by Angela Foxxe
He didn’t mind the ghosts, of course. Some of them stayed, some of them left. Highgate was no exception. They didn’t speak to him, ghosts always kept to themselves. His presence made them uneasy though, as he was half-dead and could still touch the living. Minutes later, he found himself walking down the dark, twisted, and rooted paths of the cemetery. It was quiet, except the occasional rustling of animals fleeing from his presence.
The young man made his way to the Victorian section of the necropolis, and here he was more than at home. He saw the familiar graves and had no difficulty searching for his family’s mausoleum in the dark. The crypt was bolted with a large chain and lock and on opposite sides, there were statues of weeping angels. He still had the key to it and he slipped into it, walking up a few flights. There were no lights, so he flicked a lighter and lit the lamps in it.
He hadn’t visited in almost a year. The crypt still looked the same. Here lay his entire family, except for him. His father Jonathan, his mother Irene, his fifteen-year-old sister Maude, and his eighteen-year-old brother, Philip, all snatched away too soon by death’s hands. He hadn’t been as fortunate. He was cursed for life, and he saw suicide as a weak way out. It would take hundreds of years before he would age in appearance. Until then, he was a young heir to a family conglomerate that spanned more than a century. He didn’t run out of creative excuses though.
He saw the marble profiles of his family members on their tombs, and he suddenly missed them terribly. He missed his father smoking his thick cigars, the scent of his mother’s perfume, his sister’s gay laugh and his brother’s passionate speeches and poetry.
Family was one’s bane nowadays. Gone were the days when you could completely go incognito, and he also missed those days. He missed the Victorian fog that rolled from the moors, missed the sunshine during summer, when he and his family would go rowing at the nearby river. He hadn’t had his dose of hours long sunshine in weeks, now that he thought about it. These little human things were necessary to his psychological bearing.
While seated in the family crypt, he decided he would see her again as soon as he could.
*
“So you mean to say what they’ve been digging up was actually some sort of mass grave?” Isla said, trying to hide her excitement. There was nothing glorious about graves, but this was a historical one, one that probably had troves of information, still waiting to be excavated completely.
“That’s right, and it’s not even from the 17th century as we originally thought. From the looks of the tattered clothing found, it may be from the 19th century.”
“That’s rather recent, innit?” another budding archaeologist named Rory began.
Twenty-seven-year-old Rory had been dropping hints at Isla for a date. He invited her whenever he could, for tea, for dinner, for further research. Isla politely declined with a string of plausible reasons, much to his disappointment. He had found her to be rather pretty, the prettiest to intern at the museum, yet. He decided he would stick by her, like all the other sods had decided to do in the museum. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who fancied her.
“You’re coming with me now,” Ravi told her, “you too,” he told Rory after noticing him clear his throat.
“I’m not really well versed with--” Isla began.
Ravi’s brow shot up. “With that, my dear?”
“I haven’t done a lot of field work; you know I’m always in the work room.”
“Isn’t that why I’m inviting you out? You have a double major in art conservation and in archaeology, am I right?”
She nodded.
“Well, now’s your chance.”
She smiled, feeling excitement course through her again.
“Rory, show Isla where we keep our gear.”
“Of course,” Rory said brightly. “This way, Isla.”
Rory showed her the locker room where they kept gear for excavation, down to the boots. She felt giddy. This was actually it. Those excavations in Montana and Texas were full of dinosaur bones, this one was going to have humans in it. With that, she could see how they lived and how they’d survived and how they met their unfortunate doom.
She had wanted to write a paper mainly on the ideologies of the Victorian Era on dying and death, and this discovery proved to be fortuitous. The moment they arrived at the site, with silt and dirt all over their Wellingtons, Isla’s heart sang. It was a mere two-hour drive away from the museum. England was a place chockful of interesting discoveries, and she had only been here for a week and a half.
They were briefed by the head, Ravi’s peer from the museum, who explained this recent find was funded by numerous benefactors and the government. He pointed to holes they had dug only yesterday, and told the new arrivals that they had seen eleven skeletons so far. Another team was busy documenting the find with pictures and notes.
“Ravi tells me you’re David’s daughter,” Greg Croyden said to her with a smile, “I hope you won’t find this too boring.”
“I live for moments like this,” Isla replied.
“I never met your father personally,” Greg said, “he was three batches higher than me. Brilliant track record at Uni still, and I hear you’re not doing badly yourself.”
Isla smiled a little, happy that she wasn’t incompetent.
“Watch out for some parts we’ve marked. They tend to sink. Not exactly quicksand, but you know how it is with digs by the river.”
She nodded, keeping that in mind.
“Safety first, everyone,” Greg called out to the team of ten scattered across the dig.
There were a few media personnel, waiting impatiently for updates, with some hoping it was a recent mass grave, some murderer on the loose, as reports of numerous missing people within London alone had begun to cause safety concerns.
Rory had done his best to stick close to Isla, even if Ravi had assigned him to another area. She didn’t talk to him at all, concentrated on fishing through the layers of mud with her gloved hands. She had hoped for something intact, aside from bones, a relic perhaps, a pocket watch, heck, even bloomers. The closest evidence to prove it was from the Victorian period was a man’s frayed leather boot.
The bodies, she learned later on, weren’t arranged, just piled on top of each other, as if in a hurry to dispose of them. It was past four in the afternoon when Greg asked for a halt of the work. Tomorrow at six in the morning they would continue.
“What did you think about it?” Rory asked her, as they got into the designated museum car with their gear in tow.
Lights had been set-up, along with security, to make sure no one intruded with the excavation.
“Can’t wait for a shower,” Ravi muttered, “haven’t done this in a while.”
“Except Greg deemed it quite important?” another senior female archaeologist joked.
“It’s nothing from the 10th century at least,” Ravi told Greg, who was seated in front of him.
Greg smiled. “Well, you know I’m handling more than my load. You’re getting too comfortable in that well-ventilated, high tech office of yours while we do the dirty work.”
“I have a theory,” Rory began. Some groaned. Rory was an unbearable know-it-all. Rory continued, anyway. “I’d like to think it was because of some disease.”
“There were no plagues during that period,” Sarah, another intern, chimed in.
“Could be the consumption,” Rory told her, “loads of people died from it, even until now.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. Rory had tried to ask her out two months before Isla came along and she hoped Isla would continue declining him for a date until he moved on to the next unfortunate newcomer.
“Only one way to find out, Rory,” Ravi said with a sigh, “now, if you don’t mind, I need to nap the remainder of this trip out.”
Isla was silent, her head still above the clouds over the day’s activities. England, London in particular, had been continuously lived in and built in by many conquerors and races. As modern as th
e city was, thousands of years of history was still waiting for them to be discovered underneath the pavements they walked over every day. It was a thought that made Isla want to do this kind of work forever, well as long as she could anyway. If immortality existed, she’d still have her parents now and maybe even be more outgoing.
Being surrounded by many people at one time fatigued her, so she kept mum the entire time, while Rory and Sarah argued about their theories concerning the excavation. She didn’t want to be a part of it and wanted to go home, take a long shower and crash into bed.
Dinner could wait, she thought, knowing she was too tired and too frugal to buy dinner somewhere near her flat. She suddenly hoped Amanda had made dinner with extra portions, even if that was a far-fetched thought. Amanda didn’t seem that considerate, even if she was pleasant on most days. She decided she would have a heavy breakfast tomorrow, before excavation duties began.
As she walked the last block to her flat, a shiny Rolls Royce passed by her. She stared at the beautiful car and wondered what it would be like to even drive a car like that. Some people were born lucky, weren’t they? But self-pity wasn’t really her style. She did aspire for greater things though, not necessarily wanting to be rich, but more of wanting to make her mark in her chosen field. Tomorrow, she planned to do something great for herself, even if it meant hours of scouring mud and dirt for history.
Gabriel didn’t ask his chauffeur to stop the car, but he saw her, he saw Isla Morgan. She lived somewhere in Camden. He almost smiled at the thought, but he reminded himself there was nothing worth smiling about. It only made him seem stalker-ish. He had wanted to see her earlier today, but circumstances prevented him from doing so, mainly pseudo-work.
People generally disappointed him, and that was expected for the people he hired. He wondered just how dedicated Isla was, she seemed to be loving her work, or maybe it was because she was a foreigner who had not seen the ugly side of England yet.
He had told himself he would see her soon, and that soon would be tomorrow.
CHAPTER THREE
Isla was knee deep in mud, knowing she was close to the original embankment of the river. There was fewer media now, especially when carbon-dating showed that the items found in the site belonged to the 19th century, specifically between the years 1890 to1895. It did stir some interest in the international archaeological society, and Isla’s university back in Washington had sent message after message, asking for updates. She dutifully replied to her alma mater that they were still a long way from determining the circumstances of the mass grave.
It had been three days since she had started with the dig, and so far, they had found more intact skeletons (thank you, cold British weather), numbering to 25 now, along with tattered remains of lace and ivory buttons that only the higher class in Victorian England could afford.
“I’m telling you, people didn’t just dump rich people like this so easily back then,” Sarah told her, as she held up a button in daylight.
Isla thought the same way. The upper class always had proper graves, unless these outfits were stolen. Twenty-five bodies from the Victorian period was something serious, there were no plagues – but they did consider a possible cholera outbreak.
It was a little unnerving to see so many skeletons, Isla had never seen so many of the dead at one time. Whenever she tagged along with her parents, it was always relics, maybe a rare skeleton or two, but that was it. This was more than a peek into this period, something she wanted but dreaded at the same time.
These people are just relics, she told herself as she held a skull in her hand. She thought she could hear screams from afar. These people died violent deaths, she suddenly concluded without even knowing why.
“You alright there, Isla?” Rory asked her as he dug around a skeleton while Sarah quickly took a photo of it, eager to get away from Rory as soon as possible.
Isla nodded, immersed in what she was doing. “I’m good, thanks,” she said brusquely, without meaning to. She was a good two hundred meters away from everyone else, and was glad when Rory walked away, called by Greg.
The light was beginning to fade when something glinted underneath all the sediment. She narrowed her eyes and went in for a closer look, carefully digging around a skeleton. She fished for it and saw a pocket watch, still completely intact, with its silver chain covered in rust and mud. She brushed the mud away with her gloved hands as best as she could. There was a part of her that wanted to keep it for herself. She could tinker with it at home, in her room…
Take it. Keep it safe, something in her head urged her.
“What did you find there, Isla?” Ravi walked up to her, his boots sloshing in the muck.
“A pocket watch. Silver by the looks of it,” she said, cradling it in her palm. Keep me. Keep me with you. It felt like it was hers. It belonged to her, didn’t it?
It was delicate and probably the most expensive find in this excavation yet. Isla felt disappointment and relief seep into her at the same time. It was a first, to feel that she had been tempted to keep something for herself, knowing full well they would still be searched upon exit. It wasn’t for monetary reasons, something inside her head just kept telling her to keep it, it sounded like her conscience – if her conscience was that self-seeking.
Ravi’s eyes brightened and he beckoned Sarah to come over for documentation. Rory tagged along, much to Sarah’s annoyance.
“Oh that’s brilliant,” Rory commented.
Isla looked at the bones once more. It didn’t look like a human male’s bones. She was no expert on that matter, but after hours of looking at femurs and tibias she had begun to learn a thing or two. The skeleton was curled up, as if sleeping sideways, like how she slept…
Sarah and another archaeologist carefully placed it inside a box, while filling up forms and taking photos of the item.
“This watch just might make news,” Greg murmured with a grin.
It would have made interesting news if it was discovered she tried to pilfer it. She felt rather ashamed, wondering what compelled her to even think of that despicable act. She had almost cost herself her career, for a pocket watch, Jesus.
She found nothing else interesting that day, it was probably karma. What, she believed in karma now? She was becoming like her mother, not that it was a bad thing. That was a part of her mother that people had enjoyed. She believed in mysticism, spirits and the like, even if she had been working for facts, a polar opposite to her father who didn’t believe in that.
Isla went back to the museum earlier than the rest, according to Greg’s instructions. She knew Greg wanted her to check on what they had found so far. She also knew they would ask her to see if the pocket watch still worked, which wasn’t part of her expertise anymore. They’d need a watch repairer for that.
As soon as she and a few others got back to be museum, she proceeded to her workstation, bright lights gleaming overheard for the detailed work she was about to do. She didn’t want to be surrounded by people, by co-workers and they made it clear they were as excited for the pocket watch as she was.
“Give her some room,” Ravi told the crowd. He winked at Isla and she gave a grateful smile.
Now she could work. She moved the magnifying lens in front of her as she carefully opened the pocket watch after cleaning the dirt off layer by layer. She saw that the latch was still in good condition, and she expected to see it empty, and it was. The hands had stopped at exactly 2:59. Morning or afternoon? She wondered, curious. The pocket watch was obviously beautifully made, even if it had been buried for so long.
She adjusted the overhead microscope, narrowing her eyes. There was a nick on the opposite side of the watch itself. She knew a photo was supposed to be there, Victorian sentimentality was subtle. She couldn’t shrug off the feeling that something else was in the pocket watch.
Isla began to work around the edges of the opposite side, starting with that little nick she had seen. She carefully inserted a blade underneath it, wo
rking her way around the nick. There was something here, she could feel it. It popped open after a few minutes of intense concentration, with beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Her eyes furrowed in concentration.
I knew it, she thought to herself, there really is something inside of this watch. She picked up the object with a tweezer. A rock? That was it? It looked like any other ordinary rock, something she could have picked up by the beach. It had a reddish tinge to it…
She frowned and turned to face the laptop. Whatever it was, it needed to be documented. So much for excitement. She spent the next half hour looking at different types of rocks, specifically found in England, to no avail. She sighed and set back to work, wondering what else was on the watch. At the back of the timepiece was an insignia.
A.B.
It could have meant many things. She wondered if that was the make of the watch. There were none in recent memory with those initials. It was a bespoke silver timepiece; it should have had been recorded before. The chain had been broken, she noted this down, too. Isla closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the strain on her back from being hunched over. So much for that sudden, avaricious feeling earlier.
All for a piece of rock. She put the rock back inside the silver watch and closed it, shaking her head in annoyance. A rock? Really?
*
He didn’t get to see her today, he had looked for her and was told she was still at some excavation site. He was recognized by some of the older museum staff. The young man, the young rich man that everyone knew as Gabriel Ramsey was a heavy private contributor to their trust, and he didn’t even want to be acknowledged. He left the museum feeling a twinge of disappointment. He had been secretly looking forward to seeing her again, another version of Lily…
All for a girl he didn’t know much, all for a girl he had only spoken to once. He was letting Lily’s memory cloud over his reasoning. Well, there had to be a reason as to why she had a doppelganger a hundred years after, right? He hadn’t even believed it was possible. Yeah, because nightwalkers are nonexistent too, he thought wryly.
