The Turnkey of Highgate Cemetery

by Allison Rushby

  The thing was, Flossie’s rheumatic fever hadn’t taken her abruptly. She had initially been very sick. So sick her family had thought there was no hope for her. Slowly, over months, she had recovered enough to return to school, albeit with a very weak heart. But it had been hard to keep up with her friends. So she had started spending more time on her own, taking long, slow walks and pausing for a rest under a specific hazel tree. That was where she had met the fox. Flossie brought the vixen treats, and over time the fox had become friendly — content even to sit at arm’s length and listen to Flossie talk about all the things she could tell no one else.

  Eventually she had given her a name. Hazel.

  When Flossie had been instructed to choose a form for her Advisor, it had been the fox who came to mind. And here she stood. Except this fox in the twilight world was someone else entirely, who could talk back.

  “Hello, Hazel,” Flossie said. “Ah, here comes my visitor now.” She gestured toward the cottage door, and Hazel opened it with a flick of her tail.

  “Amelia!” Flossie said. “Come in.”

  Amelia’s eyes lit up when she saw what Flossie held in her hand. She ran the last few steps into the cottage.

  “I’m afraid a lot of time has passed by and it wouldn’t be possible to find your dolls now, but this one was mine. My sister gave her to me. I was wondering if you might take care of her for me.” Flossie held her out.

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Isn’t she? She’s from Paris. My sister saw her there and bought her for me. But I was a little old for her. It would be nice for her to be played with properly.”

  Amelia took the doll from Flossie cautiously. “I won’t break her.”

  “Of course you won’t.”

  Amelia stroked the doll’s thick brown hair. “What’s her name?”

  “See! That’s why she needs to be with you. She doesn’t even have a name. What do you think we should call her?”

  “Marguerite,” Amelia said decisively. “She seems like a Marguerite.”

  “Marguerite. I like that. I bet that if you returned to rest, Marguerite would appear in your dreams.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I . . .” Flossie stopped. Because Amelia and Marguerite were gone. She felt her return to rest.

  “Very nicely done, Mistress Turnkey.”

  Flossie laughed a short laugh. “Sometimes, Hazel, just sometimes, I think I can handle this Turnkey job.” She frowned, remembering the evening’s events. “But then I realize I barely know anything at all.” She sank into one of the armchairs. “Now, I have to go out again. Before I do, I have a question or two for you.”

  Flossie sat back after explaining all that had happened that evening. “Have any thoughts?”

  Hazel considered her question before replying. “I agree, Mistress Turnkey. It’s not a good sign that the German officer ran away in the way that he did. It sounds as if he has something to hide.”

  “One of the Chelsea Pensioners mentioned that this officer’s most likely buried in a cemetery called the Invalids’ Cemetery, in Berlin,” Flossie said, shuffling to the edge of her seat. “Do you think I’d be able to travel there? Am I able to travel beyond the limits of London?” She hadn’t considered the possibility before. She had never needed to.

  “Yes, Mistress Turnkey. It is possible for you to do this. As within London, you must simply close your eyes and think of where you want to go. One of the previous Turnkeys needed to make a visit to Paris once for some information, and it went very smoothly.”

  “I hope things will be the same for me.” Flossie stood, ready to be on her way. She knew Hazel wouldn’t be able to come with her. She wasn’t able to leave the cemetery. Without her, the cemetery would be soulless — nothing more than a mess of stone and greenery.

  “I will await your safe return, Mistress Turnkey, as always.”

  Flossie opened her eyes to find herself standing in front of a plain, thick gray stone wall and some iron gates. There was no showy entrance. No grand facade. It was almost dawn, and the faintest glimmer of light was beginning to appear. Through the gates a long gravel walkway stretched out into the distance, with mostly low-set, well-spaced manicured graves on either side. Tall, orderly rows of trees towered above the monuments, stark in the bleakness of winter. This was a businesslike cemetery of order, unlike her own higgledy-piggledy one.

  Not a soul — living or dead — was in sight. Not even a Turnkey. A strange feeling emanated from this cemetery. Flossie felt that the dead were, for the most part, peacefully at rest. But there was something else . . . an uneasy, unsettled feeling.

  Flossie wondered what she should do next. Should she attract the Turnkey’s attention? Before she could decide, a flicker of movement made her jump. There was a girl standing behind the fence now — a girl in a beautiful white dress, a bow at her neck, with two long blond braids hanging neatly down her back. She met Flossie’s eyes with a timid expression.

  “Wie heißen Sie?” she said. “Was wollen Sie hier?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t speak German,” Flossie said. Why she hadn’t thought of this problem until now, she had no idea. She’d been so caught up in wondering about the German officer, she hadn’t considered the logistics of her visit. Sometimes she wondered why she had been chosen to be a Turnkey at all.

  The girl drew back. “You’re English!”

  Flossie couldn’t believe her luck. “You speak English? How? Why?” She couldn’t have learned it at school — the girl must have been only around eleven or twelve years of age, and by the cut of her fashionable dress, she couldn’t have been in the twilight for very long.

  The girl’s eyes darted back and forth as if she were waiting for something, or someone, to appear. “Yes. My father was a Rhodes scholar. He taught me English.” A different expression fell upon her face then — a longing sadness.

  “You miss him,” Flossie said.

  “My father was a good man. A kind man.”

  Flossie watched, sure that if the girl’s eyes could have filled to the brim with tears, they would have. She thought of her own father. Most likely they had both lost a father to war, even if they had fought on different sides.

  “Perhaps if you returned to rest?” Flossie suggested. The girl was obviously upset. Why wasn’t her Turnkey seeing to her? Suggesting this?

  “It’s impossible.”

  Flossie frowned. Impossible? Of course it was possible.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you.” The girl’s words tumbled out. “We’re at war.”

  “I’m not at war with you,” Flossie said simply. “Are you at war with me?”

  “No. But . . .”

  “What’s your name?” Flossie asked, realizing she hadn’t introduced herself. “I’m Flossie Birdwhistle. I’m the Turnkey of Highgate Cemetery in London.”

  The girl shook her head. She wouldn’t be revealing her name to Flossie. Not today, anyway.

  With a shrug, Flossie decided to get to the point. “This war isn’t about us or for us. The dead should be at rest. But it is why I’m here. I’m searching for a man. A Nazi officer with a sword at his side. SS, I think. I saw him in London, and I’m trying to find out more about him. I was told he might be buried here.”

  As Flossie spoke, the girl stepped away from the gate and her expression changed again — this time to fear. It was immediately obvious that she’d seen a man like that.

  “You know who I’m talking about!” Flossie said.

  No answer came.

  “You do.” Flossie could see it. “You know him.” She drew in closer, though she was careful not to touch the gate itself, lest she draw the attention of the Turnkey, who might send the girl away. “Who is he?”

  The girl’s eyes widened farther.

  “What’s the matter?” Flossie said, sensing that something was very wrong indeed.

  A long silence followed. It felt as if the girl were teetering on the brink of telling her someth
ing.

  “I . . . I can’t say,” the girl said.

  “You can,” Flossie replied. “Maybe I can help you.”

  It was the offer of help that pushed the girl over the edge.

  “Have you come to stop him?” she said in a whisper. “Please tell me you have come to stop him.” She put her hands to her head, as if recalling something painful. “He is planning terrible things. Awful things.”

  Flossie was shocked at both the girl’s words and at how disturbed she seemed. She wasn’t sure what to say. “What’s he planning? What do you mean? Who is he? What’s his name?” There were too many questions, but she couldn’t seem to stop them exiting her mouth.

  The girl inched away, her face now filled with absolute terror. “I should never have said that. Any of that. You’re English. How can I trust you? As you said yourself, the war isn’t for us. The dead should be at rest. I should be at rest.”

  “Wait! Please, don’t go!” Flossie called out. “Tell me more! Who he is. What he’s doing. If he’s to be stopped —”

  The girl, who had taken a step and looked as if she was about to run, suddenly stilled, her skirt swinging around her legs.

  “Tell me something about him,” Flossie pleaded. “Anything. And I’ll see what I can do.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the girl ran toward the fence and came as close to Flossie as possible. She gripped the railings tightly between her hands.

  “He is part of the Ahnenerbe,” she whispered, her eyes unblinking. “And he is coming back now. I can feel it. You must go. Right now! Please, go! Schnell! Lauf los!”

  Within seconds of the girl’s disappearance, Flossie had left the Invalids’ Cemetery. She retreated to Tower Hamlets, where her hand jutted out to rattle its gates, her key clanging against the iron railings.

  “Flossie!” Ada appeared, her Advisor looming behind her. “You’re back!” She unlocked the gates and swung them open, admitting her friend.

  “I’d say you seem pale, but . . .” said Ada.

  Flossie gave her joke a weak smile.

  “What did you find out?” Ada asked.

  Flossie tried to gather her thoughts. The girl’s obvious fear had taken her aback, and there was also something strange about her — something dark that Flossie couldn’t put her finger on. Why wasn’t she at rest? Why was there no Turnkey in sight? Did the German officer have some part in all of that?

  “I didn’t find out much, I’m afraid. He’s buried there, that much I’m certain of. Apparently he’s part of something called the Ahnenerbe, though I have no idea what that is. I thought perhaps the Chelsea Pensioners might know about it.”

  “Ah,” Ada said. “One of them’s remained here in the hope that you might return with news. The others are all out keeping their eyes peeled for your officer. Here, I’ll call him over to us.”

  In the blink of an eye, a Chelsea Pensioner appeared before them. It was William, the one who read all the newspapers.

  He removed his tricorn hat, stroking his white beard with his free hand. “So, you’ve returned with news, miss. I was hoping you might. Our Turnkey’s been checking in with all the men, and there’ve been no more sightings of your man so far, I’m pleased to say.”

  Flossie told both William and Ada what had happened in Berlin. “The girl I met didn’t want to say much. She wouldn’t tell me her name, and she was awfully frightened. She told me that this officer is part of something called the Ahnenerbe. Have you heard of it?” she asked William.

  “No. Can’t say I have. Never heard that word before in my life, miss.”

  Flossie had been about to reply to William when someone’s touch surprised her. It was never a pleasant feeling to have a living person brush against you or sit upon you, not knowing you were there. But this was different. Flossie whirled around to see a girl of her own age reaching out toward her, a puzzled look upon her face.

  “Ah, there you are. I wondered where you’d gone,” Ada said. “I forgot to mention, Flossie, that we have a visitor. I saw her walking beyond the cemetery gates and got her to come in. She can’t speak. I don’t even know her name.”

  Flossie struggled to comprehend what she saw before her. The girl seemed to be neither dead nor alive. Instead, she hovered somewhere between the living and twilight worlds, a faded, transparent version of what she had once been. She wore a plain dress in a checkered brown fabric that was dusty and worn, a cardboard gas-mask box across her chest and resting on her hip.

  “She’s lost,” Ada said simply. “In all senses of the word. I was about to try to take her outside to learn more. Perhaps take her home.”

  “I could do that, if you like,” Flossie replied, knowing that Ada didn’t like to go outside the cemetery walls. Certainly something needed to be done. And fast. However, while she wanted to help, she also needed to find out more about this officer parading around the streets of their city.

  William must have understood her worry, because he spoke up immediately.

  “You see to the lass, miss. I’ll do the rounds and ask the men about this Ahnenerbe business.” He popped his hat back upon his head. “Someone’s sure to know something.”

  The girl was transfixed by Ada’s Advisor. Surprisingly though, she didn’t seem all that frightened. But if she lived in the East End, she had probably seen far worse things recently.

  “Do you think you could show me where you live?” Flossie asked her, making sure to keep her words in the present tense. This girl might be close to death; however, she wasn’t there yet.

  The girl bobbed her head.

  “And could you tell me your name?” Flossie asked. Hopefully she would have better luck with this girl than the one at the Invalids’ Cemetery.

  The girl opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Flossie sighed. She had seen this type of thing after the last war, when she was alive. Friends’ older brothers or fathers who had returned and had not been able to speak or had stuttered. She wondered if the girl might be suffering from something called shell shock.

  Now Flossie readied herself for the strange feeling of contact with the living and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. Flossie pulled out her notebook and pencil from the pocket of her dress.

  “Write your name down for me?”

  The girl took the notebook and pencil from Flossie.

  She wrote the word in a slightly trembly hand.

  “Can you show me where you live, Grace?” Flossie asked.

  Grace nodded.

  “Your family?”

  The words were written shakily.

  Grace’s eyes remained fixed on Flossie.

  “We can go and look for them if you like,” Flossie told her. “Write down your address while I speak to Ada for a bit.” She took Ada’s arm and the pair walked a few steps away.

  “Why is she like this?” Flossie whispered hurriedly, their heads together. “Not the no talking; I mean why is she neither here nor there?”

  Ada’s eyes met hers. “I’ve only seen it twice before, and both times it’s been about the person making a decision. It’s not like when you and I died. Most people, there’s no choice — the body can’t go on. But Grace could go either way. It’s up to her.”

  Flossie saw that Grace had finished writing. She took the notebook from her. It read:

  “Come on, I’ll unlock the gates for you all,” Ada said. “And I’ll make sure any news gets to you, Flossie.”

  With William striding ahead, Flossie took Grace’s faded hand in her own and started their journey toward the East End in the brightening sky.

  At the end of Harford Street — or what was left of it — the brickwork was fractured on either side of the road, wooden planks sticking out at angles, beds hanging from bedrooms, half chimneys gaping and hollow.

  Throughout the ruins, bells rang, voices yelled, and dust swirled. The sky was alight. The fire brigade was fighting a still-raging fire somewhere down the road. Ambulance crews ferried the injured to the hospital
; Civil Defence workers sifted through the rubble for bodies, alive and dead; a parson ran to and fro. Everyone was in a frenzy to have everything sorted before the next raid began.

  In the midst of it all, the girls held hands tightly. Until, that is, Grace darted away. She stood in front of a space that had once been a house and was now a gaping void. Without warning, her legs buckled, and Flossie lunged to grab her elbow, stopping her from falling at the last second.

  “Was that your house, Grace?” Flossie sat her gently down upon the road and crouched beside her.

  After some time, Grace nodded.

  “Were you in an Anderson shelter when the bomb hit?” Flossie knew that many of the families in this street would have Anderson shelters in their tiny back gardens, courtesy of the government. Strong corrugated iron structures with an arched roof, they were dug into the ground and then the disturbed soil was piled on top. They were extremely sturdy but could not survive a direct hit.

  Grace gave no answer, though she gestured to Flossie’s pocket. Flossie reached inside and pulled out the notebook and pencil.

  “You keep it,” she told Grace as she handed it to her again. “So, were you in the shelter?” she asked, her voice quieter this time. She didn’t want to push, but she needed to find out what was going on.

  Grace wrote. Flossie could see that writing the single word was a painful exercise in itself.

  “Your mother was in the shelter?”

  Grace’s eyes, fearful, met Flossie’s.

  “And your father?”

  Flossie bit her lip. If her heart could have clenched, it would have. Grace’s father was fighting in Egypt, and her mother was most likely gone. Flossie opened her mouth to say something about her own father having been in the navy, then closed it again. That was a story that didn’t end well. She remembered something else. “And your sister?”

  Grace’s fingers trembled as she wrote.

  A group of men started down the road, approaching them. Flossie stood and offered Grace her hand. Flossie saw that the group was a mix of Civil Defence workers, a civilian, and a man whose helmet read PDSA — the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals, or animal rescue. Beside him trotted a sweet little wirehaired fox terrier. They all stopped when they came to what was left of Grace’s house. Flossie noted that Grace’s expression perked up when she saw the civilian — a young man.