The Turnkey of Highgate Cemetery

by Allison Rushby

  As the men passed by, Flossie caught snippets of their conversation. They were talking about a meeting.

  “They mentioned that before. There’s going to be a meeting very soon. In the Cabinet Room. With the prime minister,” Leo said.

  “Tell the young lady what you just told me,” William said to Leo, his expression grave.

  Leo’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, miss, my German’s not that good. Before you got here, just after he’d been in the map room, he did mention something else.”

  “What?” Flossie’s hand clenched tight around its iron ring. “What did he say?”

  “I didn’t catch all of it, but he’d been talking about an invasion. And then, a while after that, he said something about Highgate Cemetery. About Highgate and about Kensal Green, too.”

  Before Flossie could ask any questions, Leo pushed both her and William back into the room.

  “He’s on the move,” he said. “He’s gone into the Cabinet Room.”

  “But wait. You really can’t remember anything else that he said about the cemeteries?” All she could think about was what the German officer might have meant. Why would he be talking about Highgate and Kensal Green? What use could the cemeteries be to him? He couldn’t enter them, because they were safely locked in the twilight. However, she was beginning to see there was a lot to this man that she didn’t understand. He shouldn’t be able to travel. And yet he could.

  “I really am sorry, miss. As I said, my German’s not that good.”

  This was frustrating, but Flossie knew she was lucky that one of the Chelsea Pensioners spoke any German at all.

  “Come down this way so we’re closer. When Churchill arrives, the meeting will start.” Leo gestured for Flossie and William to follow him, and they entered a room where the walls were completely covered in maps. There was a huge wooden desk in the middle of the space and telephones of all colors perched on a raised platform in the middle of it — green, white, black, red. It wasn’t this that caught her attention, though. Even from where she was standing, she could see the black-topped pins on the map on the far wall, gathered and ready to hurtle full speed at Britain across Europe and up from Africa.

  The German army was coming.

  “Ah, here’s the prime minister now,” Leo said, still standing by the door.

  Flossie positioned herself to catch a glimpse of a squat, dark-suited man passing by the door.

  Churchill.

  “I’m going to go and see what the German officer’s doing in there,” she said decisively.

  “I don’t know, miss.” William didn’t seem certain. “Why don’t you let one of us go instead?”

  No. He’d mentioned her cemetery. The cemetery where all her interred were at rest. Including her sister and niece. She couldn’t stop until she found out exactly what the officer was doing here and what his intentions were.

  As she approached, the noise of the men in the room rose to an almost deafening level, bouncing off the windowless walls, everyone speaking at once.

  She reached the open doorway of the Cabinet Room and pressed herself back against the cream-colored painted brickwork. And then, slowly, very slowly, she peeked inside. The group of men was arranged in a square-shaped formation of tables.

  There was Mr. Churchill, at the center of the head table at the front of the room. He was seated in a large wooden chair in front of a vast map of the world. And at the table to his left, only four seats away, was the German officer.

  Despite his high-necked uniform, he looked comfortable in his chair, leaning back, the heel of one of his glossy boots crossed, his ankle resting on top of his leg. The skull was on his lap, and he had one hand protectively upon it.

  Flossie’s eyes widened as she pulled back. He had the nerve to actually sit at the table!

  Flossie thought for a moment. There was something about that skull — the way he spoke to it, cradled it. How he’d hidden it from her when she’d confronted him and he’d run off.

  She looked down the corridor at William and Leo and then, farther up the corridor again, at the other group of Chelsea Pensioners. As one, they beckoned her back to them.

  Flossie shook her head. No. She had to find out more about that skull. What it was. Why it was so important to him.

  She knew what she had to do.

  If she could have taken a deep breath, she would have. Instead, she got down on her hands and knees. She clasped her key between two fingers so it wouldn’t clink against its iron ring, and began to crawl.

  Inside, Flossie was met with a view of a sea of legs. Underneath the tables, she could see the officer’s one glossy boot upon the floor, and it was this that she kept her eyes trained on as she went down the right-hand side of the room. When she got to the end of the table on this side of the room, she rounded the corner and continued up the next side, still hidden from his view. At the end of this table, she peeked around the corner. He was in plain view. He’d spot her in an instant.

  She pulled back and tried to think of another way. She didn’t want to travel. Popping about here and there might remind the Chelsea Pensioners of their own Turnkey and how far away they were from their own cemetery. She didn’t need any more problems right now.

  Flossie checked underneath the tables again. There was that one boot, the other leg still up and crossed, resting upon the other.

  And there was the skull upon his lap.

  She gritted her teeth and passed straight through both the table legs and trousered legs closest to her. It was a horrible, sickening feeling, a pull and push of worlds colliding inside her body — twilight and living. It was over in an instant, and Flossie found herself in the middle of the vacant square space formed by the tables. She kept low until she was directly in front of that boot.

  The shiny blackness of it was so close now that she could have reached out and touched it. She shuffled as close to it as possible.

  The skull grinned back at her.

  She would have to be quick. So quick.

  There would only be one chance.

  Flossie crouched into a starter’s position, took a last long look at the skull — and lunged.

  She tried to ignore the horrible tearing feeling of objects passing through her. She reached out her hands, her key flailing around on its ring, and grasped at the skull.

  The officer jerked away instantly. However, her keyed hand managed to land fully upon the skull as they both stood up together.

  If Flossie had thought passing through the table felt terrible, this was something else entirely. The second she touched the skull, she wanted to pull away, a flood of emotions washing over her body — both good and bad. No, not good and bad, but good and evil. It was as if dark and light, night and day, black and white, battled within the skull.

  And evil was winning.

  As well as this feeling, there were voices. Two distinct voices that swirled and whirled, ricocheting off each other. The older male voice spoke German; the other was higher and younger, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was female or male. She also couldn’t hear the words or the language of the second voice properly — it was as if it were being forcibly subdued. However, even though she couldn’t understand the words of the second person, Flossie could tell the voices were having a heated argument.

  As much as Flossie wanted to recoil, she forced her other hand forward and grappled with the officer. With the skull.

  But he was stronger.

  He pulled back in one swift movement, wrenching the skull from her grasp.

  His eyes met hers, his stare one of hatred. Disgust.

  “Birdwhistle,” he said with a sneer.

  And then, just like that, he was gone.

  Flossie tapped upon the gates at Tower Hamlets with her iron ring, the group of Chelsea Pensioners silent and solemn behind her.

  “I was hoping you’d be back soon. How did you fare?” Ada began to unlock the gates.

  Ada’s Advisor glared down at Flossie. It was almost as
if she already knew Flossie had failed in her attempt to grab the skull and had expected as much all along.

  When they were all inside, William placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll leave you two to talk.”

  Ada looked at her questioningly as William and the other Chelsea Pensioners walked away, already deep in discussion. “I take it things didn’t go as well as you’d hoped,” she said.

  “No.” Flossie sighed, taking in the cold, hard ground, the spindly trees, the ivy-garlanded graves. She began to tell Ada exactly what had happened, from going down to the War Rooms to touching the skull to the German officer’s disappearing trick. “I thought I might be able to grab the skull from him, I really did. It’s not just that, though. There’s more.” Her expression was grim. “He mentioned Highgate and Kensal Green.”

  “What?” Ada said. “What did he say?”

  Flossie explained that Leo hadn’t caught all the details.

  “But why do you think he’d be mentioning the cemeteries?” Ada was instantly worried.

  “I really don’t know. Worse still, he knew my name.”

  “What?”

  Flossie shrugged. “All I can think is that he did some investigating of his own after our encounter on top of St. Paul’s. The way he said it . . .” Flossie shuddered, remembering. “It was as if he hated me. Truly hated me.” She pushed the thought of it aside, trying to get back on track. “I think we really need to move fast now. It might be a good idea to gather the other Turnkeys for a meeting. Together we have a lot of people at our disposal — over a million. Surely one of our interred might know something about this man and the group he’s involved with.”

  “Good idea. Should we meet outside Highgate? As soon as possible?”

  “Yes. You find out where the Turnkey of Brompton is and get the Turnkey of Abney Park as well. I’ll gather the others and —” Her words were cut off by the air-raid siren, which reminded Flossie of something else entirely. “Oh! Grace! How could I have forgotten?”

  “Don’t fret,” Ada said. “The Turnkey of Brompton has been going back and forth and reporting in. Grace’s sister, Ruth, is out of surgery, and they’re both in a ward together.”

  Flossie beamed. “At last! Some good news! I’m so happy for them. And has she . . . ?” Flossie paused, not knowing how to word her question. “Has she rejoined with her body?”

  “No, not yet. But Michael was hopeful that it might happen soon. He’ll stay with her until then.” Ada linked arms with Flossie and they started toward the cemetery gates. “And on that note, let’s round everyone up, shall we?”

  Some time later, outside Highgate, Flossie approached the Turnkey of Nunhead Cemetery and was reminded of Ada’s comment about rounding everyone up.

  Rounding up the Turnkey of Nunhead Cemetery wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I think we’re about to start the —” Flossie began before he interrupted her.

  “Ah, wait one moment.” He began to flick through the notebook he always carried with him. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere. No . . .” He kept flicking. “Ah, I knew it!” Pleased with himself, he closed the notebook. “I was in the middle of some very important work.”

  Flossie tried not to groan. A thin, nervous, twitchy little man, he was always rambling on about his “very important work.”

  “I was a printer in life, you know. I’m making a list of all the typefaces used in my cemetery.”

  “Yes, I know,” Flossie said hurriedly, hoping he wouldn’t make the speech he’d made so many times before.

  But it was too late.

  “Do you realize how many different styles there are in these cemeteries? I’ve documented less than a quarter of my cemetery so far, and yet here I have hundreds of styles noted already. See here! There’s Egyptian Italic, Caslon Italian, Gothic with shading, Chamfered Egyptian, Egyptian with shading, Reverse Italic Egyptian, Reverse Italic Gothic.”

  “Please.” Flossie took his arm. “This way.” She practically dragged him over to the others and stood him beside the sisters from West Norwood. “We’re just waiting on Ada. She’s getting the Turnkeys of Brompton and Abney Park.”

  “Lovely, dear,” Alice and Matilda, the joint Turnkeys of West Norwood Cemetery, said at the same time. Similar in appearance, they were both as white as their twilight existence allowed them to be — with matching white upswept hair and long white shrouds. Between them, they clasped an iron ring with one key on it, each holding on to it with one hand. The sisters had apparently always done everything together. They married two brothers and lived next door to each other. When their husbands died, they lived together again. They had somehow even managed to die of natural causes within a day of each other.

  Ada arrived then with the two Turnkeys, and Flossie went over to greet them. She’d just finished saying her hellos when a low, authoritative voice spoke from behind her.

  “Good afternoon,” it said.

  Flossie whirled around to see a tall Victorian gentleman in an exquisitely cut pitch-black frock coat and top hat.

  Hugo Howsham. The Turnkey of Kensal Green.

  As he swept off his hat, dark curls appeared, tumbling over the tops of his ears. He held the key to his cemetery on its iron ring in one hand. In the other hand he held smart doeskin gloves and a walking stick with an ivory handle.

  Hugo Howsham had been part of the reason Flossie and Ada had become friends. He’d put up with Ada’s presence as a young Turnkey for the simple reason that Tower Hamlets was a modest cemetery and she’d been chosen first of all the Turnkeys — a great honor. But when Flossie was selected for probably the most well-known and prestigious of the seven cemeteries, he’d apparently been appalled that a “child” had been appointed to the task. He’d let all the other Turnkeys know it, too. His only redeeming feature was his lovely sister, Violet. Violet preferred to stay in an awakened state to keep her brother company, and Flossie had met her several times over the years.

  Violet stepped out from behind her brother.

  “Oh, Violet! It’s so good to see you.” Flossie’s eyes met the beautiful Violet’s. And she was beautiful. She wore a stunning teal silk dress with white lace trim, her wavy chestnut hair tied loosely to one side with a matching white ribbon. But it wasn’t just this that was special about Violet. Her nature shone above and beyond these things.

  In life, Violet had been a spiritualist — a person who believed that there was life after death and that the living and dead could communicate. She had told Flossie before that while she had always known in her heart that there was a world of the dead, it had always eluded her, remaining just out of her reach. She had never stopped trying to contact the twilight world, however, hoping that one day she might succeed. Unfortunately, she had been young and naive and had made friends with a famous spiritualist group that claimed to be in constant contact with the dead, except they were only fleecing people for money. When they had revealed their many tricks to Violet at a séance, she was so horrified that she had fled into the street and been run over by a horse and carriage. She had died far too young. Now Hugo Howsham kept a close eye on his sister in death, feeling that he had failed to protect her in life.

  “Flossie!” Violet came over to take her hands.

  Flossie’s eyes flicked nervously toward Violet’s brother.

  “Miss Birdwhistle,” he said, acknowledging her presence.

  Flossie gathered the Turnkeys together so they were all in the one group.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here today,” Flossie said to the group. “I’ll start from the beginning, because I’m not sure what you know. The other night I was atop St. Paul’s . . .” She went on to explain how she had chased the German officer and he had disappeared, how she had visited the Invalids’ Cemetery and met the girl, how the Chelsea Pensioners had helped her track down the German officer again, about the bright skull that he carried and what had happened when she’d tried to take it from him.

  “As I said,
he’s not a Turnkey, but he’s traveling somehow, and he’s doing it without a Turnkey. He’s been overheard reciting coordinates, talking about invasion, and he’s even mentioned both Highgate and Kensal Green cemeteries, though we’re not sure why.”

  There was an explosion of voices as everyone spoke at once.

  “What do you mean he mentioned Kensal Green?” Hugo Howsham’s expression was stern.

  Her keyed hand raised, Flossie waited until the commotion died down.

  So did someone else.

  Violet stepped in front of her brother. “If I may? I have some information.”

  “Of course.” Flossie remembered that not all the Turnkeys would know of Violet’s past. “In life, Violet was a spiritualist. She was convinced that our world existed before she actually died,” she informed the group.

  “I’m afraid to say it,” Violet said, “but this skull that Flossie is talking about . . . I think I know what it is.”

  I believe the skull might be made of crystal. I’ve never seen one myself, but there was much talk of several being discovered while I was still alive. In fact, someone in the group I was involved in —”

  “Violet!” Hugo Howsham snapped, cutting his sister off.

  Violet only held up a hand. “Hugo, please. This is important. I think the skull could be Mayan.”

  Flossie’s eyes widened. “What? An ancient artifact of some kind?”

  “Yes. And from what I know about these skulls, and from what you’ve said . . . well, it’s possible that the officer’s soul may have been placed in it. There is a process I’ve heard whispers of where these skulls are concerned. The soul can be captured at death and held within the skull, so that it lives forever.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “How can he be carrying it with him in the twilight world?” Flossie continued. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know,” Violet answered. “It might have something to do with his soul being held within it. Can you tell me more about what you felt when you touched it?”