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reached into the tank. The
frog seemed a little agitated as I tried to coax her with a bug
and she retreated to the far corner.
    ‘Are you sure you should?’ asked Polly nervously.
    ‘Why shouldn’t—’
    ‘Don’t touch the frog,’ barked a voice behind me and I
jumped back immediately. Joe was practically next to me
and I hadn’t heard a sound. An icy blast came in from the
open door before Polly slammed it shut on her way out.
    ‘I only wanted to show—’
    Joe came forward and replaced the lid, pushing it downfirmly. ‘You mustn’t touch her,’ he said sternly. ‘Until you
gain her trust she only allows me to handle her. Do you
understand?’
    I nodded and the awkward silence was broken by the
sound of the door again and the hesitant enquiry of our first
customer, an elderly lady wearing a monocle in her left eye.
She frowned unevenly to keep it in place.
    ‘Mr Zabbidou? I have an item to pledge.’
    Joe smiled broadly.
    ‘A lovely piece,’ he said. ‘Look, Ludlow, a chamber pot.’

 
    Chapter Eleven

A Midnight Visitor
    ‘Wake up,’ hissed Joe, shaking Ludlow’s arm. ‘He’s here.’
Ludlow sat up slowly and listened as the church bell struck midnight. He shivered. The fire had died down and
he could see his breath. Joe put a small log on the glowing
embers and lit the lamp. He placed two glasses on the mantelpiece
along with a dark brown bottle and then he went
to the table and laid his black book in front of the chair.
    ‘Sit here,’ said Joe to Ludlow. ‘Stay very quiet and when
I give you a sign, write down everything you hear in the
book. I’ve marked the page.’
    Ludlow shook off his doziness and sat at the table. He
picked up the book and examined it. It was old, but well
kept, thick and just too weighty to hold in one hand. Onthe leather cover in gold leaf were the words ‘ Verba Volant
Scripta Manent ’ .
    In the bottom right hand corner were the initials ‘JZ’ in
large decorative gold lettering. A piece of red ribbon
marked the new page and a quill lay waiting in the crease.
The white pages seemed to glow in the half-light and
Ludlow couldn’t help but run his fingers over their smooth
surface. He quickly flicked through the preceding pages;
they were written with a heavy hand and crackled when he
touched them. Ludlow had not been told not to pry, but he
had the distinct feeling that Joe would disapprove if he did.
Quietly he put the black book back down as he found it,
open on the clean page.
    Outside the pawnshop Obadiah Strang stood on the
pavement wringing his gnarled hands. He wanted to knock
but he was afraid. Perhaps the dead didn’t scare him, but
sometimes the living did. Losing his nerve, he turned
around and was about to retreat down the hill when the
door opened behind him.
    ‘Obadiah, my dear chap,’ said Joe warmly, stepping into
the street and taking the man by the arm, ‘I’ve been expecting
you.’
    Once more, under Joe’s penetrating gaze, all resistancedeserted Obadiah and he allowed himself to be led into the
back room and placed gently on the chair by the fire.
Ludlow sat without moving, a little nervous, watching
everything closely. Obadiah pushed his knuckles into the
soft arm of the chair and Ludlow winced as they cracked
loudly.
    ‘Will you have a drink with me?’ asked Joe. ‘Something
special?’
    Obadiah grunted and Joe poured two drinks from the
bottle, handing one to Obadiah. He took his own and sat
down opposite the gravedigger.
    ‘Good health,’ he toasted.
    Obadiah took a tentative sip from his glass, and then
another longer one. Spirits were not his usual tipple and
he’d never tasted one of this calibre. He savoured the sensation
of warmth as the alcohol ran down the back of his
throat. Feeling his knotted shoulders relaxing, he leaned
back into the chair.
    ‘Why am I here?’ he asked. This wasn’t what he planned
to say, but it was what came out.
    ‘Because you need help,’ replied Joe.
    ‘And you can help me?’
    Joe