Mariah Mundi

by G. P. Taylor

  Sacha tried to smile, but in her heart she knew that, somewhere not too far behind, Grimm and Grendel would follow them. Grimm would be wearing his spectacles and would see their hidden footsteps, following like a faithful hound to a home’s hearthrug.

  On the far corner of the covered arcade was the brightly painted front of Quadlibett’s Fine Vendorium. It appeared to glow in the dark shadows with its ornate provisions. Every tin, bottle and bag that filled the window begged to be purchased. Mariah found himself mesmerised by the sight of jar upon jar of luscious delights. His mouth welled with anticipation and stirred his stomach. He had never in all of his life seen so much that would provoke such desire.

  In front of him stood a man, a small tasselled hat upon his head, a pair of cobalt spectacles stuck firmly upon his nose. He was dressed in a neat black suit and a cravat of the finest gold thread etched with purple dragons. A white shirt with a stiff collar was wrapped around his neck and his cuffs fluffed and flustered from under his sleeves. What caught Mariah’s eye the most was the bright shining of a beautiful emerald ring. He gave a polite cough. Startled, Sacha turned, not realising he stood there. The man laughed.

  ‘What took you so long, Sacha?’ he said as he twiddled the ring on his finger. ‘I thought you’d have been here a long time ago.’ He held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. ‘And who is this?’

  Sacha turned to Mariah, unsure as to what to say. She saw the look in Mariah’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, this is Mariah. From London. The Colonial School. Works with me at the Prince Regent.’

  ‘Like young Mister Felix,’ Quadlibett said as he spun the emerald ring on his finger. ‘I am Quadlibett, owner and patron of this arcade. Sadly not all my tenants have lived up to expectation, but you can buy things here from around the known world. Headbands from the native Indians of the Americas, the finest herbs from Tibet and any article of clothing you would ever wish to wear. And in my very own Vendorium, the best chocolate known to man.’

  ‘We’re in trouble, Mister Quadlibett,’ Sacha blurted out.

  ‘Sacha, you’re always in trouble!’ Mister Quadlibett said, as if to brush her comment to one side to digest it later. He led them to the doorway of the shop, took out a bright brass key from his pocket, put it in the lock and quickly turned it. He opened the door and Mariah gasped. What he hadn’t seen through the full windows was the most amazing tabernacle of delight the eye could perceive. There before him were shelves and shelves of tinned biscuits, boxes of sweets and packets of the finest delicacies that he’d ever seen. His stomach twisted with hunger, prompted by his eyes. He gave a gentle laugh, as if he had fallen into paradise. Mister Quadlibett tapped the side of his nose and gave him a knowing wink.

  ‘I take it, Mariah, you’re like everybody else that comes into this shop. You can see in their eyes that they devour everything, desiring to devour it in their stomachs!’

  The lad gasped. ‘It’s true. Sorry, Mister Quadlibett, my eyes gave me away but I’ve never seen anything like this before!’

  ‘Then you will be my guest,’ the man said. ‘Pick anything you want. Just point to the box. Pick and sample what’s inside and let it be a magnificent surprise.’

  In the bright light of the lamp, Mariah’s eyes searched every tin. They shone in a myriad of colours: greens, blues, blacks, turquoise, the deepest of reds and a scarlet that almost burnt the eye to gaze upon it. He read the labels. Mariah had never heard of such wondrous names. Gallacto’s Bubble Mints, Caruso’s Chocolate – they were all there, all the favourites, waiting for him to eat. He thought long and hard as his hand wafted backwards and forwards along the line of tins and then he decided.

  ‘I’ll have one of those. Just one!’

  He pointed to a box made of tin, neatly crafted into the shape of a row of books. He read the label: Madison’s Magical Wonders.

  Mariah had only ever seen one such tin before in his life, sent by a grieving parent to the Colonial School, a price paid, a guilt offering for the abandonment of her son. So expensive a gift that the boy had held the tin in his hands, marvelled upon it, watched it for days, before he even dared to open the lid.

  There, inside, he knew would be the most marvellous, the most wonderful and the most colourful thing that a young eye could ever gaze upon. Even to hold one of Madison’s Magical Wonders was a pleasure beyond pleasures. Mariah remembered that day well. He had stood with several of his friends, waiting for that moment, desiring the boy just to open the golden wrapper and give him a glimpse of what was inside. The boy had taken the gold edges between his fingers and gently pulled each side of the tin lid. It was then, for the first time in his life, that Mariah saw a Madison’s Magical Wonder – there, in gleaming gold, coated in sugar, twisted in pearl barley and with several drops of the finest, darkest chocolate. The boy had held it in his hand, closed his eyes as if to pray, and then with one swift movement pushed the whole of the chocolate slab into his mouth, never to be seen by the light of day again.

  A deep sigh had gone from boy to boy, their vain hope of sharing in this dream finally quashed as he chomped away, his mouth full, a dribble of black and red spit crossing his cheek and dropping to the floor at his feet the only sign of what had taken place.

  For Mariah, this had been a sacrament, a holy moment like one that is shared between priests and people, yet Mariah and his friends were not part of that covenant. The boy had giggled to himself, clumsily chewing, chomp after chomp, as he devoured the marvellous thing within his mouth. His once friends turned away in their deep disappointment, never to speak to him again.

  Now Mariah stood in the vaults beneath the high tower of the Emporium and suddenly it was his chance. There was the tin, the open hand of Mister Quadlibett reaching out to the shelf, looking to where Mariah was pointing.

  ‘You choose well, lad. You choose very well. The most expensive thing that I have. Yet let this be a free gift from me to you.’ He took the box from the shelf. He opened the tin lid and held it towards Mariah.

  Mariah’s hand darted inside, clutching the chocolate between his fingers. Then quickly he ripped it from its golden skin, shedding the foil like the dead membrane of a lizard. He looked upon it and, like the boy from the Colonial School, didn’t wait to be asked. He pushed the chocolate deep within his mouth and chomped and sighed and chomped again. He sat at the small table in the corner of the shop and ate to his content. He tried to smile in thanks to Quadlibett, but all he could do was dribble chocolate down his chin.

  As Mariah gazed about the Vendorium, Quadlibett took Sacha to one side and whispered to her. ‘Trouble?’ the man asked. ‘You said you were in trouble, Sacha? Real trouble that you cannot fix yourself?’

  Sacha looked at him, then looked back along the dark arcade, into the alleyway and out to the street.

  ‘Being followed,’ she said nervously. ‘Something has happened at the Prince Regent.’

  ‘And where does young Mariah fit into this trouble?’ Mister Quadlibett asked, as he watched him chewing away upon the fine chocolate.

  ‘There’s something else. It’s at the Prince Regent. It’s to do with Felix.’

  ‘Felix? I remember him well! Did he not choose exactly the same as Mariah?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sacha said. She was quite anxious. Her hand scratched the side of her face, then curled itself upon the wisp of hair. ‘There’s something wrong. Something not right. Felix disappeared, he vanished. We thought he was dead or had run away but we found him, he’s still in the hotel.’

  ‘Could well be,’ Mister Quadlibett said, as he looked out to the street. ‘I think conversations such as this should be catered for behind closed doors.’

  He reached and pulled the door shut. Taking the key from his pocket, he locked the thick brass lock then slid the two bolts. He turned to the oil lamp behind him and lowered the wick.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let us sit down. Let’s talk about what you have seen, and maybe Mister Quadlibett will be able to pour some oil on you
r troubled water.’

  Mariah didn’t speak. He continued to eat the fine chocolate, his eyes trying to tell Quadlibett all that he had seen. Sacha spoke for him. Quickly, impatiently, she told of all that had gone before.

  [ 23 ]

  The Shovel Hat

  MISTER Quadlibett opened his coat and pulled on his braces. He looked at Mariah, searching out all that was going on within him. Then he gave a half-smile and picked his teeth with his finely trimmed fingernails. ‘I can tell you’re a lad of secrets,’ the vendor said as he offered him another chocolate.

  Mariah picked one from the box and placed it quickly in his pocket.

  ‘For later!’ he replied, hoping it would not be snatched back and taken away.

  ‘Later is always worth preparing for,’ Quadlibett said with a smile of satisfaction, knowing that his delights enticed the meanest of hearts. ‘I am suspicious when a man does not prepare for what is to come. I always carry a satchel of food whenever I leave the house. But never that which I would eat straight away. It is best to pack that which you only marginally like. For if you took your favourite it would be gone before you were not much than a yard from your door.’ He looked at Mariah and handed him another candy. ‘You never know how long it will be before you will eat again. And, come to think of it, I should take a change of clothes, a spare hat, galoshes and my last will and testament – should I die in the street, I would not want them scouring my house to find what I haven’t left to them.’ He finally sucked in a breath that whistled through his teeth. ‘To think of it again. If we were to be always prepared then we should carry a sack – nay – have carried for us by a donkey all that we should need for every eventuality of life. Yet we set off on the daily grind with nothing more than a hankersniff and a tub of snuff. That is the human condition, young Mariah. No preparation and much ado when all goes wrong and we are not prepared.’ Quadlibett grabbed yet another candy and pressed it into the lad’s hand. ‘Best you don’t go the way of the world. Take plenty and always have a candy in your pocket.’

  ‘How much do I owe you for these?’ Mariah asked, suspiciously.

  ‘For you, lad? Nothing. Treat it as being a pleasure, my pleasure. Now tell me, your eyes speak of secrets. There’s no room for those between the three of us, so tell me what troubles you.’

  Mariah glanced up and down at the man, looking for some flaw, some petulance or deceit. There was none. He smiled at Quadlibett.

  ‘Since I arrived from London, things have been happening. There was a man on the train, said he was called Isambard Black. Said he’d been booked into the hotel for three months, but yesterday, yesterday just after breakfast, I found out that he arrived with no reservation, nothing. He lied, and yet he seemed to know so much about me.’

  Mister Quadlibett looked at him. ‘Maybe a coincidence. People come to the hotel all the time. What makes him so different?’

  ‘But it was what he did. He was in the same compartment of the train. He shared with me secrets, told me things. There was a man I met at Kings Cross, said he was called Perfidious Albion. He gave me a pack of cards, told me I had to keep them safe, then send him a postcard to the Claridges Hotel. I sent him a card from the Prince Regent. This morning, some men turned up at the hotel, dragging Perfidious Albion from a carriage.’ Mariah stared at Quadlibett as if he were part of some game that had spun out of control. ‘There are also two others who say they’re detectives. They followed us through the streets. Is this just some other coincidence?’ Mariah asked.

  ‘One tall, the other short and fat?’ Quadlibett asked as if he knew them well. Sacha nodded her reply. ‘Grimm and Grendel.’

  ‘You know them?’ Sacha asked.

  ‘Know of them. They have reputation in the town already. Things are not kept a secret for too long. Like the body that was discovered outside the Three Mariners. Strange how it was found again this morning under the new bridge – people said there had been a fall – a lost vagrant. I have never known dead men to throw themselves from bridges.’ Quadlibett spoke quietly as if to himself. ‘Kraken’s back … or so they say, and the beach steams.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Best we see Mister Charity. He will know what to do with this. A strange adventure for you both.’

  There was a sharp rattle upon the door of the shop, agitating the glass.

  ‘Best go in the back,’ Quadlibett said to Sacha. ‘You know the way out, should our guest be unwelcome. Barrels and stairs … barrels and stairs,’ he muttered.

  The door was rattled again, this time more urgently than before. There followed a frantic banging.

  ‘Grimm and Grendel?’ Mariah asked as he stepped from the brightly lit shop and into the dark storeroom hidden behind a blue veil.

  ‘Whoever it is wants to see us,’ Quadlibett said lightly as if it mattered not that the detectives could be at the door. ‘Go and hide. Keep listening. If it should be them there is a way of escape that may intrigue you.’

  Sacha pulled Mariah into the darkness and slid the veil across the doorway, blocking it further with a wooden stand decked in jars that when closed made the entrance look like nothing more than another display of finest sweets.

  There came another rattle at the door, this time followed by a raucous voice that sounded as if a gull had taken human form.

  ‘Quadlipet … Mister Quadlipet.’ A woman’s voice cackled and gurgled as if her lungs were effervescent. ‘I need string, Mister Quadlipet, string, and you are the only man I know with a large enough ball.’

  ‘Mrs Sachavell, with all this shouting and ranting I thought the world had caught fire and all you require is string?’ he said as he took the key and turned the lock.

  ‘String, Mister Quadlidot, and without a good length I shall be undone and unable to work.’ She shouted and banged at the same time. ‘There are customers afoot and money to be made and how can I wrap my cod ends without a decent yard of string?’ She spat out her words and pulled her shovel hat over her ears.

  Quadlibett opened the door slowly and looked carefully outside.

  ‘Quickly!’ she ranted, pushing the door from his hand and stepping into the shop. ‘It’s getting late in the day and all’s not well.’ Her eyes devoured the shop and scoured each surface for a hint of gossip to pass on as she wrapped the dead heads and slithers of fish she called a fillet. ‘Taken to eating your own stock, eh, Mister Quadlipet? Leaving the golden wrapper behind is a sign of tardiness.’

  ‘It’s Quad-lee-bett, Mrs Sachavell, Quad-lee-bett. A dot is a mark on paper and a pet is an animal kept that women stroke and men detest,’ he said, addressing a large woman in a once fine dress that had been expanded several times to cope with her increasing size. Mrs Sachavell shimmied into the shop as if she were an egg-bound hen, pushing Quadlibett to one side as she ogled the shelves.

  ‘And string is something that keeps me in business,’ she retorted quickly as the Vendorium began to smell of stale fish. ‘How much can I have?’

  ‘As much as your conscience allows you to take without payment, my dear Mrs Sachavell,’ Quadlibett said patiently. He went behind the counter and then handed her a ball of rough sisal as big as an ostrich egg.

  ‘Without payment, Mister Kudlipet? Such a gent and I know I can return the favour. My fish is so fresh and dainty that it will please a man’s heart. I’ll bring some delight when I close up and see you taken care of,’ she said fondly as she plucked a hair from her nose, eyed it for size and then threw it to the floor.

  The thought of sampling any delight of Mrs Sachavell’s chilled him to the bone as the smell of her fresh fish permeated the shop. Impatiently, Mrs Sachavell took the yardstick and began to measure what her conscience would allow her to take free of charge, the indulgence of Mister Quadlibett’s charity.

  Sacha watched on, her eye pressed to the gap between the wall and the stand as Mariah searched the storeroom for a way of escape. As he looked around in the dim light he noticed that the shelves were not stacked with sweets but with cases of wine, tobacc
o and jeroboams of gin. Everything was covered in a layer of what seemed to be dust, but when inspected, Mariah could see that it was in fact the skeletons of tiny creatures. Some of these beasts were crushed to a fine powder, others were in their shells or in varying stages of dried decay. He crept back to Sacha and whispered in her ear.

  ‘Smuggler – gallons of gin hidden,’ he said, loud enough for his whisper to be heard in the Vendorium.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Mrs Sachavell asked anxiously as her eyes twitched uncontrollably from side to side and she scratched the wart that hung from the end of her nose.

  ‘What?’ replied Quadlibett with a straight face as he bit the smile from his lips. ‘I heard only the sound of your conscience stripping the ball of string.’

  ‘Voices,’ she said earnestly. ‘Someone called me a smuggler. I heard it well enough as if they stood behind me. And they know about my –’ Mrs Sachavell held back the words in case whoever had spoken could hear what she would say and make much capital of it.

  ‘She’ll hear us,’ Sacha said, unaware that the partition could not withhold even the slightest murmur.

  ‘What would they know of? Ifit was a voice speaking to you,’ Quadlibett asked.

  ‘Nothing Mister …’ She paused unable to remember his name as the accusation of her smuggling gin simmered like a pot on the fire. ‘I’ve heard many voices of late, often when I’m alone. That’s the first one when I’ve been in company, and makes things worse if only I heard it.’

  ‘Do they say much, these voices?’ he asked.

  ‘Often wake me, tell me to do things, often quite unsavoury and not for a woman of my age.’

  ‘Nor any age, I should imagine,’ Quadlibett replied as he watched her empty the ball almost completely of string.

  ‘They tell me to dance, to go into the street and dance in the rain. But I can’t. Carbuncles, Mister … They crush my feet, I have all on getting a shoe to fit,’ she said as she pulled up her skirt and showed Mister Quadlibett her sea boots, cut off at the ankle to form a cumbersome pair of oilskin shoe-ettes. ‘And they pinch,’ she said as she took yet another yard of string and wincing her face, puckering her lips into the shape of dried prune.