The Lost Journals of Benjamin Tooth

by Mackenzie Crook

  In the envelope was a crisp bank bond made out to the value of £2,000. I was all but speechless and only managed a stuttering ‘Thank you’ before making my way out of the office with instructions to return in twelve months, past the hapless Mr Belch, and finding myself back on the bustling streets of London, richer than I could have imagined.

  My reverie did not last for long. I walked into Ray Street and as I passed by Pickled Egg Walk I suddenly felt someone seize me from behind. A hand clamped itself over my mouth and dragged me back into the alley. Though I could not see my assailant’s face, from the smoothness of the skin and the waft of stale bergamot I knew this was somebody I had encountered before. I was pushed into a doorway and spun around to face a grimacing Farley Cupstart who held me fast, at arm’s length, by the throat.

  ‘Well?’ he hissed. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Where is what?’ I choked.

  ‘You know what!’ His pale eyes were manic. ‘My property! That is what!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’ I protested but once again he tore my satchel from my shoulder and spilt the contents on to the filthy cobbles.

  *

  He then roughly checked my coat pockets before sinking to the ground with a mournful wail and holding his face in his hands.

  ‘Time is running out,’ he whimpered. ‘I must have it before it is too late!’

  ‘If you could tell me what it is you are looking for then I might be able to help you,’ I offered, and he looked up with desperate eyes.

  ‘What I showed you!’ he moaned. ‘what I drew for you those weeks ago on Windvale Moor!’

  ‘But you’ve never told me what that drawing meant, what it’s meant to be, and it wasn’t weeks ago, it was years!’

  ‘Years?’

  ‘Yes!’ I cried in frustration. ‘Four or five years ago.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ he murmured. ‘Years? Time goes so fast. All is lost, all is lost.’

  ‘And you destroyed my house!’ I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me as the pathetic figure sobbed into his hands. ‘And you destroyed my family! So tell me what I am supposed to be looking for! Tell me what is this thing that is so important to you!’ Now I grabbed him by the throat and he looked up terrified at me.

  ‘I am weak!’ he gasped. ‘You’ll kill me!’

  ‘Tell me!’ I was now seething with rage.

  ‘It is gone!’ His voice was now no more than a whisper and all strength seemed to have drained from him. ‘It is lost. Gone. All hope is gone.’

  *

  I left Cupstart whimpering in Pickled Egg Walk and turned north, wishing to escape the mayhem of the city. Before long I found myself surrounded by fields and pastures. Presently I came to Bagnigge Wells where many well-dressed people were gathered in beautifully manicured gardens along the banks of the Fleet River. I paid my shilling and entered. I wandered for an hour or more through the borders and walks, past fishponds with stunning orange fish and genteel musicians who played sweetly in the autumn sunshine. The contrast of the tranquil gardens to the cacophonous pandemonium of the city was a breath of fresh air (although the Fleet River has its own unique fragrance) and there I found some peace and quiet to contemplate my new fortune and what it meant for my future.

  I decided that the first thing I must do is to pay back Mr Gadigun and buy myself out of my apprenticeship. I have learnt much from him but know that, now my situation has been improved, I do not want to follow him into the taxidermy trade.

  When the time approached to meet the coach back home I decided to walk further north and intercept it on the road rather than return to the city at dusk. This I did and arrived back in Stonebridge a little past nine of the clock.

  *

  And so I find myself at my workbench above the piece of floor that has been my bed for the last four years. I will work out my month’s notice with Mr Gadigun and then start on renovating the old house in Church Street that has fallen into dereliction since Mother died and it has been empty. Mrs Gadigun wept bitterly when I told them I was leaving and made me promise to visit often, saying that I was the son she never had.

  My head is bursting with possibilities but there are two things I know I must achieve before anything else. Firstly to secure a place of study at university.

  Secondly to ask for the hand in marriage of Miss Izzy Butterford.

  Sunday 1st November 1772

  I have been reading a lot about the ancient art of alchemy. Alchemists of the past have been able to turn common substances into precious metals. But they told no one of their methods and the secret has been discovered and lost several times.

  I think I know how to do it.

  I have to deduce the individual ingredients and the quantity of each needed to make gold. To work out the exact combination will require a dedication.

  After many hours of careful thought I have discovered that gold consists of five different elements: blood, fire, water, honey and a sense of foreboding. I have made several attempts, the only product of which was a foul-smelling grease, which I have yet to find a use for.

  The sense of foreboding is hard to muster when I am so excited by my work.

  *

  Dined tonight of the scrag end of a neck of mutton with potatoes boiled and a cucumber.

  Monday 23rd November 1772

  I have been back in my old home in Mereton for a week. The years of my absence have not been kind to the old place. The death-watch beetles have eaten all the chairs and the smell of damp is all-pervading.

  I tracked down Eleanor, our old maid, and asked if she would consider resuming her post as housekeeper.

  After a week of work we have rendered the house habitable once more and some new items of furniture arrived yesterday.

  The plaster and paint on the front of the house is crumbling and peeling but I shall wait until the spring to start work refurbishing the exterior.

  Wednesday 24th March 1773

  Two things happened today of great and puzzling significance.

  I awoke to read the following piece in The Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser:

  Mysterious Death in Westminster

  Yesterday was found in Dean’s Yard, Westminster, the body of one Farley Cupstart, a gentleman of no fixed abode and belonging to no parish.

  Mr Cupstart was found standing bolt upright with a smile upon his face but stone cold and rigid, as though he had been quite dead for a number of hours. There were no marks upon his body and no clue as to cause of death. The deceased had the appearance of a young man though papers found about his person revealed him to be three and ninety years of age. Many are claiming witchcraft and sorcery as the cause of his death but officially it has been recorded as ‘old age’.

  So that disturbing and sinister personage has gone from my life and I feel a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Though he has left many questions unanswered, it certainly fits that he was older than he seemed to be. He frequently referred to a time when he knew my great grandfather ‘many years ago’, which he could not have done if he had been the age he appeared.

  *

  As if that piece of news were not enough for one day, the townsmen who are stripping and refurbishing the outside of the house have uncovered plasterwork above the door of a design that set my blood racing. It was mid-morning when I went out to inspect their work and just in time as they were about to pull down a circular plaque about a yard in diameter.

  *

  At first, though I recognised it, I could not recall where I had seen it before. But then with a rush of wonder I realised it was the same image that that scoundrel Farley Cupstart had sketched on a piece of paper on Windvale Moor all those years ago. The same image that had set in motion a chain of events leading me, for better or worse, to where I am now. I remembered sketching the image in my journal. I ran inside to find it.

  There is no doubt in my mind that the two images represent the same thing.

  So is the plaque what Cupstart was looking for? I ass
ume not, as he could not have thought I had a large plaster relief hidden about my person or in my satchel. So this must be just another representation of whatever he was so desperate to get his hands on.

  I am almost certain that Grandfather must have made the plasterwork and put it there many years ago before I was born but I am still no nearer understanding what it means. Nor do I know the next step to unravelling the mystery. Cupstart is dead and Grandfather, I must assume, is the same.

  Thursday 25th March 1773

  I awoke early and, with the news of Farley Cupstart’s demise still fresh in my mind, decided today was the day to start my life in a new and positive direction. I felt that destiny was smiling upon me and resolved to take advantage of that good fortune and ask Izzy Butterford to marry me.

  I dressed in my London clothes and set out to Stonebridge, stopping along the way to gather an armful of Izzy’s favourite hedgerow flowers. The sky was such a shade of blue and the spring breeze so warming on my skin that I felt the world was on my side and there was no way she would refuse me.

  Oh, Journal, how wrong I was.

  As I crossed the green towards Fishpool Lane who should I spy sitting under an old walnut tree but Izzy? And who should I spy sitting next to her and holding her hand? Well, Journal, it wasn’t me. I felt as though an arrow had pierced my heart as I saw Izzy smiling happily up into the face of some village idiot who presumed to take my love from me. I was so struck with grief that I just stood and stared until the intruder noticed and whispered to Izzy, whereupon she looked up and came skipping across the green.

  ‘Benjamin!’ she cried gleefully and threw her arms about my neck. ‘How wonderful! I have been thinking about you this past two days!’

  I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out.

  ‘Benjamin, you’ll never guess!’ (I already had.) ‘I’m to be married!’ My world came crashing down around my ears.

  ‘Come and meet him, Ben, do!’ and I found myself being dragged by the hand to the fateful tree to meet my enemy. ‘And you’ll never guess!’ Izzy continued as she dragged, though I was in no mood for guessing games. ‘His name is also Benjamin! Isn’t that too funny?!’ I admitted that it was about the funniest thing I had ever heard and found myself standing before him. He remained sitting on the bench and looked me up and down with an air of amusement.

  ‘And who might this be?’ he asked and it was all I could do to prevent myself socking him in the eye.

  ‘Benjamin my love,’ said Izzy (to him), ‘this is also Benjamin, my dearest friend in the world!’ Again he looked me up and down.

  ‘Shake hands, Benjamins!’ said Izzy, enjoying the extraordinary coincidence. ‘I just know you are going to be the closest of friends!’ Knowing the opposite and struggling against every instinct in me, I pushed my hand towards him. He looked at it and then reluctantly offered his own. It was like grasping a dead fish and I suppressed a shudder, struggling not to then wipe my hand on my britches.

  ‘Benjamin is to be a doctor,’ she said, referring to the chinless booby, ‘and we are to live in London while he studies.’ If my heart could have broken any more it would have done at that moment.

  ‘Nice flowers,’ said the young man, pointing at the bouquet at my side. ‘Who are they for?’

  ‘For you,’ said I.

  ‘For me?’ said he.

  ‘No, I mean for Izzy,’ and I handed over the flowers. ‘Congratulations to you both.’

  ‘Then you knew!’ she cried and again threw her arms around me, much to the obvious annoyance of her beau. ‘You are such a complete darling! You must come to the wedding!’

  I muttered something about ‘wouldn’t miss it for the world’, offered my congratulations once more and turned to face a miserable walk back home.

  *

  On the way back I tried to kick a chicken but missed and fell hard on my rump. It feels bruised but I can’t see and I’m certainly not asking Eleanor to look.

  *

  All is not lost. I can still win back my Izzy. I have discovered that her wedding is to be delayed until her betrothed has qualified as a doctor. All I have to do is qualify before him and make my name as an eminent scientist. I shall start in earnest on the morrow.

  Wednesday 26th May 1773

  I have come to the conclusion that I was born in the wrong age. My intellect is too advanced to be appreciated in this time and will only be seen for what it was in future centuries when humanity catches up with me.

  Not long after my last diary entry I started in earnest writing letters to the heads of all the major colleges in the land, telling them of my brilliance and my wealth and even including examples of some of my private studies. From the majority came no reply whatsoever, not even an acknowledgement of receipt. Those that did respond sent short and humiliating rejections.

  No matter. I need not the help or guidance of those imbeciles and will continue my work unaided and unfettered by their narrow minds. I will take my findings direct to the people. I will publish independently and sell wisdom door to door.

  *

  An Experiment: I have heard it said that if one stops washing one’s feet, after several weeks they start to clean themselves. Apparently the natural oils in the skin begin to cleanse the feet and they eventually become sweet-smelling and silky smooth.

  I shall experiment by bathing one of my feet as normal and leaving the other unwashed.

  Thursday 3rd June 1773

  I am still haunted by the mystery of Farley Cupstart and my grandfather and have exhausted all avenues of investigation. I am convinced that I will find the answers on Windvale Moor and spend all of my spare time in that lonely place searching for a sign. However, it takes the best part of a morning to travel to the moor and I have decided that I need a more permanent base there from which to conduct my search. There is a ruined farmhouse on the moor just north of a narrow, clear-running brook. It has, by its appearance, stood empty for many a year and so I have made an application to buy the ruin and the acre of land on which it stands.

  *

  Abed early with Earwax.

  Monday 14th June 1773

  A bothersome ghost is frightening the maid. The spectre of John Brickett (who was master cook to King Henry VIII) is oft to be seen sitting in the chair at the foot of the stairs. Or, rather, his wig and occasionally his clothes appear in the old oak chair that once belonged to that gentleman.

  (Mr Brickett was burnt at the stake for burning the King’s steak and it seems I purchased his ghost along with his chair.)

  Apparitions bother me no more than mice, they are merely a nuisance, but Eleanor is terrified of the thing and refuses to sweep the stairs or hallway.

  My ginger cat keeps the mice at bay but seems greatly fond of Mr Brickett, oft-times curling up in his spectral lap.

  I shall turn my thoughts to a ghost trap.

  *

  Dined today of a giblet, boiled with raisin and currant suet pudding and turnips.

  Friday 18th June 1773

  After some experimentation I constructed the below in order to capture Mr Brickett’s ghost:

  The trap uses a large sponge squeezed into a tight ball with leather straps. When the trap is sprung the straps are released allowing the sponge to expand to its full size at a gradual and controlled rate. This slowly draws the apparition into the porous structure and holds it therein.

  I positioned myself in the hall with a twine in my hand and after a wait of perhaps an hour and thirty minutes I witnessed the spectre descending the staircase and making himself comfortable in his chair. Thereupon I pulled my twine and watched as his ghostly garments were sucked into the sponge. A job well done.

  *

  Dined of a sheep’s head, cold with greens.

  Saturday 19th June 1773

  After last even’s successful experiment, and in my haste to get to bed, I left Mr Brickett in his spongy prison next to the kitchen basin and forgot about him.

  In the morning Eleanor took my sp
onge to clean her own house and, in wringing it out, inadvertently released Mr Brickett’s none-too-happy ghost.

  I can’t say I’m too upset. Serves her right for nicking my sponge.

  Wednesday 7th July 1773

  Today I heard that my offer on the old farmhouse on Windvale Moor has been accepted. I shall start work immediately on its restoration.

  Tuesday 20th July 1773

  Results of Self-cleaning Feet Experiment:

  I found that the foot I stopped washing on 26th May got progressively dirtier and more smelly until the cheesy odour started attracting flies and mice.

  I therefore conclude that feet do not clean themselves.

  I shall publish my findings in a pamphlet.

  Wednesday 20th October 1773

  Work has almost finished on the house that I have bought on the moor.

  I have decided to carry out an extensive survey of the flora and fauna of the moor and I will be able to move my books and equipment in in the coming days.

  I have named the house ‘Tooth Acre’.

  Saturday 23rd October 1773

  Exciting reports this morn that a large ape has been washed up on the beach at Inglesea. I will travel there presently and see if I can procure the beast. The opportunity to study such an animal would be incredibly interesting and I understand that they can, with patience, be tamed and become good companions.