat traced a slow path down the side of his face, Martell wracked his brains, trying desperately to think of the solution. I am a gift, a treasure, mankind’s greatest pleasure. The singsong rhythm of the riddle contrasted horribly with the panicked pounding of his heart.

  ‘I’m waiting, Black Magician …’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think. My mind is still foggy from that awful potion you made me drink.’

  Firefox said nothing. His face seemed shrewder somehow. Calculating.

  Suddenly, without warning, he clapped his hands together and laughed a cruel, crowing laugh. ‘Haroo, haroo! I didn’t expect you to solve it right away. That would be ridiculous. You must have time to think about it. Now come, keep the box and follow me. We have much to be getting on with.’

  Martell remained perfectly still. He trusted this creature about as much as he trusted a politician. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Upstairs, of course. You didn’t think I’d keep a guest cooped up in a dingy little dungeon, did you? This was just a place to store you away while you adjusted to your new surroundings. You’ll be staying in one of our finest rooms, Black Magician.’ He opened the door. Through the opening Martell saw the flickering darkness of a tunnel lined with torches. ‘Come on,’ Firefox grinned. ‘Let me give you the tour.’

  *

  Upstairs, Firefox led the way through a cobwebbed dancehall and out into a long, gloomy corridor. Rows of doors stretched out ahead of them. Each one appeared to have been carved from the same dark oak as the box. They were large and imposing and Martell could well be
lieve that they hadn’t been opened for centuries. The nearest was pocked with dents and scarred with scratch-marks. He imagined Firefox beating at it with his fists, dragging his nails down it, howling with frustration as it refused to offer him any release. Were the other doors similarly marked? Almost certainly.

  It didn’t take Martell long to realize that this corridor was only the beginning. There were others, too—long, twisting corridors in which locked doors lined up like armies on either side of them. As he followed Firefox through this labyrinth he took the opportunity to assess his captor in more detail. The fairy’s clothes were a sharp green in color—the same shade as his eyes—and his flaming red hair had been stuck up in a quiff, presumably styled by the casual sweep of a sweat-slicked hand. Though he could not say so with any certainty, Martell believed his captor to be a vain creature. There was a confidence in the way he walked. A self-regard that verged on the narcissistic. Could this be a weakness? He hoped so, and mentally filed it away for future use just in case.

  ‘We’ll begin with some old friends, I think. This way, Black Magician.’

  He took Martell down a stone staircase and along a dingy tunnel. Here the light was darker and the smell of earth more pronounced. When they reached a door, Firefox undid the lock with a silver key, giggling in anticipation of what was to come.

  The stench that hit them was so foul that Martell immediately clapped his hand to his mouth in horror. He had to fight the urge to vomit.

  ‘You remember these fine gentlemen, of course’ Firefox grinned. ‘The Rag-and-Bone Men.’