Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand Read online

  Mr Pickering considered the woman and wondered if she was purposely making fun of him. There was an ambiguous timbre in her voice which he recognised as belonging to that other, older counterpart of Miss Ursula, and yet this markedly younger woman seemed to suit this Tudor age just as much, if not more so.

  Giving voice to his doubts, he said. 'It is Miss Webster?'

  A placid smile was his only answer and she let her eyes wander to where the elderly aspect of Miss Celandine began a new dance which involved a procession of different partners kissing her hand in turn.

  'How well your companion enjoys this celebration,' she observed. 'It gladdens me to see her so.'

  'But that's your sister!' he blurted. 'And look at me in my old jumper and trousers—I don't belong here. Don't you think it odd?'

  Miss Ursula returned his baffled gaze with one of her own. 'I hope you do not consider me so ill-bred as to make adverse commentary on a country gentleman's russets, Sirrah,' she replied. 'Just as my guests do not raise eyebrow at our flouting of the sumptuary laws, in especial Celandine and her cloth of gold. As to her, she and Veronica are both making a pretty show of themselves over yonder—I fail to see a semblance twixt either and your good associate.'

  'All right,' Mr Pickering yielded. 'I'll just make the most of it while I'm here.' And he took another swig from the beaker.

  The mistress of the house clasped her own vessel in front of her and regarded him keenly. 'Tell me something of yourself, Sirrah,' she began.

  'Why do you keep calling me that?'

  'It is the fashion of the time,' she rejoined. 'It is as well to fit in.'

  'Ah, then you admit it! You are the Miss Webster I know.'

  'I admit that you have not answered my question,' she said blithely.

  The ghost hunter drained his spiced ale. 'I come from the north, originally,' he told her.

  'As did we all,' Miss Ursula remarked. 'And what of your estates?'

  Mr Pickering gave a chuckle. 'The only Estate I ever owned had a dodgy exhaust. Are you playing games with me?'

  'All of us play games,' she said enigmatically. 'Do we not? How else can eternity be endured? And, when the diversion is entered into, each role must be performed to the utmost—would you not agree?'

  'I wouldn't know. I prefer quieter pastimes, like patience. I'm good at crosswords, too.'

  'Then what of your family?' she inquired. 'Is there no Mrs Pickering? Someone to share your interests—to hold your tape measure and light your little candles?'

  The old man scowled through his spectacles at her. 'It is you!' he snorted. 'And no, I never married—not that it's any of your business.'

  Miss Ursula took the beaker from him and strode to the window where she placed them both upon the sill. 'And I, like you,' she told him, 'have always been tied to my work. That has been my only binding passion.'

  'Then we have something in common,' Austen Pickering said.

  'Perhaps.'

  There was a strained pause between them as each strove to understand what the other was thinking.

  Finally, Miss Ursula took a deep breath and assessed the festivities. 'It was a fine celebration,' she admitted, 'surpassing all others we had before. A fitting way to mark the birth of one destined for greatness, but also to signal our withdrawal from the world. Tell me truthfully, Mr Pickering, have you enjoyed this glimpse of our past?'

  'I'm none the wiser,' he said, smiling vaguely. 'But yes, I have—very much.'

  The woman looked at the panelled walls around them. 'Then that is good,' she replied. 'I wanted you to see that my home is not wholly filled with ugly memories. My sisters and I were very happy here for a long time.'

  'I'm sure you were, but I still have my work to do.'

  Miss Ursula nodded briskly. 'That you have,' she said. 'And I recall that I was never that fond of parties. Celandine has had her treat and now it, like all things should, must end.'

  Removing the peaked hood from her head, her impeccably coifed white curls sprang back into place and strings of jet beads entwined them. The sable silk of her garments shimmered briefly, then Miss Ursula Webster was dressed in her Victorian evening gown once more and the intervening ages crept back into her face.

  'Come,' she declared.

  Escorting Mr Pickering through the assembled nobles, the old woman traversed the room to where Miss Celandine was still pointing her toes and parading in a circle, her spade-like hands joined with the suitors of the past.

  'It is time,' Miss Ursula gently informed her.

  Her sister whirled about, a sad, regretful ache etched upon her old, wrinkled features. Reluctantly, she made her apologies to her partners and curtsied daintily. The gallants bowed in return and Miss Celandine came away, her heart fit to burst.

  Taking hold of her sister's hands, she pressed them gratefully. 'Thank you, Ursula,' she whispered. 'Thank you.' And then the music faded, the laughter died and the candles were extinguished.

  Standing stiff and stern, the last glimpse Miss Ursula Webster had of that earlier time was of the younger figures of her two sisters, Veronica and Celandine, as they both were before their reason rotted in tune with Nirinel. Then, suddenly, the electric lights snapped back on and the Tudor vision was gone.

  'Not long now,' she murmured. 'Not long.'

  Austen Pickering rubbed his dazzled eyes. They were back in The Tiring Salon, and the mannequins in their sundry costumes were once more grouped against the wall.

  Leaning heavily upon her sister's arm for support, Miss Celandine refused to lift her head, her long plaits screening her sight. The usually sprightly old woman finally appeared to have surrendered herself to the crushing ages and, in a small, husky voice, said, 'I'd like to go upstairs now please, I'm tired.'

  Miss Ursula assisted her to the small door which led to the attic. Then, remembering Mr Pickering, she halted and took their leave.

  'Goodnight,' she began, glancing back at the long gallery and the table upon which his thermometer and tape recorder lay. 'I'm so sorry if Celandine broke your ghost strings—do remember to reset them.'

  Then the ornate door closed behind the two sisters. Austen Pickering scratched his head and roared with giddy laughter.

  Chapter 14 - The Menagerie of Mr Charles Jamrach

  Balancing upon the banister, Quoth paced up and down whilst Neil flicked through the register of the Wyrd Infirmary. 'So many unexplained deaths,' he murmured in revulsion.

  Executing an ungainly pirouette, the raven gave his master a consoling croak. 'Verily,' he trilled, 'this great, grotsome grave doth run over with the despond damned. Soonest we depart hence, the gladder this cockle shalt be.'

  Neil put the book down and groaned. 'I've really got to talk to Dad about that,' he decided. 'No use putting it off. I just hope Miss Webster's right.'

  'Thou dost not wish to leave?' Quoth queried in surprise.

  'We haven't got anywhere else to go. As soon as Auntie Marion gets tired of Dad, and she will, what then?'

  The raven shook his feathers uneasily. He wanted to put as much distance between The Wyrd Museum and himself as possible.

  'Better get it over with,' Neil announced, leaving the landing to descend the stairs. 'Might as well let Dad do all his shouting tonight.'

  Spreading his wings to stabilise himself, Quoth sat down on the polished banister rail and slid down after his master.

  The inadequate electric lamps which lit the stairwell could not expel every shadow. Where the steps opened on to each landing, pockets of puddling gloom remained steadfastly in the corners and it was within one of these dim patches that Edie Dorkins waited upon the first floor. Hearing Neil's descent, the girl retreated to the doorway and watched.

  With their thoughts elsewhere, neither the boy nor his skating companion even knew she was there until they began the downward traipse to the main hallway.

  'Don't your brother never stop blubbin'?' Edie called, suddenly springing out behind them.

  Neil started and Quoth
gave a loud squawk of surprise as he slipped from the rail in fright and tumbled from view. In a moment he came fluttering back and shot straight to his master's shoulder. 'How sorely is mine mettle tested at every turn!' he clucked woefully.

  Neil stared at the girl, intrigued. 'What do you mean?' he asked. 'Were you with Dad and Josh when they were attacked today?'

  Scuffing her shoes along the floor, Edie said nothing.

  'What happened?' the boy persisted. 'You know Dad's on the warpath and wants to leave?'

  'Good!' she snapped, pulling open the door to the corridor. 'He scared my Gogus off

  Then Neil understood what had so terrified his father. 'Gogus...' he muttered. 'So that's what it was. That thing in the dark.'

  'The imp of wood!' the raven interjected. 'Thy parent's quarrel with this dire dungeon hath just cause.'

  Edie tossed her head then dashed away through the door.

  'What did she mean, her Gogus?' Neil asked. 'Edie—wait!'

  Hurrying after her, the boy ran through the doorway and into The Dissolution Gallery beyond. Within that large room, where Ned Billet had been beaten to death over a century ago, Edie Dorkins stared thoughtfully at the large hanging tapestries, lifting them to peep curiously at the wooden panels behind.

  Hearing Neil enter, the girl frowned and stamped her foot.

  'Tell me what happened,' he asked. But Edie refused, and ducked under the tapestry in front of her so that she would not have to see him. Her figure formed a large, obstinate bump behind the folds of dusty fabric.

  'Your feet are sticking out,' the boy said wearily.

  'Get gone,' her muffled voice demanded. 'I'm busy.'

  Quoth scratched his scalp. 'Yon maid maketh a fitting successor to the Sisters of the Well,' he commented softly. 'Her wits also hath leaked full empty.'

  'Edie,' Neil said, bored with the whimsical child's tantrums. 'I just want to know—'

  Before he could finish, the raven clapped a wing over his mouth and the boy spat out two feathers. 'What's that for?' he cried.

  'Peace, mine Master!' Quoth hissed, looking desperately around them. 'Canst thou not sense it? Another presence hath joined us in this chamber of looted booty.'

  Neil caught his breath and listened. 'I can't hear anything,' he mouthed.

  The raven's one eye darted about the room, glancing suspiciously at the treasure inside the cabinets, then fixing his attention to the darkened entrance of The Egyptian Suite at the far end.

  'From thence it cometh,' he cawed fretfully. 'Let us flee afore the lightning bulbs be doused.'

  Hearing the bird's frightened warning, Edie emerged from beneath the tapestry, then she and Neil both became aware of faint, snuffling breaths.

  'The imp,' Quoth muttered.

  'Gogus!' Edie gasped excitedly.

  'Quick!' Neil hissed at the girl. 'We've got to get out.'

  But Edie ignored him, sprawling upon the floor to peer under the cabinets.

  'What are you doing?' the boy cried as she reached out with her hand and tapped the ground encouragingly.

  Lying on her stomach, Edie Dorkins could see a pair of carved, wooden legs prowling about the room. A long tail swished behind them and she clicked her tongue to attract the creature's attention. 'Gogus!' she called. 'Come here, Gogus.'

  The guttural panting ceased and two slanting eyes abruptly blinked under the cases to glare at her. 'Don't be scared,' Edie continued, beckoning with her fingers. 'There's a good Gogus.'

  'Squire Neil,' Quoth wailed. 'The dunceling knows not what she doeth!'

  'Edie!' Neil protested. 'Leave it!'

  A low, throaty rumble issued from the imp's wide mouth and it took a cautious, stalking step forward.

  'That's it,' Edie enticed.

  With another waddling step, Gogus cleared the cabinet and Neil beheld its bowed and stunted form for the first time. The wooden eyes swivelled to glower at him and the raven. Then, its jaw quivering, the creature unleashed a warning bark in their direction.

  'A gargoyle of the enchanted forest!' Quoth bleated. 'Fly, Squire Neil, fly!'

  'Edie!' the boy pleaded. 'Get up, get away. It'll have your hand off.'

  But Edie was fascinated by the imp and yapped back at it. At once Gogus stopped its clamour and whimpered fitfully, sniffing and snouting the air.

  'Little bit more,' the girl invited. Gurgling, the creature edged forward, closing the distance between them, its tail flicking hesitantly whilst the unwieldy head tilted from side to side.

  'Gogus...' it grunted shyly. 'Gogus...'

  'There's a good, pretty pet,' Edie continued. 'Come on, that's right—nothin' to be frighted of.'

  'You're crazy!' Neil whispered in desperation. 'It's not some kind of dog.'

  The pointed ears flicked and twitched uncertainly, and the creature's alarming face turned to him as a threatening gargle sounded in its throat. Quickly, the noise grew into a menacing growl and Quoth trembled.

  'Too late!' the raven warbled. 'The tree wight shalt pounce and devour us all.'

  That was enough for Neil. Lunging forward, he snatched Edie from the floor and hauled the girl's struggling figure towards the door.

  At once, Gogus flew into a fury. The hooked claws thumped and raked the ground, and it let loose a ferocious barking. Lashing its tail, it leaped after them, but Neil kicked out and, emitting a high, gibbering yowl, the imp was sent reeling.

  'Hurry durry, Master!' Quoth beseeched him.

  Hastily, Neil barged through the door, dragging Edie with him, then slammed it firmly behind. Trapped in The Dissolution Gallery, Gogus was beside itself with thwarted rage and cartwheeled across the ground. Flinging its body against the door, it hammered and scratched, jumping up to bite the handle with its peg teeth. But it was no use, and after a minute's frantic scrabbling, the carving pressed its snout against the keyhole to bark and shriek.

  Suddenly, it fell silent and its ears waggled inquisitively. With a worried yelp, the creature dropped to the ground, slapping its head and jabbering, the expression upon its face a grotesque mask of dread.

  'No... no... no!' it uttered. 'No... Gogus... no.' Through the room the imp scuttled, its voice puling and crying in genuine distress as it scooted into The

  Egyptian Suite.

  In the corridor outside, Edie Dorkins wriggled free of Neil's restraining arm and rounded on him fiercely. 'Gertcha!' she yelled. 'Nearly caught it then, I did! Keep your nose out!'

  'That thing in there's vicious!' the boy snapped back. 'It would've pulled your head off.'

  'No it ain't!' the girl shouted, her hands on her hips. 'Could've made friends with it then, I could. Lemme back in!'

  His fingers closed tightly about the door handle, but Neil shook his head. 'No chance,' he refused.

  'I'll go back another way then,' she told him.

  'Edie!' he warned. 'It'll attack you.'

  But the child would not listen and walked huffily up the dimly-lit corridor, her small shape dwarfed by the huge glass cabinets flanking the walls. 'Keep out my way!' the girl called over her shoulder as she reached the first of the gloomy pools between the feeble lights.

  Neil gave the nearest case a frustrated kick and the stuffed bird of paradise it contained wobbled upon its branch. 'She's determined to get herself killed,' the boy muttered.

  At his shoulder, the raven turned his gaze from the retreating girl and stared morosely at the taxidermied specimens surrounding them.

  ‘I can't let her,' Neil said, anxiously seeking for a solution. 'Quoth, go and fetch Miss Ursula. She's the only one that daft girl listens to. I'll hold her back till she gets here.'

  The raven nodded his agreement. "Twill be a pleasure to escape this hall of the gogglesome dead,' he cawed, spreading his wings in readiness. But, before he could take to the air, a rhythmic tapping came echoing down the passage and Neil spluttered.

  'I know that sound,' he whispered

  Quoth jerked his head aside to listen whilst the slow, measured drummin
g steadily grew louder, vibrating upon the musty air.

  'The imp hath put on boots of iron and advances with snail speed?' he suggested.

  His master did not reply and his fingers slipped from the door handle. 'Tick-Tock Jack,' he breathed in horror.

  Halfway up the long corridor, Edie Dorkins paused to look around her, wondering what caused the insistent knocking.

  'Gogus?' she called, peering into the shadows beyond the reach of the overhead lights. Only the tap-tap-tap answered and all her senses told the girl that this sound had nothing to do with the wooden carving. 'Who is it?' the girl demanded.

  Neil swallowed nervously. 'We've got to get her out of this,' he said.

  With Quoth flying apprehensively behind him, the boy ran up the passage towards Edie and caught hold of the girl's hand. This time she did not resist. The rapping was very loud now and, perceiving the malevolence behind it, Edie gasped.

  'Summink bad's gonna happen,' she predicted. ‘I can feel it.'

  At the end of the corridor, where African shields and tribal weapons decorated the wall, a shadow deeper than those around it began to move and take shape.

  'God's blood!' Quoth cried.

  Stepping from the darkness ahead, a tall, barrel-girthed figure emerged, tapping his cane against the wall and cackling in a thick, phlegm-drenched voice. Dressed now in a gaudy, dandelion-coloured costume emblazoned with large mustard checks, with a brown derby jammed upon his florid head and white spats wrapped about his boots, the forbidding form of Jack Timms swaggered into the passage.

  His pox-pitted face was smeared with greasepaint. Red dots blobbed the corners of his ratty eyes and circles of rouge daubed his waxy cheeks. Under his scratched, festering nose, a black, curling moustache had been drawn, and his eyebrows were broad lines of charcoal. But in spite of the showman's make-up and flamboyant carnival clothes, he was as repellent and malignant as Neil had imagined.

  'Roll up, roll up!' Tick-Tock cried, pounding his stick on the ground. 'Ladies and gentlemen, such a miraculous, mouth-stopping, maceratin', Machiavellian marvel you ain't never seen afore.'