The Jade Boy (4 page)

The duke’s great banquet was the talk of London. Everyone who mattered agreed that it had been the most magnificent event the city had seen since the coronation itself. Meanwhile, the duke’s servants, who did not matter, privately agreed that the feast had caused an enormous amount of extra work. They grumbled for days as everything was cleared away and order regained.

Sarah had clucked and fussed about winter fever as she guided Jem back to his bed after he fainted on the balcony, but by mid-morning next day he had recovered enough to feel hungry.

She tried to smuggle some cheese and meat up to the attic, but when Wormald caught her in the corridor carrying the small covered tray, he demanded that the boy be set back to work immediately. Sarah was furious, but had no choice other than to allow it.

Within an hour Jem was hard at work on a series of never-ending chores. In fact, he had so much to do there was little time to think about what he’d seen.

The arrival of the king had been exciting, but any pleasant memories of his birds’-eye view of the proceedings were eclipsed by the moment he had found himself scrutinised, once again, by Count Cazalon.
Monster
– that was what Ann had called her guardian. It was a thought that unsettled him so much that he tried to put it from his mind.

The morning of the third day following the banquet found Jem still hard at work in the kitchen. His task was to polish the silver salvers and tureens so that they could be safely locked away again in the vaults. It was bitterly cold and the thin February light struggled to reach the gloomy corners of the echoing, stony room. Jem blew on his chilblained fingers, tightened the scrap of bandage that covered his still-bloody knuckles and rubbed even harder at the platter on his knees.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and was surprised to see his mother standing there. Sarah rarely came down to the kitchens.

“You are to leave this now, and go to the duchess,” she said. “Be quick about it, Jem. She is waiting in her parlour.”

The duchess sat at a desk in front of the tall window overlooking the gardens. Today, the formal
walkways and flower beds were invisible beneath a layer of snow.

“Ah Jem, good,” she said as he entered the room. He noticed that her pale cheeks were flecked with bright spots of colour.

“I need you to deliver this note to… a friend.”

She handed him a sealed square of paper and looked him directly in the eye before continuing, “This is a very private business matter, you understand, Jem? No one, not even your mother, is to know where you are going or what you are doing for me.”

Her voice seemed tight and a little strained.

Jem took the note and bowed. He had a twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach and was horribly aware that somehow, he knew exactly where this errand would take him.

The duchess continued, “I want you to deliver this to the house of Count Cazalon in Southwark. I realise that you don’t know the way, so we…” she paused, “that is to say
I
, have arranged for Cazalon’s pet moor to meet you at the steps to London Bridge at noon. He will guide you to the house and then the count will want you to carry a most important package back to me.”

“But, ma’am, I… my duties—” Jem began, trying
desperately to think of a way to avoid this errand.

“Are cancelled for today,” said the duchess firmly, adding, “I have already sent word to Wormald that I need you.”

Jem groaned inwardly. What would the steward make of that? Whatever the duchess had told Wormald, it would certainly merit another beating. He bowed and backed towards the door.

“Wait. Come here, Jem,” the duchess called out. “Here is your toll for the bridge.”

She took a small leather pouch from the folds of her dress and counted three coins into the palm of his hand.

“The rest of the money in here is to be given to the count himself and no one else.” She gave him the heavy pouch.

“Look sharp now. Off you go… And remember, Jem. No one is to know about this.”

Muffled against the bitter cold in a thick woollen scarf and two layers of mittens, Jem left Ludlow House through the yard gate behind the kitchens. He took the passage normally used by the delivery men so that no one would notice him go.

He was confused and angry. And there was something else that troubled him too – the duchess had seemed oddly furtive. What could she possibly be up to that she couldn’t even tell his mother about it? Jem didn’t like to admit it but he was also scared. He would choose a joint beating from Wormald and Pig Face over a visit to Count Cazalon.

The city was crusted with soot-blackened snow and ice. Even in the darkest narrow streets, where the upper storeys of timbered houses jutted out so far over the road that they almost touched, grimy flakes had still managed find a way through chinks of sky to settle on the ground.

Jem thrust his hands into his pockets and walked quickly, his head buried deep in the folds of his scarf. Despite the chill, the city streets were filled with noise and bustle. Carts and carriages rocked past on the frozen ruts, ragged street vendors called out their wares and knots of red-faced merchants warmed their hands at braziers set up on every corner.

Jem thought about buying himself a ha’penny bag of roast chestnuts just so that he could hold something hot. In fact, he was just about to pay a smut-faced boy tending a street griddle when he realised that he didn’t know the toll.

Even if he could get across London Bridge, the thought of not having enough money to get back again – and safely away from Cazalon – chilled his blood more than the biting February wind.

At the bottom of Foster Lane he turned left into Cheapside, the vast black bulk of St Paul’s now looming at his back. Slipping and sliding at every step, he pushed his way through the crowds. As he passed a group of rowdy soldiers outside a tavern he remembered Ann’s words again. If what she had said was true, his father could be right here in the city and he’d never know it.

He stopped for a moment and stared. Sensing the boy’s interest one of the men turned and grinned.

“Fancy yerself a soldier, do yer, longshanks?” The man took a step back and made a play of assessing him. “Well, you’ve got the height and build for it, lad – and that looks like a good sword arm there.”

The soldier winked and turned back to his comrades. Jem felt his frozen cheeks flush with unaccustomed pleasure. No one had said anything like that before. If his father really was alive perhaps he’d be proud of him? Perhaps he’d teach him how to ride, how to handle a sword – all the things Jem secretly longed to do.

As he crunched on his way, Jem was so lost in thought that he was suddenly surprised to find himself on the banks of the Thames. He’d passed through the maze of stinking alleyways that led down to the river without even noticing where he was.

Jem pushed through the crowds towards the entrance to London Bridge, where a mass of laden carts and people jostled to cross over to the south side of the river. The air here was thick with smoke from all the fires in the crooked houses and shops that straddled the bridge.

It was already past noon. The city bells had rung out the hour not long ago.

“
I’m down here
.”

A familiar voice sounded in Jem’s head. He turned to scan the surging crowd around him.

“
Not there – I’m down
here.
Look to your left. I’m on the river
.”

Jem jostled his way over to the edge of the Thames and saw Tolly standing on the ice just below.

The dark-skinned boy grinned and waved. Today he was wearing a thick chequered cloak and he was alone. Cleo was nowhere to be seen. Jem felt a pang of disappointment.

“
Monkeys don’t like snow!
” Tolly’s voice rang
out in Jem’s head. It sounded slightly scornful. “
Don’t waste your pennies when you can walk on water. It’s perfectly safe. The Thames has been frozen for weeks now. Look
…’

Tolly stamped hard on the ice then gestured behind him. Hundreds of people were actually standing on the now-solid river. More than that, the ice was covered with stalls, tents, huts and even small fires.

Jem scrambled across a low stone parapet and down the slippery slope to join his friend.

“
How much have you got there?
” asked Tolly.

Jem was about to answer out loud but decided to follow Tolly’s lead and be silent. He grinned and simply opened the palm of his gloved hand to reveal the coins given to him by the duchess.

“
Excellent
,” came the reply. “
There’s something over here I want to see. Come on
.”

Tolly led the way as they skittered across the ice to a ring of people gathered midway across the river. The crowd were standing behind a rope barrier and staring into the depths.

A giant of a man wearing a long fur coat was calling out to passers-by. His single golden earring, a hoop the size of a sovereign, jiggled against the folds of his fat neck as he boomed out, “She is
the very miracle of our age! See the mermaid of the Thames, trapped beneath the waters with no hope of release! Not even her scaly sisters can reach her now.”

Fascinated, the boys moved closer.

“If you two ain’t got a penny to see my mermaid, you can clear off now,” said the man, blocking their view.

Tolly gave Jem a nudge and, reluctantly, Jem offered the man a shiny coin.

The man grabbed it eagerly, gave a toothless smile and crunched aside on the ice, allowing them to join the crowd.

The river ice at the centre of the ring had been polished and cleared of snow. It was so smooth and round that it looked like a vast mirror. About twenty people were kneeling or standing around the edge and peering intently into the water.

“I can see ’er tail,” said one woman, while another crossed herself and said loudly that such a sight wasn’t ‘fit for God-fearin’ folk’ before bending down for a better look.

At first Jem couldn’t make anything out in the still greyness. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the murky view, he saw her.

About three feet below the surface a young woman appeared to be suspended in the water. Her arms were outstretched above the billowing brown folds of her skirts and apron. Jem realised that what he originally took to be strands of weed was hair streaming out from her head.

A basket was attached to her shoulder and around it Jem now saw a variety of floating objects, including a mirror, ivory hair combs and skeins of unravelling ribbon. Everything was motionless, trapped in the ice.

The woman’s face was turned upwards and her blank eyes were open. Her mouth appeared to be caught in a black ‘o’ of perpetual surprise.

Jem shuddered. This was no mermaid, it was a frozen pedlar woman fallen through the ice.

At his side, Tolly was absolutely still. He appeared to be spellbound. His eyes were locked on the dead woman’s face.

Suddenly, Tolly sprang up and bolted from the horrible scene. He slipped and slid as he did so, pushing into the other people around the ice window. Two of them fell over.

The crowd shouted angrily after him and one of the women rounded on Jem. “You should keep your
savage on a lead,” she spat. “Animals like that should be locked in a cage.”

Jem backed away from the furious crowd and then he too broke into a run. Ahead of him he caught glimpses of the red and black squares on Tolly’s cloak as the boy fled to the furthest bank of the river.

When he finally caught up, Jem was breathless. Tolly was leaning against the base of one of the arches of the bridge, his breathing fast and shallow. Jem saw that he was trembling. He tapped the dark boy’s shoulder and was shocked to see tears streaking down his face.

“I heard her,” Tolly choked the words out loud. “She spoke to me.”

Furiously smudging away the tears with the backs of his hands, Tolly straightened up and inhaled deeply.

“She didn’t know,” he continued as if to himself. “Why didn’t she know?”

Jem felt embarrassed. He shuffled his feet and patted his friend’s shoulder again. “What that woman said about putting you on a lead was rude and ignorant. But you shouldn’t pay attention to people like that, Tolly – London is full of them.
People call me gypsy boy – and worse – all the time.”

Tolly looked at Jem oddly. “No, you don’t understand, not—” But then he stopped himself, shook his head and pointed at the sickly yellow sun.

“I have been foolish,” he said. “And now we are late and my master will be angry. Come.”

Jem had never been south of the Thames before. As the boys trudged along he felt a hundred pairs of eyes boring into him from behind rag-covered windows. Tolly’s voice told him to look down at the road, walk quickly and ignore everything.

“
Where exactly are we going, Tolly?
” thought Jem.

The silent reply came immediately. “
To Malfurneaux Place, Count Cazalon’s London residence
.”

After a few seconds the voice came again. “
Be on your guard, Jem. I cannot read my master, but I know he means you no good
.”

Tolly led the way down a dark, shabby street and stopped at a wide-arched gate set into a crumbling wall. He pushed at a hinged board in the wooden doors of the gateway and stepped through. Jem followed.

He found himself in a long snow-covered courtyard. Unlike the gardens at Ludlow House, no trees or flowers grew here. Instead, he saw rows of mournful hooded statues interspersed with huge snow-crusted blocks of marble that reminded him
of the old tombs that lined the nave of St Paul’s. Just occasionally the stone ranks were punctuated by the shattered remains of a broken pillar that pushed up through the snow like a petrified tree.

Tolly’s voice sounded in his head.

“
This used to be an old abbey, Jem. The master chooses to live where the past and the present exist as one. Come
.”

He led the way up a central path. As they crunched past one of the statues the shroud of snow covering the figure’s cloaked head and shoulders fell away to reveal a grinning skull set deep in stony folds.

Jem shuddered and forced himself to look away.

He realised that the courtyard was completely silent. Apart from the crump of their footsteps, not a sound came from beyond the walls and despite the open sky no birds sang here.

At the far end of the courtyard, the boys passed through a jagged ruined archway and into a smaller yard. Tolly turned to the right, but Jem’s feet were rooted to the spot.

The vast blackened bulk of Malfurneaux Place reared up at the far side of the yard.

Ancient, dark and twisted, the tottering levels of the house seemed to reach out over the courtyard
blocking any possibility of light from the bleak sky above.

Jem forced his feet to move again, and as he approached the house, he saw that the great black skeleton of timbers binding it together was heavily carved. Women with slanting eyes and wings rode serpents that had grotesque heads emerging from their mouths. A hunting scene streamed across a huge beam, showing a horned man leading the chase, surrounded by slavering wolves and astride a horse with an impossible number of legs. And, Jem realized, peering closer, there were hundreds of carved human figures huddled in the knots and crevices of the wood, as if they were trying to escape from the horrible creatures around them.

As the boy stared at Malfurneaux Place it seemed to shift and move. When he blinked, it was as if the building had subtly rearranged itself, so that what he thought was there was gone – or had changed.

“
Don’t look at it. Keep your eyes on the ground and follow me. The house is playing with you
.”

Tolly’s voice sounded sharp and nervous.

Jem took a step forward, uncomfortably aware that dozens of arched blank windows ahead of him seemed to be watching his progress.

Tolly’s voice came again, “
Whatever happens, remember that we are here too, Jem. You are not alone
.”

A man’s voice rang out through the stone courtyard.

“You are late, Ptolemy.”

Jem looked up to see a small hump-backed figure standing at the top of a flight of steps leading to a wide, open doorway. The man scuttled down the steps towards them. He was dressed in a tattered black frock coat that made him look like a crow, his skin was wax-yellow and his blind eyes were white as milk. He was bent and bony and his head jutted forward and skewed to the right so that he appeared to squint permanently sideways from beneath a pair of alarmingly springy eyebrows. He was wearing a matted grey wig that kept slipping to the right, causing him to repeatedly jerk his head like a bird to flick it back into place.

The little man sniffed deeply and spoke again. “You’ve got the lad, then.”

It was not a question. He clutched a spindly stick, which he scraped back and forth in the gravel.

“Inside.”

He turned and led the way up the steps into the shadowy hallway and the boys followed.
The doors clanged shut behind them and the room was instantly plunged into total darkness.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a candle?” came the man’s voice. “Don’t need one myself. Old Tapwick knows all the ways here.”

A candle flame flared and Jem jumped back in alarm as a skull seemed to float in the air just beneath his chin.

But no, it was Tapwick, and he appeared to be staring up at him. He was so close that Jem could see the hairs sprouting out of his nose. The nostrils flared and the man inhaled deeply.

“Ah, I’ve got you now,” he said, adding, after a few seconds, “I never forget a smell.”

The man’s breath stank of sour milk. Revolted, Jem took another step back.

Tapwick gave a wheezy laugh and pushed the boy towards a staircase that reared up into blackness from the centre of the hall.

“Master’s been waiting for you this last hour. And he’s not one to be kept waiting.”

The man turned to Tolly. “And you, you black devil, you are to wait here until I say so. Come.”

Jem followed as the old man moved easily towards the staircase, taking the thin light from the single
candle stub with him. Although Tapwick used his stick as a guide, he hardly needed it – he moved like one who could see.

Just before Tolly was swallowed by the blackness, he smiled encouragingly at Jem, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

Jem gulped and felt horribly alone. Nervously he started to turn the loose coins over and over in his pocket.

“Stop that clinking. Can’t hear myself see,” said Tapwick irritably.

At the second landing they came to, Tapwick turned left into a passageway lined with what seemed to be colossal statues. Jem looked at the first of these as they passed, but was so frightened by the dimly lit form captured in stone that he decided to concentrate on the little light moving just ahead of him. He was almost sure that the statue had opened its eyes and stared at him.

They came to a door midway down the passage and Tapwick stopped.

“You are so late that you will have to wait in here while I check that the master is still ready to receive,” he said, handing the candle stub to the boy. “Don’t touch anything,” he warned as he pushed
Jem into the room and shut the door.

Jem listened as Tapwick’s footsteps and the scraping of his stick faded down the corridor. He stood at the threshold to the gloomy room, his heart pounding away so heavily under his ribs that he imagined he could almost hear it. The air was foul – it smelled as if something old and sick was rotting here. Jem took a deep breath and raised the candle.

He was in a long, narrow gallery, much like the room at Ludlow House where the duke displayed his latest treasures – only, this room had no windows.

The weak light from the little flame picked out several large, oddly shaped objects standing in the corners. They were all smothered under grey dusty cloths.

Feeling uncomfortably aware that he was being watched from above, he jangled the coins in his pocket and raised the candle higher.

Jem gasped and shrank back against the door.

A gigantic, snarling black cat loomed over him. The animal’s huge eyes glowed with blank ferocity and its unsheathed claws seemed unnaturally long and sharp. The creature seemed to be about to spring, but Jem realised with a surge of relief that it was long dead and was actually suspended from wires on
the ceiling. A skilful hand had frozen the animal’s body in an eternal, deadly pounce.

He breathed deeply and stumbled to the side to get away from the horrible thing above him. As he did so his boot caught in a heap of fabric spooling on the floor from the largest of the odd covered objects standing about the room. The object began to rock and the cloth covering slumped heavily to the floor.

Jem coughed as a rancid smell suddenly hit his nostrils, then blinked as he tried to make sense of the sight before him. It was another animal, and at first, it appeared to Jem to be a crouching lion. But, instead of snarling jaws, the creature had the open beak of an enormous bird, like an eagle. A pair of vast golden wings sprouted from the lion’s back and Jem shuddered as he saw the cruel jagged stitches punched into the animal’s skin, where the wings were attached with splints of wood and thick black thread. This work was done by a far less skilful hand, and the creature smelled as if it were rotting from the inside out.

It’s a gryphon
, he thought, remembering a picture he’d seen in one of the duke’s books.

In the far corner, beyond the gryphon, Jem’s
candle revealed another draped form. He hesitated for just a moment, then stepped forward. He had to know… He raised the candle and tugged at the musty cloth covering. As it fell, he found himself standing beneath the hooves of a rearing horse. Jem gagged. The terrible smell was even worse now.

This animal had once been a noble stallion, but now it was dirty and grey.

As he looked at the horse, Jem felt tears prickle in his eyes and bile rise in his throat.

But worst of all was the twisted, bony horn that grew from the centre of the stallion’s head, just above the sightless eyes. Jem could see immediately this wasn’t a real unicorn – the ivory horn was clamped into place by four metal bolts hammered into the animal’s skull. He felt blind fury that someone could do such a thing to a beautiful animal.

This sad, dead creature in its forgotten corner was slowly rotting away, just like all of the other monstrosities that were no doubt hiding beneath the other cloth shrouds in the room.

Jem shuddered and hastily backed away. This was horrible, the work of a madman. He felt disgust, and pity for the unnatural creatures around him.

Ann’s words suddenly came to him. “
My guardian
is a collector. His house is full of the most hideous and unnatural things
.”

He wondered how his friends could survive here surrounded by such… evil. Yes! That’s what he felt. This place was truly evil.

“Enjoying the master’s toys, are we?”

Tapwick’s question sounded more like a sneer. The bent little man was standing at the entrance to the room staring sightlessly at Jem.

“Master’s ready for you now.”

Jem’s breathing became fast and shallow, he could feel the muscles in his legs twitching and little spurts of white-hot energy cramped his stomach.

If Cazalon could do all this to these poor animals, what might he want to do to
him
?

Every fibre of his being told Jem to run, but something else told him that escape would be impossible.

“He is waiting. Come!”

Jem followed Tapwick deeper into Malfurneaux Place through a maze of passages and stairs. He wondered if he would ever be able to find his way out.

“Nearly there.”

Tapwick held back a thick velvet curtain and ushered Jem into an arched corridor.

After the brooding silence of the rest of the house, Jem suddenly found himself deafened by the ticking sounds of hundreds of clocks and ancient timepieces. How had he not heard them on his approach? Jem shook his head in amazement.

Some were beautiful golden treasures, others were dark metallic contraptions with their open workings twitching and moving. They seemed oddly alive.

“Master calls this
the passage of time.
” Tapwick sniggered as he brushed past Jem. “Keep up.”

At the far end of the corridor, where it turned off to the left, Jem made out a greyish column propped against the wall. As he got closer, the weak light from his little candle showed that the object was in fact a grotesquely delicate clock constructed entirely from bones.

Small bones, large bones, grey bones, yellow bones – they were stacked together to create a hideous filigree box topped by a smooth ivory dial.

Fascinated and repelled in equal measure, Jem saw that the broad dial was covered in writing and strange symbols. Instead of showing the time, the single hand – formed from what looked like a small human arm, hand and fingers – seemed to point at dates and years.

He heard a scuffling noise near his feet and looked down. At the base of the clock, nestled among the bones, Jem saw a bird. The little creature blinked its black eyes and cheeped. Despite himself, Jem smiled and bent closer.

The bird ruffled its feathers… and scuttled off into the darkness on what looked like the four, pink hairless feet of a rat.

Jem brought his hand to his mouth to muffle a yelp of horror.

Tapwick laughed and started to scratch his stick backwards and forwards on the floorboards.

As the scraping sound echoed around the corridor, the ticking of the clocks grew louder and louder. Jem brought his hands to his ears to block the painful noise.

Then all the sounds stopped at once, as a door at the far end of the lefthand passage clicked ajar. A dull pulse of red-gold light spilled out through the crack in the door and across the bare boards.

“I’m to leave you here,” said Tapwick, snatching the candle stub.

He shoved the boy towards the door and then turned back into the clock-lined passage, disappearing into the blackness.

Jem stood alone. The tips of his boots glowed dully in the faint light from the door. He looked closer. Next to his foot there was a pile of white crystals. In fact, now that he was becoming accustomed to the gloom, he could see that instead of a pile of crystals, it was actually part of a semi-circle of small white granules running across the floorboards, arcing from one side of the door to the other.

Jem bent down to touch it. Salt.
Pig Face would never allow such extravagance
, he thought. Salt was expensive and hard to come by. He took a pinch between his thumb and forefinger and as he did so, the door opened wider and a wave of tremendous heat rolled into the passage.