by David Haynes
“Acting for?” He had momentarily been distracted by the display of my work.
I tapped my ledger. “Yes sir. Who shall I record as the client?”
He peered closely at a photograph of a poor deceased infant wrapped in her christening gown. “These photographs are particularly disturbing.” He removed a white handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. He clearly found the material distasteful.
“Sir?” I enquired again.
“Yes?” He turned away from the image with a look of disgust on his face. “The name? You do not need to know the name.” He handed me a card adorned with an address. “My client does not wish to be named but you are requested at the address precisely at eight o’clock this evening.”
I took the card from him. “My rate sir is…”
Eldritch turned away as if the discussion of finance was as distasteful as the image of the infant. “I have been instructed to pay double your usual rate. I suggest you accept the offer.”
I need not think about such an offer, for although business was good, there was no telling when the boom would end. “Gladly I’ll accept it sir. You may tell your client I shall arrive promptly at eight.”
Eldritch said no more and walked from the studio as quickly as he could without running. Photography, I suspected, was not to his taste; particularly photography of the dead.
I turned the card over in my hand. It was simple yet with an elegance to the writing which suggested wealth. Indeed, being paid so handsomely for what was my usual business indicated a strong desire in addition to fortune. I put the excessive payment down to the urgent nature of the request and gave the matter no more thought.
I arrived at the address, as instructed, promptly at eight and gave the driver a penny to aid me with my equipment. I knew from the card that the address was on a fashionable and expensive avenue in Belgravia; and had Saundersfoot still been alive, he would have clapped both hands together at his good fortune. This was the abode of a family of considerable wealth. I took the steps to the door and knocked three times. Attached to the door was a wreath of laurel, tied with black ribbon. It warned of a death within.
A servant allowed me entrance and led me, in silence, along a gloomy corridor. In the flickering light of the spluttering gas lamps I spied portraits hung on the wall. As soon as the vague image of one faded away, so began the frame of another. I could not hope to count them all, for not a bare space of wall was to be found. The members of this family were all recorded on canvas in oil; but none was as exact as a photograph taken by me.
In the hall I was presented by a valet who, taking some of my equipment, led me in silence up the stairs to the second floor. The picture was no less gloomy for although the portraits had gone, they had been replaced by faded and tattered tapestries. In the passing of a loved one you may expect the mood to be black, yet flowers are often placed to brighten the tone. In this house no such attempt had been made. The chill atmosphere of the house was both literal and symbolic and a shiver danced swiftly along my spine.
The valet led me to the front of the house and into the drawing room. Immediately the mood changed. A fire had been lit and raged noisily in the hearth, sending crackling shadows all about the room. I was greeted by a tall gentleman of advanced years. He immediately took my hand. “Sir, I am glad you have come. Will you take a brandy before we begin?” He indicated for the valet to wait.
“I should like that very much sir. How may I address you? Your man failed to introduce me.” His frail hand gripped mine with a bony embrace. The man was gaunt, almost skeletal, and I suspected whatever expression he chose to wear would present an unpleasant visage. An oversized suit hung from his frame like a filthy coal sack.
“I am Matthew, simply Matthew.”
I looked about the room. Whatever decadence this room had seen in the past was now long forgotten. Ragged drapes clung to the windows; their threadbare filaments were like tangled webs.
“Would you sit for a moment?” Matthew indicated a sofa beside the fire and the valet placed a crystal glass in my hand.
The sofa had been well used and whatever upholstery remained was like medieval torture instruments along my back.
Matthew took his position beside the fireplace and put his hand upon the lid of a black urn. “I expect you are wondering why I have paid you twice your usual amount to conduct this assignment.”
“Sir, it is not my place to wonder. I have come at short notice and that is enough for me.”
Matthew laughed; a cold and miserable sound. “Very good, but I shall tell you a little of the matter before us. I have seen your eyes upon my house; the signs of decay and loss are evident.” He tapped the lid of the urn. “My wife is long gone but she would despair at what has become of us. As you can see we were a wealthy family but neither time nor fortune has been our friend. There have been… indiscretions which have taken considerable portions of that wealth and there have been more recent incidents which have taken my health. I know I am not long for this plane.”
Matthew, appeared ill, of that there was no doubt. If this was to be my assignment, then so be it, although it appeared somewhat premature.
“You have finished your brandy sir?” Matthew asked and I handed the glass to the valet.
Matthew took the urn of his wife’s ashes and walked towards the drawing room door. “Shall we begin then?”
The valet took my equipment and we both followed Matthew back out into the cold passage. Should one miscreant spark from the spluttering lamp land on the dusty old tapestries I had no doubt we would all be cremated in an instant. Matthew’s pace was slow and deliberate, but considering his frame, this was unsurprising.
Eventually we reached a closed door. “Let us begin then.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
As I have told before, I am well used to houses where death has a room of its own. Even with that experience, there was nothing which could prepare me for the foul, malevolent stench of decay which greeted my passage into that room. I swallowed the sour taste of brandy as it warmed my throat on the way back out of my gut.
On every surface there stood jugs of decaying lilies, their petals drooping and brown. Whatever perfume their delicacy once possessed was now absorbed in the reek of mortis. I was thankful no fire had been lit in the room, for although the biting chill of the air was uncomfortable, I had no doubt the heat would have amplified the reek.
A single high backed sofa was turned away to face the empty fireplace; there were no other items of furniture present. Above the hearth, an enormous elaborate mirror was hung and in the oppressive gloom I could see a gossamer veil had been draped upon it.
I could see no body; but the smell told my senses one was present. It was undoubtedly lying in the dark, hidden from view.
“My son lies there.” Matthew’s bony finger, like a diseased twig, pointed to the sofa.
With some dread I approached the settee; it was uncommon for a body to hold such a reek as this. At no other residence had I gone beyond a four day wake; I suspected this had been longer.
Lying full length on the settee was the body of a man. He was dressed, as was the custom, in an evening suit. Neither the valet nor Matthew had come any closer to the sofa and I now stood and alone in the gloom. It was impossible to see any further detail.
“I shall need more light sir; without that, I will be unable to photograph your son.”
“Bring more lamps!” Matthew shouted at the valet in a voice which was unexpectedly harsh.
I fought back the urge to run out of the room and onto the street; the air was a poisonous fume.
Thankfully after only a few seconds the valet appeared with two more lamps. He was reluctant to bring them to me.
“Take them to him then you miserable wretch!” Matthew ordered him again.
The valet walked quickly towards me and placed the lamps on the mantelpiece.
Immediately the horror of what lay before me was revealed in a ghostly glow. There was a body, as I
had expected, but what lay above the collar and tie had long ceased to be a face.
My eyes grew wide in shock and I gasped for the foul air around me. There was nothing but tendons and sinew stretched over bone and muscle. Bulging eyes stared back at me with a lifeless gaze. “What is this?” I uttered.
“Why sir, it is my son, Jonathan.” Matthew spoke gently again. “Jonathan Lovett.”
The name Lovett was familiar to me, as I suspect it was to all of London, if not the world. He had slain a great many men, ripping their faces to make macabre masks for his own amusement. Now, here I was, about to take a photograph of his decomposed body. What ill deeds had I done to deserve this?
I could not take my eyes from the atrocity which lay before me; I was hypnotised by the rotting corpse.
“Sir, I do not think I can take this photograph; he is too far gone.” A cloud of flies gathered over the festering remains of Jonathan Lovett’s face. They had clearly been disturbed from another part of his rotting body.
I heard footsteps on the oak floor beside me, yet still I could not look away. “No, you have quite misunderstood my request. I must apologise for the misunderstanding.” I noticed his voice was softer that it had been when ordering the valet. With relief I looked away and gazed upon Matthew Lovett. My relief was short lived.
Matthew Lovett’s face had been skeletal and unpleasant, but that was nothing as to what it had become.
“My contacts at Scotland Yard assure me this was the mask my son was wearing when he was arrested.” With the shrunken skin of a dozen men stretched over his face Matthew Lovett laughed.
“And now, you shall photograph me with the face of my son; the last of the Lovett men together on an everlasting image.”
A New Costume
First and foremost, I am an entertainer. Secondly, I am a killer. It may surprise you but I believe the two can be partners; uncomfortable perhaps, but with a little creativity, it can be achieved with a certain elegance. Unfortunately it means I carry no reputation as an artiste and must, inevitably, perform only in the smaller halls and theatres of this land. Whilst this somewhat demeans my soul, the anonymity it provides is a means of satisfying both my desires; to entertain and to murder.
I am fortunate enough to have been blessed with the spirit of a performer and provided with the skills to accompany that gift. It has seen me perform many roles in many genres and helped me kill many men.
As a young man I had never had much interest in the theatre but one day I passed a poster which caught my eye. It showed a man of Moorish appearance carrying a giant curved sword. There were other characters on the crude poster but he alone caught my eye; Othello it said beneath his sword. The theatre was nothing more than a ramshackle lodge and being a man of low means I took a seat in the gods. It was the first show I had seen and it was life changing. The theatre and the cast were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I made a vow to myself that this is where I would spend my life.
I felt no connection with the man Othello or the actor himself and found myself increasingly drawn to the character Ioga. His duplicity and seething madness were what attracted me so; the devious natures of his intentions were both frightening and brilliant. The bawdy crowd booed and shouted abuse whenever he appeared and I found myself hating them all. I cheered for him and championed his cause at every opportunity, although I was alone in this. It was after my last call in his support that a fist split my lip and sprayed blood down my shirt.
“Shut up you ignorant fool. We have come to shout at the villain, not listen to your rubbish.” The oaf pushed me off my seat and stole my shoes. His reeking breath smelled of gin and grease.
“Give me my shoes!” I yelled and fought to get them back but he threw them down into the stalls, where they melted away. His friends laughed until they could barely breathe and the oaf yelled at me as I hobbled away. “That’ll teach you to ruin my night!”
I waited for a long time outside that theatre; in the cold drizzle of a dreary night, and when at last he left, I followed him. The brute and his drunken colleagues staggered their way through the gas lit streets; until one by one, his friends left and he was alone. I gave as little thought to what I did next as I would to picking his pocket. He never even heard me step out from the shadows, and as I followed close behind, the stench of gin followed him like a putrid vapour. I felt hatred for that man or for what he had done to me in the theatre. The first blow split his head in a crazed line from top to bottom, and as I raised the rock to hit him again, I spied greyness beneath. It was a strange sight, for beneath the skin, I expected only blood and not this disappointing stain. He sank to his knees and uttered a guttural sound but I brought it down again, hard against his broken skull. I dropped the rock quickly and removed his battered old shoes. “And that sir, will teach you.” Thus began my love for the stage and for taking a life.
I could have done the same to Mr Jonathan Lovett after what he had done to my sister. I could have split his skull like so many others but where is the skill in that? Where is the entertainment? And above all, where is the performance?
I watched as they took the final two generations of Lovett men away from their mansion in Belgravia. Feet first through the door they came, wrapped in white linen as pure as the snow. Yet, even from across the street, in the warmth of the cab, I could smell their decay.
“Sister? Where is my costume?” Susanna sat beside me and as always had her part to play.
“Right here my brother. Here, let me adjust the collar.”
The driver, paid handsomely, drove at a deathly speed away from the house. I knew time was short before the next act began. Before long, he pulled up at the gates and I banged my cane on the roof. “We shall walk from here I think.” I took my sister’s arm and we walked through the grounds, just where we had walked last night. This morning, high in the yew, a dove called to its mate, where last night the owl had screeched to its prey.
“I really think this costume suits you well brother. I think this may be your finest performance yet.”
“Do you think so dear? It feels a little sticky still.”
“After the show, we shall wash the blood off or even better, purchase a new one.”
We took our place beside the graves and waited in silence. After all this time, and after all those performances, I am a little ashamed to say I still suffer with stage fright. The mound of fresh earth beside the freshly dug graves writhed with a mass of excited worms as the procession advanced.
The pallbearers lowered the coffins beside their final destinations and stood back. I was surprised at the attendance for barely a handful of mourners had come.
Two coffins placed side by side; father and son together for eternity.
I coughed to clear my throat for the first line, and looked to the audience.
“Let us commend Matthew and Jonathan Lovett to the mercy of God. We commit their bodies to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”
The coffins were lowered into the earth.
‘I wonder what entertainment I can conjure in my new role as a man of God? The possibilities, at least at the moment, seem endless.’
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