by Ian Whates
“You’re back to visit your friend?” asked Ford, nodding his head towards the lower field. Newbury didn’t have the heart to correct him again.
“Something like that.”
“Well, I can tell you, he’s been keeping me busy.” Ford straightened up, jabbing his trowel into the soft earth by his knees. He looked red faced, and sweat was beading on his forehead. He spluttered, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. The spluttering gave way to a fierce, wracking cough.
“Are you quite well?” said Newbury, redundantly. “Do you need any assistance? That cough has been lingering since last winter.”
Ford waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. I’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.” His voice was a dry croak.
Newbury reached into his jacket and withdrew a small silver hip flask. He unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Ford. “Here, take a nip of that. Might help.”
Ford grinned up at him, then winked, before taking the proffered flask and downing a long draw. He handed it back to Newbury, and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Much obliged to you.”
“You were saying? About Alfred Wither keeping you busy. Has he had a lot of visitors?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I should say you’re the only one who’s come by his grave since he was interred down here, to be honest with you. No, it’s those bloomin’ weeds. Bane of my life, they are. No sooner have I cleared ’em up, then they’re back again. Took a load out this morning, too.”
“Yes, I’ve been wondering about those. I had a friend of mine take a look at the samples you gave me. He says they bear no resemblance to any known flora he can find.”
“Darn right,” said Ford. “I ain’t never seen anything like it.”
“Have they spread?” said Newbury.
Ford shook his head. “No, but then, I’ve kept on top of ’em. Once a day I take a trip down there and clear them up. There’s always new shoots, that’s the thing, glinting in the sunlight. But I keep it nice, like. He might have been a bad man in his time, but all is equal in the end, when they’re six feet under. Toffs and vagabonds alike.”
“You’re a good man, Mr. Ford,” said Newbury.
“Aye, well, I’ll be in for a good rollicking off the vicar if I don’t press on. Been nice seeing you again, sir. I’ve kept that umbrella nice. You can be sure of that.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Newbury. “Until next time.”
He left Ford to return to his work, and meandered down to Wither’s grave, but there was nothing to see. Ford had been true to his word – the ground had been well tended, and there was no sign of the metallic shoots that he’d come to see.
With a heavy sigh, he quit the graveyard for the long walk home.
Summer
The breeze from the open window was pleasant upon the back of his neck, but the sound of the street below was a constant distraction, not to mention the distant chugging of ground trains, the trilling of bicycle bells, and the indecipherable call of newspaper salesmen.
Newbury rose to his feet, crossed the room, and slammed the window down in its frame. Immediately, the room was washed in blissful silence. He supposed he’d be able to manage another half hour of the stifling heat before he had to open it again.
He slumped back into his chair, only to knock his book off the arm, sending it tumbling to the rug, where it promptly snapped shut, losing his page. He issued a frustrated groan. He abhorred the heat. London wasn’t equipped for it. He’d felt differently in India, where the clothes, the buildings and the culture had been designed to accommodate it, but here, in his drawing room, the heat made him feel sluggish and uncomfortable.
He leaned over to collect his book. There was a rap at the front door. He sat back in his chair. The last thing he wanted now was a visitor.
Scarbright’s footsteps followed, along with the murmuring tones of another man. The drawing room door creaked open.
“You have a caller, sir.”
“I’m not receiving callers today, Scarbright.”
“Only, it’s a gentleman who says he’s responding to your advert in The Times.”
Newbury sat forward, peering inquisitively at Scarbright. His advert in The Times? The only recent advert had been months ago, regarding the woman in Wither’s paintings. He got to his feet, smoothing the front of his crumpled shirt. “Well, I suppose you’d better show him in, then.”
“Very good, sir.”
Newbury hurriedly grabbed his ashtray from the sofa and brushed away the spilt ash. Moments later, the gentleman in question was shown through by Scarbright. He was a stocky fellow, clean-shaven, with startling green eyes and hair the colour of Saharan sand. He wore a smart black suit, his collar fastened despite the weather, and as he handed Scarbright his hat, Newbury caught a glimpse of deeply ingrained ink smudges on the side of his right hand. A clerk, then.
“Welcome, Mr…?”
“Merrison, sir. Clifford Merrison.” His voice was a little tremulous, and his eyes were flitting about the place, betraying his nerves.
“Well, Mr. Merrison, why don’t you take a seat? Can I offer you a cigarette?”
“No, thank you,” said Merrison. He took the proffered seat on the sofa, but sat on the very edge of the cushion, as if he dared not relax. Newbury turned his armchair about to face the man, then sat opposite, reaching for his cigarettes.
“You’re here about my advert in The Times?”
“Yes. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. The thing is, you see, I’ve hesitated about coming to see you.”
“And why is that, Mr. Merrison?”
“Because the woman in the paintings is my sister.”
Newbury leaned forward in his chair. “Your sister? Where is she now?”
“The cemetery at St. Bartholomew’s, if you know it?”
“I know it well. I’m sorry for your loss.” Newbury paused, weighing his next words with care. “Might I ask…was Alfred Wither responsible for her death?”
“Oh, good lord, no. Alfred was always a good man. He and Charlotte were engaged to be married. He treated her with the greatest respect. We all adored him, for all his quirks. Had a bit of an artistic temperament, of course, but that’s only to be expected.”
“You’re aware of what he did, I presume? What became of him?”
Merrison nodded. “Yes. I regret that I was unable to attend his funeral, but Father and I… we’re trying to protect Lottie, you see. We didn’t want her name being dragged through the newspapers. She wasn’t a part of what happened to Alfred, and if he’d been in his right mind, he wouldn’t have wanted her associated with all of that.”
“So you agree that he wasn’t in his right mind at the time of his death?”
Merrison shook his head. “No. He was deeply affected by what happened to Lottie. I think it pushed him over the edge, caused his mind to fracture. All that stuff about divine spirits and the afterlife – I think that was his way of trying to find a way to bring her back. That’s how he coped with it all. Or rather, that’s how he tried to cope.”
So that was the connection. That was what Wither had been doing – seeking ways to restore his lost love. He must have suffered tremendously after her loss. “What became of Charlotte?” said Newbury. “What happened to send him so far over the precipice?”
“I fear the burden of her death rests upon my shoulders, Sir Maurice. I’d taken out a higher purchase contract on an automaton from Chapman & Villiers. I’m not sure if you recall the scandal from a few years ago – scores of their automata became crazed, attacking their human masters?”
Newbury could hardly believe what he was hearing. He’d considered the Chapman & Villiers affair long put to rest, but now here was a young man, sitting on his sofa all this time later, explaining how the repercussions of that sorry business were still being felt. “Yes,” he said, his voice level. “I’m aware of the matter.”
Merrison nodded. “Father had thrown a party to celebrate my new position at the bank – I’
m a clerk, you see – and we’d all gathered at the family home. Alfred was there, too, along with a few of his and Lottie’s friends. There was no warning; no sign that anything untoward was about to occur. One minute the automaton was fetching a tray of drinks from the kitchen – the next it had taken hold of Lottie and torn out her throat.” He lowered his head as he spoke, choked with emotion, so that he had to fight to get the words out. “We stopped it, of course. Pinned it down and destroyed it, but it was too late for Lottie. She was already dead. We all saw it happen, right there in front of us. None of us have been the same since.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Newbury, gently. “And it’s after that, that Wither became unhinged?”
“Yes. He stopped visiting. Couldn’t come near the house, because of the memories it evoked. It was all too raw. He didn’t want to see any of us. We tried calling on him, but he had taken to his bed. He refused to answer the door. We sent a doctor round, but even he couldn’t get over the threshold. Then we heard he’d taken up with some spiritualist, and at the time we were relieved. None of us had ever put much stock in that sort of thing, but at least he was talking to someone. Little did we know that he’d already started to concoct his strange fantasies.”
“And that was the last you or your family had to do with him?”
“I saw him once after that, on Charing Cross Road. He was coming out of a bookshop. He looked feverish and unkempt. I tried to intercept him, to ask if he needed anything, but he simply muttered something about a great piece of art he was working on, and brushed me aside as if he barely knew me.” Merrison met Newbury’s gaze. “I realise now that I might have done something. If I’d only stopped him…”
“You cannot blame yourself,” said Newbury. “If anything, the original fault lies with Chapman & Villiers. You put your trust in them, and they failed you. You couldn’t have known what would happen to Wither.”
“I see that you are a generous man, Sir Maurice, and so I shall prevail on your kindness. Please, do not in any way associate my family or my sister’s name with the horrors committed by Alfred. It would be the end of us. We’ve already had to bear so much.”
Newbury nodded. “You have my word. And thank you, Mr. Merrison, for answering my call, and settling the matter in my mind. I had thought there unfinished business, and I see now that it is best left undisturbed. Alfred Wither died of a broken heart, and there is no more to be said.”
Merrison got to his feet. “My thanks to you, Sir Maurice.” He took Newbury’s hand and pumped it firmly. “And now I have discharged my duty. I shall take my leave.”
Newbury walked him to the door. “Before you go, I think there’s something you should have.” He ducked back into the drawing room and collected a picture frame that he’d propped against the bookshelves. “Here.” He held the painting out to Merrison.
Merrison looked completely taken aback. Tears pricked his eyes at the sight of his sister, glancing back at him over her shoulder as she galloped across the moors towards her distant castle. She looked as if she were smiling up at him. “Oh, but Sir Maurice – I can’t.”
“Please. It belongs to you.”
Merrison accepted the frame. He swallowed. “You’re a kind man, Sir Maurice,” he said. “Goodbye.” He ducked out into the hall, daubing his eyes with his sleeve, and a moment later Newbury heard the front door close behind him.
The heat was finally beginning to subside as Newbury made his way along the narrow lane towards the cemetery later that afternoon. The sun was dipping low over the horizon, casting everything in a warm, coppery glow, and the streets were still bustling with folk making the most of the clement weather. Children chased each other and played ball, while others sat out on their doorsteps, sipping drinks and chattering.
The graveyard itself was quiet, and as Newbury closed the creaking gate behind him, he noticed immediately that something had changed. The grass between the headstones was long and overgrown, and speckled with daisies and dandelion heads. It was even beginning to encroach on the path, where previously there had always been a neat and formal division.
He glanced around, searching for any sign of Fred Ford. He was nowhere to be seen. He heard someone cough, and for a moment thought it must have been Ford, over by the church, but it was only the vicar, clearing his throat as he came along the path to greet him.
“Good evening, sir. May I be of assistance? You look a little lost.”
Newbury smiled. “I was looking for Fred. Fred Ford. Is he not working today?”
“Ahh,” the vicar’s expression became suddenly solemn. “He said you might be along. I presume you’re the gentleman who loaned him your umbrella?”
“That’s right,” said Newbury.
The vicar nodded. “I’m afraid I have some rather sombre news. Fred passed away three weeks ago. An affliction of the lungs.”
“Oh…I…” Newbury trailed off, unsure what to say. He’d come to view the old man as something of a fixture.
“I gather the two of you were friends.”
“Well…” Newbury started to correct the man, but then caught himself, and smiled. “Yes, we were friends.”
“Then I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man. He cherished your gift, you know. Used to talk about it often.”
Newbury frowned. “But it was only an umbrella.”
The vicar grinned. “What might have seemed like a trifle to you, sir, meant more to an old man than you could imagine. Often, when we give someone a gift, we give them more than the gift itself.”
Newbury nodded. “He’ll be missed.”
“Indeed. And soon I shall have to advertise for a new gardener. It’s only when someone is no longer there that we truly see how much they contributed. The cemetery was always so well tended.”
“Well, allow me to make a small donation to the church coffers. Perhaps you could use some of it to ensure Mr. Ford is remembered.” Newbury reached for his wallet and withdrew a couple of notes, which he handed to the vicar.
“That’s really most generous of you, Mr…?”
“Newbury. Sir Maurice Newbury.”
“I’m sure Fred would appreciate it, Sir Maurice. Now, is there anything else I can do for you? I can pop the kettle on in the church if you’re in need of a restorative?”
Newbury shook his head. “No, thank you. There’s someone else I’m hoping to look in on while I’m here.”
“Ah, yes. Down in the lower field. It seems like only yesterday since the funeral. A miserable affair, indeed. But good of you to pay your respects.”
“As Fred used to say, it’s not our place to judge.”
“True enough,” said the vicar. “Then good day to you, sir, and my thanks for your generosity.”
Newbury touched the brim of his hat, and set off down the path towards the lower field.
Here, the grass had run even more rampant, the graves left untended for weeks on end. Fred would have been distraught to see it in such a wild state, but Newbury felt there was something appropriate in it; the return to nature, the giving over of the body to the earth.
As he approached, he caught sight of something glinting in the waning sunlight: a twisted, shimmering eruption of stems and leaves. This, he realised, was Wither’s grave run wild, abandoned after Ford’s death, the weeds left to flourish.
He picked up his pace, breaking into a slow jog. Sweat trickled down the crease of his back. As he drew closer, he saw the true scale of the growth – it towered over him, ten, twelve feet tall. It was pillar-like, rising up in a straight column, perfectly unnatural, and yet retaining its odd, organic design. Wither’s small, unadorned headstone had been completely smothered by it.
Newbury approached from behind, peering up at it, hand cupped around his eyes against the setting sun. The leaves glittered and twisted in the breeze. He circled around it, slowly, becoming aware of shifting shapes and forms within the shimmering morass of leaves, nestled deep within the structure of the pillar.
As
he came around the front of the grave, his eyes affixed to the bizarre sight before him, he finally realised what he was looking at. It was a sculpture: an image of a beautiful woman, shifting and turning with every eddy of the breeze, her hair fluttering loosely around her shoulders.
She turned, as if to look at him with her blank, shining eyes, and the expression on her face was immediately familiar. It was Charlotte Merrison.
Newbury staggered backwards, struck with a sudden sense of awe. He could see now that the leaves and stems incorporated exquisitely designed mechanisms, tiny cogs and wheels, levers and joints.
This had been Wither’s final project – his last, magnificent piece of art. This is what he’d known as he committed himself to the flames – what Newbury had seen in his eyes as he’d died. All of it had been a performance. All of it had been leading to this. As Wither’s body decomposed, it had sprouted, treated with whatever arcane or ingenious substances he had devised in the last months of his life. Somehow, he’d imagined this. He’d given his own life to once more give life, of a sort, to his lost love.
Newbury dropped to his knees. In no way did this wondrous piece of art absolve what Wither had done, the lives he had taken in pursuit of whatever demons had haunted his final days. But there was beauty in it, nonetheless.
He felt the prick of a tear in the corner of his eye. He wished Fred could have seen it. For months, the man had laboured to remove the strange growths, to honour the grave of an appalling killer – and in doing so he had held this beautiful, final act of love at bay.
Finally, Newbury understood. He saw what he and Bainbridge had missed. Wither had taken his own life, and he had done so in pursuit of love and art. Out of all the death and horror, he had created something beautiful. He couldn’t agree with what the man had done, but at least he now knew why.
Newbury got to his feet. He would send a note to Clifford Merrison. The man should see his sister one last time.
He started to walk away, then looked back, just as the breeze ruffled Charlotte’s hair, and her face turned, captured for a moment as if she were looking back at him over her shoulder. He hoped that, wherever she was now, she had finally arrived at her castle on the moors.
