Free Mortlock by Jon Mayhew Page B

head.
    ‘You’re right there and no mistake,’ Alfie said.
    ‘Not just that. So much has happened to me over the last few days,’ Josie said, sitting down on a tall-legged stool.
    Alfie listened, wide-eyed, as Josie related all that had passed. She ran to retrieve the note stuffed down the side of the sofa, and held it out for Alfie to read.
    ‘Funny the way he says things,’ he remarked, pulling a face as he handed the note back. ‘Sounds a bit . . . dunno . . . odd.’
    ‘Gimlet said that, too,’ Josie said, frowning at the scrawl on the page. ‘He tried to tell me something about the note . . . but couldn’t . . .’
    She carried on telling her story, pausing every now and then to regain her composure. Alfie looked on, occasionally clearing his throat and trying not to catch her eye.
    ‘Blimey, you ’ave been through the mill,’ he said after Josie had finished. ‘And you ’ad a picture . . . of my mother?’
    ‘ Our mother. She was beautiful, a gypsy queen.’ Josie smiled.
    ‘I wouldn’t mind ’avin’ a peek at that . . .’
    ‘It’s at the house still,’ she said, wishing she could get it to show Alfie. ‘Cardamom said that our father died when we were babes. I’ve no idea what he looked like, or even his name.’
    Alfie shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose. Never really thought about it before, much.’
    Josie nodded. It was true. She thought more about her mother. Was that because Cardamom had talked about her more or because she had a portrait? Josie didn’t know. ‘Before he died, Cardamom said you could help.’
    ‘I dunno how.’ Alfie pouted and stared past Josie into the shadows. ‘But blood’s thicker than water, I s’pose. He sounds like he . . . well, y’know . . . thought a lot of you, this Cardamom.’
    ‘He was like a father to me.’ Josie felt her face crumple and she bit her lip. She stifled another sob. ‘I left him lying there with those . . . things . What I wouldn’t give to see him one last time.’
    ‘Well.’ Alfie pushed his bottom lip out as he thought aloud. ‘Maybe that’s one way I can help.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Josie asked.
    Alfie gave a broad smile. ‘He’s here!’

.
    .
    You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    But my breath smells earthy strong;
    If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    Your time will not be long.
    ‘The Unquiet Grave’, traditional folk ballad

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    CHAPTER TEN
    The Whispering Corpse
    ‘After you visited this mornin’, we went to collect your uncle,’ Alfie said. ‘The house was open – ransacked it was, turned upside down, and he was just left layin’ there in the bedroom. Well, Wiggins was proper outraged and we brought him back, meanin’ to give him the right send-off tomorrow. Wiggins is particular about these things, y’know.’
    ‘Can I see him?’ Josie said, her stomach tightening. But did she really want to see her guardian cold and lifeless?
    Alfie nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said. Josie slid off the stool and followed her brother to the back of the room.
    Alfie fidgeted beside the shrouded body of Cardamom. ‘Before I uncover him, well, you need to know . . . not to put too fine a point on it, Josie, but he wasn’t in the best condition when we brought him in.’
    Josie’s head swam as she steadied herself, holding on to the edge of the table. ‘I want to see.’
    ‘We tried to tidy him up as best we could. Wiggins is a bit of a maestro at it, but this one was difficult.’ Alfie gently pulled back the rough cotton shroud. Josie drew a deep breath.
    Cardamom’s body lay there, his skin marbled and pale. His eyes gaped red and empty; a bloody trail wept down his grey cheeks. His teeth were clenched tight in a snarl and his back seemed arched and tense. He was dressed in his best suit, the one he wore when he and Josie took Sunday walks through town in happier times. But he didn’t fill it. The mid section of his body seemed flat, empty.
    ‘We considered packin’ him with somethin’ but Wiggins