The Flyleaf Killer Read Free Page B

stuttered. ‘I d-didn’t mean to be rude. I thought something must be wrong with the book. W-what’s g-going on then? Why
won’t
the pages open?’
    Without speaking, the counterfeit bookseller reached to his neck, removed a small golden key suspended from a crimson ribbon and offered it to the boy.
    Puzzled, Robert deferred acceptance until, with a flash of intuition, he re-examined the book. Turned spine downwards it became clear the volume was fitted with a small clasp and lock.
    ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t notice
that
before. You must think me stupid. I really am truly sorry, Mister Plowrite. I hope you won’t hold it against me…’
    ‘Of course not, my boy, I understand completely. Let that be an end to the matter.’ Although the shopkeeper spoke graciously, he didn’t sound in the least sincere. ‘Now mark me well, Robert William Strudwick,’ he continued. ‘Not only is this the key to the book, it may also be the key to your future. Only if well prepared should you take the key, open the book and read the dedication therein.’
    Robert didn’t hesitate. Having scant regard for the import of Henry Plowrite’s words, and with fingers fairly trembling with excitement, he eagerly accepted the proffered key.
    Carefully, he inserted it through a tiny escutcheon and into the lock, where a single half-turn rotated the tumblers and released the hasp, allowing the book to open. Lifting the front cover and turning to the title page revealed the dedication.
    Robert found it relatively easy to comprehend, despite the quaint script and archaic phraseology. He began to read aloud and before the end of the first line his recently deepened voice reverted to a shaky soprano squeak:
    This Book was writ for thee, Robert William Strudwick. Follow and obey as counselled, when great power and fortune shall be thine to command, as will the lives of all who cause mischief unto thee or mayhap wish thee ill.
    Robert’s voice tailed off.
For me?
He asked himself, wildly,
how can it possibly be?
    Dumbfounded, he read the sentences again, word by word. But the message was unambiguous, incapable of misinterpretation…and the gleam of avarice in Robert’s eye betrayed his complete and absolute comprehension.
    These were critical moments, however, and Henry Plowrite’s dark, unblinking gaze never wavered. He watched the boy’s jaw drop and, with the advent of dawning realisation, a look of incredulity appear—until enlightenment swept it away the instant his intelligence caught up with his greed. Intelligent the boy most certainly was; his reaction was immediate.
    ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed in alarm. ‘What the spiff’s going on?’ His voice rose angrily. ‘How come my name’s already in the book? Is this some sort of trick? Are you a flipping conjuror?’ Without waiting he answered his own question: ‘No, that’s something you definitely are not.’ And, following his own line of reasoning, demanded, ‘So who the devil are you, Old Nick?’ His eyes widened at the thought. What if…? ‘Yes, that’s who you are,’ he declared.
‘And I reckon you’re after my bloody soul!’
    Robert had once read a book concerning contracts with the devil, when the pledge of a soul would secure for a mortal riches and fame beyond his wildest dreams. At the conclusion of the book, Robert remembered feeling envious and wondering whether
he
might one day receive such an offer, and perhaps thereby escape his own miserable existence. Whether averse to the idea or not, he had no intention of being cheated. Infuriated, thinking how close he might have come to losing his soul with nothing in return, he found himself almost shouting, despite Plowrite’s ominous warning—a warning Robert was destined never to forget.
    ‘Have care, Robert William Strudwick,’ Plowrite enjoined, with the barest hint of menace. ‘Calm yourself, lest you forget to whom you speak. I’m not “Old Nick” nor am I trying to steal your