by Amy Cross
"You gonna look into it?" Laverty asks.
Staring at the little pile of diaries, I realize that I have no choice. Lockhart's claims were ludicrous, but there was just enough detail to make them worth noticing. In addition, several elements of his story seem to have been linked to the disappearances of a handful of local girls. While I have no doubt that Mr. Lockhart's story was essentially false, I'm nevertheless starting to believe that perhaps it would be wise to dig a little deeper into this man's activities.
Elly
Today
"I'd have hated this," my father says, whispering in my ear as I stand at the door of the crematorium. It's a dull, gray Monday lunchtime, and although it's not actually raining, the heavens are clearly about to open at any moment. Great. It's as if the weather is conspiring to make this day as miserable as possible.
"You know I always hated formal occasions," my father continues after a moment. "I'd have been happier if you'd just taken my body down to the bottom of the garden and thrown me on the compost heap. The worms could have had their way with me, if you'll pardon my French."
"This isn't for you," I say quietly.
"Who's it for, then?" he asks, sounding shocked. "I'm the one in the fucking box!"
I turn and look back inside, seeing my mother fussing around at the front of the room. She's fiddling with the flowers, trying to make sure that everything's absolutely perfect. This day is for her. Not for my father. Certainly not for me. It's for her. She needs to say goodbye to the man to whom she's been married for more than half her life. How could I ever have seriously considered abandoning her on a day like this? What kind of monster am I?
"He's not gonna be here," my father continues. "Mark, I mean. He's probably somewhere like Singapore or Hong Kong right now. Somewhere fun. Somewhere sophisticated. Seriously, Elly, if you were a handsome young billionaire, would you choose to come to a crappy little crematorium tucked away in a boring little London suburb?"
"No," I say a little bitterly, shivering as an icy wind blows across the car park. "I wouldn't."
"Of course you wouldn't, he says. "Oh well, at least we're not at a church. I made your mother promise to never hold my funeral in a church, but I always thought she'd break that promise. I thought she'd have a big church all done up, with choirboys and hymns and a priest."
"I think you're still getting the priest," I say. "Sorry about that."
"No big deal," he replies.
"A woman priest," I add.
"Ooh, controversial. Now get your dutiful daughter face on, kid. We've got company."
I watch as a car pulls off the main road and parks nearby, and moments later a middle-aged woman comes tottering toward the crematorium, with a man close behind. The wind gently ruffles their clothes, and the woman has to keep one hand on top of her head in order to stop her hat blowing away.
"Hi," I say, taking a deep breath as I spot two more cars arriving in the distance. "We have an order of service printed out for you," I explain, thrusting printed A4 sheets into the arrivals' hands. "You can sit anywhere you like, except the first row, which is reserved."
"Elly?" says the woman, staring at me. "Is that little Elly?"
"Um..." I pause for a moment. "Yeah..."
With no further provocation, the woman puts her arms around me and gives me a huge hug. "I haven't seen you for years!" she shrieks. "I swear to God, last time I saw you, you were so young!"
"Yeah," I reply as I'm finally released from the hug.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she says, grinning from ear to ear. "Don't worry, I'm not offended. I was a friend of your father's from the days when he used to teach at the old comprehensive. I hadn't seen him for years when I heard the dreadful news. I'm so sorry for your loss, but..." She pauses for a moment, and it looks as if there are tears in her eyes. "Oh, your father must have been so proud of you," she continues eventually. "You've clearly grown up to be such a wonderful, intelligent girl."
We keep the small-talk up for a little longer, before finally they head inside to speak to my mother. As more guests approach, I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. I knew people would be a little emotional, but I'm not sure I can handle it if they all want to give me a huge hug. I was watching the National Geographic channel the other day, and I saw a documentary about how rocks are eroded over millions of years by the gentle lapping of the tide; right now, I feel like I'm going to be eroded by all the hugs that are coming my way. By the time the funeral starts, I'll have been worn away to nothing.
"There's a lot more where she came from," my father whispers. "I was a popular guy. There's gonna be at least a hundred more like her, all wanting to give you a big cuddle and tell you what a good girl you are."
"That's fine," I reply.
"Sure it is," he says, clearly finding the whole thing to be rather amusing. "Sure it is."
"Tell me one thing," I say. "That woman. What was her name?"
"You know I can't tell you that," he replies. "I'm just a part of your imagination, remember? I only know the things you know."
Smiling, I greet the next arrivals, and over the following half hour a steady stream of strangers heads into the crematorium, joined by the occasional vaguely familiar face. After a while, I get my greeting down pat, which means I can process each guest in less than a minute, even if they insist on a hug and a quick chat. I turn the whole thing into a game, and my best time is twelve seconds from greeting to dispatching. By the time it gets to one o'clock, the crematorium is packed, and my mother comes hurrying over.
"Is everyone here?" she asks, clearly a little flustered.
"I don't know," I say. "I don't have a list."
"We'll have to get started in a minute," she says. "You should probably come and get ready."
"Yeah," I say, spotting a familiar car pulling into the car park. I immediately feel my heart leap through my chest as I realize that Mark is here. I'd assumed he was going to be a no-show, although I hadn't entirely given up hope, and now here he is. Did he come for my father, or for me?
"Whoever that is," my mother says, "get them seated quickly. Okay?" With that, she heads back inside, leaving me standing in the doorway and watching as Mark gets out of his car and heads this way. As he gets closer, I realize that he's limping, and it looks like he's got cuts and bruises all over his face. Although I've been planning what I might say to him today, all my ideas go out the window as I realize he's in a really bad way. It's almost as if he's been in some kind of traffic accident.
"What the hell happened to you?" I ask, almost shaking with nerves.
"Is this for me?" he asks, barely even making eye contact with me as he reaches out and takes one of the pieces of paper from my hand. He seems pretty pissed off, and hardly in a mood to talk.
"Are you okay?" I say.
"I'm fine," he replies. "I just had a little incident yesterday. Are you going to let me go and sit down or not?"
"You look hurt," I say. "Are you sure -"
"I told you I'm fine," he says, pushing past me and heading over to an empty seat in the corner. This is a side of Mark I've never seen before; he seems rattled and angry, and his usual immaculate appearance has been interrupted by half a dozen scratches and cuts on his face and neck.
"Come on," my father whispers. "Time to get this over with."
Realizing I can catch up with mark later, I turn and hurry along the aisle until I reach the front. My mother is already in her seat, and I guess I'm supposed to take the place next to her. We don't have a very big family, so there are no cousins or aunts or uncles to join us. I take a deep breath as I stand in the aisle and stare at the coffin, and my heart skips a beat as I realize that my father's body is in there. All I can think about is the fact that in a few minutes, he's going to get fed into a giant oven that'll burn him up.
"You nervous?" my father whispers.
"Yeah," I say quietly, barely moving my lips.
"Huh," he replies. "How do you think I feel?"
"Elly!" my mother hisses. "Come and sit down!"
"Go on," my father whispers in my ear. "Take your place. It's show-time. No point hanging around. Besides, you can talk to your boyfriend later."
I take a seat, before glancing over my shoulder and seeing Mark still sat at the very back of the room. He doesn't look at me; it's almost as if he's deliberately avoiding making eye contact. I desperately want to go over and talk to him, but as the music starts up and the priest takes her place next to the coffin, I realize I need to focus on the matter at hand. Before I do anything else, I have to say goodbye to my father.
Inspector Matthews
1895
"When he gets back," I say, handing my card to Mr. Lockhart's manservant, "I'd be most obliged if you could ask him to contact me. It's a matter of some urgency."
"Very good," the manservant replies, taking the card. "I'm afraid Mr. Lockhart might be out of the country for some months, but I'll certainly pass your message along as soon as possible. Good day, Sir." With that, he steps back into the house and pushes the door shut.
Left standing in the street, I find it hard to shake the feeling that there's some part of the Edward Lockhart story that I'm not seeing. I simply cannot understand why the man would have suddenly left the country so soon after he came to me with his fevered claims, and now I am starting to think that Laverty was right when he claimed that the man has in some way been involved in the disappearances of a number of young women. Lockhart is certainly not behaving like an innocent man.
While I am reluctant to escalate the case and attract the attention of my superiors just yet, I cannot help but feel this is a mystery I should look into on my own time. Turning to walk away, I glance across the road and see a man loitering on the street corner. I immediately recognize him as Jonathan Pope, one of London's less scrupulous private investigators, and a man with whom I have clashed on a number of previous occasions. Ordinarily, I would go out of my way to avoid any contact with the scoundrel, but the fact that he is evidently observing Edward Lockhart's house is clearly another coincidence to add to the pile.
"Good afternoon, Inspector," Pope says with a grin as I walk over to him.
"Good afternoon to you too," I reply, glancing back at Edward Lockhart's residence for a moment. "It has been some time since we last met, Mr. Pope, but I'm pleased to see that you're looking as innocent and innocuous as ever."
"Thank you, indeed," he replies.
"A fine day it is," I add. "One might almost wonder why a man would choose to spend his time standing around in an otherwise unremarkable part of the city. Particularly when he is known to prefer the company of drinkers and ladies of the night."
"And one might wonder why an officer of the law would choose to come down here and pay a visit to an otherwise unremarkable household." Pope smiles. "I wasn't aware that Her Majesty's Constabulary had so much free time. Are there no other cases to occupy your time?"
"There are plenty of cases," I reply, "but there is only one man who seems to connect a number of them together. Have you by any chance heard of a Mr. Edward Lockhart?"
"Late of this town?" Pope says. "I certainly have heard that name. In fact, the gentleman seems to have made a rather swift exit. Damned inconvenient for me, I must say. On a purely professional level, of course."
"I hear he has gone abroad," I reply, hoping that perhaps Pope knows something that has so far eluded me.
"That's what they say." He pauses for a moment. "As far as I can make out, the official line is that Mr. Edward Lockhart left late one night, and called for his luggage to be sent after him. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to follow the gentleman in question and see where he was going, but I was able to follow his luggage."
Knowing full well how a man like Pope operates, I reach into my pocket and pull out a few coins, depositing them in his waiting hand. "Well?" I ask. "Where did Mr. Lockhart's luggage go?"
"To the rubbish dump in Bermondsey," he replies. "Funny place for a holiday, if you ask me."
"And for what purpose are you interested in the matter?" I ask. "After all, a man such as yourself is hardly known for his public conscience."
Clearing his throat, he holds out his hand yet again. Reluctantly, I give him some more coins.
"I've been hired by the father of a missing girl," he says. "Elizabeth Cavendish is known to have been cavorting with Edward Lockhart for some time. She'd go into his house and stay for several days, but of late there has been no sign of her. She seems to have been added to the list of young ladies who have shared such a fate. They go into his home, or into his penthouse at the Castleton in Mayfair, but they rarely come out again."
"And you suspect foul play?" I ask.
"Don't you?" He pauses for a moment. "Obviously I cannot divulge all of my findings to you, Inspector. After all, Mr. Cavendish has paid a handsome sum for my services, and I owe him a debt of exclusivity. Nevertheless, I will tell you my general impression, which is that Edward Lockhart was a dangerous man. Dangerous to the ladies of this city, that is. He ate them up and spat them out, but he was not working alone. I am quite certain he had certain co-conspirators, although their names elude me for now." He shrugs. "One must wonder what has happened to Mr. Lockhart, and one can only conclude that perhaps those co-conspirators have tired of him."
"You think he is dead?" I ask.
"I think it most likely. I only wish Mr. Cavendish had engaged my services a few days earlier, instead of relying on the rather pathetic efforts of New Scotland Yard. If I had started following Mr. Lockhart a little sooner, perhaps we could all have avoided this uncertainty and unpleasantness."
"Perhaps," I reply. "I wonder, Pope, if you would be so kind as to keep me informed of your progress in this case. As you can imagine, my curiosity is piqued."
"I am more than happy to keep anyone informed of my progress," he replies, "provided they pay my regular fee. I shall happily let you know if I have any juicy details to divulge, but I'm afraid it would be a rudeness to my existing clients were I to simply throw out my hard-earned information to anyone who asks." He smiles. "We both know that a case such as this is never going to get far if it's left to your lot, Matthews. Lockhart was a well-connected man, and I'll wager that his co-conspirators have some high-placed friends. If you get close to sniffing out the truth, you'll be shut down cold. People in high positions don't take kindly to having their dirty underwear washed in public, do they?"
"There is such cynicism in the air of late," I say, turning and walking away. Jonathan Pope can be an infuriating figure, and he has a level of arrogance that cannot help but shock a decent man, but he is no fool and I cannot help but acknowledge that he is one of the finest private investigators in the city. If he is interested in this case, then there is clearly something out of the ordinary occurring. Furthermore, I fear he is correct on one point: if this case truly does involve members of the aristocracy, I am quite certain they will close ranks to protect one another as soon as they realize they are being investigated. Nevertheless, I feel there is one person in London who might yet shed some light on this situation, and I must not let a sense of propriety prevent me from paying her a visit. Nevertheless, I must prepare myself for a fight. There are certain corners of this city where officers of the law are most certainly not welcome.
Elly
Today
"Graham Bradshaw was a man who touched the lives of everyone in this room," says the priest, smiling kindly as she stands by the coffin. "He was a man who cared deeply for others, and who went out of his way to help his friends and family whenever they were in need. He was selfless and generous, and he was not only a loving husband and father, he was also a valuable and important friend and colleague to many, and an upstanding member of the local community."
"I was a pain in the ass," my father whispers in my ear. "I didn't help people because I cared about them. I helped them because I knew it was a good way to get what I wanted. I played a long game. Suckers."
I take
a deep breath. This whole situation is so surreal. The priest is talking about my father as if she knew him, but they never even met. She's just patched together an assessment of his life, ignoring all the interesting parts and focusing instead on a series of banal generalizations. Seriously, I bet she says almost exactly the same words at every funeral, just making a few factual changes each time. Am I the only one who can see through this bullshit?
"Have you noticed the woman sitting directly behind you, three rows back?" my father whispers.
I keep my eyes on the priest.
"Go on," my father continues. "Take a quick look."
I glance briefly over my shoulder, and see a middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes. I immediately look back at the coffin, determined not to draw attention to myself.
"Did you see her?"
I give an imperceptible nod, just enough to acknowledge the question.
"That's Felicity Haughton. You remember that name, don't you?"
I sigh. Felicity Haughton was a friend of my father's from way, way back. Over the years, I pieced together a few parts of the story and came to the conclusion that they were in love with each other. For whatever reason, they never got together and they each married other people. I don't know exactly what happened, but every so often I'd see my father daydreaming and I'd wonder if he was thinking of the life he might have had if only he'd married Felicity Haughton instead of my mother.
"That woman was the love of my life," my says. "Not your mother. Sorry, kid, but it's true. I loved your mother, sure, but my heart belonged to Felicity Haughton." He pauses for a moment. "I was sleeping with Felicity. I was having an affair for the last six years of my life. Your mother never knew, but you suspected, didn't you?"
Ignoring the priest as she keeps talking, I take a deep breath, wishing this voice would leave me alone.
