by Doug MacLeod
‘It is what Carolyn meant to show me,’ I say, ‘when Charlie and I encountered her on the night of the fire.’
Plenitude nods. ‘I gave it to her in the hope she would sell it.’
I begin to understand. ‘I think I know what it is.’
‘When Carolyn fell pregnant, her mother and various other members of the family insisted that she have the child. My wife was the most vehement of all. Never mind about what had happened, the unborn child was alive and one of God’s creatures, they said. To terminate would be to commit murder, a grave sin. Neither Carolyn nor I shared this view. At that early stage, the baby was still unformed. I couldn’t see how it counted as one of God’s creatures yet. But every medical colleague I asked refused to conduct the operation for which Carolyn pleaded. None was brave enough. Not even our own father was prepared to do it – though I begged him. These were special circumstances. It would be appropriate for a father to operate on his own daughter. He still refused. I despised him after that. Carolyn was so desperate for an end to it, I was afraid she would harm herself by using some of the acids and poisons that are sometimes recommended, but never by doctors.
‘I made the decision to perform the operation myself. The termination was successful, but we were observed by a night porter. He contacted the authorities. There was no doubt about my guilt. I was spat on as they took me to the court, for I had already been tried by the public. I thought that people might be kinder to Carolyn, but they considered her as guilty as I. In their eyes, we were murderers. Even my own wife renounced me.
‘Carolyn and I were sentenced to prison for fourteen years. The punishment wasn’t considered harsh enough. There were appeals and prison became Bedlam.’
‘What is your real name?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
‘I believe it is Thomas.’
‘Open the package now.’
I unwrap the leather to find a gold locket. It is a beautiful thing and Carolyn would have profited well had she sold it. I open the locket and see two portraits. On the left is Plenitude as a young man. On the right is my mother.
‘Thomas,’ Plenitude says. ‘I’m your father.’
Carolyn screeches and points into the darkness. There is someone there. I strain my eyes. Short and misshapen, this visitor does not look human. The anatomy is wrong. The shoulders are crooked. One arm hangs lower than the other. I realise the thing is moving towards us on its knees. Before Plenitude and I can act, it fires a gun. I have not been hit but there is blood nearby. Plenitude snatches up one of the pistols. The kneeling man is suddenly pierced from behind. A blood-soaked blade emerges from his chest. Only now can I recognise Clemency. His eyes bulge from his destroyed face. He looks down at the long, curved blade, sticking out a full two feet from him. His black hands, the wizened fingers caked with melted gold, drop to his side. Then the blade retracts, and Clemency falls lifeless to the ground.
Behind Clemency, the Grim Reaper admires the bloodsoaked blade of the scythe. Yet he is not satisfied. He advances slowly. Plenitude does not care, as he weeps over the dead body of his sister Carolyn.
CHAPTER 26
Plenitude looks up at the Grim Reaper. ‘Please don’t take her yet. Let me hold her a little longer.’
The Grim Reaper remains silent.
I see there is much blood on Plenitude, and it is not from his arm. Is it possible that Clemency aimed deliberately for Carolyn?
‘A few minutes more,’ begs Plenitude, brushing his hands through Carolyn’s matted hair.
The Grim Reaper considers the request and leans his scythe against an upright beam.
‘You can take me too, if you like. I don’t mind. Just let me cradle her a bit longer.’ Plenitude weeps.
I have imagined meeting the Grim Reaper in my nightmares. But now that he stands before me, I am unafraid. He is not even tall. I have four inches over him, at least. And when he paces to and fro, as he is doing now, there is something feminine about his movements.
The Grim Reaper is a dandy.
‘I’m ready now,’ says Plenitude, choking back tears.
The Grim Reaper has stopped pacing. He removes the black cowl that obscures his face and drops it the floor. There stands the Reaper revealed. I had not dreamed he would be so perfectly beautiful, with long black hair, and full lips. It is none other than Victoria Plum.
Plenitude and I are transfixed by her magnificence. Like father like son.
‘Who are you?’ Plenitude asks.
‘I’m a novelist.’
‘Her name is Victoria Plum,’ I add, ‘though she writes under the pseudonym of Aubrey Wilks.’
‘I am very sorry for the loss of your sister,’ Victoria tells Plenitude. Then she turns to me. ‘And also for the loss of your aunt.’
While Victoria is correct to call Carolyn my aunt, I am flummoxed when she says it. This is a strange evening.
Plenitude stands. ‘Thomas, may I prevail upon you to help me carry my sister to the cart?’
‘Of course.’
Plenitude turns to Victoria. ‘Do excuse us for a moment.’
We pick up Carolyn. People speak of their relatives passing away peacefully. This cannot be said of Carolyn. Her face looks contorted and cheated. Plenitude knows what I am thinking as we walk to the cart.
‘I’ll make her look nice,’ says Plenitude. ‘We’ll bury her in a good shroud. And none shall dig her up. I’ve been a resurrectionist for only a year, yet I think I’m losing the taste for it.’
‘You’re upset,’ I counsel. ‘Don’t make rash decisions. Think it over in the morning.’
Softly we lay Carolyn on the cart.
‘The Grim Reaper is very beautiful,’ says Plenitude.
‘She is.’
‘It seems the Reaper does have bosoms after all.’
‘Plenitude, is this an appropriate time to make such a remark?’
‘I can’t imagine any other time would be, which is why I said it now.’
We have no cover for the cart. The canvas is burned and useless.
‘Carolyn dies and it is my fault for letting another man live,’ Plenitude says. ‘It doesn’t seem fair.’
‘It is my fault, too,’ I say. ‘I should have done a better job of depriving him of his weapon.’
‘And it is my fault.’ Victoria has joined us. ‘I have been here, watching from the start. I saw what a monster Clemency was. But I didn’t see him crawl from under the canvas. Neither did I see where the pistol landed. I presumed it lost.’
‘The worst of it is that Carolyn warned us,’ I say. ‘She knew he was there and screamed to alert us.’
We contemplate this unbearable truth.
‘I don’t think Clemency meant to kill Carolyn,’ says Plenitude. ‘I’m sure he was aiming at Thomas or me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Victoria. ‘But I think he did mean to kill Carolyn. He overheard your story, as did I. He knew how much it would hurt you to lose her. I believe he murdered your sister deliberately, which is why I might have been overzealous with the scythe.’
I look to where the tool leans, dripping gore.
‘You are quite strong,’ I say.
‘Novelists need not be weak, Thomas.’
‘You are also very good with a horse.’
‘He waits without, poor thing. I rode him rather hard tonight and must reward him. Here is a cover to place over Carolyn.’
Victoria removes her vast black cape. Beneath it she is wearing a black coat and breeches. When Victoria catches me staring at the breeches, she tells me, ‘I could hardly wear a dress, Thomas. The Grim Reaper does not ride side-saddle.’
With quiet ceremony, we lay Victoria’s cloak over Carolyn then return to where the scythe rests.
‘Did you follow us to London?’ I ask.
Victoria nods. ‘I had to see if there was an ounce of truth in your wickedly preposterous story. And to my delight, there was.’
Plenitude indicates the costume. ‘The Grim Reaper is
especially well realised. What made you choose him as your disguise?’
‘I suppose I am a romantic,’ says Victoria.
‘I thought you might be,’ says Plenitude.
The three of us sit together. In front of us lie two coshed Catholics, and beyond them is Girth with a meat cleaver buried between his shoulders. The destroyed Clemency is centre stage.
‘Thomas, I think you might have a point about my writing,’ says Victoria, sadly.
‘Victoria, your work is lively and fresh and –’
‘Rubbish,’ says Victoria.
‘My best friend Charlie positively laps it up. He is no fool. Though he does respectfully suggest that you may be repeating yourself in the matter of the glue factories.’
‘I confess that I was planning another novel and the climax was once again to take place in a glue factory.’
‘I’m sure a glue factory in your hands can be ripe with possibility.’
‘Let me make something perfectly clear, Thomas. You find me attractive.’
‘Yes.’
‘I do too,’ says Plenitude.
‘And you desire to court me.’
‘Yes.’
Plenitude is mercifully silent.
‘In that case, you must speak the truth. You don’t like my Aubrey Wilks books.’
‘They’re staggeringly bad,’ I admit, gazing lovingly into Victoria’s eyes.
‘We shall have to agree to differ on that. But after some of the things I have witnessed tonight, I would like to write more experimental books. I have just finished an Aubrey Wilks manuscript for my publisher, but it will be the last one. I am so very tired of glue. I couldn’t bear another sniff.’
‘It happens.’ Plenitude nods.
‘And I have something I wish to propose, in relation to this body-snatching business. I think I would like to try my hand at it too.’
Plenitude gasps. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ve been cogitating about the things you said at the hotel, about the poor people who leave their bodies to science but are overruled by their selfish relatives. You said it happens daily.’
‘That’s what Plenitude told me.’
‘That may have been an exaggeration,’ Plenitude mutters.
‘I think we should form a society of gentlemen body-snatchers. We’ll make it a professional enterprise.’
‘We really do prefer the term resurrectionist to body-snatcher,’ says Plenitude.
‘Body-snatcher is more romantic. We could develop new inventions to hasten our work, even create special uniforms to wear. I could design them. I like clothes. We’d also need to find new quarters. If we’re going to be efficient we cannot possibly use squalid hideaways like this. No one will take us seriously. We might even get an accountant in, just once a week to do the books.’
I am flummoxed. ‘But why would you want to do all this, Victoria?’
‘Because then I would have real adventures about which to write. I am meeting my publisher Mr Higgins tomorrow.’ Victoria’s eyes are shining. ‘I believe you wanted to have words with him. Why don’t you accompany me?’
I look to Plenitude and he shrugs. ‘You must do what you think best, Thomas. Though I would consider it a favour if, first thing tomorrow morning, you could assist me to bury Carolyn in the finest way possible.’
‘Of course.’
I put my arm around Plenitude.
‘I love you more than life itself, Thomas,’ he says, ‘but you’re not going to kiss me, are you?’
‘I should say not. It’s far too continental.’
Victoria kisses Plenitude sweetly on the cheek. Then she hands me a card with the address of her publisher.
‘We’ll meet there at half past twelve,’ she says.
‘Am I not to receive a kiss?’ I complain.
‘I’m not so easily courted, Thomas. Though the next time you bring oysters I will accept them.’
When I return home, Mother is asleep. I’m tempted to burst into her bedroom and demand to know why she told such lies about a bank manager father who was trampled by a rabid horse when I was one year old. I want to rebuke her for disowning her husband, Thomas Timewell Senior. I want to ask her if she was the one who ordered my grandfather James not to give Carolyn the operation. Had Mother made him take a vow of silence? It must have been a terrible thing for him to bear. My grandfather, I’d always believed, was a sensitive man. If I were not such a gentleman I might even ask Mother why she and John have the same profiles, if John is adopted. And why was I sent away at the age of two to live with Grandfather for six months, then brought home to meet my new orphan brother?
But these are not questions for now. I sit by the mantelpiece and gather my thoughts as I look at the appendix in the jar. Mother has festooned the lid with pretty bows, which I’m sure she ordered Mrs Dunwoody to tie while the poor Scotswoman was retiling the bathroom.
It is nearly day and I won’t have time to sleep. I will wash and change clothes, then I shall join Plenitude to farewell my Aunt Carolyn. I take out my fob watch to check the time. I read the engraving on the back: Thomas Timewell.
When Mother gave me the watch, she said it had been engraved especially for me. Now I am not so sure.
CHAPTER 27
The winter sun extends its first tentative fingers over Piper’s Heath. Plenitude and I have completed digging a grave and sit for a moment under the larch tree. Carolyn’s body lies where I first met her. Her shroud is magnificent. The beads gleam as the sun catches them. There are tiny threads of gold, glinting among the red and blue silk.
‘I think I paid too much,’ says Plenitude.
‘You didn’t,’ I reply.
‘I’m sure the trader would have accepted less.’
‘Maybe in London. Here in Wishall they aren’t so flexible.’
‘Ten pounds is a lot of money.’
‘You should have accepted the twenty pounds that Light offered you for the body from the iron coffin.’
Plenitude sighs. ‘Having unintentionally killed Lucifer, I felt I should be charitable in his honour. My conscience bothered me.’
‘Fortunately, mine didn’t.’ I take ten pounds from my pocket and give it to Plenitude. ‘Your share.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘You are easily distracted. I accepted Light’s money when your back was turned.’
‘Would you have kept it from me had I not mentioned the high cost of the shroud?’
‘Of course not. I am a gentleman.’
Plenitude shrugs then pockets the money.
‘How is you arm?’ I ask.
‘Fine. How is your leg?’
‘Fine. How is it that you smell so well?’
‘The same way you do. I wash.’
‘Even your breath is sweet. It smells of – nothing.’
‘Same as yours.’
‘It takes much effort.’
‘You must make time for such things.’
‘Do all body-snatchers smell so good?’
‘Only the smart ones. Think about it, Thomas. The three most important senses for the resurrectionist are courtesy of the ears, the eyes and the nose. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves by stinking. It is far safer to smell of nothing.’
‘You sound proud to be a resurrectionist,’ I say. ‘You didn’t last night.’
Plenitude changes the subject.
‘Victoria is most uncommonly beautiful,’ he says. I nod. ‘More beautiful than any lady I know.’
‘Will you seriously consider Victoria’s ridiculous idea of forming a society of gentlemen body-snatchers?’
‘No. I will tell her when I see her today at her publishers’ office.’
‘Of course you will consider it,’ Plenitude scoffs. ‘You will consider anything she says. You’re lovestruck, and I can’t say I blame you.’
It is my turn to change the subject.
‘Plenitude, when you returned to Wishall, did you visit your father at the hospi
tal?’
‘No. I told you I disliked him.’
‘I must apologise for something I said before.’
‘Whatever it is, I’ve forgotten it.’
‘When we first met, I said that you should not have been at Grandfather’s funeral. I was wrong. You may not have liked him but he was still your father.’
‘I came to forgive him at the end. Had you not been there, I would have resurrected him myself and given him his last wish.’
‘How would you have done it alone?’
‘I’d have managed.’
‘Would you have taken his head off?’
‘No. I’m cursed with sentimentality.’
‘Why behead the others?’
‘I may be sentimental but I’m not stupid. I don’t wish to be caught. If you can build a magical box that is smaller than a complete human body, yet can accommodate one, then by all means leave the heads on.’
‘I suppose, if you are a real doctor, then it is all right.’
‘Changing your tune at last?’
‘It would be medical amputation, not mere hacking.’
‘I can teach you, if you like.’
‘We shall see.’
A field mouse runs towards Carolyn in her glorious shroud. I toss a small stone and it scurries away.
‘I’m glad I met you, Plenitude.’
‘It was the most wonderful night of my life, Thomas.’
The sun is brighter now and the red and blue shroud seems unearthly in its beauty.
‘It looks as though it was manufactured in heaven,’ I say.
‘It was manufactured in India,’ says Plenitude.
‘Was it made to be worn in this way? It seems too … cheerful for a funeral.’
‘I rather like that about the Indians.’
‘It seems sad that you spent the last year in Wishall and Grandfather never knew,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t bring yourself to forgive him while he lived?’
‘It was probably better to keep him in blissful ignorance.’
‘I don’t think Grandfather was blissful. I believe his vow must have come at tremendous personal cost.’
