Chapter Seventeen.

Horatio Cleaver *He's a murderer,' hissed the oldest Sourdough. *He takes his chopper in the middle of the night and goes hunting for fresh meat. Man meat.'

*And he puts it in his pies,' added the middle brother while the third, the youngest, began to whimper.

The three boys stood outside the butcher's window watching as he sharpened his knives. They loved the sc.r.a.pe of the blade on metal and to see the sparks that flew around his head.

*If you know this,' asked the youngest tremulously, *how come he's not in jail with all the other murderers?'

His brothers poured scorn on this ridiculous suggestion.

*There's no proof, stupid. You can't put a man in prison without proof.'

*And the proof is in the pies,' said the other. *By the time the murder is discovered, it's too late.'

*Yeah, cos they've been eaten!' shrieked the pair in unison.

As for Horatio Cleaver, the subject of this slander, as soon as he saw their wet noses against the window he roared at them and ran to the door and shook his knives violently in their direction.

*Get your filthy noses off my p-p-panes,' he shouted.

The trio ran away screaming and laughing, tripping and skidding down the icy hill with their arms flailing.

Ludlow and Joe arrived just in time to see the Sourdough boys disappearing in the distance. Horatio was still standing at the door of his shop, his fists clenched, when he noticed them. They were a strange sight. Joe stood out from the crowd and not only on account of his unusual height. He strode with a confidence, despite his limp, that was both disarming and enviable. Even people who had lived in the village all their lives could not negotiate the steep icy slope with such ease. Ludlow was always a few steps behind, no higher than Joe's elbow, trotting to keep up.

Horatio quickly slipped back inside behind the counter. Joe stood for some moments looking in the window, eyeing the butcher's wares. Today he had for sale a selection of *Prok Peyes', a *Brayse of Fessants', best *Lam Clutets' and *Hole Pukled Chikins'. Horatio had not often seen the inside of a schoolhouse.

*I won't be long,' said Joe, and he went in, leaving Ludlow outside, where he stood and watched.

As a butcher, Horatio Cleaver was far from the best, but he was the only one the village had so people made do. His father, Stanton Cleaver, had been renowned near and far for his meat-carving skills and was remembered fondly by all his customers. He could butcher a whole cow, head to tail, in under three minutes, a feat he performed annually to wild applause at the county fair. Who could forget the sight of Stanton holding up the Butcher's Cup to deafening cheers, his white ap.r.o.n sodden with blood and his hands stained pink?

Horatio certainly couldn't and, unfortunately, he was never likely to take his father's place on that stand. He was reminded of this fact every day when he heard the disappointed sighs of his customers and the *tut-tuts' as he hacked at their joints and their chops. But they always took the rather roughly hewn cuts of meat he handed them, for if they got more than they asked for, they certainly paid less than it was worth. Horatio had never been good with numbers and the complex relationship between weight and price was one he hadn't quite managed to grasp.

And if it wasn't the customers sending him scornful looks it was Stanton himself, for painted on the wall behind the counter was a life-size portrait of the man complete with a boning knife in his hand and a sneer on his face. Horatio could feel his eyes boring into the back of his head and he grew nervous and stammered a" a legacy of his time serving his father. It was only on his p's, however, and most noticeable when he was nervous or his temper was roused.

Stanton was not an easy man to forget. Despite the fact that he had been in the grave nearly five years, he had a long reach. Late at night Horatio would wake, gasping for breath as if the master butcher's hands were around his neck, suffocating him. Horatio had not had a happy apprenticeship and his father had often been driven to violence by his son's poor butchering skills.

Horatio had started in the shop as soon as he could reach the counter and over the years the young butcher had begun to take on the appearance of the meat with which he worked all day. He had gradually become more solid in the body, rather like a bull, and his thick hairless forearms were shaped like two shanks of lamb. His skin was the colour of hung meat, a sort of creamy blue, and of similar texture. His face was long and his nostrils flared and his brown eyes surveyed his surroundings with mild interest. The tips of his fingers were thick and blunted; for a man who made his living working with knives he was surprisingly careless.

Horatio wiped his bloodied palms on his greying striped ap.r.o.n and greeted Joe with a pleasant *Good afternoon' and a nervous smile. He nodded in the direction of the fleeing children.

*I should make sausages out of them,' he joked, the blades of his knives glittering in the lamplight. Outside Ludlow shuddered at the sight.

Joe laughed politely. *Let me introduce myself,' he said. *I am Joe Zabbidoua"'

*The p-p-p.a.w.nbroker,' interrupted Horatio.

Joe responded with a small bow.

*You're up in the old milliner's shop. I hope you do better than Betty P-p-peggotty.'

Joe raised his left eyebrow quizzically.

*She made hats,' continued Horatio, blowing on his huge red hands. The temperature in the shop was only marginally higher than outside. *Very expensive, mind. P-p-peac.o.c.k plumes, ostrich feathers, silk flowers and all that sort of thing. Not to my taste. Too fancy. Me, I like a p-p-plain hat.' He touched his white butcher's cap proudly and left specks of gristle on the brim.

*So I see.'

*She couldn't make any money so she went to the City, to run an alehouse, I believe.' He secured a piece of pork to the counter with the heel of his hand and hacked at it absent-mindedly with a knife.

*Wrong location, see. Too far up that cursed hill. No one goes up that end these days unless they're laid out in a box. Even then they have to be p-p-pulled up. Takes six horses. And the noise of that coffin on the cobbles! Would wake the dead.' He stopped, knife in mid-air, to laugh at his own joke.

*They come up to me,' said Joe.

*So I've heard. Well, maybe you'll have more luck than she did.'

*Jeremiah Ratchet thinks not.'

Horatio spat with contempt into the sawdust.

*Didn't take him long to stick his oar in.'

*He said he was a businessman.'

*P-p-pah!' exclaimed Horatio. *That slimy toad. I'll wager he's made a deal or two with the devil in his time. He lives off the backs of the p-p-poor. Lending money, then taking all they have when they can't p-p-pay it back. Throwing them out of their homes for the sake of a few days' rent. He'll bleed this village dry. No wonder he got on so well with my father; they were cut from the same cloth.'

He brought down his knife with a tremendous crash, sending a huge pork chop spiralling into the air and over the counter. Joe caught it with lightning speed.

He looked straight into the butcher's sad eyes and though Horatio wanted to look away, for some reason he couldn't. His ears filled with a soft noise, like wind through trees, and he felt his legs go weak. His deadened fingertips seemed to have developed pins and needles.

*You sound like a man who needs to get something off his chest,' said Joe quietly. *Come up to the shop tonight. Maybe I can help.'

*I doubt it,' replied Horatio slowly, mesmerized by Joe's gaze.

Joe was insistent. *After midnight, so no one knows.'

*Perhaps.'

*Excellent,' said Joe smiling broadly and breaking the spell. *Until then.'

*What about my p-p-pork chop?'

*I'll have it for my supper,' said Joe. *I'll pay you later, when you come up.'

The church bell sounded midnight as Horatio pulled his coat closer and raised his fist to the door. The pale half-moon watched quietly as he dithered, in two minds whether to knock. He hadn't meant to come and he didn't really understand why he was here, but as midnight approached his restless feet had taken him out of the door and up the hill. How could this stranger help him? In fact, how did this stranger even know he needed help? He remembered how Joe had looked at him. Had he sucked his thoughts out of his head?

Horatio raised his fist, but before he could strike the wood Joe opened the door.

*Horatio, come in,' he said warmly. *We've been expecting you.'

He led the silent butcher into the back room, where the fire was blazing. Horatio lowered his st.u.r.dy frame into the offered chair and frowned as it creaked alarmingly. Joe handed him a gla.s.s of the golden liquid and he took a long draught, then another. His cheeks flushed and his eyes shone.

*A powerful drop,' he said and drained his gla.s.s.

*I believe you have a secret you'd like to p.a.w.n,' prompted Joe.

Horatio's eyebrows met in a quizzical frown. *What do you mean?'

*It is what I do,' explained Joe. *I buy secrets.'

Horatio considered the proposal for a short moment. *Then buy this,' he said.

Ludlow was already settled at the table, the Black Book open before him, and Horatio began.

Chapter Eighteen.

Extract from The Black Book of Secrets The Butcher's Confession My name is Horatio Cleaver and I have a dreadful confession.

Guilt has driven me to the brink of madness. I cannot sleep. Instead I pace the floor until dawn, going over and over in my head what I have done. I desire only one thing: to be freed of my terrible burden.

I know people think I am a fool, both as a man and as a butcher. I lack the talent that my father, Stanton, had and I am the first to admit it. He was a true master of his trade. His skill with a cleaver was unrivalled and he won every butcher's compet.i.tion in the county for his speed and precision. They called him Lightning Stan. To Pagus Parvians he was the greatest hero since Mick MacMuckle, the one-armed blacksmith who could shoe a horse blindfolded.

To me he was a beast.

When my mother was alive I was spared the worst of his excesses, but she died, still a young woman, and I was left at his mercy. He was a sly fellow, you see. To the villagers he was a cheerful chap, always ready to flatter the ladies and joke with the gentlemen. But away from the counter, out the back in the cold store, he was a different man. He was a monster. He beat me every day with anything he could get his hands on: pigs' legs, rump steaks, even chickens with their feathers still on. All the time he told me I should be grateful to him for teaching me his trade.

*n.o.body else would have you,' he said and I began to believe him.

I was so nervous that I made even more mistakes and he became angrier. He laughed at my spelling, yet wouldn't allow me any schooling; he mocked my stammer, knowing that only made it worse. As for my work, I did my best but I'm no carver a" I'm all fingers and thumbs, what's left of them. As punishment, or for a joke, he would lock me in the ice store until my hands were so stiff I couldn't bend them around a knife.

My life was miserable. At night I slept on the sawdust behind the counter while he snoozed upstairs in front of a warm fire with a gla.s.s of whisky. I wanted to run away, but he had me so scared I couldn't think straight. So I suffered the lashing of tongue and belt, and inside I seethed like a mountain about to explode.

And then there was Jeremiah Ratchet. My father saw in Jeremiah a kindred spirit a" namely a glutton with an insatiable appet.i.te for money a" and the two would sit by the fire in the room above the shop well into the early hours sipping ale and brandy while I waited on their every whim.

*P-p-pour us another p-p-please, Horatio,' Jeremiah would say mockingly and the two would burst into throaty laughter. Or *Remind me, Horatio, how much is your lamb?'

*Twelve p-p-pennies a p-p-pound.'

One day Jeremiah came in laughing. *I see you have a new product,' he said pointing to a sign in the window, a sign I had written. To my shame it read: *Micemeat Peyes a" three pense eech.'

*Micemeat pies?' bellowed my father, grabbing a chicken, his face puce with rage.

That night I realized I had nothing left to lose. The time had come to fight back. They say revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I served it up hot and steaming.

The next evening my father sat down as usual to a hearty meal of potatoes and pie, one of my own creations, and Jeremiah joined him as he often did. To see these men at the table was repulsive in the extreme. They ate as if they had only hours to live. Barely was one mouthful masticated before another was crammed in. Gravy dribbled down their chins, piecrust clung to their greasy cheeks and their napkins were spotted with food.

I watched, fascinated and repelled at the same time, as they tucked in. For they had just eaten a very special pie. Micemeat indeed!

The next morning I woke to the sound of agonized screams from upstairs. I found my father groaning and writhing on the bed. His face was covered in pus-filled boils, sweat ran from his brow and his breathing was rapid and painful. He was clutching at his stomach and every so often he would let out a screech of pain. I called for Dr Mouldered, but by the time he arrived it was clear to us all that my father was on the verge of death.

Mouldered seemed perplexed. *Well, although I think it is probably a malfunction of the heart, I am a little puzzled by the boils. How peculiar. Has Mr Cleaver been bitten by a rat?'

I could feel my own face burning and my heart racing. Whatever his illness, it wasn't from a rat bite, more likely from biting a rat. Possibly the one I had served up to him in the pie the night before. Or maybe it was another of my ingredients. The recipe was simple: if it was dead it went in; hair, fur, paws, claws and all. There was a minced mouse, two fistfuls of hard-back beetles, plump bluebottles and purple juicy worms, not forgetting the toad I found on the road sq uashed by a cartwheel.

I watched my father for a day and a night, and all the time he moaned in agony I berated myself for my stupidity. I had only wanted to punish him. I didn't want him to die.

But die he did.

He exhaled his last breath as I stood over him. And what did I feel? Everything: remorse, guilt, rage a" and relief. I closed his eyes, covered him up and went for Dr Mouldered.

*Heart attack,' he said wearily without even opening his bag, and left almost immediately.

Of course, the villagers mourned his pa.s.sing.

*What shall we do without Stanton?' they cried. *Who shall represent us in the county compet.i.tion?'

*I could try,' I said once and they looked at me as if I were a piece of gristle in a cheap pie.

Well, with my father gone my life should have taken a turn for the better. But I hadn't reckoned on the guilt that would consume me, or on Jeremiah Ratchet.

A few days later he paid me a visit. I hadn't seen him since the night of the fatal meal. He was as white as a leaf starved of the sun and his bloodshot eyes were sunken into his dry flesh.

*I have a bone to pick with you,' he said sternly. *Or should I say foot?' He held out his hand and there on his palm was a tiny but unmistakable rat's big toe.

*I found it between my teeth,' he said. *After that pie you served us, the one that made me sick as a pig for the last three days. The same pie that killed your father. I see you buried him q uick enough.'

My heart froze in my chest but I managed to stammer, *Mr Ratchet, what do you mean? If the p-p-pie killed my father then how come you are still alive and well?'

Ratchet narrowed his eyes. *Obviously I didn't eat the rest of the poisoned rat.'

He leaned over the counter so I could smell his sour breath.

*I'll be keeping an eye on you,' he said.

And he left, but not before helping himself to a couple of fine steaks and a piece of mutton, although he ignored the pies. And because I didn't stop him Jeremiah knew that he was right.

What a cruel and fickle mistress Fate is: to kill one and yet to leave the other to torture me. Ratchet comes every week and takes what he pleases: a goose or two, a pheasant, a piece of beef. How long will that satisfy him? What will happen to me if he tells? I know what I did was wrong, but must I suffer on its account for the rest of my life? Is there no respite from this agony?

I am not a man without a conscience, I am deeply ashamed of what I have done, but I don't know how much longer I can endure this torture. I have not slept through the night since the day my father was buried.