The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (9 page)

Vincent’s already white face paled further. ‘I’ve lost three fingers on my right hand? No!’ Frenziedly he began to rip at the bandages, desperate to know the truth,
ignoring the pain.

‘Stop,’ said Folly sternly. ‘Let me do it. Your hand needs to heal. You don’t want to lose what’s left as well, do you?’

Vincent let his good arm drop to the blanket and held his right hand to his chest. He could feel his heart pounding. He gestured to the bandages. ‘Did you do this?’

‘Yes, and I stitched up your hand. I gave you Antikamnial to dull the pain and a cordial to help you to sleep. Now it’s time to change the bandages again.’

Wordlessly, Vincent watched in trepidation as Folly unwound the stained length of material. The wound itself was covered in gauze, discoloured by the fluid that seeped from the injured flesh.
Unfortunately it was stuck to the skin and Vincent shouted out as she peeled it away.

‘Spletivus, take it easy!’

‘Sorry. Don’t turn away – you’ll have to get used to it. It’s not so bad.’

Vincent steeled himself, took a deep breath and stared down.

The knuckles were swollen and red, and where his fingers should have been there was a blunt rawness and dried black blood. Folly had done as good a job as any master surgeon, her stitches were
even and small, but it was still a shocking sight. ‘That’s . . . disgusting,’ he whispered. He felt physically sick at the sight.

Folly was dabbing carefully at the stitches, wiping the skin with a piece of cloth soaked in the warm salted water. It stung and Vincent feared he was going to cry.

‘You’re lucky,’ said Folly brightly as she reached for a small terracotta pot at her side. ‘It’s not infected. I’ll bandage it up again, but not quite so
thickly.’

She unscrewed the lid and dipped her second and third finger into the yellow unguent within, then smeared it across the stunted end of his hand. Immediately the stinging sensation subsided and
Vincent felt warmth spreading over the damaged skin.

‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, swallowing hard. A tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye, but he thought she had not noticed. He sniffed and took a deep breath, then forced himself to
look again at the bloody mutilation that was his right hand. ‘I suppose I should be glad I’m left-handed,’ he said.

‘You should get up now,’ said Folly, standing herself. ‘You need to move around. You’ve been lying there for long enough. I’m making slumgullion. You look like you
could do with a good meal. And after that perhaps you can explain what business you have with Leopold Kamptulicon.’

Vincent allowed Folly to help him across the room to what served as a table, a large block of off-white marble shot through with spidery veins of black. While Folly stirred the pot that hung
over the fire, he took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The stone-walled room was windowless, the only way out through a wide, heavy-looking door at the top of ten steps. There was a
black leather coat hanging on one wall, a gas mask beside it, and in another corner there was a small trunk.

He had only a hazy recollection of the journey here; racing along city streets, trudging across a dark marsh – he thought he remembered statues but he couldn’t be sure.

‘Slumgullion’s up.’

Folly was setting the pot on the table, wielding, rather than holding, a ladle. ‘It’s rabbit,’ she said. ‘I caught a couple yesterday. The Komaterion’s overrun with
them – must be the quality of the grass.’

Komaterion? Vincent looked around and saw the niches in the walls, the fat urns and the stone casket opposite. ‘This is a burial chamber?’ he blurted out.

‘They call it a Kryptos in these parts,’ said Folly.

‘But it has a fireplace!’

‘Traditional in Degringolade. Kryptoi are all equipped with fireplaces in case the owner comes back from the dead. Years ago someone used to wait with the body for a week, to make sure
they were dead, and they needed a fire to keep warm.’

‘Oh,’ was all he could think of to say.

Folly handed him a bowl of what looked like lumpy soup. Vincent would have demurred but for the gnawing hunger in his guts. He was pleased to discover that what this slumgullion lacked in
appearance it made up for in taste. Folly filled both their cups with a herbal tisane.

They ate in silence. As the slumgullion warmed him through, Vincent began to feel better. He took a drink of the tisane and washed it around the inside of his mouth. It tasted of quince and
fennel, and something else he couldn’t identify. He smiled wryly to himself; although he had been in many strange places and situations in his life, this was the first time he had eaten in
what was essentially a grave.

But if physically he felt more at ease, his mind was far from carefree. He finished his stew, steadying the bowl carefully against his right arm so as to be able to scrape every last drop from
the sides.

‘Thank you, Folly,’ he said suddenly, almost as an afterthought, ‘for saving me from that madman Kamptulicon.’ He did not make a habit of thanking people; he prided
himself on rarely being in debt to anyone, especially for his life. His father had taught him that. Folly merely nodded, still eating, so he went for a closer look at the casket. He brushed away
the sticky cobwebs to reveal a plaque on the side and read the copperplate inscription:

Lady Scarletta Degringolade – Requiescas in Pace, Domna

‘So the city of Degringolade takes its name from a family?’

Folly nodded. ‘A brutal lot. They spent centuries fighting amongst themselves over land and money. There’s more than a few met their end in the Tar Pit. They’re all dead now,
and Degringolade Manor is dilapidated. And it’s all salt marsh round here, from when the sea flooded the land.’ Folly’s face changed and took on a serious aspect. Vincent had a
feeling he knew what she was going to say.

‘So, anyway, how did you end up in Kamptulicon’s . . . ahem . . . special chair?’

‘I was . . . er . . . looking for something.’

Folly regarded him coolly and shrugged. ‘I understand. Did he take anything from you?’

‘My fingers,’ said Vincent bitterly. ‘And hair and spit and nails.’ He touched his forehead where Kamptulicon had smeared the paste. The skin was red and blistered.
‘And my smitelight. But I’ll get it back, whatever it takes, and they’ll pay, him and his stinking friend, for what they’ve done to me.’

Folly gave him an odd smile. ‘I don’t think you understand what you’re dealing with, Vincent. Kamptulicon’s “stinking friend” is a Lurid. You know, one of the
Supermundane entities.’ She stated this as if expecting him to know what she was talking about.

‘Super-what?’

‘A true Vulgar,’ she murmured.

‘What did you say?’

‘Not from round here,’ said Folly without missing a beat. ‘Supermundane refers to all matters outside what we might consider normalcy; events that cannot be explained, entities
that can or cannot be seen. Lurids are just one such creature.’

Vincent shook his head. ‘I was told that Lurids are trapped by salt.’

Folly frowned. ‘Normally they are, but Kamptulicon has set one free. I saw him do it. Domne, but I wish I knew how. We need to watch ourselves now or—’

‘Forget “we”,’ said Vincent firmly. ‘There’s no “we” in this. I work alone.’ Folly shot him a look and, fearing that he had upset her,
Vincent flashed his smile. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this is between me and that maggot Kamptulicon.’

Folly’s face remained impenetrable. ‘Surely you value your life more than, what did you call it, a smitelight?’

‘My father gave me that smitelight before he died. I want it back.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Folly. ‘My father is dead too.’

‘He was the best picklock there ever was,’ said Vincent proudly.

‘What happened?’

‘He was killed by a rival. That’s why I want my smitelight back. It’s all I have to remember him by.’

‘And what will you do if you get it?’

‘If? You mean when! I’ll move on, of course. I don’t like to stay in the same place for too long. And Degringolade is not quite what I was expecting.’

‘Antithica province is not quite like anywhere else,’ stressed Folly, and began to clear away the table. ‘I’ll give you directions back to Degringolade, if you’re
sure that’s what you want, but it’s not easy to cross the salt marsh in the dark; it can play tricks on you.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Vincent. He had been in far more dangerous places than a marsh. He wasn’t going to let this rather odd girl put him off.

‘Of course, I’m not sure how you’ll fare when Kamptulicon and his Lurid come after you,’ continued Folly casually. ‘I mean, you didn’t do so well last
time.’

Vincent looked at his bandaged hand and suddenly he wasn’t quite so confident any more. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him and he sat back down. He felt weak and, something else he
wasn’t used to, out of control. He knew he had to stay on top of things, not make reckless decisions. His father’s advice rang in his ears:
Don’t cut off your nose to spite
your face. Sometimes you have to accept things as they are.

‘I just thought you might appreciate some help from someone who knows a little more about these things than you do,’ Folly was saying. ‘And who has two working hands. But, if
you think you can do it alone . . .’

‘OK, maybe you’re right,’ he conceded wearily. ‘I don’t feel too good.’

‘You don’t look too good. You need more Antikamnial and rest. You’ll be safe here. Lurids can’t come into the Komaterion. Hallowed ground, you see.’

Vincent didn’t see, but he hadn’t the energy to argue. ‘Just for tonight then,’ he agreed. ‘But I haven’t changed my mind.’ He went slowly to his
mattress and lay down. He felt like a deflated pig’s bladder. ‘Lurids! It’s all just superstitious nonsense,’ he murmured as his eyes closed. ‘Hey, Folly, answer me
this – why were you at Kamptulicon’s?’

He was asleep before Folly could answer. She watched him for a short while, until the rhythm of his breathing settled, and then sat by the fire and opened the little book she had taken from his
boot heel. A frown of concentration etched across her forehead, she began to read.

Citrine sat on the bed and stared at the ragged piece of fingernail that lay in her palm, Edgar’s fingernail. ‘There must be another explanation for this,’
she kept telling herself. But there wasn’t. It was patently clear to her now; Edgar had killed Florian with the paperknife he had taken from Hubert’s study. Then he had come back to the
house and waited for her. He had drugged her drink and put the bloodied knife in her hand to get her DermaCons. ‘And he must have paid someone in the DUG to make sure I was taken to the
penitentiary,’ she concluded. She took a deep breath. If she was right, she knew she could no longer ignore her other suspicion: the possibility that Edgar was in some way responsible for the
disappearance of her father.

Startled by the rattle of a key in the lock, Citrine jumped up as the cell door swung open.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said coldly as Edgar came into the cell. There were two other people with him: a jailer, a large fellow in a grey ill-fitting uniform who hovered at the
door and a stern-faced man, smartly dressed in the frock coat and bowler hat of a senior member of the DUG.

‘Dear cousin,’ said Edgar, as if greeting Citrine in the comfort of her drawing room, ‘I trust you are happy with your accommodation. I thought you would prefer to be on your
own rather than to share with the scum of the streets of Degringolade. This fellow here is Chief Guardsman Mayhew Fessup of the DUG. He would like to ask you some questions.’

The two men almost filled the small space and Citrine was forced backwards until her legs bumped against the bed.

Fessup cleared his throat and spoke sternly. ‘You should be very grateful to your cousin. I can imagine that penitentiary life must be really quite shocking to you, but with crime comes
consequence. You could hardly have expected to get away with it.’

‘Get away with what?’ asked Citrine hotly. ‘Do you mean this nonsense?’ She held up the
Degringolade Daily.

Fessup tutted. ‘All this denial will not save you from the gallows.’

Citrine’s mouth fell open. ‘The gallows?’

‘Well, that’s where you’re going. Unless you can explain how the bloodstained paperknife with the Capodel crest on it that killed Florian Quince was found under your mattress.
Your DermaCons were clear as day on the handle.’

Citrine felt her eyes stretch to their limit. ‘But Florian was already dead when I found him!’

Edgar exchanged a knowing glance with Fessup, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

Citrine grabbed at Fessup’s sleeve. ‘You cannot believe that I would do this,’ she insisted. ‘Florian Quince was a great friend of my dear father and my friend too. Why
would I kill him?’

Fessup shrugged her off. ‘In my experience people kill for one of three reasons: romantic love, money and out of lunacy. Did you love Mr Quince?’

‘No,’ said Citrine with great indignation.

‘Are you mad?’

‘I’m as sane as you are!’

‘Then you must have done it for money,’ concluded Fessup with obvious satisfaction.

‘Money?’ Citrine could not believe her ears. ‘I have no need for money. I’m Citrine Capodel!’

‘We found the will in your room,’ said Edgar. ‘The one you stole from Florian’s study. You killed Florian, the only living witness to the original will, and forged a new
one in your favour.’

Citrine couldn’t speak, rendered momentarily dumb with shock.

‘Jealousy is a terrible thing,’ said Edgar sorrowfully. ‘When you found out I was to inherit everything, well—’

‘You filthy liar!’ screeched Citrine, and she began to rain down blows on Edgar’s chest.

Edgar pushed her away. ‘Take your bloodstained hands off me,’ he said harshly, and strode out of the cell.

‘It’s up to the judge now,’ said Fessup, and he tipped his hat and left. The door closed with an ill-boding clang and the key turned in the lock with devastating finality.