Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

“Yes, yes, it is.” Geoffrey sighs and hooks his thumbs through the lapels of his waistcoat. “And the story gets only more tragic, I am afraid. Jane crept down to the factory floor one evening, probably to attend a rendezvous with her paramour.”

  “Or to meet her bloke in other words,” Tommy’s whisper in my ear makes my heart speed up, equal parts surprise and pure delight. I choke back a laugh and fight the urge to lean my weight back into the warmth of his body.

  “It is presumed that they were together – perhaps, ah, distracted.” Tommy nudges me and I bite my lip, but when I glance at him, I see that his eyes are sad. “It is thought that Miss Jane’s hair somehow became tangled in a machine, and her death certificate suggests that she was dragged towards, or rather into, the mechanisms of a cotton spinner.” There is a sharp, collective gasp from the crowd. Geoffrey continues with relish. “Her mangled corpse was recovered the next morning.”

  Talk about being able to hear a pin drop. Poor Jane.

  “So, he just left her there?” The woman in the raincoat speaks again, her tone now dampened with tears. “Her lover?”

  “It is thought that he fled.” Geoffrey agrees. “In their society, it would have certainly meant the workhouse for him, or worse. Not that there was much worse.” He looks around, delighted at the downcast faces. “Shall we continue?”

  The crowd begin to follow Geoffrey to the next shopfront, his voice booming again, as if he hadn’t just told the saddest story ever. I stay where I am, studying the incomplete parts of Jane’s portrait. I didn’t notice them before, but now they’re all I can see.

  A vibrant, promising life cut short. Just like Sara and maybe even Tasha, though I hope not. There’s been too much grief and sorrow already.

  “I bet her fella was heartbroken, having to leave her like that,” I say to Tommy, but there’s no reply.

  I turn around and realize I’m alone, with only fragments of a dead girl for company.

  I greet Jess at the entrance to the museum. She shakes off her umbrella and steps inside, wiping her feet on the rough welcome mat. The frames of her glasses are postbox red today and match her lipstick. Turns out she’s a real history nerd (her words, not mine) and once she heard about this place I couldn’t keep her away. Rain streaks down the outside of the frosted glass doors, allowing me little glimpses of the world outside. The warm, damp smell of the city follows her in.

  “Hey,” she replies, dumping her brolly in the basket by the door. “It’s miserable out there. Oh – wow!” Jess catches a glimpse of my costume and attempts a whistle, but it comes out as more of a splutter. “Oops,” she laughs, dabbing her lips on her sleeve. “Still can’t do that.”

  She chatters brightly as I lead her through the turnstile and it feels good to allow my shoulders to loosen. I try to let her excitement chase away the darkness of this morning.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know this was here!” She squeals in delight as we step into the cavern, only to be silenced by a pointed look from the raincoat lady from the tour earlier. She’s been here for hours now.

  “You’ll know more about all this than me though. You’re the history expert. I don’t have a clue about any of this stuff.”

  “Hardly.” She brushes it off but I see her flush with pleasure at the compliment. “So, are you going to give me the tour?”

  “I’ll try.” I lead her around the cobbled street, taking her into the shops which we can enter. There’s an olde worlde sweet shop, full of glass jars of sherbet lemons and liquorice. There’s even a lingering hint of cocoa in the air.

  There’s a hatter’s, too, where Jess whips out her phone and we pose for selfies in bowler hats and frilly bonnets, vogueing in front of an ornate mirror. I try my best to remember Geoffrey’s speech from this morning and point out the bits that come to me, but I’m hardly doing it justice. Jess interjects when she knows something and I quickly discover that she really is a bit of an expert. Her passion for the past is evident in each word.

  I avoid the fortune telling booth, hoping she won’t notice. Her gaze does linger on it longingly as I pick up my pace but the rope that bars the entrance keeps her away. I’m not sure what it is about that corner, but my skin crawls just looking at it. Thankfully, Jess lets me lead her past.

  “This is amazing!” Jess stops just short of pressing her face against the side of another exhibition case. I don’t remember seeing this one in detail, actually – Geoffrey said that he likes to mix up the tours a bit. It must be boring doing the same thing over and over. I wonder what else I’ve missed.

  The cabinet is made of glass, tall with sliding doors at the front. The shelves are glass, too, and they display a collection of jewellery and other random bits and pieces. Most of the other displays have a theme but I can’t see one here straight off. It doesn’t look hugely exciting to me but Jess seems enthralled.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this in real life, have you?” Jess breathes.

  “What, like rings and brooches and stuff?”

  “Well, obviously I’ve seen jewellery before.” Her voice drips with friendly sarcasm. “But these aren’t just any rings and brooches, are they?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Ah, I see you have found the mourning section.” Geoffrey’s unexpected boom makes me jump. “Is this young lady a friend of yours, Niamh?”

  “Yeah.” I introduce Jess and they shake hands in a very formal, English way. “Is that OK?” I didn’t think about whether I was allowed visitors, it’s a free museum after all. I hope he’s not annoyed that she’s here.

  “Of course! It is your lunch break, is it not?” I nod. “It’s just wonderful to have young people in here; I often wish more would stop by.”

  Phew.

  Jess starts asking questions that are way over my head, so I let them chat while I take a closer look for myself. Mourning display. It’s funeral stuff.

  I scan the case as I try to follow their chatter. One layer is clearly clothing and textiles. There’s a pretty black handkerchief, a gauzy square made from lace with bows and flowers decorating the finely woven, delicate edges. A small box sits next to it, about the size and shape of a box of matches, with slim black pins spilling out of it. It is emblazoned with a crest and the words: Black Mourning Pins.

  The information card next to it explains how women would wear black when their husband or another family member died and silver dress pins weren’t suitable. Jeez, they took the whole mourning thing pretty seriously in the Victorian times. There is also a series of mounted, haunting photographs (or daguerreotypes, as I hear Geoffrey tell Jess) of sombre, veiled women in huge black gowns. A shiver runs down my spine as I look into their blank expressions. Creepy as.

  I move my attention to the next shelf. A necklace made of thick, shiny black stone, labelled as jet, lays so heavily on the shelf that I expect to see dents in the glass. There are tiny seed pearls embedded into its hanging pendant, their swirling arrangement forming the shape of some dear-departed’s initials. Small diamonds are sprinkled along its base, hanging so as to delicately mimic the tears of the family members left behind. It is morbidly beautiful.

  I am examining a delicate locket containing a tiny oil painting of a young boy, when Jess’s voice interrupts me. “What’s usually here, Geoffrey?” She’s pointing to a bare shelf, with a card saying the artefacts are out on loan.

  “Ah.” Geoffrey’s voice is tinged with sadness as he lowers it to a baritone whisper. “I’m afraid that is a slight fabrication. These objects are not on loan, but missing. You see,” he lowers his voice further, “the items on this shelf were stolen a few weeks ago.”

  “Stolen? Really?” I ask. Jess looks at me as though she’d forgotten I was here.

  “Yes, but don’t worry, my dear.” Geoffrey chuckled sadly. “Events like that are thankfully quite unusual, I must say.”

  “Were they valuable? Like, rare?” Jess asks.

  “Not particularly.” Geoffrey smooths his neat, white beard w
ith one hand. “Fascinating items, as all of them are, but not valuable. They sell similar on that extraordinary eBay website.”

  I swallow a smile – he makes eBay sound like it hasn’t been around for twenty odd years already.

  “What was stolen, then?” Jess presses.

  “More mourning jewellery. One or two old pamphlets on mesmerism – that’s hypnotism, you know. An 1830s cigarette lighter, quite a beautiful thing. Very unusual, indeed, more akin to a gas lamp than a modern lighter. German I believe. . . Ah, do excuse me!” Geoffrey ambles over to an older couple who have been hovering.

  My stomach is rumbling and I’ve had enough of creepy artefacts. “C’mon,” I say to Jess. “Let’s go for something to eat. I’m famished.”

  But Jess isn’t listening. Her eyes are drilling holes into Madame Josephine’s booth, instead. The red velvet rope still blocks the entrance, and, I see now, a “No Entry” sign hangs from it.

  “Not yet, I just want to look in there, then we’ll go. OK?”

  I fumble for a response. I don’t want to go near the booth.

  “I think it’s out of bounds, Jess. Look, it’s blocked off.”

  “Nah, Geoffrey will let us have a peek,” she says firmly. “He loves talking about this stuff. Look, he’s finished with those people now.”

  “You go, then.” I plaster what I hope is a smile across my face and give her a little elbow nudge in his direction. “I’ll go and get changed. . .”

  “Geoffrey?” Jess ignores me and her voice echoes through the cavernous space. His head twitches in our direction. “Can we have a look in there?”

  He beams. “Why, of course.”

  Goosebumps erupt on my arms. I look around to see if there is a visitor I can excuse myself to speak to, but the place is deathly silent. Tommy must be on his lunchbreak too.

  Geoffrey ambles towards the booth and unclips the rope, removing the “No Entry” sign in the process.

  “After you, ladies.” He pushes against the entrance to the booth and it swings inwards, a dark room lying beyond. It’s not just a little fortune teller’s booth, after all. It has been adapted, like one of those secret rooms in a library I’ve always dreamt about. It’s a doorway.

  Jess grins at me in triumph.

  “See?” she whispers, grabbing my hand. “I knew it would be awesome. Come on.”

  My feet are glued to the cobbles. “I don’t know. . .”

  “Please?” She gives me full-on puppy eyes and I sigh.

  “Fine.”

  “Yay!” She drags me beyond the rope and into the chalky darkness.

  Inside, my skin prickles under the thin fabric of my costume. We are standing in a small room, barely large enough for the three of us to coexist in. Geoffrey fiddles with a panel on the wall and a low buzz breaks the silence, dusty yellow lights blinking lazily, as if waking from a deep sleep. They illuminate a bank of glass cabinets along the bare brick wall, filled with an assortment of items, and Jess makes a beeline towards them as I hang back, that horrible spiky feeling permeating my bones again.

  “What is this place?” I ask, more to myself than anything. Geoffrey beams.

  “This, my dear, is the infamous Madame Josephine’s parlour. Fortune teller, hypnotist, and mistress of the occult.”

  “Cool,” Jess breathes. “Is this it? I mean,” she trails a hand along the cases, “I thought there would be more stuff.”

  “Ah, yes.” Geoffrey runs a hand over his beard, pressing his belly into his waistcoat. “You recall the robbery I mentioned? Well, I’m afraid this space bore the brunt of it.”

  “Why?” My voice is loud in the barren room.

  “There were several unique items here. Some, we are lucky enough to still have.” He steps closer to the case. “This, for example, is a rare, early Tarot deck. Tarot started life as a game in France, did you know that? The Brits thought of the Europeans as more . . . mystical, shall we say.”

  I edge forward reluctantly, whereas Jess almost pushes me out of the way in her excitement.

  “Sorry.” She grins.

  I study the upturned card, careworn and soft, balancing on the rest of the deck. Beside it is a threadbare velvet case. The card is horribly beautiful, there’s no doubt about it. It is mostly black, clearly hand painted, and there are traces of gold leaf clinging on to the central figures. The image on the card is of two skeletons, intertwined, locked in an eternal embrace. I glance at the lettering at the bottom, faded and cracked. L’Amoureux.

  “The Lovers,” Jess whispers.

  “Now, over here we used to have something very special.” Geoffrey is standing by the central case. “It was said to be Madame Josephine’s grimoire. We only have a photograph of it now.”

  “Grimoire?” I repeat.

  Geoffrey unlocks the cabinet and slides the photo out, holding its edges delicately before handing it to me. I raise it to the dim light and Jess comes closer, her loose hair tickling my neck.

  The picture is of an old book, its cover brown and dog-eared. Crude markings are carved into the ancient leather, some kind of stars from what I can make out.

  “What’s a grimoire?” I ask again.

  “A book of magic, right?” Jess says.

  “Very good.” Geoffrey’s voice is gravelly. “This was a very rare example indeed. Grimoires such as this were not found in Britain until the late nineteenth century and this,” he taps the photograph with a manicured fingernail, “this was a French original, possibly passed down through generations. Until Madame Josephine brought it to London with her, that is, sometime in the 1820s.” He looks at me, and his gaze becomes unfocussed. “They say, young Jane, that there was even a spell to resurrect a lost love – if one had the right items. . .” He pauses, smile flickering from wolfish to grandfatherly in a split second, so fast I’m not sure it really happened. I laugh nervously, placing the photo back in the cabinet.

  “Good job I’m not Jane, then, isn’t it?” I choke out, his slip with the name unnerving me. The clatter of feet in the museum behind us announces the arrival of the next tour group and Geoffrey is immediately distracted.

  “Please excuse me, ladies.” He tips his hat to Jess, who doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. “Niamh, could you return in one hour? You can continue to watch the tours for the afternoon session.”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” I try to shake off the uneasiness and focus on something else. Like the fact that I’m still starving. I turn to Jess. “Know anywhere cheap for lunch?”

  She is still frowning at the shelf where the grimoire should be. She raises her voice and calls after Geoffrey. “What was the jewellery in the other cabinet like, Geoffrey?”

  I sigh dramatically, pointing to my wrist and feigning dying from hunger to hide my nerves. He pauses in the doorway, his tall figure blocking out the light. “A keen mind, indeed, young Jess. It was more of the usual, I’m afraid. Miniature portraits, initialled rings – oh, and those bracelets and brooches common to that era. The ones made of braided human hair.”

  I stab the last chip with my tiny fork, its splintering wood piercing the soft, soggy flesh. It’s stuck right at the bottom and I have to drag it up the side, scoring noisy white lines into the polystyrene cone as I bring it closer to my mouth. I pull it to the top in triumph, swollen with vinegar, just how I like it. The acid burns my tongue and I lick my lips, all coated in salt. Perfection.

  “That was a good chipper.” I swing my legs down from the riverside wall and hold out a hand for Jess’s rubbish.

  “Chipper?” Her eyebrows knit behind her glasses. “You mean chippy?”

  “Do I?” I dump our cones into the nearest overflowing bin and wipe greasy fingers on my jeans. “We call it the chipper at home.”

  Jess shrugs. “Same-same, I guess. I might steal your word, though, it sounds so cool in your accent.” Ah, here it comes: the moment I’ve been dreading. “Chipper, chipper, chip. . .”

  “Stop.” I clasp both hands over my ears, mock offended a
t Jess’s butchering of the Irish tongue. “Please, stop! I can’t take it!” We grin at each other, on the verge of laughter, ready to launch off the precipice, just not quite there. Jess’s face softens.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  I let out a deep belly sigh as I lever myself back up on the wall, palms grazing lightly across fragments of stone and seashells. I pick at the clear varnish on one fingernail. It’s already chipping, so it peels off easily, in one sheet. I roll it between my fingers.

  “It might help, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Or,” she says, reading my thoughts in the same eerie way her mum did earlier, “we could talk about something else?”

  I lift my head to meet her eyes and force a smile. “That sounds better.”

  “So . . . boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pet cat?”

  I shake my head, although I can’t help but think about Tommy and his dimples. “None of the above. Next question.”

  “Come on,” she presses. “There must be someone at home?”

  “God, no. We live in the back of beyond. The only lads I get the chance to see in real life are either relations or feral. Usually both.”

  “Eurgh, that’s depressing. We’ll have to introduce you to someone here.”

  I nod in agreement but can’t quite stop the smile that is spreading across my face.

  “Wait, have you met someone you like already?” she demands. “Spill.”

  “There’s a boy called Tommy,” I confide. “At the museum. We had a kind-of-accidental-date the other night.” I fill her in and she laughs when I tell her about the hand kiss.

  “That’s kind of cheesy.”

  “It wasn’t, it was . . . perfect.” I glance at her. “What about you?”

  “Next question, please.”

  “Seriously?” Jess nods. Her expression is tight, and I sense it’s more complicated than she’s letting on. “OK, OK, no love life stuff. Got ya.”

  “Thank you.” She shuffles towards me, closing the gap between us and pulling her phone from a tiny backpack. “So, while you were getting changed before, I googled the museum robbery.”