Wickedness

by Deborah White

  “Come through.” Her mum was leading him into the kitchen. Claire saw her take a key from her pocket, unlock the dresser cupboard, take out something and put it on the kitchen table.

  So that’s where she’d put the box! It had been right under her nose the whole time. How stupidly obvious was that.

  Claire moved in closer, watching him intently. She could see his knuckles, white with tension as he gripped his walking stick. He reached out with his free hand and pulled the box towards him across the table. He let his stick fall with a clatter to the floor. But he scarcely noticed. His whole attention was focused on the box.

  “What do you think?” Claire’s mum bent down to pick up the walking stick. And something else she’d spotted under the dresser. The red linen braid. Claire hadn’t realised that she’d dropped it. Now Claire’s mum was twisting it absently around her fingers. “The box. Is it Egyptian?” She was trying to sound casual, matter of fact, but there was an edge to her voice. “Only there doesn’t seem to be any way of opening it. I can’t see any hinges or a keyhole or anything.”

  He looked up. His eyes focused in on the red braid, twisting around her mum’s fingers and widened in shock. Then, for a fleeting second, he closed his eyes and looked… happy? No. Not happy exactly. But relieved. As if he had been lost in a dark place and all at once saw a glimmer of light that would lead him out.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Her mum dropped the braid onto the table and went to fill the kettle. “Or coffee if you’d rather.”

  He picked up the braid quickly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Why had he done that?

  And now he was smiling. “Tea, no milk or sugar. Thank you. An Egyptian casket, yes. And there is a way of opening it. But you must have the key.”

  “But there’s no keyhole, so how can there be a key?” Claire’s mum sounded amused as if he’d just said something absurd.

  Claire held her breath. Instinctively covered her right hand with her left, so the ring wouldn’t show. Prayed he hadn’t seen it already.

  “Oh not a key as you mean it,” he said, “but something that is an exact mirror image of the lock.” He tipped the box towards Claire’s mum. His finger traced the oval of the cartouche and the hieroglyphics in it.

  “Like what?” her mum asked, looking puzzled; putting a plate of biscuits down on the table then turning back to pour out the tea.

  Thank God she hasn’t worked out what he means… Claire felt a moment’s relief and then Micky appeared in the doorway.

  “Oooh, chocolate biscuits.” But she hesitated, seeing a stranger sitting at the table.

  Then he smiled at her. Held out the plate. She went to take a biscuit.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Robert. I’ve come to look at your grandmother’s box. I was just explaining about the key. How it would be something that was the mirror image of this…”

  Micky looked. Her face lit up. “Oh that’s easy,” she said.

  All eyes were on her.

  “I bet it’s Claire’s ring.”

  Claire had to show him the ring then. Micky had tried to grab her hand. She’d pushed her away. But it was no good anyway. Now that her mum knew, she wouldn’t have a minute’s peace until she did. So she held out her hand and he took it; lifting it up so he could have a closer look. Close enough that she could feel his breath whisper against her fingers.

  “Oh yes. I think you might be right.” He looked up. Held her gaze.

  And there is no surprise in his eyes, she thought, because when he first came to the house he gave me his card and I took it, and he must have seen the ring then.

  “And do you know?” He was looking at Micky now. “It is very old. Middle Kingdom Egyptian. Almost certainly it was worn by a priest or priestess at Sekhmet’s temple. Sekhmet… the most powerful and terrible goddess, bringer of plagues and diseases.”

  Sekhmet… the name of the circus! Maybe that’s why Grandma had bought the tickets? Another piece of the puzzle, Claire was sure of it, and maybe soon now it would start to take shape.

  “Wicked!” said Micky. “Do you know loads about mummies and curses and stuff?”

  “Well,” he said, “I did live in Egypt once and…” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “I believe some scrolls I found buried under the floor of an ancient tomb had a curse placed on them, because…”

  Micky’s eyes were round as saucers.

  “Sadly, everywhere I go now, sickness follows… people die. Horribly.”

  For a second there was silence. Then he made a face. Drew a hand across his neck. Made a gurgling sound in his throat.

  Claire’s mum laughed. Relief. For a split-second Claire could tell she’d thought he was serious.

  Micky still did. “But you’re not dead!”

  “Ah no,” he said. “You see, the scrolls I uncovered were spells, and if I’m careful to say them every day, just before dawn,” – he paused for effect – “then I cannot die.”

  Micky was hooked. “Uh! What, not ever?”

  Claire twisted the ring round and round her finger. Watched his face as it seemed to be registering real emotions. Then she leaned across him and quickly pulled the box to her and pressed her ring into the cartouche on its side. Her mum and Micky looked hopeful. Expectant.

  But he doesn’t, she thought. Because… and the same words popped into her head again: it isn’t time yet.

  Manuscript 5

  I awoke and lay awhile with the curtains drawn around my bed, not knowing what time of the day or night it was. For a few brief moments I felt warm and peaceful, though there was noise from outside. The clatter of carriage wheels on cobbles. The crow of the cockerel. The squeal of a pig. Jane snoring softly. And someone was shouting for a link boy to light the way, so I knew the sun was not yet risen.

  I snuggled down, pulling the covers over my head. The feathers in the mattress folded around me, as if I was buried under a blanket of deep, warm snow. All sound was muffled, except for the steady thud of my heart beating. If only I could stay here, safe, for ever. If only I hadn’t taken the ring.

  I could hear my mother was up and about. Doors slammed. Her voice was getting louder and louder, shouting, “Margrat! Jane! Wake up you slug-a-beds. There is work to do.”

  Now I remembered. The Doctor was invited for dinner and he had sent word that he would come. I had not doubted it for a moment.

  Jane was sent out to the Stocks Market early to buy a rabbit for a fricassee. Oysters, salmon and a lobster too, for my mother hoped to impress. The eminent doctor, Nicholas Benedict, was to dine at her table!

  But by nine o’clock, Jane had still not come home and my mother, grown frantic, sent me out, still wearing my apron, to look for her. “If you find her, send her home at once. Then you must go to Cheapside to buy some salads from the herb market. Be quick as you can, for the Doctor will be here before we know it.”

  Truly, I meant to be, for my mother was like the Devil when crossed. But then, just as I came to the corner of Milk Street, I saw a noisy crowd had gathered. A rope-walker had set up his poles and rope. I watched as he clambered up and started his walk. Though I knew perfectly well that he did not, just for a heartbeat, it seemed that he trod the air.

  The crowd gasped and fell silent in wonder as he became an acrobat and danced upon the rope. Then, turning one last somersault, he made a deep bow, saying, “Merci mes amis,” and we all began to shout and clap and the spell was broken.

  But just as the rope-walker made to swing down, a man ran up crying, “The plague is upon us. Three are dead in Southwark.”

  I knew at once what would happen, for I had seen it all before. An Italian blamed for a fire in Leadenhall Street was beaten about the head with an iron bar until the blood made a great pool about his feet. A Dutch sailor accused of being a spy was lynched by the mob. Now a Frenchman, a rope-walker, was to be blamed and set upon for bringing the plague into London.

  I was right, for a great wave of people swept in on the rope-walker.
He was pushed to the ground and kicked about the head and body mercilessly. He cried out. A woman screamed, “Dirty Frenchman. Kill him!” But just as the tide always turns, the crowd grew tired of their sport. For the rope-walker would not fight back and lay, curled up like a hedge-pig.

  One by one the people slipped away, the street fell empty and silent and I slowly came out from the shadows where I had been hiding. I crept up to look at the rope-walker’s body, lying where it had been kicked into the gutter and as I got closer, I drew in my breath sharp. Not at the sight of the blood, of which there was much, but at the rope-walker’s age. For he looked just a little older than me and I knew him. He was the rope-walker I had watched at the Frost Fair and outside the Head and Combe.

  I reached out my hand and touched his shoulder gently. Then I brushed his hair, fine as red silk, out of his eyes which were swollen and closed tight shut. He made no move, but his lips parted and I heard a long drawing in of breath, like the wind off the river, stirring the willow leaves.

  I knelt down beside him in the dirt, hoping the Doctor was right and the ring would keep me safe from the plague. I felt for it, turning it round and round on its braid, thinking of Sekhmet and praying also to God to keep me safe from harm. Then I took the corner of my apron, spat on it and began to wipe his face clean. I tried to be as gentle as I could. But he cried out and his hands came up to shield his face, causing me to sit back on my heels, transfixed. For on the third finger of his right hand he wore a ring. A gold ring, fashioned the same as mine and with the same blue stone and hieroglyphics. How had he come by it? How was it that he wore it openly on his finger and lived, when the Doctor had told me that to wear it so would prove fatal. Who was he?

  But I had no time now to think on it, for life was returning to the street and the bells of nearby St Giles had started to ring. Ten o’clock! I knew that I must hurry home, but I did not know what to do with the rope-walker. Perhaps I should have given him a few of my pennies and left him there. The streets always swarmed with vagabonds, gypsies and beggars. Men, women and children often died, uncared for in the gutter. One more would make no difference. If I had been more my mother’s child, I would have left him and kept my money. But I knew my father would want me to help him so I decided to take the rope-walker back home with me.

  At first he would not come. Eyes still shut, he pushed my hand away, saying, “Non. Laissez-moi.”

  And though his lip was cut and English not his native tongue, I understood his words clearly.

  A crowd of people had started to gather again. I could hear muttering. “The French dog still lies in the gutter,” said one.

  “Call the raker and have him taken away,” said another.

  Then a loud, red-faced woman stepped up and said, “Let us cut off his head and ask the hangman to boil it with herbs so that we might eat it.” And all about her roared with laughter.

  “You must come,” I whispered urgently, tugging at his hand. “Or you will be killed and I would be sorry for it.” I reached for the ring on its braid. I had taken to using it as a charm against bad luck. I do not think the rope-walker saw me do it, for his eyes looked still shut tight. But a moment later, he opened them and looked straight at me. Though he was clearly in pain, he gripped my hand and struggled to his feet.

  “Here,” I said. “Lean on me and I will take you to my house. It is close by.”

  The crowd followed us as far as Bow Lane, then stopped by a baker’s that I knew was owned by a Dutchman. What mischief they did there I do not know, but I confess I was grateful they no longer followed us. We reached home safe.

  Jane must have returned home in my absence, for she came to the door and stood there, hands on hips, insolently barring the way. “Go shoe the goose,” she said gleefully. “You are in trouble and no mistake. Wait till the mistress sees you come home with a beggar boy, instead of the herbs you were sent for. You’ll get a thrashing.”

  I said nothing but, as I pushed past her, I contrived to tread hard on her foot with my patten.

  Hearing the scream, my father stepped out into the hall. “What is the matter? Are there thieves at the door?”

  “Not a thief, Father,” I said, “but a poor boy who was set upon in the street and beaten. Should I have left him to die there?”

  Before he could answer, my mother appeared, wiping her hands down her apron and looking flushed. “Boy? What boy is this? The Doctor will be here before we know it and the dinner will be only half cooked. I have no time to be looking after beggar boys.”

  While we argued, the rope-walker slid down in the doorway and turned deathly pale.

  “See,” screeched my mother. “He has brought the plague to our house. Now we will all die!”

  “The only one likely to die is the boy!” I answered back. “And you will have killed him.”

  I thought it likely my mother might die herself… of an apoplexy. For her face, now so close to mine I could smell the sourness of her breath, was the colour of a boiled lobster. She took me by the shoulders and started to shake me so hard I feared my teeth would fall out of my head. My father began to shout at my mother to stop and Jane stood by, laughing.

  And so we did not notice the Doctor arrive, or see him bend down over the rope-walker. But we heard him say, “While you argue, this boy suffers.”

  The sound of his voice brought my mother to her senses. At once Jane and I were instructed to bring the rope-walker in. To take him to the room my father used as a study and which had a truckle bed in it. For he sometimes worked late into the night.

  “When he is made comfortable,” the Doctor said, “I will take a look at him.”

  This was the first time I had seen the Doctor after our meeting at the Head and Combe. Since then he had appeared in my mind’s eye as larger than life and as wickedly seductive as sin. It was a shock to see him play the Good Samaritan.

  “We will pay you for your trouble, of course,” said my father hurriedly.

  But the Doctor would not hear of it. “It was Margrat who thought to bring him home,” he said. How had he known that? Had he shadowed me? “I merely follow her example.”

  It was cleverly done. A compliment to me and to my mother, for having borne such a tender-hearted daughter. I had been many times to the theatre with my father. I ought to have seen the trick of it. But I confess I was unaware of how he set the stage.

  He must have noticed the rope-walker’s ring when he first bent down to look at him. But he said nothing at first. He waited. His display of charity only increased his reputation in my father and mother’s eyes. And I confess it now… in mine too.

  Once the rope-walker was safely tucked in bed, the Doctor sent Jane out to the apothecary’s for a sleeping draught. “Sleep is a great healer. When he awakes, I will examine him and see if there is anything to be done.”

  I thought it was strange that the Doctor did not attend to him directly, but I said nothing. As to my mother, all she cared about was that the Doctor still had time to eat dinner with us.

  So while the rope-walker slept, the Doctor took pains to charm my mother and father. He complimented my mother’s fine cooking and my father’s choice of wines.

  He talked about his travels in Egypt, and said, with the utmost delicacy, that there was much money to be made from the trade in Egyptian artefacts. He invited them to call on him in his house in the Strand and see the many treasures he had there.

  “Though I fear,” he said, with a modest smile, “you will find fault with the housekeeping as I have no wife to look to it.”

  I fixed my eyes on my plate and did not look up. But I flushed the deepest red.

  “Margrat will make someone a good wife,” my mother said quickly, causing me to wish the earth might suddenly open up and swallow me whole. “If they have no objection to the colour of her hair.”

  “I think it very beautiful, on her at least. But now…” He pushed back his chair and threw his napkin on the table, saying, “I must go and see how the boy does.�
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  My mother led the Doctor to the study. My father and I followed on. Jane had been sent to the kitchen to fetch hot water and clean towels.

  The rope-walker was still asleep. Though his face was caked in dried blood and the purple of a bruise bloomed across his left temple, he looked peaceful. His right hand pillowed his cheek.

  The Doctor bent over him. I held my breath. I was sure that he would see the ring now. Would he whisper to the rope-walker the very same thing he had whispered to me?

  He did not, saying only, “Boy, wake up now, I have come to examine you.”

  The rope-walker must have journeyed a long way in his dreams, for he came to very slowly. At first he did not know where he was. He shouted and tried to jump from the bed, pushing the Doctor out of the way. But the Doctor caught him by the wrist and held him. Now I saw that he was looking at the rope-walker’s ring. He smiled, but so fleetingly I wondered if I had seen it at all. Then he said, with a voice as sharp as flint, “The boy must be turned out of the house this instant.”

  The shock of it. As if a link boy, lighting my way home, had turned and stabbed me with a knife.

  “Why? What is the matter? Does he show signs of the plague?” My father backed slowly towards the door, pulling me with him.

  “Worse,” said the Doctor. “Much worse.”

  “What could be worse than that?” said my mother, clutching a hand to her mouth.

  “The plague attacks only the body,” said the Doctor. “The sickness this boy carries with him attacks the very soul itself.”

  My mother gasped, made the sign of the cross and muttered a quick prayer under her breath.

  “See this ring he wears? I have seen it before…” The Doctor was looking straight at me and I held my breath, for now I would be undone. My father would know I was a thief and I would be severely punished. “It is worn by the members of a secret sect; followers of an Ancient Egyptian goddess called Sekhmet. Wherever her disciples go, plague and pestilence follow.”