Mortlock by Jon Mayhew Page A

Wiggins’s immaculate shop.
    ‘He’s a very particular man is Wiggins,’ Gimlet said, smiling. ‘He likes everything to be just so.’
    ‘I can see.’
    ‘He applies that to his funeral arranging, too. He’s a popular man around here. He doesn’t take account of who you are or where you’re from. He looks after everything. Sadly, he doesn’t make a huge amount of money.’
    Josie hung back as Gimlet approached the door. Her earlier excitement had evaporated and now part of her didn’t want to think about a brother at all. It raised too many questions about her mother and father. What would he be like, this brother? Would he be like her?
    They pushed the door and a tinkling bell heralded their arrival. The inside of the shop matched the outside. Tidy, almost bare, a long counter stretched across the back of the shop and various samples of coffin wood and brass handles stood in regimented lines along its surface. The smell of wood polish and clean brass hung heavy in the air.
    A young boy, small and pinched-looking, slouched on the counter. He wore the black suit of an undertaker, worn at the cuffs and rather too large for him. It threatened to swallow him up. The boy ignored them, his head to one side as he watched a toad twitching, pinned beneath his index finger. His hair was cut very short. It was the same shade of blond as Josie’s. His eyes were large and had a lazy quality that made his whole face look insolent or haughty. Gimlet coughed. The boy continued to prod the toad, making it squirm. Gimlet gave another polite ‘Ahem’.
    ‘You wanna get something for that, mister,’ the boy observed, not taking his eyes off the toad. ‘Seven Dials is full of quacks who’ll cure your cough for a farthing. Either that or come back in a month when you’ve turned up yer toes and we can ’elp.’
    ‘I’m looking for Mr Wiggins,’ Gimlet said, casting a dark glance over to Josie. She could see his jaw tighten as he ground his teeth.
    ‘Well, there’s plenty of folks just dyin’ to meet ’im,’ the boy snorted, poking at the toad’s back. Its foreleg jerked up. The boy grinned.
    ‘Could you tell me where I can find him?’ Gimlet asked through a fixed smile.
    The boy looked up at them for the first time. Josie couldn’t help but think that he looked a little toad-like himself, with his wide, turned-down mouth and large eyes. The boy scratched his nose and flicked the toad off the counter. To Josie’s surprise and disgust it whirled through the air like a spinning top and bounced off her coat.
    ‘Yeah, I could,’ the boy said, jumping off the stool behind the counter and sauntering through a curtain at the back of the shop. ‘He’s right behind yer.’
    The bell tinkled again and a short, pot-bellied old man with pebble-thick spectacles perched on the end of his stubby nose stepped in. His chubby fingers grasped the lapels of his frayed black suit. He rocked on his heels and bent his thin legs as if he were trying to make himself bigger. His tall top hat looked out of all proportion to his body and bore a white ribbon, indicating that he had been to the funeral of a child.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he said, squinting through his thick lenses.
    ‘Mr Wiggins?’ Gimlet extended a hand. Mr Wiggins inclined his head and fumbled for Gimlet’s fingers.
    Josie bent down and picked up the toad. She gave a small yelp and dropped it again. It was dead and had been for some time judging by its desiccated state. How on earth could that be?
    The two men paused and glanced at her before continuing.
    ‘Yes, hmmm, yes, I am Mr Wiggins,’ said the frowning man, sounding as if he’d only just realised his identity. ‘How may I help you in this hour of deep . . . sadness?’ Wiggins breathed the last word out. Josie continued to stare at the dead toad. What sort of boy poked and pawed the mummified remains of amphibians?
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wiggins, we aren’t here to bury anyone, although we have come at a time of