The Black Book of Secrets Read Online Free Page A

years and sunk a little into the earth. There was no
doubt that if just one collapsed it would take all the others
with it.
    The village was overlooked by the church, an ancient
building mostly frequented these days when someone was
born or died. Entry into this life and exit from it were
deemed noteworthy occasions, but for most villagers the
intervening existence did not require regular church attendance.
On the whole this suited the Reverend Stirling
Oliphaunt very well. He didn’t seek out his flock; he preferred
them to make their own way to him.
    Besides, the hill really was unusually steep.
    Despite this, and the snow, by mid-morning a small
crowd had already gathered outside Ludlow’s new home.
Even before the sun had fully risen behind the clouds, a
rumour was circulating that the old hat shop had a new
occupant. One by one the villagers puffed and panted their
way up the hill to see for themselves. The murky windows
were now clean and transparent, although the varying
thickness of the glass distorted the display somewhat, andthe people pressed their faces up against the panes eager to
see what was on show.
    ‘Is it a junk shop?’ asked one man. A reasonable question
under the circumstances, for the contents of the
satchel, excepting the food and drink, had been priced with
tags and placed in the window. The wooden leg was
propped in the corner but there was no indication of its
cost.
    ‘It’s animals,’ said another.
    Joe’s frog was clearly visible, sitting in its tank on the
counter. In the daylight it was quite remarkable in appearance:
its glistening skin was a patchwork of vibrant reds,
greens and yellows. It was most unlike any frog that lived
in the soupy ponds of Pagus Parvus. Its feet were not
webbed, instead they were more like long-fingered hands
with knobbly joints and toes, which would have made
swimming quite tricky.
    As if on cue, Joe’s face appeared in the window. He was
holding a sign which he placed carefully at the bottom of
the display. It read:
Joe Zabbidou ~ Pawnbroker
    The villagers nodded to one another, not necessarily in
approval, more as if to say ‘I told you so’, even though they
hadn’t. Joe then emerged with a ladder which he propped
against the wall over the door. He climbed confidently to
the top and unhooked the old hat-shaped sign. He fixed
to the pole the universal symbol of the pawnbroker: three
polished golden orbs stuck together in the shape of a
triangle. They swung on their chain in a lazy arc, glinting
in the low winter sun.
    ‘Is the frog for sale?’ someone asked.
    ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joe solemnly. ‘She is my companion.’
    This admission amused the crowd greatly and their titters
created a cloud of breath around their heads.
    ‘’Ow much for the leg?’ asked another.
    Joe smiled benevolently, descended the ladder with
remarkable speed and stood before the crowd.
    ‘Aha,’ he exclaimed. ‘The leg. Now there’s a tale.’
    ‘A tail?’ queried a youngster known less for his wit than
for his inquisitive nature, while beside him his two brothers
sniggered.
    ‘A tale indeed,’ said Joe. ‘But one for another day.’
    There were sighs of disappointment and Joe cleared his
throat and raised his hand.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Joe Zabbidou,’ he
announced, pronouncing the ‘J’ with a sort of shooshing
noise so it sounded more like ‘sh’. ‘And I am here to serve
you. I stand under the sign of the three golden orbs because
I am a pawnbroker, a respectable profession in existence for
centuries, of Italian origin, I believe. I give you my guarantee
–’ here he placed his right hand on his heart and cast his
eyes heavenwards – ‘that I will pay a fair price for your goods
and take a fair fee when you choose to redeem them. All
items accepted: linen and shoes, jewellery and watches—’
    ‘Wooden legs,’ shouted out a voice.
    Joe disregarded this interruption and continued
smoothly.
    ‘You have my word. You will not be