I might only be a humble gravedigger but I am proud of it. I have never cheated anyone: they get six feet, no more, no less. I have always led a simple life. I need very little and I ask for nothing. I was a contented man until some months ago when I fell foul of my landlord, Jeremiah Ratchet.

It had been a difficult week, short on gravedigging and even shorter on tips. When rent day came around I didn't have it. No doubt you already know of Jeremiah Ratchet. He is a hated man in these parts and I feared what he would do to me. But he surprised me and suggested that I pay double the next week. Like a fool I accepted his offer. But when rent day came again he claimed that I owed him eighteen shillings not twelve.

*Six shillings interest on the loan,' he explained with an oily smile.

Of course, I didn't have the extra money and a week later the debt had increased again. I paid what I could and tried to reason with him but Jeremiah Ratchet must have a hole where his heart should be. After four weeks I owed so much I could never hope to pay.

That was his intention all along.

*I have a suggestion,' he said the next time he came over, *a way for you to work off your debt.'

Although I distrusted the man by now, I had no choice but to listen.

*I need you to do a job for me, something eminently suited to your skills. I will provide the tools.'

Then he explained to me his despicable plan and I flew into a rage and threw him out. He stood on the path and called back to me. *If you will not do it, I will evict you. You know where I am if you change your mind. I'll give you a week to think it over.'

That night I cursed myself again and again for getting myself into debt to the monster. By the time the sun rose I knew that I had no choice. I sent for Ratchet and he came to the cottage to explain what I had to do. He handed me my only tool: a wooden spade.

*Quieter than a metal one,' said Jeremiah. *Anyone in this business knows that.'

And what a business, the business of bodys.n.a.t.c.hing.

That night, some time after one, I went to the churchyard with a heavy heart. How I hated myself for what I was about to do. I knew the grave in q uestion. Hadn't I dug it myself the previous day and watched the coffin lowered into it that very afternoon? And now here I was digging it up again. With every spadeful of dirt I thought of that scoundrel Ratchet. His wealth was made off the backs of the poor. He must have half the village in his debt.

It was raining now and the moon hid herself behind the clouds, ashamed to witness what I was doing. The wind whipped around my head. Water streamed off my hat. The cold froze my hands. The dark clay was sticky with water. It took a supreme effort to raise the shovel; it released only with a loud sucking noise as if the earth herself had come alive and was trying to pull it, and me with it, into the bowels of h.e.l.l below.

As the earth piled up on the side my sweat mingled with the driving rain. In my chest my heart pounded like a blacksmith's hammer. At last I hit wood. I dropped to my knees and sc.r.a.ped the coffin clean with my hands. The lid was held down by a single nail at each corner. I forced the edge of the spade underneath and began to lever it up. The wood splintered and cracked and split. *Sweet Lord, forgive me,' I muttered and crossed myself as a bolt of lightning ripped the sky apart. In its fiery light I gazed down on the poor soul within.

He wasn't a rich man, I could tell from the q uality of the finish on the box and the cheap fittings, but who was in these parts? Rich or poor, like us all he ended up in the dirt. He was young though, and his handsome face was unmarked by the accident that had killed him a" he had fallen under the wheels of a cart. His pale hands were laid across his chest and his ashen face was peaceful. His earthly worries were over. Mine had just begun.

I hesitated only a second, then took the poor chap by the shoulders and dragged him out of the coffin and up on to the side of the grave. I looked up at the heavens and I swore that this was the first and last time I would do this. I thought that, the soul gone, a body would be lighter, relieved of the burden of life, but I felt as if I were lifting a dead horse. I dragged him across the gra.s.s between the headstones to the church gates, where Jeremiah had said there would be someone waiting.

I saw them. Two men dressed in black, their faces and heads hidden beneath hoods. Without a word they took the body and threw it on to the back of their cart between barrels of ale. They covered it with straw and then took off.

I waited until I could no longer hear the horses' hooves before returning to fill in the grave. I worked like a man possessed, shovelling with the energy of a demon, and when it was finally done I went home.

I woke the next day convinced I had dreamed it all, but there by the fireplace was the wooden shovel. I could hardly bear to look upon myself in the mirror. Whatever my reason for doing it, I was still no better than a common bodys.n.a.t.c.her. Resurrectionists, they liked to call themselves, but to give a person a fancy name don't change his nature. Doubtless the corpse was now far away, likely as not in the City, under the knife of a surgeon in the anatomy school and all in the interest of science. At least that's what the doctors said. They paid good money for bodies, and Jeremiah was lining his pockets with it, but never had I thought I would be involved in such a grisly, sinful business.

Jeremiah came knocking that night.

*My men say you did a good job.'

It was not a compliment I wished to accept.

*And where are the valuables?' he asked me.

*Valuables? What are you talking about? Isn't it enough that I unburied a body for you? Now you want more?'

He shrugged. *I have it on good authority that that young man was buried with a silver timepiece and a gold ring. Belonged to his father. Strange custom, to bury what could be sold for cash.'

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Ratchet wanted me to be a thief for him as well as a bodys.n.a.t.c.her.

*I did what you asked,' I said. *The debt is paid.'

He shook his head.

*I think not, Mr Strang. After all, you owe q uite a considerable sum and you haven't collected the valuables. Next time you will have to be more careful.'

*Next time?'

I didn't dare to argue any more for then I saw what a fix I was in. The penalty for grave robbing was prison at the very least, but only if you were lucky enough to survive the lynching by the dead man's relatives.

That was over six months ago and Jeremiah has called on me again and again to do his dirty work. I don't like to think how many bodies I have unearthed. All I know is if I am caught, Jeremiah will not be the one to suffer.

That man enjoys the fruits of my wickedness and I can do nothing about it. I lie awake until the small hours, tortured by my actions. I am betraying the trust of the villagers, a trust I have built up all my life. If they knew they would string me up as soon as they got hold of me.

Jeremiah Ratchet. How I detest that man. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd take a swing at his big fat head with my shovel.

Ludlow hesitated at that last sentence, but he had been instructed to write everything he heard so he did. He stole a look at Obadiah, who was as ashen-faced as the very corpses he unearthed. Then he put down his quill, laid a sheet of blotting paper between the pages and closed the book. Obadiah sat back in the chair, exhausted, and covered his face with his hands.

*You've got to help me, Mr Zabbidou. I'm a broken man, unworthy of life.'

Joe laid his hand firmly on Obadiah's knee.

*Rid yourself of those murderous thoughts,' he said. *They will only eat at your soul. There is a natural justice in this world. Perhaps it is not as swift as we should like, but believe me, Jeremiah Ratchet will feel its force. Now, go home and you will sleep, and you will not dream.'

Obadiah sighed deeply.

*You know, Mr Zabbidou, I believe you might be right.' He stood up to go but Joe held him back.

*Your payment, as agreed.' Joe handed him a leather bag of coins and Obadiah's eyes widened when he felt its weight.

*I'm most grateful to you, Mr Zabbidou,' said Obadiah. *I can make good use of this.'

*And so you should,' replied Joe shaking his hand warmly. *So you should.'

*And what of Jeremiah?' he ventured nervously.

Joe merely blinked once slowly. *Be patient, Mr Strang. Be patient.'

Chapter Thirteen.

Fragment from The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch Thus ended my first long day with Joe Zabbidou. It was after two when Obadiah left and Joe stood at the door and watched him go down the hill and into his cottage. He waited until the lights were extinguished and the place was in complete darkness before coming back in and locking up. I stayed at the table staring blankly at the closed book, my mind spinning at what I had just heard. Now I understood. It's a book of secrets, I thought, and Joe is the Secret p.a.w.nbroker.

It was difficult to believe that Joe had allowed me to touch such a book, let alone write in it. How I desired to throw it open and read it from cover to cover! What other tales of desperation and despair would I find in there?

I could hear Joe moving around in the shop and talking to the frog. Quickly I opened the book, flicking from page to page, and I read the opening lines of one confession after another: *My name is Eleanor Hardy and I cannot live with my lies any longer . . .'

*My name is George Catchpole and I have a most shameful secret . . .'

*My name is Oscar Carpue. In a fit of mindless rage, gripped by madness, I . . .'

That was all I managed to read before Joe came whistling back into the room. I snapped the book shut and jumped awkwardly to my feet, knocking over the chair.

*Let us see how you have done,' he said, ignoring my confusion and taking the book from the table. I watched nervously as he examined what I had written.

*Excellent work, boy,' he said, placing the red ribbon on the next clean page and closing the book. *I doubt I could have done better myself.'

A sudden burning flushed my cheeks. I was not used to praise. To cover my embarra.s.sment I pointed to the golden words on the cover.

*What language is this?'

Joe's face lit up. *Ah, Latin,' he said. *The language of precision. "What is spoken flies, what is written never dies." Remember those words, Ludlow. People believe what they read, whatever the truth of it.'

Joe held up the book and spoke quietly. *The stories we have in here are very precious to their owners and, as a result, of monetary value to others. They have confided in me, confessing their deepest secrets, and it is my duty to protect them. Wherever I go, there is a criminal element, loyal to no one, who would pay well for this and use it for financial gain or worse. But these confessions have been trusted to us, Ludlow, and we must not speak of them outside this room.'

Joe did not seem to be including me among those criminals. But just then my hand felt something cold in my pocket and my heart skipped a beat. The timepieces. I still had them. He must not have noticed they had gone. I resolved to return them as soon as possible.

I nodded solemnly. *I can keep a secret,' I said.

*I believe you think you can, Ludlow. But I also know what it is to be human. Temptation is a curse to all men.'

*I can do it,' I said firmly. *Just give me the chance.'

For a moment I thought he might say no, but he laughed and said, *What is life if you don't take a chance now and again? I knew a fellow once who only made decisions on the toss of a coin. Should he get up or stay in bed? He tossed a coin. Should he eat or should he not? He tossed a coin. He lived thus for nearly two years until he was struck down by illness. So he tossed a coin to decide whether or not to send for the physician and the coin said yes.'

*And he was cured?'

*Well, unfortunately for him, the physician was not the best. His diagnosis was somewhat awry and the medicine he gave was rather too strong so the poor chap died the next day.'

I didn't understand what Joe was trying to tell me.

*You see, Ludlow,' he explained, *life is a gamble whatever way you play it. Now, where were we?' He patted the Black Book of Secrets and his tone became more serious. *Of course, if you are to work for me, there are a few things you need to know. First, we always start on a clean page. I make it a rule to go forwards, never to go back.' He smiled knowingly and stared into my eyes. He knew I had looked in the book.

*And second, when we are finished we must keep it somewhere safe from prying eyes.'

I watched as he put the book in no more safe a place than under his mattress. Was this some sort of test? Was he tempting me to steal it?

As I continued to stare he asked me a curious question.

*Do you believe in luck, Ludlow?'

I had thought about this more than once in my life. *I believe some people are luckier than others. Such as those who are not born in the City.'

Joe laughed. *Ah yes,' he said, *a most unfortunate birthplace. Most born there die there. But you have managed to leave.'

*Then I must be lucky.'

He shrugged. *Perhaps it is not just luck. Maybe it was Destiny herself brought you here to me.'

*Destiny? More like my own two feet!' Then I asked him, *Which do you believe in, luck or destiny?'

Joe considered for a moment before replying, *We make our own luck, Ludlow, by our actions and our state of mind. As such you control your own fate. Only one thing is certain: none of us can escape the grave.'

Then he surprised me further by handing me a shilling. Although it was unexpected I took it.

*For a job well done. Add it to the other coins in your purse,' he said and winked.

We went to bed soon after that. When I heard Joe's snoring I felt in the crevice behind the brick for my purse and dropped in the shilling. Then I settled down again, wrapped up in the cloak. Sleep evaded me, for my mind was restless. I turned over and thought of Obadiah and Jeremiah Ratchet. Poor Obadiah, he was right to be disgusted at himself; grave robbers and bodys.n.a.t.c.hers were considered below contempt. What a cruel irony, for a gravedigger to have to unbury the dead. As I pitied the gravedigger, my contempt grew for Ratchet. He might have brought me to the village, but that was more by luck than design.

An hour pa.s.sed and still I was awake. My mind was thick with confusion. I knew that had Ma and Pa been here they would not have thought twice about hitting Joe over the head and taking the Black Book of Secrets. As for the bottle on the mantel, that would have been downed long ago.

They would have expected no less of me. My instincts a" to lie, to steal, to cheat a" were bred into me practically from birth. But here, in Pagus Parvus with Joe, they seemed wrong.

I lay in an agony of indecision. My conscience tried to stop me but I am ashamed to admit, despite Joe's kindness to me and his warning, I gave in. How could I be expected not to do what had come naturally to me my whole life?

Carefully I eased the book out from under his mattress and tucked it in the crook of my arm. I wrapped the cloak around me and crept through to the shop. The frog watched me with accusing eyes and I could hear Joe's deep and noisy breathing. I was surprised to find that the door to the street was unlocked. I pulled it open and stepped outside. It had all been so easy. Not a floorboard had squeaked, not a hinge had creaked. Snow was falling lightly and a glow fell on the street from the lights in the windows. Like last night most of Pagus Parvus was still awake. If I went now I could go down that hill and never be seen again.

Suddenly I felt the timepieces jarring against my leg and I stopped. I laughed quietly at my own stupidity. What was I thinking? It was the middle of the night, the middle of winter. Behind me was a warm bed and food and someone who seemed to care for me; ahead of me was nothing but white snow and bitter cold.

I hurried inside and placed the timepieces back in the window. With a shaking hand I slipped the Black Book back under the mattress, willing Joe not to wake, and crept over to the fireplace. As I curled up beside the orange coals I chastized myself.

It was hard to believe that only a day or so ago I had been in the foul City, living the precarious life of a common thief and facing at the hands of my own parents a terrible betrayal. Yet here I was now earning a living, and one more mysterious and exciting than I could ever have imagined. *Ludlow,' I said to myself, *you are a fool.'

I looked at Joe, fast asleep, and I knew whatever happened tomorrow, and the next day and the next, I never wanted to go back to the City. I might have to live with my past, but here, with Joe, I had a future.

Chapter Fourteen.

Of Frogs and Legs Ludlow woke the next morning to the smell of warm bread. Joe was standing in front of the fire toasting the heels of a loaf on the end of the poker.

*Just in time,' he said, as Ludlow emerged from his nook. *Did you sleep well? I was a little disturbed myself.'

*Well enough,' mumbled Ludlow, yawning.

Joe dropped the toast on to a plate and sat down at the table. *I forgot to lock the door last night. We could have been murdered in our beds.'