by Simon Clark
CHAPTER 24
Laura was standing at the window of her attic room when she heard the key turn in the lock. The door swung open and in came her friend, Meg. The maid wore her uniform of a black skirt and blouse over which there was a crisp apron in white lace. In her hands, was a pile of neatly folded clothes. Meg smiled brightly at Laura.
‘You look better – much like your old self,’ Meg said.
‘I feel better. The medicine cured me, I’m sure of it.’
‘You haven’t had any more of those horrible dreams about people falling out of the sky and dying?’
‘No, I must have had some sort of fever. It inflamed my nerves, that’s all.’
‘Miss Groom told me to bring your day clothes; you can go outside later for some fresh air. A footman will walk with you to make sure you don’t go and hide yourself in the woods again. Did you hear me, Laura?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You’re so dreamy standing there. Are you sure you don’t see anything that you shouldn’t?’
‘Who are those two men?’ Laura pointed through the window. ‘The young man with the black hair, and the older one with side-whiskers?’
Meg came to the window. ‘Oh, they’ve caused such a lot of excitement below stairs. The older gent is a detective, and the young man is a news reporter. They’re from London.’
‘What is the name of the young man?’
‘That’s Thomas Lloyd. I’ve seen his name in the Pictorial. Isn’t he handsome?’
‘Why are they here?’
‘I don’t know if your nerves are up to hearing about it.’
‘I’ve told you, the visions have stopped.’
Laura turned to Meg. She saw a gaunt figure standing behind the maid. It had a white face; its eyes stared with a burning intensity.
Giving no indication that she could see the phantom, Laura spoke calmly, ‘There weren’t any spirits. I know it was all a nightmare caused by fever.’ The music began again: the haunting notes of a flute shimmered on the air. She didn’t even flinch when the figure with the white face glided toward her. It raised an arm that seemed to be sleeved in shadow rather than cloth. The figure pointed at the door. It was telling her it was time to leave the room. Work to be done, Laura. A quest to be embarked upon. A sacred mission.
Laura managed a friendly smile. ‘Tell me about those men.’
Meg didn’t see the phantom, nor did she hear the unearthly melody of the flute. The girl smiled. ‘It’s so exciting. Do you recognize the older man?’
Laura shook her head.
‘That’s Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard. He’s the detective who tried to catch Jack the Ripper. Remember a ways back, when all those poor women were murdered in London?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
The spectre glided forward to rest a pale hand on Laura’s shoulder. The other hand pointed at the door again. Time to leave this room, Laura, the spectre seemed to be telling her. Leave and do that which is expected of you.
‘I shall tell you a secret.’ Meg’s eyes shone with horror and excitement. ‘Those men are going to dig the old master out of his grave. Jack said they know how to bring the dead master back to life, and he’ll walk back from the graveyard to the house.’
‘It’s the Curse of the Gods of Rome, isn’t it? Everyone knows that the Denby brothers have had an evil spell put on them.’
‘Oh, don’t talk about the curse, Laura. I’m scared enough as it is. I should hate to see the dead master walk into this house, as if he’s alive as you and me.’
The white face set with those burning eyes moved closer … Laura knew she would scream if that deathly skin should touch her face. The phantom urged her to take action. She was the puppet, and it was the puppeteer: it governed her actions, moved her limbs, and poured visions of violence and death into her brain. The journalist, Thomas Lloyd, was in danger. The phantom showed her visions of the young gentleman falling. With shocking vividness, she saw blood gushing from his head, and his mouth yawning wide in a dreadful scream.
‘Meg,’ Laura began in a calm voice. ‘Thank you for my clothes, but you’ve forgotten something.’
‘Oh?’
‘I must have pins for my hair.’
‘Miss Groom said nothing about bringing you hair pins.’
‘Without my hair pinned up I’ll look like a scarecrow.’
‘Promise you won’t stick the pins into yourself?’
‘I even promise not to poke them into Miss Groom’s eyes, though she deserves her eyes pricking for locking me in here.’
‘Laura! You mustn’t talk about sticking pins into people’s eyes. That’s terrible.’
‘So, will you bring me the hair pins?’
‘I’ll go get some from my room. You start brushing your hair.’
Meg lightly ran to the door. After closing it behind her, she locked it.
‘I’m a prisoner again,’ she told the white phantom which had been invisible to her friend, just as it had been to the housekeeper and the others. ‘But not for long. I know what you want from me. You are telling me to save the life of the newspaperman, Thomas Lloyd. You have a purpose for him, don’t you?’
The tall, gaunt creature with the white face stood there without moving.
‘Mr Lloyd has a destiny to fulfil, hasn’t he? Won’t you tell me what you expect from him?’
The phantom moved slowly backwards, melting into the wall as it did so. By and by, the sense of dread that she felt when she was in its presence, melted away, too, and she knew that she would soon begin the most important work of her life.
Meg returned with the pins. Giggling, she handed them over. ‘Remember, what you promised? Don’t go poking them into old grumpy Groom’s eyes.’ Meg kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘I’m glad you’re well, Laura, and the horrors have gone from your head.’
Meg drew the door shut behind her before carefully turning the key in the lock.
Laura Morgan looked through the keyhole, checking that the key had, in fact, been removed. Then she began to bend the hair pins. She’d once unlocked her mother’s jewellery box using bent pins when the key had been lost. She was confident she could unlock the door in the same way.
Tonight, she would escape from the room. She would set fire to the master’s workshed … she would burn those balloons to ashes. That way, nobody could ever fall from them again and Thomas Lloyd would not die.
CHAPTER 25
That afternoon saw Thomas back at the blackboard. Holding a piece of bright green chalk, he diligently chalked letters as Abberline read out a list of names. These were the known associates of Sir Alfred Denby.
‘Is your jaw still hurting, Thomas?’ Abberline enquired from where he sat at the table. ‘Tell me if you need to rest.’
‘I’m all right, thank you. There wasn’t much force behind the blow.’ Thomas downplayed the injury. Yet although there was only small bruise on his face, the drunkard’s punch earlier had jerked his head back sharply enough to leave him with a sore neck.
‘Once you’ve finished the list sit on the sofa … no, lie on the sofa.’
Thomas nodded and wished he hadn’t – moving his head induced a pain like a metal skewer being driven into his neck.
Inspector Abberline read the last three names on the list, ‘Jervaise Winterflood, Leonard Guntersson and Horace Brodsworth. I’ve deliberately taken the names out of alphabetical order, because there’s a tendency to attribute a greater importance to those who appear to rank higher on a list, hence the order is deliberately random.’ He rose to his feet. ‘These are men who were Sir Alfred’s friends, or those with whom he had business dealings.’
‘Do any of these men have convictions for any criminal offences?’
‘Some. I had Scotland Yard check the names against their records. So, if you would add these letters after a name when I read it out. The letter “I” means they were investigated by the police. “C” means they have been convicted. Also, we should mark out those who are
no longer alive. In that case add a “D” after the name to signify “Deceased”.’
‘Ready when you are.’
‘Millward “I”. Steiger “D”. Pickering “A”, “C” and “D”.’
Abberline methodically worked his way through the list while Thomas chalked the information on the board. It soon became apparent that almost half the men were dead, but then the list did span forty years or so. When Abberline had finished he slipped the paper into a drawer in the table.
Thomas stood back to view the names inscribed in that bright green chalk, together with the accompanying letters. ‘Almost a third have been investigated, and there are … let’s see: six men with convictions.’
‘Which tells us that Sir Alfred had a large number of acquaintances who weren’t averse to breaking the law.’
‘You learnt from the footman that Sir Alfred had paid a ship’s captain to smuggle goods into the country. It suggests that after he allegedly brought the gold statues into England from Italy twenty years ago, he was still engaged in illegal trafficking.’
‘But we’ll discover nothing from the captain. If what the footman claims is true, then the captain drowned a while ago.’
‘We could interview the men who sailed with him?’
‘Question sailors who aided a smuggler?’ Abberline smiled. ‘I hardly believe we’ll have a single word of truth out of them. They’ll not risk jail to help us. No, we will have to continue digging deep into the records to uncover more about Sir Alfred.’
‘Friends can become enemies.’
‘Especially if a man believes his loyalty has been abused.’ Abberline clenched his hands behind his back as he gazed out of the window. ‘Did I abuse your loyalty earlier, Thomas?’
‘Hard words were said, Inspector. But I believe you want me to regard you as the human being that you are, rather than the larger-than-life character portrayed by my newspaper colleagues.’
‘I should have spoken frankly with you, but I shouldn’t have become angry. This case has me rattled, Thomas. What’s more, I’m afraid William Denby will be murdered under our very noses, and there is not a thing I can do to prevent it.’
‘And you believed that you, yourself, have been placed in danger.’
Abberline nodded. ‘I’ve been assigned to this case, because it sends out a clear message that the British Government takes the matter so seriously that they’ve ordered their most famous detective to solve it.’
‘You believe the government wish that certain individuals know that you are searching for Sir Alfred’s killer?’
‘Or for them to suspect that I am, in reality, trying to find the Gods of Rome.’
‘You said earlier that this conspiracy could result in you being in danger.’
‘I can’t help but wonder if there are shadowy figures lurking in government offices, who hope I’m heading for a suitably lethal encounter.’
‘Surely, the government don’t want you dead?’
‘A senior detective, who gives his life during an investigation, would allow them to create a hero. That would send out the loudest message of all that politicians are prepared to sacrifice a famous policeman in the pursuit of truth and justice.’
‘If you believe this is so, you will tell your superiors, surely?’
Abberline gave a grim smile. ‘Then the head of Scotland Yard would demand my resignation, because I don’t have proof of any such a conspiracy. No, Thomas. I will do my job. I will search for both the murderer of the Denby brothers and those statues. I will not be beaten by scheming men who hide in shadowy lairs.’ After airing his suspicions so frankly, Abberline gazed out of the window for a moment before murmuring, ‘Good heavens, will you look at that?
‘A balloon? Dear Lord, there are men in the basket.’
Thomas stood beside Abberline as they watched the huge orange sphere rise from behind the work-sheds. A rope tethered the balloon to a winding wheel, or capstan, which was operated by a dozen soldiers. Slowly, the vessel ascended. When it reached the height of 500 feet or so, the soldiers on the ground stopped paying out the line. The balloon remained fixed at that height. Figures moved about the basket which hung beneath the fabric envelope, containing hydrogen gas – the near-magical vapour that caused the vessel to fly. Presently, a light flashed from the balloon. An answering light flickered from the ground.
‘Heliographs,’ Thomas whispered in awe. ‘They are communicating with one another using Morse code.’
Abberline chuckled – it must be said, a grim-sounding chuckle. ‘If I were to receive orders to go up in one of those contraptions I would shudder from head-to-toe. I doubt if my heart could withstand the strain.’
A knock sounded on the door.
‘Come in,’ called Abberline.
A boy entered with a silver tray on which there was an envelope. ‘Letter, sirs.’
‘Thank you.’ Abberline smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, would you ask the butler to come along here when he has a moment?’
After the boy had left, the detective opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper that bore a great deal of black print.
‘It’s the exhumation licence,’ he said. ‘Later this afternoon, you’d best try and get a few hours’ sleep, because we’re going to open Joshua Denby’s grave tonight. Then we’ll find out what secrets his bones can tell us.’
Thomas watched Abberline at work, and he thought: It’s as if the man is a locomotive and the throttle’s wide open. The engine is racing toward its destination.
The detective added notes to the blackboard. He wrote marsh test in large letters beside the name of Joshua Denby – the man whose skeleton was due to be unearthed in the early hours of the following morning. Abberline returned to the table where he swiftly began writing notes on individual slips of paper. The man almost hummed with energy now. His movements were precise, as if he embarked on a process that he’d rehearsed many times before.
Outside, the orange balloon still strained at its tether; seemingly, it longed to race away across the mountains. Three soldiers in the basket slung beneath the balloon made adjustments to valves and rigging. Thomas caught a glimpse of William Denby on the ground. From time to time, he signalled to the soldiers as they floated 500 feet above the mansion’s lawns.
‘Can I help in anyway?’ asked Thomas.
‘Ah … I’ve written a number of telegrams.’ He gathered up the slips of paper. ‘If I’m not here, would you ask the butler to have them sent straight away?’ Abberline stood up from the table. ‘I need to ask William to loan me some of his soldiers to raise the coffin tonight. He’s also providing a camera. I’d like you to acquaint yourself with it today, because I need you to photograph the remains the moment the coffin is opened.’
Thomas nodded. ‘You believe Joshua Denby’s skeleton might hold an important clue?’
‘Possibly a vital clue.’
A rapid tap had no sooner sounded on the door when it swung open. The housekeeper bustled into the room in that no-nonsense way of hers.
‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ Her manner was briskly efficient.
Thomas noted the way her sharp eyes peered over those half-moon glasses to appraise the state of the room. Not up to Miss Groom’s standard of tidiness, he told himself.
Abberline quickly turned the easel around so the blackboard, together with its writing, faced away from her. ‘There’s been some misunderstanding: I told the boy to ask the butler to come along as soon as he could.’
‘Mr Ashton is busy with his duties below stairs, sir. Cases of port have arrived. Mr Ashton insists on cataloguing the bottles and putting them in the wine cellar himself.’
‘I have telegrams that must be sent as soon as possible.’
‘Of course, I shall see to it straightaway.’ Miss Groom advanced toward the table in that self-assured way of hers. ‘Would you like the tea tray, sir? There’s some very nice Madeira cake.’
‘Thank you,’ Abberline said as he handed her the slips of pap
er, ‘that would be most welcome.’
‘Is there anything else you require, gentlemen?
‘No, we have everything we need, thank you … oh, just one more thing.’ Abberline held up a finger. ‘Would you arrange for a bedroom to be made available for a new guest? His name is Dr Penrhyn, and he’ll be arriving from Bangor University later today.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Doctor Penrhyn will also have scientific equipment, so best send a cart as well as a carriage to collect him from the station. He’s expected on the train that arrives at Porthmadog at seven-thirty.’
The woman nodded politely before leaving the room.
‘Ha! The formidable Miss Groom.’ Thomas smiled. ‘Did you notice the way her eyes raked our office?’
‘A good housekeeper runs her household like a captain runs his ship. They hate to see so much as a vase one inch out of place.’ Abberline picked up a piece of chalk from the floor. ‘She’ll notice the smallest detail.’
‘And woebetide any servant who is slipshod in their duties.’
‘I daresay domestic staff shudder and tremble before her wrath.’ Abberline checked his pocket watch. ‘Four o’clock. We’ll begin the exhumation at three in the morning. I’ll ask our redoubtable housekeeper to soak some strips of linen in camphor. You’ll need to tie the cloth over your mouth and nose before the coffin is opened. And although we can protect ourselves from the smell, there is nothing we can do, alas, to lessen the horrors of what we will see: Uncovering the truth can be a ghastly and terrifying business.’
CHAPTER 26
Work on the exhumation began in darkness as the church clock struck the third chime. A cold wind blew across the churchyard. The trees that surrounded this little realm of bones sounded so much like a chorus of human voices that Thomas raised his lantern to check that there weren’t people out there, singing in an eerie, whispery fashion. Thomas recalled his first visit to the churchyard when William had told him about the legend of the Singing Trees – he said that many locals believed that the graveyard trees intoned the names of the dead buried here, and the melancholy stories of their lives.
