The Eyeball Collector (24 page)

Nobody moved a muscle. The beast advanced slowly, breathing heavily, towards the table, its head turning from side to side until its gaze fell on the ravaged skeleton of the roast hog. It gave a long shrill squeal of unmitigated anguish until the crystal chandeliers above shattered and fell like rain on the paralysed crowd below. And then the hog charged.

As Hector ran from the hall the last thing he saw was Gerulphus throwing himself between Lady Mandible and the stampeding hog.

Hector knew he had to reach Bovrik’s tower quickly. His father was right, Polly was right, the strange prisoner in the tower was right, but it had taken this dreadful night for Hector to realize it.

And now he might be too late.

By the time he reached Bovrik’s room, having ascended the stairs three and four at a time, he could hardly speak. But he could smell Bovrik’s perfume persisting in the air outside the door, so he knew he was still there.

‘Let me in,’ he gasped. ‘It’s Hector.’ He slumped against the door. It opened under his weight and he fell forward into the room.

Bovrik was standing by the window, his garish and obscene eye reflecting the candlelight. It looked odd, somehow, and Hector suddenly realized there was a huge crack across the surface of the glass.

‘What do you want?’ growled Bovrik. He was pale and the left side of his face was slightly red and swollen. From Lady Mandible’s slap, thought Hector.

‘The box,’ he said urgently, dragging himself up to standing. ‘Have you opened it?’

Bovrik glanced to his left and Hector saw the small white box still on the chair where he had left it earlier. Bovrik went immediately to pick it up.

‘No,’ cried Hector. ‘Don’t open it!’

‘Why not?’ asked Bovrik. ‘It is mine, a gift from Lysandra.’ He held out the card, clearly addressed to Baron Bovrik de Vandolin and signed with a swirling L.

Hector took a step forward. ‘It’s not from Lysandra. It’s from me. And now I want it back.’

‘From you?’ Bovrik put his ear to the box. ‘There’s something in here,’ he said. ‘I can hear it.’ He looked expectantly at Hector.

‘It’s full of butterflies,
Pulvis funestus
, Blackwing, but you mustn’t open it. They will kill you.’ He held out his hands pleadingly.

‘Kill me?’ Bovrik narrowed his eyes and laughed sarcastically. ‘Are they trained to attack?’

Hector shook his head. ‘I sprinkled their wings with the poison of a deadly mushroom. If you touch them, you will die. Your lemon scent will drive them wild and draw them straight to you!’

Bovrik smiled slightly. ‘My, my! Fery inventive. And hard to detect after, I imagine.’ To Hector’s relief, he put the box down on the table. ‘But why would you send me such a fatal gift?’

Hector’s hands hung down at his sides in despair. He had dreamed of this moment so many times, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, this wasn’t how he was supposed to feel. ‘Because,’ he said heavily, ‘you are Gulliver Truepin and I am Hector Fitzbaudly. You blackmailed my father, and by your actions you
killed
him.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Bovrik. ‘You seek revenge?’ Now he understood and finally let his accent slip. ‘Commendable in one so young. You have a bright future. But then why warn me?’

Why? thought Hector. Because my father believed in me. Because I am not like you. Because I am better than that.

‘Because I am not a wolf,’ he said quietly. Bovrik frowned. ‘I changed my mind,’ he said louder. ‘You’re finished here at Withypitts Hall. You murdered Lord Mandible and were caught. The guards are probably on their way already. That’s revenge enough for me.’

‘That is not true. It’s all been a mistake,’ said Bovrik to Hector’s surprise, massaging his puffy cheek. It was quite red by now and the eye was closing. ‘I did not kill Mandible, but you’re right to say I am finished at Withypitts Hall. I should never have stayed so long. It was misjudgement on my part. Now out of my way, boy, or you’ll go the same way as your father.’

‘Wait,’ Hector said. ‘I saw you, creeping about the corridors at night, in and out of Mandible’s rooms. I don’t know how you did it, but who else has as good a reason as you to want him dead? You said as much tonight, to Lady Mandible.’

‘My, you have been keeping an eye on me!’ Bovrik raised his eyebrows. ‘But you’ve got it wrong, butterfly boy. The only time I entered Lord Mandible’s chambers was to steal his stupid cat for the cat-eater! The rest of the time you saw me, well, let’s just say, helping myself to extraneous treasures, to sell. It’s in my nature. We all have to make a living. I’m not saying I didn’t wish that fool Mandible out of the picture, but my plans in that respect weren’t quite as advanced as yours for me!’

Hector was horrified. Here he was thinking that he was better than Bovrik, whereas in fact he was worse. How could he have let himself sink so low?

‘But you said you had a surprise for Lady Mandible,’ he stuttered.

‘Yes, my new eyeball,’ said Bovrik impatiently, and he thrust his face towards Hector so he could see it up close. ‘Lysandra appreciates beauty. I just wanted to show her that I did too. We could have achieved so much,’ he said dreamily, ‘but it’s all gone wrong.’ He rubbed at his eye again, more vigorously. ‘This is not such a good fit after all,’ he murmured and flipped open the lid of his eyeball box. There they sat, like six silent witnesses.

‘How odd,’ he said. ‘They are mixed up.’ He looked up once more at Hector and started. ‘What in the name of Hades is that?’

Hector glanced down at his waistcoat and saw too the furry tail emerging from below it. ‘It’s Percy,’ he remembered. ‘I found him dead under the harpsichord.’ He pulled out the stiffening creature and at the same time something heavy and glittering fell out of his pocket on to the bearskin rug where it gleamed in the fur. He stooped to pick it up.

‘At least Mandible went out on a high note,’ continued Bovrik. ‘His father couldn’t play for toffee either. He died alone at his instrument.’

Hector frowned as he straightened. ‘He died at the harpsichord?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know? Not long after Lysandra married Mandible.’ Bovrik looked at Hector, who was examining closely the small item that had fallen from his pocket. It was the dark-stoned ring that he found when last collecting the hog-bristle. Suddenly his blood ran cold. ‘
Tartri flammis!
’ he breathed. ‘It’s Lady Mandible’s.’ He turned to Bovrik, wild-eyed. ‘I had it all wrong. Don’t you see? It’s Lady Mandible.
She’s
the only other person with something to gain if Lord Mandible is dead. She killed Mandible’s father. And she killed Mandible too. But it is you who are to take the blame.’

Bovrik’s face contorted in agonized disbelief. ‘No,’ he wailed. ‘It cannot be possible. I, the greatest trickster of them all, have been outdone.’

As he fell he smiled.

So this was what it was like to fly! He could feel the winter air cooling his burning cheeks and it was surprisingly pleasant. He had the sensation that he might be swooping. His eyes were closed and he felt as if his arms were outstretched. It was true, then, what he had heard. Your life did flash before you. It was all there, in no particular order – a cornucopia of little pictures, each a reminder of a thousand different things.

Now he was in the forest again. The leaves were brown and damp and he could smell the rot. He heard the rooting of a hog and immediately the acrid aroma of singed flesh and hair made his nose sting. That man, the traveller, he was there too but then he was gone, replaced by Hector’s inquisitive face.

‘Good luck to you,’ he thought, opening his fingers wide to allow the wind to rush through.

He turned, slowly he felt, in the air and continued to fall. He wondered why it was taking so long. As he passed down the side of the tower he could see the smallest of things in minute detail, which was strange because it was late evening and only the distant stars and the full moon lit the sky. And he knew in reality he must be falling at speed, yet he was able to look at each thing slowly and take it in:the moss between the bricks, an insect crawling across the rough stone, a green rivulet where the rain followed a crooked path down the wall.

He was confused by a mixture of emotions: sadness, regret, anger, frustration. Had there not been a single moment of happiness? he wondered. And then
she
appeared. She was smiling, holding out her hand as she had done a hundred times or more. He pursed his lips as if to kiss it but she drew back and her eyes became cold.

‘What a fool I was,’ he thought. ‘What a foo—’

He landed and lay crookedly on his side in a spreading pool of dark red blood. And the last thing Bovrik saw was his own reflection in the shining orb that rolled away from him.