Hobgoblin Night: Mask and Dagger 2 Page 10

  Skirting the frosty, lower slopes of Spyglass Hill, Sera and Elsie entered the town. On the village green, a knot of people had gathered around the statue of old King Henry at the center of the square. A fire-and-brimstone preacher had appropriated the base of the statue for use as a pulpit, and proceeded to harangue the crowd with an open-air sermon. The two girls stopped to watch and listen.

  The minister was a tall, lean man, wearing a low-crowned beaver hat with a wide brim, which shadowed most of his face. It seemed he must be an impressive speaker, for his entire audience had a conscience-stricken look. Some of the ladies were actually in tears, as if he had brought them all, suddenly and forcibly, to a painful awareness of their own iniquity.

  But as for Elsie, she did not care for the sermon, or for the preacher—no, not at all, he expressed himself so violently! And when he removed his hat and began to wave it about for emphasis, she and Sera gave a simultaneous gasp of surprise.

  "I do believe that is the Reverend Moses Tynsdale, from Lootie's Bay," said Sera, the color rising in her cheeks.

  Elsie tugged at her sleeve. "Yes, I am certain it is. But do let us go, Sera. If we move on at once, he may not recognize us."

  Much to her dismay, Sera refused to budge. "He has already recognized us. See how he nods his head in greeting. It would look very odd if we left before he finished, without even saying how-do-you-do." But the truth was, Sera found the itinerant clergyman's fiery rhetoric strangely thrilling, and she had no wish to move on. "We must not behave as though we have anything to hide, you know."

  The sermon over, the crowd dispersed, and Mr. Tynsdale descended from his perch. He made a curt bow to Elsie, and accepted, with stiff gallantry, the hand that Sera held out to him.

  "An unexpected pleasure, Miss Thorn. I knew, of course, that you and your brother and Miss Winter left Lootie's Bay, but I had received the impression you would be visiting friends to the north. Had I thought to find you here in Cordelia, I might have made inquiries, and paid you a visit long before this."

  Elsie blushed, but Sera flashed him a smile. "Indeed, but you know that gossip is often inaccurate. Had you thought to ask us where we were bound, you might have learned our destination. But now that we have met: perhaps you will be good enough to call on us at Mothgreen Academy. Shall we say Sunday . . . after the morning service?"

  Mr. Tynsdale declared that it would be his pleasure, excused himself, bowed, and strode off in the direction of the Eclipse, with the skirts of his long coat flapping.

  "But why did you ask him to call on us?" wailed Elsie, as soon as the preacher was out of earshot. "You do not—my dear, you cannot like Mr. Tynsdale? I think he is the most odious man!"

  Sera paused to think before she spoke. "No, I do not precisely like him," she said deliberately. "But Mr. Tynsdale interests me. He speaks with such passion about vice and degradation, that it seems he must know everything about them. And yet, to all appearances, he is the very pattern of moral rectitude. I do not think him an agreeable man, yet I must confess that he exerts a certain fascination. Also, when he preaches, there is something in his glance that reminds me—" Sera put her hand up to the little bit of sea-ivory at her throat, shook her head, and gave an odd little laugh. "I believe if I became better acquainted with him I might learn what that look means, and how it originates—that is what I might possibly discover."

  They continued on across the green, but stopped again when a cheerful voice hailed them. "It's Jed," Elsie said breathlessly, glancing about her with a look of pleasure.

  It was Jed, emerging from the tavern, rosy-cheeked and hearty in a rough brown overcoat and a wide-brimmed beaver hat not unlike Mr. Tynsdale's, though Jed's had a sweeping plume. Indeed, there could hardly be a greater contrast between the mysterious intensity of the preacher and the guileless wholesomeness of Jed. (Yet even Jed had his secrets, Sera reminded herself.) He saluted Sera on one cheek in a brotherly fashion, accepted the warm little hand that Elsie removed from her muff, and kissed it, taking rather longer about the process than was absolutely necessary.

  Then he fell into step beside them, and accompanied the young ladies on all their errands, only waiting with Elsie outside Mistress Morgan's shop while Sera went in to buy two pairs of dark stockings. Mistress Morgan's was not the kind of shop that any young lady could afford to be seen entering in the company of a gentleman.

  By the time they completed their business the light had faded, and the streets were practically deserted. They headed for Mr. Herring's cottage, to borrow his team and sledge. With no one near to overhear their conversation, Sera quizzed Jed about his and Mr. Jonas's recent activities.

  "We've made the acquaintance of an old sea-dog, a Captain Hornbeam," said Jedidiah enthusiastically. "He owns his own ship, a little rebuilt merchant frigate. The Otter, she's called, and she seems to be precisely what we need for our enterprise come Quickening."

  He then went on to tell them all about his discovery at the Guildhall, the fascinating document written by the late Izrael Barebones.

  At mention of the Mothgreen Academy spectre, Sera gave a forced laugh. "Please, I do not wish to hear anything more about Uncle Izrael. I am quite out of patience with old Mr. Barebones. Or would be, if I believed he was really haunting the Academy! You have no idea what queer ideas he inspires in Miss Barebones and her whole deluded circle of ladies from the town. If it is not spirit raising, it is tea-leaf reading; if it is not tea-leaf reading, it is some other nonsense. They even speak of holding a Dumb Supper. Not only is it a great waste of time, but I believe it sets a bad example for the girls, who are all at an impressionable age. Luella Battersby, for instance, is a high-strung and excitable child, and I am convinced it is all this talk of ghosts that keeps her awake and roaming through the house at all hours of the night."

  "Luella Battersby is simply growing much too quickly," said Elsie. "I was just as restless and excitable at her age . . . though not nearly so naughty. That was the very thing that convinced poor Mama that I suffered some nervous complaint, if not some dreadful physical malady."

  "Be that as it may," said Sera, "I do not understand why the mothers of these girls allow their daughters to be exposed to this nonsense."

  Elsie gave a humorous shrug. "So many of them were pupils at the Academy in their time, or so the girls tell me. I think everyone is accustomed to Miss Barebones and her odd obsessions, so that her eccentricities have become something of a local institution." She smiled wistfully up at Jedidiah. "I think it is sad more than anything else. Those poor old dears . . . desperately attempting to talk to Mr. Barebones, and he just as eager to communicate with them, if one goes by all his midnight rappings and moanings (which you have heard as well as I have, Sera, for all you like to pretend that the little girls are responsible!), and yet, somehow, they are none of them able to pierce the veil. For all the burning interest in ghosts and spectres displayed by Miss Barebones and her cronies, they none of them possess the ability to speak with spirits."

  They had reached the gate outside Mr. Herring's cottage. Holding the gate open for the ladies to pass through, Jed glanced at Sera with a quizzical gleam in his eye. "It is an odd thing, you refusing to countenance a belief in spirits, when you very nearly died by the hand of a dead man back in Thornburg."

  Sera bit her lip. "I don't know that he was a dead man. I know nothing of the sort. He certainly seemed lively enough to me!"

  "But I know that he was dead, and you might take my word for it." Jed gave a reminiscent shudder, as they climbed the steps to Mr. Herring's porch. "I saw him there in his coffin, with his eyes sewn shut. Lying there so still and cold, that at first I took him for a wax figure. I thought—Well, it hardly matters what I thought, but I will tell you this: it never even occurred to me that he might rise up out of his casket and walk about as he did!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Containing two Brief Scenes.

  Even by the dim, distant light of the street lamps flaring at the foot of the hill, the booksho
p had a deserted look. Ivy covered the walls, nearly obscuring the windows and doors, and the cracked diamond panes, what could be seen of them, wore a coating of dust so thick they were almost opaque.

  The housebreaker surveyed the building by a single ray from a covered lanthorn. He knew better than to try the door, which had been locked for many seasons, nor did he attempt to force an entrance, for all that he carried an iron crowbar clutched in one powerful hand. Instead, he crept around by the side, down a narrow passage between buildings, straight to the place where a broken pane allowed him to reach inside, unfasten a latch, and then lift the window sash and crawl through.

  Once inside, he rotated the metal covering on his lanthorn, permitting more light to spill out. The shop smelled of dust and mildew: the books crammed into the dark wooden shelves, aisle upon aisle, were all rotting away. The cracked window panes had allowed river damps to seep into the building and work their damage for more than a year.

  The burly housebreaker spared only a contemptuous glance for the moldering books on the ground floor. He walked past a moon-faced grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs, climbed a steep flight, pushed open a door, and entered a room as dusty and cluttered with shelves and books as the one below. Laying aside his crowbar, he set swiftly to work rifling through the contents of a shelf.

  This was but one of many nocturnal visits that Peter Schütz had paid the bookshop; he had been making these methodical searches for many seasons now, though at infrequent intervals. He never dared to come when the moon was bright and full, when all Nature existed in a state of agitation, and the people of Thornburg were likely to be wakeful and watchful, likely to take notice of his stealthy incursions.

  He came only when Iune was dark, late at night, when the neighbors were (or ought to be) peacefully asleep in their beds. In this manner, able to work only for an hour or two at a time, he had spent the last year making a thorough search of the shop on the ground floor, and a cursory search of this floor and of the living quarters up in the attic.

  Pausing in his labors, he stepped back, lanthorn in hand, to examine an ancient oak wardrobe. A great brass padlock hung on the face of the cabinet, which seemed to promise something of value, if not precisely the something he had been employed to discover. True enough, his search had been fruitless and discouraging up until now, yielding not so much as a scrap of silver plate or a hoard of copper pennies. Only the laboratory behind the shop downstairs contained anything of value, but how to dispose of such odd bits and pieces of equipment he had no idea.

  A board creaked somewhere down below; a cold draught passed through the room. A superstitious man might have taken fright—if any place had the appearance of a haunted house, it was the bookshop—but Peter Schütz stuck doggedly to his task. He knew these old houses always creaked and settled at night.

  Setting his lanthorn down on the floor beside the wardrobe, he took up his crowbar and pried open the door, breaking the rusty hinges in the process. A swift glance sufficed to tell him that the oak cabinet did not contain the priceless old books he was looking for. It contained old papers with heavy wax seals, bundles of letters tied up with fraying string. He sifted through a sheaf of papers in a half-hearted way . . . until he discovered a little wooden box buried at the back of the cabinet. That, thought the housebreaker, his fingers curling around his crowbar, looked considerably more promising.

  The box was locked as well, but Schütz had no difficulty breaking the trumpery little padlock. His skill with pick-locks was not even needed. Inside, he found two wrinkled bank notes and a handful of silver coins.

  Not bleeding much, he reflected, as he pocketed the money, but it was a little something to supplement the modest wages paid by the person who employed him to search.

  He was so absorbed in his task, that it was only when a board creaked directly behind him, that the housebreaker looked up with a start, to see the frock-coated figure bearing down on him, a stoop-shouldered old man with a curiously waxen face. Reacting instantly, Schütz reached for a long knife he carried tucked into his belt.

  But the newcomer moved with surprising speed and agility, stopping Schütz with the cold clasp of a steely hand around one wrist, and an equally powerful grip on the shoulder. The knife dropped from suddenly slackened fingers, and a numbing sensation stole up the housebreaker's arm.

  "I could snuff out your life as easily as snuff out a candle, if I wished to do so." The old man spoke with a faint accent.

  Schütz flinched away from the glance of his dull, dark eyes. They had a curiously glazed appearance, a look he had only seen on the faces of men he had been obliged to kill in the course of his work. "I shall not do so, however, if you answer my questions—if you do not try anything foolish."

  The housebreaker nodded reluctantly, caught between fear and a sullen resentment at the interference.

  "You have been here before. Who sent you, and what do you look for?"

  "I'm looking for coin. You can check my pocket and see. And nobody—" He gasped as the grip of those icy fingers tightened on his arm. His head started to spin, and his lungs to labor in a futile attempt to take in more air. In a sudden panic, Schütz realized that he was really dying, the old man was actually sucking the life right out of him, and he could not even struggle.

  But then, just as his sight began to darken, the fingers around his wrist relaxed, the pressure on his shoulder grew less. The darkness receded. "I suppose your loyalty is admirable in its way. And after all, I stand to gain nothing by killing you. You might even be of some small service."

  The old man appeared to consider before he spoke again. "Go back to your master. Go back and arrange a meeting. I believe that he and I may prove mutually useful."

  ***

  The next afternoon, a large, heavy-laden coach, liberally decorated with gilt and armorial bearings, came rumbling through the Great North Gate and into the town of Thornburg.

  The Duchess lifted a curtain and peeked out the window, watching the rows of houses passing by. "It is pleasant to be home again," she said to her companion on the seat opposite. "I do not wish to offend you, but I must say, I did not care for your King or his court."

  Jarl Skogsrå took no offense. "Skullgrimm's court possesses few attractions." He yawned behind his hand. "And yet, did not the Gracious Lady accomplish all that she meant to?"

  Skogsrå nodded at the silent, golden-haired figure sitting beside him. "She grows rather pale and listless, our Cecile. Perhaps she ought to be fed as soon as we arrive."

  The Duchess could not repress a shudder. "You must see to her needs, my dear sir. I weary of the task, and indeed, I think it far better suited to you."

  The Jarl gave the faintest of shrugs. He crossed his legs, the better to display his gleaming, military-style boots. "It is all the same to me. But really, I find your reluctance, your profound distaste, utterly inexplicable. The creatures we feed the monster are sound and healthy, their flesh is perfectly clean and wholesome. And you, you partake of meat every day—if not the flesh of mice, at least of birds and other small animals—and all without a single qualm."

  "Yes," said the Duchess rather pettishly. "But I do not butcher the creatures myself, nor handle the bloody meat!"

  The Jarl smiled mockingly. "I will admit that the task is somewhat beneath your dignity. Though why you should be so squeamish . . . the Gracious Lady is, in effect, a hypocrite. It is living among these Men and dwarves, one supposes."

  "Anything you like," said the Duchess, putting a hand to her forehead. The rattling of the berlin, the many trials attendant on a long journey, were beginning to tell on her. A brief visit along the way, to the Wichtelberg in Zar-Wildungen, had offered little in the way of rest or ease. The old Duke was ailing . . . Well, he had been ill for years, really, growing steadily more frail, more disordered in his mind, but now it seemed that he might soon be gone, her good old husband of so many years. He was half her age, in truth—she could remember a time when he was dark-haired and handsome
, witty without being cruel, brilliant without being condescending, when she was deliriously in love with him—but these humans aged so swiftly, already he was senile and fading, though not much more than ninety.

  The Duchess swept a hand across her eyes. She would have stayed to nurse him, but there was nothing she could do for him, and most of the time, he scarcely recognized her.

  "I do hope," she said, in a small voice, "that I shall find everyone well at home!"

  The coach drew up before the ancient Zar-Wildungen mansion. Skogsrå gathered up his gloves and his hat. No sooner had the footman opened the door and let down the steps than the Duchess was out of the berlin and climbing the marble steps to the house, too impatient to wait for the Jarl's assistance. She left it to Skogsrå to veil the golem and help her out of the coach.

  The footman ran on ahead of the Duchess and lifted the heavy iron knocker on one of the doors. But the servants had heard the berlin arrive and were already hastening to fling the double doors wide and welcome the Gracious Lady home. There was a flurry of movement, a skittering across the floor, and a small body flung itself against the Duchess's skirts.

  She bent down to scoop up the tiny indigo ape and cuddle him in her arms. "He looks well cared for, that I must own," she said to her portly dwarf butler. "My Sebastian did not pine for me while I was gone?"

  "How could one tell?" said Skogsrå, with heavy scorn, as he led the shrouded golem up the steps and into the marble entry hall. "That monkey is lugubrious by nature."

  The Duchess cast him a sour glance over Sebastian's head. "Attend to Cecile, my dear Jarl. Feed her and put her away, where she will come to no harm. Then attend me upstairs in my sitting room."