instruments and disturbing appurtenances, some of which caused him to recoil; others he held up and regarded
with morbid interest. A short, stout metal cylinder with thin pipes spiralled tightly around the outside caught his eye. It looked a little like a tavern tankard, with a handle on the side. The
lidded end was rounded, the other end flat. It was very cold to the touch and was stamped with a manufacturer’s trademark. He dropped it into one of the larger pockets of his coat, another
visit to the Caveat Emptorium in mind.
As he rummaged, his practised, searching hand unearthed a very small book that was concealed beneath several layers of curious objects. It was written in what he took to be Latin, and not
knowing the language he was about to put it back, when on second thoughts he put his foot up on to the table and reached down to the thick heel of his boot. The heel swung out to reveal a hidden
compartment he had crafted himself. He pushed the book into the space. It just fitted.
Satisfied that he had taken all that was useful or valuable, Vincent put out the lamp and shone his smitelight around the room one last time. It was then he saw the rectangular cabinet sitting
in the shadows against the far wall. It was made of black metal and was humming softly. There was a handle on the front. Vincent went over and pulled on the handle. The door was heavier than he
expected and when it opened there was a soft hiss and an outrush of cold air. The interior was cold to the touch, there were ice crystals on all the inner walls, but the cabinet itself was empty.
Vincent shivered and closed the door. Then, coat pockets bulging once again with his spoils, he retraced his steps up the tunnel.
What Vincent did not know was that if a trapdoor opens soundlessly one way, then it most probably closes soundlessly the other. And it did, merely moments after he had gone through it, the
magnetic lock sliding back into place. To further compound Vincent’s plight, two large barrels of tar were rolled on to the trap door, the noise dulled by the rug.
If only Vincent had arrived a couple of minutes later this would not have happened, but chance is a two-way street. Unfortunately for him, Vincent reached the shop only moments after Leopold
Kamptulicon had left for the Tar Pit. Although the lamp vendor was out of sight, he was still within earshot. He heard Vincent’s knock, went back to investigate and watched the boy break in.
He was most surprised, and put out, when he realized that this brazen intruder had discovered both the trapdoor and the secret of the lock. As soon as Vincent went down the steps Kamptulicon
slipped back into the shop, closed and secured the trapdoor and reseated the window arm. Then he set off once more on his Lurid business and his unwitting meeting with Folly.
Nobody took advantage of Leopold Kamptulicon and got away with it.
C HAPTER 9
P ROBLEMS AND S OLUTIONS
In another part of Degringolade, far away from the luxury of the Capodel Townhouse – where Citrine was mulling over Florian Quince’s recent revelations – but
close to the underground chamber where Vincent was unwittingly trapped, Edgar Capodel shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other beside his Phaeton and blew loudly on his cold, soft hands. He
didn’t like this part of Degringolade.
‘Domne, but hurry up,’ he urged into the night.
As if in answer to his plea, a polished Troika drawn by three black horses pulled up on the other side of the road. Edgar ran over to it – the carriage door opened and the steps were let
down.
‘Thank the Lord you’re here, sir,’ he said as he climbed in.
‘And good evening to you too, Edgar,’ replied a smooth voice from the tenebrous interior. The carriage lights were low and the man sitting opposite Edgar was a mere shadow.
‘Would you care for some Grainwine?’ he asked, taking an elegant bottle of transparent liquid and two glasses from a small cabinet built into the
with morbid interest. A short, stout metal cylinder with thin pipes spiralled tightly around the outside caught his eye. It looked a little like a tavern tankard, with a handle on the side. The
lidded end was rounded, the other end flat. It was very cold to the touch and was stamped with a manufacturer’s trademark. He dropped it into one of the larger pockets of his coat, another
visit to the Caveat Emptorium in mind.
As he rummaged, his practised, searching hand unearthed a very small book that was concealed beneath several layers of curious objects. It was written in what he took to be Latin, and not
knowing the language he was about to put it back, when on second thoughts he put his foot up on to the table and reached down to the thick heel of his boot. The heel swung out to reveal a hidden
compartment he had crafted himself. He pushed the book into the space. It just fitted.
Satisfied that he had taken all that was useful or valuable, Vincent put out the lamp and shone his smitelight around the room one last time. It was then he saw the rectangular cabinet sitting
in the shadows against the far wall. It was made of black metal and was humming softly. There was a handle on the front. Vincent went over and pulled on the handle. The door was heavier than he
expected and when it opened there was a soft hiss and an outrush of cold air. The interior was cold to the touch, there were ice crystals on all the inner walls, but the cabinet itself was empty.
Vincent shivered and closed the door. Then, coat pockets bulging once again with his spoils, he retraced his steps up the tunnel.
What Vincent did not know was that if a trapdoor opens soundlessly one way, then it most probably closes soundlessly the other. And it did, merely moments after he had gone through it, the
magnetic lock sliding back into place. To further compound Vincent’s plight, two large barrels of tar were rolled on to the trap door, the noise dulled by the rug.
If only Vincent had arrived a couple of minutes later this would not have happened, but chance is a two-way street. Unfortunately for him, Vincent reached the shop only moments after Leopold
Kamptulicon had left for the Tar Pit. Although the lamp vendor was out of sight, he was still within earshot. He heard Vincent’s knock, went back to investigate and watched the boy break in.
He was most surprised, and put out, when he realized that this brazen intruder had discovered both the trapdoor and the secret of the lock. As soon as Vincent went down the steps Kamptulicon
slipped back into the shop, closed and secured the trapdoor and reseated the window arm. Then he set off once more on his Lurid business and his unwitting meeting with Folly.
Nobody took advantage of Leopold Kamptulicon and got away with it.
C HAPTER 9
P ROBLEMS AND S OLUTIONS
In another part of Degringolade, far away from the luxury of the Capodel Townhouse – where Citrine was mulling over Florian Quince’s recent revelations – but
close to the underground chamber where Vincent was unwittingly trapped, Edgar Capodel shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other beside his Phaeton and blew loudly on his cold, soft hands. He
didn’t like this part of Degringolade.
‘Domne, but hurry up,’ he urged into the night.
As if in answer to his plea, a polished Troika drawn by three black horses pulled up on the other side of the road. Edgar ran over to it – the carriage door opened and the steps were let
down.
‘Thank the Lord you’re here, sir,’ he said as he climbed in.
‘And good evening to you too, Edgar,’ replied a smooth voice from the tenebrous interior. The carriage lights were low and the man sitting opposite Edgar was a mere shadow.
‘Would you care for some Grainwine?’ he asked, taking an elegant bottle of transparent liquid and two glasses from a small cabinet built into the
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