by G. P. Taylor
There in the deep cellar was a jumble of boxes, masks, old discarded conjuring tricks and costumes of princes and pharaohs. In the corner sat a stringed doll with a shiny porcelain face that stared blindly with its bulging eyes at Mariah. It had ruby-painted cheeks that shone in the gaslight and thin purple lips that scowled at him as if he shouldn’t be there. He shuddered at the look, feeling that the doll knew who he was, that beneath the fine china skin were flesh and blood, cold blood that was pumped by a lifeless heart.
Mariah followed Sacha into the room and purposefully turned his back to the doll, making no mention of it. Sacha babbled on, explaining everything in the cellar, pointing to the various items and explaining their use in Bizmillah’s Magical Extravaganza.
For some reason Mariah couldn’t concentrate on her words. They went over and around him like fresh mist. All he could feel was the stare of the porcelain doll chilling the back of his neck and making every hair stand on end, as if a grave-walker had crossed his path. As she spoke he was convinced that he could hear someone taking laboured breaths behind him. Each one punctuated by a single wheeze and gentle cough.
It was then that a large looking-glass caught his eye. It hung majestically in its dark wooden frame on the wall before him, dangling from two rusting chains. He glanced quickly, more out of curiosity than to see his own reflection, and gasped: the doll had gone … He could clearly see there was nothing where the manikin had been. It was as if, when his back was turned, the plaything had got to its feet and walked from the room.
Sacha still babbled, not realising that her listener had left her world. Mariah dare not turn for fear of what he would see. He knew that the staring face of the porcelain doll had welcomed him when he walked into the cellar. It had sat scowling by the door with its red cheeks. But now as he looked in the mirror he saw that the wooden chair on which it had sat so sadly was empty – the doll was gone …
‘And another thing,’ Sacha said energetically as she brogued about this and that in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Let me introduce you to –’ She turned and swept her hand in a long gesture, then looked puzzled. ‘She’s gone … I’m sure she was here a moment ago. Did you see?’
‘A porcelain doll?’ asked Mariah anxiously as he edged his way slowly to the door, the whispering of the tide lapping against the stones in the faraway passage.
‘I’m sure she was here … Sat right there as we came in.’ Sacha pointed to the empty chair. ‘Someone must have moved her.’
‘Or she moved herself?’ Mariah asked warily as he looked around the room for the doll.
‘Impossible,’ Sacha shouted, and she went to a tall cabinet that stood like an upturned coffin behind the door. ‘Once I found her in here. Funny, the same thing happened then too. It was the first time I brought Felix into the cellar …’
Mariah didn’t want to see what was in the upturned chest. He looked to the floor and kicked a piece of driftwood across the stone slabs. He heard Sacha pull open the two wooden doors that creaked on the salt-rusted hinges.
‘Told you, must’ve been seeing things,’ Sacha said as if she had made a great discovery. ‘Meet Old Skratty – she’s from Iceland. Bizmillah bought her from a wreck sale, all that was left from a four-masted ship that had gone down on Mascus Rocks. They found her bobbing in the sea, smiling … All the crew were dead. Some of them gnawed with small teeth.’ Mariah looked up warily and greeted by the thin china smile of Old Scratty, dressed in her black velvet dress and green silk slippers, hanging limply by a long cord from a metal peg.
[ 8 ]
Similia Similibus Curantor
THE great black curtain fell across the stage as Bizmillah took his final bow. From the shadowy wings, Mariah peeped out of the thin slit that was secretly cut into the panel at the left of the stage. The immense gas chandelier that hung from the gold, domed ceiling burst suddenly into light. For the first time he could see that he had played his part to a full house.
Staggering from the theatre there came a multitude of finely dressed men and women who had looked on in awe as Mariah had been successfully cut in half and then reunited with the rest of his body. The only blemish to the evening was that Mariah had over-coiled the spring to the mechanical legs, and when it had been time for Bizmillah to flick the switch the legs had burst furiously into life. As he had asked Mariah to move his feet – the audience fully believing the poor boy had been severed in the trunk – the artificial legs had beat back and forth so quickly that the box had been violently shaken and Mariah looked as if he would be beaten about the head as his faux feet twisted and kicked beside him.
Bizmillah, being the Great Magician, had quickly seized the moment and in his finest Transoldovian accent had told the audience that the boy had fallen under the influence of his sorcery and when rejoined would feel nothing. He had even gone so far as to call a fat old man from the bemused spectators to come and inspect the boy to see if he had any visible wounds. This the man had done with immense enthusiasm, roughly squeezing Mariah around the middle and exclaiming to the world that he didn’t leak. The old man obviously did … Mariah had clamped his nostrils as the smell of the vile mixture of cheap wine, mothballs and aged dampness had made him gulp. Once the inspection had been completed, Mariah was hailed a hero by a standing ovation which lasted for several minutes, turning his face redder and redder as the embarrassment crept from his neck into his cheeks and finally engorged his ears. Bizmillah pushed him from the stage into the darkness of the wings, throwing from his hand a dove that circled high above their heads and then exploded into a shower of silver petals which floated gently upon the crowd.
Now, Mariah watched as the theatre slowly emptied, the audience trudging to the open doors and the long passageway that would take them back into the Prince Regent.
‘It’s not over,’ Sacha said as she pushed him gently in the back to gain his attention. ‘Bizmillah leaves everything to us. There’s no time to stand dreaming.’
Mariah was about to reply when he saw a man by himself in the back row of the small side balcony that overlooked the stage. He was wearing evening dress with a silver bow tie, and constantly brushed back his long hair with his hand as he looked around. It was as if he was looking for someone or something, waiting for the theatre to empty. Mariah squinted through thin narrow slit, unable to get a clear view of his face. Suddenly all became very clear as the man got to his feet, walked slowly to the edge of the balcony and looked down into the stalls, casting his eyes over every, empty seat.
‘Isambard Black,’ Mariah said as he instinctively ducked back into the darkness.
‘Who?’ asked Sacha as she quickly caught a white rat that scurried about her feet.
‘The man from the spa pool – he was on the train from London – said he was staying here till March,’ Mariah whispered as Sacha took the rat and loaded it back into the barrel of the small cannon from which it would be fired.
‘Let me see.’ She pushed Mariah to one side, peering through the narrow slit.
Isambard Black climbed from the balcony, past the vine-clad columns and into the stalls below. Sacha now watched eagerly as he searched every seat, checking underneath each one with his hand whilst he looked about him as if he did not want to be discovered.
‘He’s searching the theatre,’ Sacha said, too loud for a whisper, her sharp voice echoing from the stage.
Black stopped what he was doing and hid behind a seat. For several moments he was out of sight. Slowly and carefully he peeped from his hiding place, looking around for whoever had spoken. Sacha looked on as he gawped about him, not realising that the voice had come from behind the stage. Black again began to search every seat, slowly and meticulously searching underneath each one as he made his way along the empty row.
‘You watch,’ she said quietly in Mariah’s ear. ‘I’m going to ask what he’s up to …’
Before Mariah could reply, Sacha was gone. Slowly Mariah got to his feet. He peered out of the secret place and watched Isambard
Black checking every row of seats.
The huge chandelier grew dimmer by the second, as if it were starved of the gas that gave it light. Far to the right came a sudden flash that caught his eye – a door jumped open and before anyone could notice quickly closed again. Black searched on, his head down, a sullen grimace upon his face as he slid his hand underneath each seat.
Then Mariah saw Sacha, sneaking quietly along the row getting closer and closer to Isambard Black, who was unaware of her presence.
‘Lost something?’ she said in a loud voice that startled Black, causing him to twist around in surprise and then fall backwards to the floor.
‘I … I …’ Black said, unable to think of what excuse he could make.
‘I can help you look if you want,’ Sacha said cheerfully, as if this sort of thing happened every day. ‘What are we looking for?’
‘A … cufflink,’ he said without thinking. ‘Great sentimental value, belonged to my brother, actually …’
Isambard Black got to his feet and looked at Sacha. She smiled benignly, then took hold of his sleeve and pulled the cuff of his shirt. ‘Like this one?’ she asked as she grabbed the gold link that tightly squeezed the cuff of his crisp, starched shirt.
‘No, quite different,’ Black said plainly as he stepped back from the girl, unsure of how she had managed to find him. ‘What business is it of yours what it is like?’ he said, his voice changing as he screwed up his face.
‘Just want to be helpful, Mister Black,’ Sacha said innocently. ‘I work here and often find many things the guests leave behind. I know how painful it can be to lose something of value and not find it again.’
‘Yes, painful,’ Black replied as he took two paces back and looked her up and down. ‘You work here, did you say?’ he asked as he rummaged in his pocket. ‘Well, if you work here then perhaps you would keep a lookout for what I search for?’ Black held out his white-gloved hand. ‘These were once a pair, but since coming to the Prince Regent I am unable to find the other. I know my brother will be most disappointed should I have lost it.’ Black held out a small golden skull. Two green jewelled eyes stared at her, twinkling in the light from the vast chandelier. Its jaw dangled open, set on the tiniest hinges she had ever seen.
‘What is it?’ Sacha asked, enthralled by its beauty.
Black saw the look on her face. ‘You admire that which is well made and you have a good eye. Find the other and there will be a five-pound note, crisp and new, for you to spend on whatever you want,’ he said. He took the skull and dangled it before her eyes.
Mariah saw the skull, the match for the one hidden beneath his bed. Charity had been right: it did belong to Isambard Black.
‘A lot of money for the ransom of a cufflink,’ Sacha said as she prodded the jewelled eyes and flicked the hinged jaw with her finger.
‘A special pair, the only one of its kind, never to be made again – and more than that, they were my brother’s favourites.’
‘Must be special, your brother,’ Sacha said as she sat on the seat and looked up at the domed ceiling.
Isambard Black said nothing. He turned and slumped into a seat four places from Sacha and looked up.
‘What do you see?’ he asked quietly as the dim flickering of the enormous crystal lamp danced off the golden dome.
‘A night sky, angels dancing …’ Sacha replied.
‘That’s a good thing,’ Black said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dipped the crisp white corner into his eye. ‘I came here to rest and yet I haven’t yet found any peace in this place,’ he said melancholically.
‘My mother said that peace and contentment is found on the inside and not the out. Just going somewhere different won’t change your heart,’ Sacha replied.
‘Then she is a wise woman,’ he said curtly. He got to his feet, folded the handkerchief back into his pocket and brushed several flecks of shining dust from his coat sleeves. ‘Now remember, five pounds. I am in room three-six-five.’ He stopped and looked at her quizzically. ‘How did you know my name?’
‘You’re a guest, here until March – Mister Luger told all the staff.’
‘Are you sure it was Luger who told you who I was?’
‘Who else?’ Sacha asked with her best, innocent smile.
‘Is she bothering you?’ came the sharp voice of Bizmillah from the doorway behind them. ‘You’ve work to do and talking with guests isn’t part of that, Sacha.’ He spoke sternly as he ambled towards them, gripping his black cane with its silver tip. ‘I will see the gentleman out of the theatre. They can be very dangerous places late at night and we wouldn’t want an accident to befall you, would we?’ Bizmillah gestured with a quick nod for Sacha to go as he turned to escort Isambard Black to the door.
‘She was only –’ Black sprung to her defence.
‘And now that only is finished and she will return to her work,’ Bizmillah said slowly as he walked him to the door. ‘Get Mariah to feed the doves before he turns in and load the cannon … and polish the swords. Then you can finish for the night,’ he barked as he walked away, pulling Black by the sleeve.
Mariah slid from behind the curtain as Bizmillah and Isambard Black left the theatre. He jumped from the stage and ran across the back of every row of seats, jumping like a gazelle until he reached Sacha.
‘Quickly,’ he said anxiously, as if he had something of great urgency to share with her. ‘We have to go back to the tower, to my room, I have something you must see.’
‘But Bizmillah said –’ Sacha protested.
‘We’ll come back later and do it then, he never said when we had to do the work. Those pigeons can’t fly, they’ve eaten so much, and we’ve cleaned and cleaned all day … Please?’
‘Then, we come back?’ she insisted as she looked at the clock that ticked away under the balcony. ‘One hour – promise?’
The steam elevator rattled to the top floor of the hotel. In the far corner from where they stood was a discarded umbrella with a white bone handle cut into the shape of a swan’s head. It had been tightly wrapped; the fastening strap twisted around the shiny black material several times, and then was secured in a small knot.
‘Always wanted one of those,’ Mariah said as he picked the umbrella from the corner of the cage and began to pluck at the tight knot. ‘My father had one just the same, took it out even when it wasn’t raining.’
The elevator rattled violently as it began to slow down. Mariah gripped the brass handrail that circled the cage, and with every inch that the steam ram pushed them they jerked and shook. Then the shaft became filled with gushing steam that filled the cage, making it difficult for Mariah to see where Sacha was standing.
‘I don’t think it’s going to make it. They turn off the steam and let the boiler cool. I was once stuck for hours.’ Sacha’s words faded as the elevator shuddered to a complete halt, the gas lantern dimming to a soft glow that could hardly fill the carriage. ‘Open the gate, Mariah. We could have made the top floor.’
Mariah hung the umbrella over his arm and slid the heavy gate to one side. The steam elevator had stopped a floor below the tower. He looked into the long corridor, then turned to Sacha as he pointed to the door. ‘Three … six … five …’ he said quietly. ‘Isambard Black.’
Mariah stepped from the lift and listened at the door. There was no sound: all was quiet. In the centre of the door was a brass plate that could be slid from one side to the other.
‘Out,’ Mariah said softly as he read the sign. ‘It says he’s out.’
The sound of footsteps clattered from the stairway by the side of the elevator.
‘Hide,’ Sacha murmured, as she pulled open a small cupboard door at the far side of the elevator and jumped inside. ‘Quickly, inside.’
Mariah squashed himself into the cupboard that appeared to be filled with old teapots and empty bed-bottles with their cork stoppers.
‘Careful,’ Sacha said as he pressed her against the far wall, pulling the door until
only a chink of light cast a shadow down the side of his face.
The door to the stairs opened. Bizmillah walked on to the dark landing, cane in hand, his tailcoat blustering in the furious draught that followed him like a dragon’s breath. He stopped outside the room opposite the elevator and looked down the corridor, unaware that he was being watched from the maid’s cupboard.
Taking a key from his pocket, he placed it in the lock and, looking over his shoulder one more time, turned the key and vanished quickly into the darkened room, closing the door and locking it behind him.
‘Bizmillah went into Isambard Black’s room,’ Mariah said as another set of footsteps pounded the floorboards of the stairway above their heads. Sacha slithered to the floor of the cupboard to see out into the passageway. The doorway to the corridor opened again.
Isambard Black looked back and forth as he toyed with the cufflink on his left sleeve. He appeared bedraggled, as if tattered by a savage wind, his long locks forlorn, his dress and manner dishabille. In his hand he gripped his silk top hat, the top crumpled and torn, fine strands of silk hanging down. Mariah watched from their secret place as Black rubbed a streak of mud from his face. He fumbled clumsily in his pockets, dropping his hat to the floor and turning to watch it roll towards the maid’s cupboard.
‘If this is life …’ Black cursed as he bowed to pick his hat from the floor. ‘First my umbrella is missing and now my hat,’ he said out loud, as if he wanted to be overheard. Black picked the dishevelled top hat from the floor, took the key from his pocket and opened the door to his room. A chink of amber light from the wick of the gas lamp flooded into the darkened corridor, illuminating the crowned pattern on the deep runner that went the length of the passageway, edged by dark wood. Isambard Black looked back and forth, checking the passageway, then stepped into the room. Before closing the door he peered out again, staring over his long nose like an angry corvid, making sure he had not been followed.
