The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers Read online

  ‘You are the Guild’s alchemist, you will be expected,’ said Mr Ellery. ‘Don’t fret about Eliza. I will stay behind with her.’

  ‘No, sir, I won’t go without her. If she can’t go we will both stay behind, and I will tend to her while she is unwell. She was so excited about you showing the optics shroud. She’ll only be miserable if she feels you have missed out because of her.’

  Mr Ellery looked at George. ‘If Tom is happy to stay behind then I am inclined to agree to it,’ said George. ‘These two youngsters have been through so much together, it is understandable one wouldn’t want to experience their first tournament without the other. But Eliza is your daughter, Richard; the decision rests with you.’

  ‘You are Keeper,’ replied Mr Ellery. ‘If you agree then I will not contest it. If truth be told, I think Eliza would rather have the company of Tom than her father while she recuperates.’

  ‘Very well, it is decided then,’ said George. ‘Come, dawn is but a few hours away. Goodnight Tom, goodnight Richard.’

  I went back to my bed and lay there for a long while, unable to find sleep again. I knew Eliza would be devastated to miss the tournament. She had been considered too young for the long journey in previous years. Perhaps knowing that her father at least could attend might make her feel a little less miserable, though I knew she would blame herself for preventing me from going. In truth, I was secretly relieved. In spite of the long hours I had spent working and studying in the laboratory, I was far from an experienced alchemist, and I wasn’t at all disappointed to have another four years to refine my craft before being pitted against other magicians. Besides, I couldn’t countenance attending without Eliza when she had been so excited about it.

  ‘Well, there’s always next time,’ I murmured to myself.

  Chapter 3

  I rose before dawn and waited in the hall to see George and the rest of the Guild off on their journey. It was damp and hazy as they disappeared round the corner of the lane and took to the streets leading to the docks where their ship waited. The Gatehouse seemed even more sombre and lonely than usual as I stood on the step alone with the Coquinarian’s cat at my feet.

  I shut the door and turned back to the gloom of the hall. Eliza was still asleep so I made my way to the laboratory, thinking I might get a few hours’ work done before seeing to our breakfast, but I had only just lit a fire and set a cauldron of water to boil when Eliza appeared, wrapped in a thick shawl.

  ‘You should be in bed. Your father and George have left strict instructions for me to see that you rest,’ I scolded her.

  ‘I know. I will go back to bed, but I just wanted to speak with you. I’m so sorry you have had to miss the tournament because of me. ‘Tis a real blow. I was so looking forward to it.’

  ‘I couldn’t go without you. It wouldn’t have felt right. Besides, I am quite relieved to not be going,’ I replied.

  ‘Why? Is it Bridget’s omen?

  ‘No, not that. I was worried about having to compete against far more experienced alchemists- and facing questions about how I went from apprentice to master so quickly.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Eliza. ‘Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I hope next time we can both look forward to it.’

  ‘And I. But look now, I won’t make you lie a-bed all day if you don’t want to, but at least bring a blanket and draw a chair up by the fire. George says you are to stay warm and drink boiled water with peppermint.’

  ‘Very well. I will sit here by the fire and read for a time,’ Eliza replied, seating herself beside Peggy to share in the fire’s warmth.

  So we passed the morning quietly, Eliza reading beside the fire while I busied myself with the more complex transmutations I had been attempting for some time. Just before noon I slipped out of the Gatehouse to the square, where the weekly market was underway, and purchased two oranges for Eliza from the fruiterer with a few pennies from the purse George had left us for food. The sun had burnt off the lingering haze, and where it reached through the patches of drifting clouds it was pleasantly warm. I strolled back, savouring the feeling and in no hurry to return to the chilly confines of the Gatehouse.

  ‘Message for George Prye,’ said a voice behind me as I opened the front door. I turned and saw a young man holding out a folded sheet of paper bound with a leather thong.

  ‘He is away,’ I replied. ‘He left for France this morning.’

  The young man shrugged and thrust the paper into my hand. ‘I was sent to deliver messages, not take them. See that he gets it.’ He was already making his way back down the lane before I could reply.

  I looked down at the folded paper and idly wondered who it might be from. George knew many people, and it was not unusual for messages to be exchanged back and forth between him and any one of his associates. I stuffed it into my pocket and made my way back up to the laboratory.

  Eliza sat huddled by the fire with Peggy at her feet, reading from a pile of books she had brought up from the library. She looked up as I set the note on the table.

  ‘Who is that from?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t recognise the messenger,’ I replied. ‘It’s for George. I’ll leave it in his study.’

  As I spoke, Bill and Frigg fluttered through the half-open window and landed on the table. They seemed to like the alchemy laboratory best, and so I always made sure the window was left ajar for them to come and go as they pleased. At once, Bill picked up the paper in his beak and dropped it in my lap, regarding me quizzically.

  ‘I think Bill wants you to read it,’ said Eliza.

  ‘The messenger said it was for George,’ I replied, returning it to the table. Immediately, Bill took it in his beak and set it in my lap again.

  ‘It could be something important,’ said Eliza. ‘Bill seems to think so.’

  I picked up the note and turned it over in my hands. There was no writing on the outside, nor any indication of who the sender might be.

  ‘Very well, let’s hope it is nothing private,’ I said as I unbound the leather thong holding it closed and unfolded the paper.

  G. E. Thorne Watchmakers

  Pump Street

  London

  Dearest George,

  It is with great sadness that I must inform you that my dear husband, your friend Gabriel Thorne, was this Wednesday found dead in his workshop. My world is shattered, and I don’t believe the image of his face in death will ever leave me. Etched, it seems, into my mind, for I found him slumped over his workbench, his face contorted into such a hideous expression of anguish that it seemed he died of fright.

  Were his sudden death not enough for me to bear, the very night he was buried his corpse was snatched from its grave by those known only to the Devil, whose wicked work they must surely have been executing. Lord rest my poor husband’s soul! Yet I fear that whatever malady overcame him was directed by another with murderous intent. Not one week before, he received word that his friend, Willhem de Wit (he whom they call The Bookish Magician), had been found dead in his library in a manner not unlike Gabriel, and- mark this -his body was snatched from his grave the very night of his burial!

  Word has now reached me of two more magic men found dead and their bodies missing from the grave: Thomas Greaves, the apothecary, and Edward Elliot, the cunning man of Blackfriars. Rumours abound of a killer targeting practitioners of magic, though for what purpose none can say. Nor can anyone tell by what means my husband and the other poor victims have met their deaths, for there is not a mark of violence upon their bodies.

  George, pray do not think this the ravings of an old woman driven mad with grief. I fear for you and urge you to be vigilant. The killer has murdered four magicians already; please do not allow him to make you his fifth victim. It is too late for my poor husband, but I beseech you to do what you can to apprehend this monster. I have written also to Professor Cuthbert Goldwick of Merton College, Oxford, for there are none more learned than he in the study of curses, hexes and conju
rings, and I urge you to seek his guidance in this matter. I have spoken of you in my letter to him, and he will be expecting you. Mayhap between you and he an end can be put to this wickedness.

  Yours in earnest

  Mary Thorne

  I handed Eliza the letter. ‘Well, that’s unsettling to be sure,’ she said when she had finished reading.

  ‘’Tis too bad the messenger didn’t arrive sooner. I’m sure George would want to hear of this.’

  ‘He will be sorely grieved,’ Eliza replied. ‘Father too. I only knew Mr. Thorne as the Watchmaker, for that is what he was called by all who knew him, but he was a kindly man and made the most excellent time pieces and music boxes, magic and otherwise. We ought to let Mrs. Thorne know that George is away.’

  ‘Yes, and I would like to know about this Professor Goldwick she speaks of. If there is a killer of magicians on the rampage as she says, we ought to prepare ourselves- and warn the Guild.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Eliza, setting aside her blanket and rising from the chair.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I promised George and your father I would see to it that you rest. Pump Street isn’t very far. I will go now and speak with Mrs. Thorne. I won’t be longer than an hour.’

  I called Peggy to heel and made my way out of the Gatehouse before Eliza had chance to argue. I passed into the square then set off through the winding and congested streets. I had grown accustomed to the smell of decomposing waste and the rattle of carts and carriages through the narrow streets at all hours of the day and night, but even after all these months in London I still found myself longing for a view of the open sky unimpeded by the smog that lingered over the city from the chimneys belching out their noxious sea-coal fumes.

  I broke into a jog, anxious to get to my destination and return to Eliza as quickly as possible. An inexplicable feeling of anxiety knotted my stomach, and the warmth of the afternoon seemed to cling to me. I turned the corner into Pump Street and leaned against the wall of a house for a moment to catch my breath. Across the street the Watchmaker’s shop was marked with a sign painted with a simple declaration: G. E. Thorne, Watchmaker, but the shutters were down and the door closed. I crossed the street and knocked loudly, not at all hopeful of getting a reply.

  ‘There’s no one home, lad,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see the proprietor of W. Stanley Cabinet Maker standing in his shop doorway on the opposite side of the street.

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs. Thorne,’ I said. ‘Do you know where I might find her?’

  ‘I found a note under my door yesterday asking that any enquirers after her be told that she has gone to stay with her sister in Canterbury for a time on account of her recent bereavement,’ he declared, unfolding a scrap of paper from his apron pocket and reading from it, evidently proud of his status as a literate man. ‘She doesn’t say when she’ll be back. Is your business urgent?’

  My heart sank. ‘No, sir. I just wished to express my condolences,’ I replied.

  ‘Aye, ‘twas a tragedy for poor Mrs Thorne,’ he said. ‘You’d be hard put to find a nicer couple than she and Mr Thorne. If you ask me, ‘twas the shock of the burglary that killed him.’

  ‘What burglary?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, not a week before his death someone broke into his workshop. No sign of just how they got in, mind.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’ I asked.

  ‘By all accounts ‘twas just one of his music boxes. Like as not the thief was disturbed before he could carry off any more.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ I murmured, scanning the locked shutters and door to work out how anyone might have got through without disturbing them.

  Mr Stanley hovered in his doorway for a moment, unsure whether the conversation had reached its end, then wished me good day before returning to his work.

  ‘Well, what do you make of that, Peggy?’ I muttered as I crossed the street. Peggy looked at me mournfully and turned her nose to the sky, which had grown suddenly dark as the first great spots of rain fell.

  Chapter 4

  ‘What did Mrs. Thorne have to say?’ asked Eliza, sitting up eagerly as I sank into a chair beside her. Water dripped from my brow, mixed with perspiration from the exertion of running to dodge the rain. Eliza watched me impatiently while I gasped for breath to speak for several moments.

  ‘She wasn’t there,’ I said at last before relaying my conversation with Mr Stanley the cabinet maker.

  ‘Well that’s a blow!’ said Eliza when I had finished, slumping back in her chair.

  ‘Yes, but what do you make of the burglary? It seems strange that the Watchmaker should be killed only a week after someone broke into his workshop and left no trace of how they got in.’

  ‘Yes, although the two could be unconnected,’ Eliza replied. ‘Perhaps he forgot to lock the door, or the lock was cleverly picked. I’m sure a good thief can break in without leaving a trail of evidence behind them. I think if Mrs Thorne had thought it significant she would have mentioned it in her letter.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘But what are we to do now?’ Eliza continued. ‘I’m dreadfully anxious, what with George and the rest of the Guild being away. Ought we send a message to Edward Treadway?’

  ‘We are a long way from Edward,’ I replied, ‘and I doubt he could help us much with such scant information to work from. I’d like to know how the magicians have been killed and why the bodies have been stolen after burial.’

  Eliza turned pale and her eyes widened. ‘Do you think Cromwell could have had a hand in it?’ she asked. ‘Revenge, perhaps, for Devere’s failure?’

  ‘What would be the point?’ I replied. ‘I doubt Cromwell even knew the victims. Besides, Devere’s dead, and Cromwell got what he wanted even without the help Devere promised. I suppose it could be a purge, but wouldn’t it have been easier to simply try the magicians for witchcraft and have them hung? No, I doubt this has anything to do with Cromwell. Whoever has killed these men has done it for other purposes entirely.’

  ‘But we can’t ignore the fact that they were all magicians,’ said Eliza. ‘Magic must have something to do with it.’

  ‘I agree. Mrs Thorne’s letter said there were no signs of violence on the bodies, so perhaps poison was administered somehow. I’ll see what I can find out in the library.’

  I left Eliza to read beside the fire in the laboratory while I made my way downstairs. The sun had made a late appearance as afternoon was drawing into evening, and its rays came slanting through the shutters of the library window and settled upon the reading table. Specks of dust shimmered like tiny floating gems as they passed through the stripes of light.

  I dragged the ladder to the shelves on the wall opposite the fireplace and climbed a few steps up to get a better look at the titles they held. There were plenty on each of the Guild magicians’ disciplines, but I glossed over them in search of something else.

  Amidst the battered manuscripts and ancient grimoires, a thick cloth-bound volume entitled A Compendium of Magic and Witchcraft caught my eye. I reached across and lifted it from the shelf. It was caked in dust, having evidently seen little use in recent times. I wiped the cover with my sleeve and set it on the table. The pages were brittle and yellowed with age, but the print was still sharp and clear. I turned to the contents page, but the chapter headings were vague and unhelpful, so I flipped the book to its very end and skimmed through its back matter, which thankfully included an alphabetical index. Several page numbers were listed beside the word poison, but it was the entry below it which caught my eye: puppetry.

  I flicked back through the book to the single page referenced in the index and read the first line. Puppetry: a now extinct form of malevolent magic which involved overcoming the victim so that their words and actions may be controlled by the magician directing the spell, also called the puppeteer. Puppetry was undertaken by the use of secret incantations which are now lost. The entry continued for most of the rest of the p
age, but I turned back to the index, refusing to allow myself to be distracted. There were over forty pages covering the administration and effects of different poisons for me to read. Eliza found me a little over an hour later still bent over the book.

  ‘Have you found anything interesting?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘If poison was used it could have been any number of different types. Without more details it’s impossible to guess which one.’

  ‘What should we do now, then?’ she asked.

  I thought for a moment, calculating how long before George and the rest of the Guild would be back. It could be more than a fortnight before they returned if they encountered bad weather. ‘I think the best we can do is find the professor Mrs. Thorne mentioned in her letter- Professor Golwick, I think it was -and seek his advice. I will take a horse from the stables and leave for Oxford in the morning.’

  ‘You won’t go alone. I will come too,’ said Eliza.

  ‘No, I have instructions from your father and George.’

  ‘I have rested all day!’ Eliza protested. ‘My fever is gone, and I feel quite well. Please don’t let us quarrel about this, Tom. I’ll only fret if I stay behind, and the fresh air of the countryside will do me good.’

  I couldn’t argue that a day’s reprieve from the noxious fumes of the city couldn’t be a bad thing. ‘Very well, but you are to rest for the remainder of the evening. There is nothing more we can do now. I will see to supper.’

  We ate our supper and retired to bed early, aiming to start before dawn. The sun hadn’t yet set, and the soft light of evening streamed through the slats of the shutters and fell upon the wall. I lay awake watching it fade to darkness for a long while until I fell into an uneasy sleep. Then I dreamed, and as I dreamed I saw the faces of my mother, father and Lizzie one by one replaced with that of Emerson, just as they were each night. I heard the sound of William Devere’s laughter and felt his eyes upon me, gloating, but now the fear I had felt since the nightmares began gave way to fury. My hand balled into a fist, driving my fingernails into the flesh of my palm. The pain woke me with a gasp.