The Welfare of the Dead Page 9

  ‘Forgive me, Sergeant,’ he says, ‘you are chaffing me, surely? This a prank of some kind?’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ says Bartleby, perplexed.

  ‘But surely Mr. Pellegrin would recall,’ says Siddons, ruminating, ‘although, I suppose it is a few years before his time. Good Lord. Well, what is promised us in Isaiah, Sergeant?’ continues the undertaker with a slight smile. ‘“The earth shall cast out the dead”, is it not?’

  ‘I think we can assume it wasn’t the hand of God, sir. Perhaps you had better tell me what you know?’

  ‘You need only go back to the newspapers for that year, Sergeant.’

  ‘And what should I look out for, sir?’

  ‘Eloi Chapel, Sergeant. Let me tell you about Eloi Chapel . . .’

  Inspector Webb puts down the last of his reading material, just as Bartleby enters his office.

  ‘You might knock, Sergeant,’ says Webb.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Well, you’ve found something, I can tell from your eager expression. It reminds me of a dog with a bone. Out with it, if you must.’

  ‘The grave, sir, Siddons knew it straightaway.’

  ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘He said the man was notorious in the undertaking trade, sir. Jeremy Sayers Munday. Hung himself. I hadn’t heard of him myself, but perhaps you have – he was the man behind the Eloi Chapel Company.’

  ‘I recall the name of the chapel – a scandal of some kind?’ says Webb.

  ‘Apparently. It was an old church they fixed up in the forties and cleared the vaults for burials. Siddons said they held services for six thousand dead before they closed it down in forty-eight.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ says Webb with a smirk, ‘but, in fact, it only held a few hundred? Yes, I remember it well – it caused quite a commotion at the time.’

  ‘They only found out when they caught them dumping bodies, burying them with quicklime. Mr. Siddons couldn’t quite recall the place – Hackney Marsh, he thought. I can look back through the papers, if you like.’

  ‘I should say you’d better,’ replies Webb. ‘Well, at least now we can find the gentleman’s family, inform them of their, ah, loss. Did Siddons have any note of the next of kin?’

  ‘He said he would have to dig around for it, sir, if you’ll forgive the expression. Wasn’t sure he would, given the unfortunate circumstances. Even if he does, I don’t suppose the family’ll be too glad to hear about it.’

  ‘No. Still, ironic, is it not? That someone should exhume Mr. J.S. Munday, when he couldn’t bring himself to bury most of his customers?’

  ‘Mr. Siddons said much the same, sir – quite tickled him.’

  Joshua Siddons looks thoughtfully at the leather-bound ledger that sits upon his writing desk. The leather itself is a light brown, the cover embossed with a geometric pattern, the spine rather care-worn but with the date ‘1848’ visible in gold letters. Siddons opens the book, leafing through the pages until he comes to a particular point. He pauses for a moment, as if lost in thought, then tears the page out, creasing it into a ball, and turning to throw it upon the fire.

  He returns his gaze to the damaged book and, after a few moments more, begins to methodically tear out the remaining pages.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘THAT CHILD IS determined to thwart me!’ exclaims Melissa Woodrow, returning to the downstairs parlour of Duncan Terrace. Annabel Krout, who sits upon the sofa, reading the latest issue of the Leisure Hour, looks up. ‘A whole bag of sugared almonds,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘and she barely said “thank you”! She was so sullen, I’d half a mind to take them back.’

  ‘Oh,’ replies Annabel, ‘perhaps she is just a little tired?’

  ‘A little terror would be more accurate,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow, sitting down. ‘Lucinda can just be so stubborn when she has a mind to be – she has it from her father’s side – and she is quite determined to sulk.’

  ‘Because we did not take her to Regent Street today?’

  ‘Precisely,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow.

  ‘May I say something, Melissa?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, it really is not my place, but I can’t help wonder if she would improve with more company of her own age? Does she have many play-mates?’

  ‘Annabel, my dear,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow, putting her hand lightly on her cousin’s arm, ‘I know you mean well, but she has such a delicate constitution, and, besides, she has Jacobs and myself here. In any case, we could hardly have taken her out after yesterday’s little adventure. She must learn her lesson . . .’

  Mrs. Woodrow pauses, at the sound from the hall. ‘Ah, that will be Jasper! Best not to say anything about Lucinda’s little mood, dear. It will only make him cross.’

  Annabel agrees, putting down her magazine, as the front door slams shut. The voice of Jasper Woodrow can be heard, calling for his manservant, to assist in the removal of his coat and procure him a ‘refresher’. When he finally enters the parlour, Annabel notes the latter article to consist of a large glass of brandy.

  ‘Good evening,’ says Woodrow, nodding rather uneasily to his house-guest, then to his wife. ‘Terrible night. Awful chill in the air. Thought I’d come home at a decent hour, my dear.’

  ‘Well, thank heavens,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, gesturing towards the glass, ‘but isn’t it a little early for that? Whatever will Annabel think?’

  ‘I am sure Miss Krout, though of Boston, is not a Puritan, Melissa,’ says Woodrow, though he gives no opportunity for Annabel to reply one way or another, for which, in fact, she is rather grateful. ‘And, besides, I believe we have something to celebrate.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Saw Langley again. His man’s happy with the deed – only wants signing. Junior partner.’

  ‘Why, that is excellent news,’ remarks Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Mr. Langley is such an affable young man.’

  ‘Is he? Well, he’s a wealthy one, according to his bankers,’ says Woodrow.

  ‘Really, my dear!’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Krout, if I speak too bluntly,’ says Woodrow. ‘My wife is quite right.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replies Annabel.

  ‘A man of business will be blunt, you’ll find – it becomes a habit. I expect your father is much the same.’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ replies Annabel. ‘He doesn’t talk much of his business affairs at home.’

  ‘Quite right,’ replies Woodrow, taking a nervous sip of brandy. ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Well,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, cheerily, ‘I shall go and have Mrs. Figgis prepare dinner. Something special – Lord knows what we have in the larder, mind.’

  Her husband, however, shakes his head. ‘Ah, no. Not tonight.’

  ‘Not tonight?’

  ‘Thought we might dine out, treat ourselves to a night at the Criterion. Reserved a table for six sharp.’

  ‘The Criterion!’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Woodrow, how clever of you! But that only gives us an hour.’

  ‘You best hurry. And I’ve booked the theatre at eight. Comedy. Hope you like the theatre, Miss Krout?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ replies Annabel.

  ‘The Criterion, Piccadilly, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, as if not quite satisfied her cousin has grasped the full significance of her husband’s offer. ‘It’s the newest, most luxurious place in London. A restaurant and theatre together – and the theatre is underground, though you’d never know it – can you believe it? Quite the latest thing. It is just too perfect! Why, Woodrow, you might look a little more cheerful?’

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ replies her husband, forcing a smile and taking another sip.

  The cab that Mr. Woodrow acquires for the journey to the Criterion is more comfortable than the rented family brougham, not least in possessing seats for four passengers, rather than merely two. Annabel Krout, once more, tries to capture glimpses of the city as it passes by. Peculiar lights abound, from the dots of white-yellow g
as that illuminate distant streets, to the tarpaulin tent that shelters a nocturnal coffee-stall outside King’s Cross station, and the brazier that burns beside it. She marvels at the coal-red glow warming the faces of the handful of figures clustered around.

  ‘A cold night, eh?’ says Jasper Woodrow, following Annabel’s gaze. ‘You know, I shouldn’t be surprised if a fog isn’t setting in.’

  ‘Really? How can you tell?’ replies Annabel.

  ‘Melissa will tell you I have a nose for it.’

  ‘He does, my dear,’ agrees Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Quite uncanny.’

  Woodrow shakes his head. ‘One merely has to look into the distance. Muddy-looking, eh?’

  ‘I can’t tell,’ replies Annabel, peering down side-streets as the cab trundles along.

  Woodrow nods. ‘Well, you don’t know the city, Miss Krout – but I expect it all looks quite wretched compared to Boston. I expect Boston’s a tidy little place, eh?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Quite right, my dear, a diplomatic answer,’ interjects Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Stop tormenting the poor girl, Woodrow!’

  ‘I intended no such thing,’ protests Jasper Woodrow. ‘I merely wondered what Miss Krout made of the metropolis.’

  ‘You are an awful ill-mannered brute,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, affectionately, ‘and you know it.’

  Woodrow merely shakes his head.

  ‘And,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘you have not told us what is the play.’

  ‘A surprise, my dear,’ replies Woodrow.

  ‘Well! I hope it is a pleasant one,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, though her tone of voice suggests she is quite excited by the mystery.

  Annabel, on the other hand, returns to placidly watching the streets go by, as the carriage turns and hastens along Gower Street, then along New Oxford Street. After a few minutes, it swings abruptly down a narrow lane.

  ‘Where are we now?’ asks Annabel.

  ‘Soho,’ replies Mr. Woodrow. ‘Awful area – wretched foreigners everywhere – Frenchies, Italians, all sorts.’

  Annabel Krout blushes, perhaps waiting for the list to include another particular nationality, but Mr. Woodrow does not notice her slight discomfort.

  Mrs. Woodrow, meanwhile, returns to talking amiably of her favourite theatrical experiences, and the best theatres in London, and the famous theatrical personages she has seen in a variety of interesting circumstances. Her cousin stares out of the window. Soho, it seems to Annabel, grows darker and darker as the clarence penetrates further into its labyrinthine arteries.

  ‘Damned fog,’ mutters Woodrow. ‘I knew it.’

  Indeed, a fog is undoubtedly brewing: the gas-lights seem to flare in an increasingly brown-ish hue; the faces of the district’s foreign exiles, leaving the coffee-shops and cheap lodgings, loitering outside cramped terraces, begin to take on a dull, shifting mutability; the very air seems to grow thick and smudged. But just as Annabel fears the cab cannot safely escape the warren of streets, they pull out into a wider, open boulevard, well-illuminated on both sides, and, within a few moments, draw to a halt by the Criterion.

  ‘Ah, here at last!’

  The two women wait for Mr. Woodrow to open the door, exit the cab and pay the driver. Annabel, in turn, then insists her cousin goes first after her husband. But as Annabel steps out of the carriage, taking Woodrow’s hand, she is struck by the sound of her cousin’s amused laughter. It is so distinct that Annabel worries she herself, through some peculiar breach of English etiquette, is the cause of it.

  ‘My dear – look – how delightful – it couldn’t be more apt.’

  Annabel looks at the theatre. Even in the lowering fog, the grand white stone-work of the Criterion’s classical façade is quite visible, though its smaller detailing – the chiselled cornucopias, cheery-faced cherubs and draped statuary, sunk in various alcoves beneath the entablature – is a little indistinct. But it is the iron-canopied entrance, and the sign beneath to which Mrs. Woodrow draws her attention, the sign announcing the evening’s comedy: An American Lady.

  ‘An American Lady – Woodrow, how clever of you!’

  ‘Come then, let’s go in,’ says Woodrow. ‘I hope the grill room suits you? I don’t have much time for French muck, I’m afraid, Miss Krout. Still – I expect you Yankees are much the same – prefer a nice bit of well-cooked meat, eh?’

  Annabel smiles politely; she decides she might enjoy a comedy after her dinner.

  Harold: Marry an American lady? An impossibility.

  Greville: Why on earth do you say that?

  Harold: Oh, the American gentleman exists, for are you not an American, Greville? But when you talk of the opposite sex, well . . .

  ‘What do you make of it, Miss Krout? Not too bad, eh?’

  Annabel Krout bites her tongue.

  Harold: She’s so unlike any woman I ever met; so honest, so appreciative; by Jove she might almost have been an Englishwoman!

  With the play long since finished, Annabel inches her way forward through the Criterion’s foyer, together with Mr. and Mrs. Woodrow, having finally acquired her coat and hat from the cloak-room. Unfortunately, the queue to leave the narrow lobby, and acquire one of the cabs that queue around the circumference of Piccadilly Circus, is even greater than that for coats. Moreover, the fog has developed into the treacly brown variety that obscured Annabel’s first night in the capital. Thus, with the cabs themselves only dim outlines, best located by the gleaming twin lamps at the front of each vehicle, the progress of the outgoing theatre audience is a slow one. Annabel watches the stop-start movement of the crowd in the foyer’s gilded mirrors: the men in evening dress, restraining their steps to half-paces; the woman shifting by inches, nervously wrapping their skirts close to their legs, lest the footfall of a muddy boot should tear the hem of a prized silk.

  ‘Well, I do think it was awfully funny,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, as they approach the doors. ‘Mr. Byron is such a clever writer. Did you not warm to it, Annabel dear?’

  Annabel merely smiles and nods as the crowd trickles forward. Fortunately, any further discussion of the play’s merits is curtailed as they push through the doors on to the pavement.

  ‘Ah, thank goodness,’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Woodrow – where are you? Woodrow!’

  ‘Here, my dear.’

  ‘Go and find a cab, for pity’s sake. Why on earth you did not reserve the carriage for our return, I do not know.’

  ‘I was not sure of the hour.’

  ‘I hardly see how that matters, my dear.’

  Woodrow says no more and hurries off, but within a couple of minutes a dozen or two dozen more parties come out of the Criterion with precisely the same intention. Jasper Woodrow, at length, returns with the news that only a hansom can be found.

  ‘I suppose it best the pair of you take that, and I’ll find another,’ says Woodrow.

  ‘But my dear—’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.

  ‘The blasted fellow will take someone else, if you are not careful, Melissa. I’ve already given him two bob – come now.’

  To Annabel’s relief, Mrs. Woodrow consents, doubtless contemplating the merits of a hansom against standing in the cold, fog-soaked air.

  Jasper Woodrow, meanwhile, watches the cab turn off the main road and disappear into the swirling mist. Without a glance to the remaining carriages, he sets off at a brisk walking pace, in the direction of Holborn.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  OUTSIDE WOODROW’S GENERAL MOURNING Warehouse, beneath the shop’s glowing advertisement for ‘Every Article of the Very Best Description’, stands a solitary man, wearing the heavy woollen great-coat that is obligatory for anyone spending November in London. In the darkness, illuminated only by the residual glow of the gas-lit sign, he appears and disappears with the movement of the fog, with every gust of wind. Indeed, it is only a handful of passengers in passing cabs and carriages that even notice the figure waiting by the kerb, peering into the road. Nonetheless, the man in question is no nocturnal phantom
, but the new partner-to-be in Woodrow’s General Mourning, Richard Langley.

  Langley takes out his pocket-watch, finds that the dial is impossible to make out, and snaps the case shut in annoyance. He walks a few nervous paces back and forth. In fact, he gives every impression of being about to leave his self-imposed sentry-duty. He is only stopped by the approach of a second party, indistinct in the nocturnal gloom, who, by the booming sound of his voice, reveals himself to be Jasper Woodrow.

  ‘Langley! My apologies!’ exclaims Woodrow, shaking his new partner firmly by the hand. There is a hint of alcohol on his breath.

  ‘Sir, you said half-past ten.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ says Woodrow, ‘I know, forgive me. I had another small matter to dispose of. Didn’t anticipate the fog – should have said we’d meet in a decent public. Still, no harm in taking a look at the old place. Part yours now, of course – well, from tomorrow.’

  ‘I still do not quite see why we could not have waited?’

  ‘Wait? I thought you were keen? Wet the baby’s head and all that? Just a little tipple. Thought you enjoyed a drink?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Well then. Come, what do you say to the Casino – just round the corner?’

  ‘Well, I have never . . . I mean to say, I don’t normally keep such late hours.’

  ‘Didn’t think you did, old chap – precisely why I suggested it. You look like you need a bit of gaiety. We all do, eh? Best place in London for—’

  Langley interrupts. ‘I know, you have mentioned it before.’

  ‘What do you say, then?’

  Woodrow looks steadily at his companion.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘No harm in a little drink, a little dance with a young gal, eh? Good for the spirits. Are you courting, Langley?’

  ‘No,’ replies Langley.

  ‘Well, all the better. I’ll see you right, my boy – come, this way. Haven’t been there for years myself, of course. Not much call for old dogs like me in such places. Not at all.’