Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
The plan the following day was to leave for Bareheep at noon; this gave them the whole morning to explore Croakumshire.
Mr and Mrs Slooper didn't seem up to exploring anything. Pale and red-eyed, they didn't look up from the breakfast they were slowly eating in the bar when Ward and Slops came down. They encouraged the boys to go off exploring by themselves, asking them only to meet them back at the stables by noon. Slops didn't wait for them to change their minds – he hustled Ward out onto the street, and they set off into town.
It was Sinday morning. Costermongers had set their carts up along the main street, selling soap, fruit and vegetables, patchwork clothing of the kind favoured by Croakers, scented candles, and an array of mysterious hot street food of which Ward purchased a selection. He and Slops sat on a quiet doorstep in the sun and devoured the lot.
Ward was surprised to see trading on the holy day. This was not allowed in Bareheep. None of the other usual restrictions appeared to apply here either. You could buy anything you wanted at the city market, but prices were high due to the discouragement of competition: only one trader was permitted to sell eggs, for example, so could charge whatever they wanted for them. As the egg-seller invariably had to pay bribes to officials for the licence to sell eggs, the price of eggs soared. Members of Parliament were never short of eggs. In Croakumshire, on the other hand, there seemed to be no regulation whatsoever. Everything was cheap, and there was lots of everything. Ward was astounded. He wondered what kind of magic enabled this, for surely it did not happen naturally.
Their stomachs full, Slops took Ward to his favourite shops.
The first, predictably, sold musical instruments. It was set back at a safe distance from the main street, had no display window, and no sign out the front. To all outward appearances it was just someone's house. Inside however, lay a gloomy museum of musical paraphernalia. Stringed instruments hung from the ceiling like bats, stacks of drums leaned precariously in corners, and enormous curling horns stood on their bells like antediluvian sea creatures crouched on the sea floor, their brass surfaces tarnished and scaly.
From there they went to a sweet shop. It took up three floors of a narrow building squeezed into a back alley. Though Ward wasn't hungry, he bought as much as he could carry. Sweets were prized in the underground. They were difficult to get in Bareheep, and of only a few unexciting types. This shop, however, held a dazzling array of confectionary, all made in Croakumshire and its surrounding farms. He planned to give some to his friends, keep some for himself, and sell the rest to the other Scowerers. He bought a bagful for Slops, who couldn't afford to buy anything.
"I can't take it," Slops said awkwardly.
"If it wasn't for you I wouldn't even know about this place," Ward said.
This seemed to put Slops's mind at ease. He never took much convincing.
Dark clouds were bunching up around the valley as they left the sweet shop. Slops looked nervously up at them. "Might be a wet trip home."
Sure enough, by the time they had left the next shop, which sold handmade wooden models of ships, wagons, buildings, and animals (Ward wondered if any of Mr Carmichael's toys had found their way here), rain had begun to patter down over the town. Croakumshire took on a different cast under the dark sky: buildings seemed less inviting, alleys gloomier, and most of the people had gone inside to escape the rain, leaving the streets deserted. Rivulets ran down the cobbled alleys and tumbled into dark, echoing drains.
They stayed under the eaves of the buildings as Slops led Ward up a crooked alley into one of the quieter parts of town. Passing beneath an ancient stone gate upon which was carved two leering demons, they turned into another alley, narrower and darker still. Slops tapped on a green door set in a high wall devoid of windows.
Ward heard a shuffling sound from behind the door. A voice wheezed through a grille above the mail slot.
"Password?"
"Flibbertigibbet," Slops said.
The sound of a bolt being drawn. The door creaked open.
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