Very early one morning, in late autumn, a stranger came into my workshop. He claimed to be a physician and insisted that I call him Dr Sturgeon.

*A patient of mine has just died,' he said mournfully, *and I need a coffin.'

He seemed a little nervous, but that was not unusual. I said that was the business I was in and I was sure I could help him out.

*I have been a.s.sured you are a fine coffin maker,' he continued. *I want you to do something special for me.'

Again, I thought nothing of this request. I presumed he meant that I should line the box in a luxurious material, silk perhaps, or maybe use a more expensive wood. Sometimes I was asked to fit gold or silver handles and plates. All this I had done before and I told him so, but he shook his head.

*No, that is not what I want. You see, you may recall the case recently where a young man was buried while still alive. I hasten to say it was not I who p.r.o.nounced him dead. You can imagine the disa" tress this caused the family when they subsequently discovered that he had attempted to break free from the coffin and was unable.'

I said to Dr Sturgeon that indeed I did recall the case in question for I had provided the coffin. The dead man had been placed in the family tomb and a month later, following the death of another family member, they opened the tomb to find the coffin on its side on the floor. They opened the lid, but of course it was too late then. Their son was quite decayed, though it was still clear to see that his hands were no longer by his sides and, by all accounts, his mouth was open in an expression of excruciating despair.

*I wish to ensure the same tragedy cannot happen again.'

I thought this a sensible notion and listened as he outlined his idea for a coffin with a mechanism that allowed air to circulate around it in case the deceased should ever wake up. We agreed a price and, as speed was of the essence, I started work straight away. It was not a complicated design, requiring little more than a pipe connected to the coffin that should reach the surface to allow air in (the doctor insisted this should be concealed a" *It might upset the vicar,' he explained) and I completed it late that night. I delivered it myself the next day to the address given, a grand country manor, some hours' horse ride away. The doctor himself opened the door.

*Welcome,' he said. *The master is a little indisposed at present. He has asked that I deal with this business.'

He beckoned me in and we pa.s.sed an open door and when I glanced within I saw a man, whom I presumed to be the master, sita" ting very still in a chair by the window. He was pale and old and looked quite ill. The doctor inspected the coffin thoroughly and asked many questions as to its reliability. Finally, when he was rea.s.sured that it would operate efficiently, we carried it down into the cellar.

*It is the master's wife who has died,' he said. *She lies in the cellar where it is cool.'

*How did she meet her end?' I asked as we struggled with the awkward burden.

*An ague,' he said and was no more forthcoming than that.

Finally we reached the bottom. The temperature was considera" ably lower than upstairs and I saw the lady lying stretched out on a table. She looked pale but peaceful and, contrary to my expectaa" tions, there were no signs of sickness. I don't know what it was about the whole affair, but suddenly my suspicions were aroused. She looked so tranquil it was difficult to believe that she was dead, but certainly there were no signs of life. There was a strange smell in the room which at the time I attributed to the dampness.

*Tragic,' I murmured.

*It is indeed,' replied the doctor and despite the coolness I saw that he was sweating. He stroked the dead lady's hand with unequalled tenderness and it disturbed me to see how he looked upon her. After all, she was not his wife.

*So young and beautiful,' he said. *The vicar is coming over this afternoon and she shall be buried in the family plot.'

Once we had deposited the coffin the doctor seemed anxious to show me to the door. *I think perhaps you should delay no longer,' he urged. *The weather is turning and the day is wearing on. I should not like to think of you on that road at night. It is notorious for highwaymen.'

I inferred from his tone that I had outstayed my welcome and so I took off there and then. I did not feel that the weather was any worse than that morning, in fact it seemed better, but I was pleased to be gone from the place. I had been well rewarded for my work, but it left me with a nagging doubt that something was not right. For days afterwards I could not rid my nostrils of the smell in the cellar.

Some months later by chance I happened to travel to that same region again. An impulse made me take the fork in the road that led to the manor and I stopped at the gates. They were locked, but through the bars I could see that the house was closed up and the gardens were overgrown. There was a notice on the pillar that the property was up for sale and to contact the agents Messrs Cruicka" shank and b.u.t.terworth in the next town. As that was my intended destination I paid a visit to their offices to enquire as to the wherea" abouts of the owner. I spoke to Mr Cruickshank, a most affable gentleman who answered my many enquiries comprehensively.

*Strange affair,' he said. *First the wife dies and then the master. Only the son left. He inherited the lot. He's gone abroad and gave instructions for us to dispose of the property on his behalf. Should make him a small fortune.'

*Son?' I queried.

*Aye, a doctor.'

*How did the old man die?' I asked.

*Now that's an even queerer tale. The night after the wife was buried the doctor heard screaming from his father's room. He ran in and found his father half dead in his bed, purple in the face, hardly able to move apparently, barely able to speak. He told the doctor that he had woken to see his dead wife kneeling over him with her hands around his throat, strangling him. He died soon after. The shock killed him a" he had a feeble const.i.tution and his heart couldn't take it. I feel sorry for the son. The poor chap lost a father and a stepmother in one go.'

*You mean the dead woman wasn't his mother?'

Mr Cruickshank shook his head. *His real mother died when he was but a lad and his father married again. She was the prettiest lady I ever did see, though nearly forty years his junior. Don't know what she saw in him myself.'

I thanked Mr Cruickshank for his time and went on my way, but I was even more unsettled than before. My curiosity had been satisfied but my suspicions had not been allayed. As had been my intention all along, I paid a visit to the apothecary to purchase a cough remedy. When I entered the shop I was halted in my tracks by a potent and unmistakable smell. The very same smell I had noticed in the cellar at the manor. When he heard the bell the apothecary came out to see me.

*What is that smell?' I asked without delay.

*Ah,' he said conspiratorially, *it is my very own special sleep remedy. Highly effective, very powerful. It sends a person into a deep sleep and once asleep they look quite lifeless and cannot feel pain. I believe the surgeons in the hospitals might find it useful in operations.'

*Tell me,' I said with a quickening heart, *do you know a Dr Sturgeon?'

*One of my best customers,' he said proudly. *He swore the remedy was the best and only cure for his insomnia.'

I took my cough linctus and started for home with a heavy heart. Now I knew the truth of the deception into which I had been unwittingly dragged. What a convoluted plot. Only the most devila" ish of minds could have dreamed it up. After all, how can you try a ghost for murder?

You see, Mr Zabbidou, I believe the young doctor administered the apothecary's potion to his father's wife and tricked his father into believing she had died. Then, with the aid of my coffin, he buried her. While underground she could still breathe so, when the potion wore off and he unearthed her later that night, she was sufficiently alive to appear at her husband's bedside and to half strangle him, knowing that his heart was feeble. So not only did the doctor inherit his estate but also his young wife. Doubtless now the two of them are enjoying the fruits of their wickedness in a fara"off country.

I cannot forgive myself for the part I played. You're the only person in the world who knows this, Mr Zabbidou. I hate to think that anyone else should ever find out what I did. They say you are a man of your word and I believe them. Now I think I can sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Fragment from The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch After I finished reading the coffin maker's secret we both looked at each other guiltily.

*Poor beggar,' said Polly quietly. *It wasn't even his fault.'

*There's a little bit more,' I said. *Right at the bottom of the page.'

*What does it say?'

*Quae nocent docent.'

Polly looked blank.

*I think it must be Latin.'

*Latin?'

*It's another language. Joe uses it sometimes. He says you can say more with fewer words. He likes that.'

*Well, you'd better not ask him what it means,' said Polly quickly, *or he'll know you've been snooping.'

I said nothing. I couldn't help feeling Joe would know anyway. I closed the book and put it away.

*I don't want to hear any more,' said Polly and I was glad.

So we sat and waited for the storm to ease. Just the two of us, in front of the fire drinking soup and wrapped in blankets to keep warm. I think we both knew we were wrong to read the book, but Polly tried to shrug it off with a laugh.

*He'll never know,' she said, trying to convince herself. *Don't fret so much.'

By early evening the wind had died down and the snow had eased. Polly stood up and stretched. *I'll be off,' she said. *Mr Ratchet'll be looking for his supper.' Before she went she looked at me nervously.

*You won't tell him, will you, Ludlow?'

I shook my head. *If he finds out, I'll say it was just me.'

She grinned. *He'll forgive you. Just stare at him with your big green eyes.'

Somehow I didn't think that trick would work on Joe.

Four days later, although the worst of the storm was over, it was still dark and wintry and very cold. I kept the shop locked up. The hours pa.s.sed slowly. I fed Saluki and swept the floor and dusted the display. I had plenty of time to think about what Polly and I had done and by the fourth day I had managed to convince myself that I need not have worried. After all, no one had come to any harm. We didn't do it out of malice, just curiosity. At the back of my mind was the nagging doubt that Joe had set a trap for me and, although it hurt me to think that he didn't trust me, it was worse to know that he was right. But did that make it fair? Was there any person out there strong enough to resist looking?

The night before his return I was nearly asleep by the fire when I thought I heard a noise outside. By the time I opened the door on to the street there was no one there, only footprints under the window, large footprints. I knew who made them, not from their size but from the smell that lingered in the air. A Jeremiah Ratchet smell.

On the fourth morning Saluki set up a tremendous croaking and a few seconds later someone began rattling at the door. *Ludlow,' called a voice, *let me in.'

It was Joe. I was very pleased to have him back and I only hoped that I could hide my guilty feelings. He came in, looked the place over and clapped me on the back.

*Good to see you kept the shop in order in my absence,' he said. I had made sure that everything was in its place.

*There was a terrible storm,' I said before I could stop myself. *Polly came by and sat with me for a while.' I hadn't meant to tell him that but when Joe looked at me in a certain way I just had to say what was on my mind. I stared at the floor. I didn't want to reveal any more of my thoughts.

*I know,' he replied.

*You know?' Had he read my mind?

*I've just seen her in the street, going to the butcher's. She told me all about it.'

My heart shuddered. I hoped that was all Polly had said.

*Anyone come knocking?' Joe asked.

I shook my head. *I think Ratchet was sniffing around though.'

*Shouldn't surprise me. He's an inquisitive fellow. He's certainly not the first to spy at the window.'

Joe didn't just mean me. I remembered when Dr Mouldered came up, Joe told me afterwards he was certain someone had been outside. But right now I was interested in Ratchet. *Why don't you do something about him' I urged. *Is it really so unreasonable of the villagers to ask?'

Joe sighed. *You must be patient, Ludlow.'

*Why? What are we waiting for? Do you know what's ahead?'

This seemed to amuse him. *Have you seen my crystal ball,' he asked. *If you have, I should very much like to know where it is.' He was half laughing, but then he became serious again.

*I am no seer, Ludlow, believe me. If I was, do you think I would be doing this?' He gestured around the room.

I wasn't going to let him off the hook this time. *What exactly are you doing, Joe? Who are you? Why did you come here?'

He leaned back on the counter and stretched his long legs out in front of him. *I am just an old man, Ludlow, trying to help those in need.'

*But the book, the money. You give all the time. What do you get back?'

*It doesn't have to be about taking. Don't you think it's enough to give? Why should I expect anything in return?'

I was beginning to understand, but it was not easy. I suppose I was still a thief at heart. My whole life in the City had been about taking for myself and taking care of myself.

*You've seen their faces,' Joe continued. *You know how they feel when they come at midnight and how they feel when they leave. Why should I want more than that?'

*But they want more,' I said.

*And that, Ludlow, is precisely my problem.' He turned on his heel and went into the back room. I followed him. He pulled the Black Book out from under the mattress and stood by his bed looking around.

*I've been thinking,' he said, *perhaps we should put the book somewhere else.'

I couldn't imagine where. The room was hardly big enough for a choice of hiding places.

*Aha,' he exclaimed after a few moments. *I have just the place. You can look after it.' He swooped down and slid it under my cushion.

I was quite taken aback and struggled not to show it. *Do you think it will be safe?'

*In your hands?' said Joe with a wink. *I'm sure of it. And now, speaking of books, there is a volume I wish to have. Come with me.'

And so we went to see Perigoe Leafbinder.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Perigoe Leafbinder Perigoe Leafbinder had been in the book business for over thirty years, as she liked to remind anyone who came into her shop, and if a book had been printed, she knew about it. Perigoe made a reasonable living but not necessarily from the locals (despite there being little else to do in the dark evenings but read, few had acquired the skill). She operated a very efficient delivery service, by means of a horse and trap, to the north side of the City, where lived the rich and idle who bought books purely to demonstrate their style and intellectual superiority. Perigoe had learned early that it was not difficult to make money out of other people's vanity.

She was a small woman, almost a dwarf, with a pinched face and a rather crooked smile. In recent months her left eye had developed an irritating twitch, which increased when she was nervous, a state she was in most of the time, with the result that she was constantly winking. Her flared nostrils supported a pair of round spectacles, almost as if they had been designed for the purpose. They made the arms of her spectacles redundant for they never fell off even when she bent over. Since her husband's death some three years previously Perigoe had taken to wearing black almost exclusively and, given her size and apparel, was often difficult to see in the dim light. She took great pleasure in emerging from dark corners and tapping browsers on the back, making them jump.

Joe entered the shop, leaving Ludlow outside, and stood for some minutes in the silence surveying his surroundings. He had to stoop somewhat and when he took off his hat his wild hair brushed the oak beams that traversed the ceiling. The walls were shelved and freestanding bookcases stood close together in parallel lines across the floor. Joe walked between them, running his long fingers across the dark spines of the books. There seemed no particular order to the place: novels sat beside scientific works, art beside mathematics, antiquarian volumes beside new.

Perigoe appeared as if from nowhere and poked him with a wizened forefinger.

*Mr Zabbidou, I believe.' Her voice was almost inaudible. Perigoe always spoke as if she thought someone was eavesdropping.