by KW Jeter
“Begging your pardon – but allow me to disagree.” The man’s own words seemed to amuse him, the smile becoming even warmer and more ample. “The opprobrium which chafes upon you – understandably so – is not universal; I can assure you of that, my dear Mr Dower. Permit me to present myself – the name is Rollingwood; Herbrace Rollingwood – as one of that party who are, to a small measure, aware of your services to the greater community.”
The words of this Rollingwood person aroused a measure of suspicion in my breast. The chances that he was sincere in his admiration were small, based upon my previous experience with those who professed such an emotion; all of Rollingwood’s predecessors in that regard had been scoundrels intent on wickedness, usually hoping to employ me as a cat’s-paw in advancing their schemes. But still – breathes there a man so jaded in his assessment of others’ motives, that he cannot hope, however foolishly, for some bright spot amongst them?
“Forgive my asking…” I was not yet completely convinced as to his relative innocence. “But what exact services are they, which you speak of?”
“I am sure, Mr Dower, that you recall the havoc and subsequent damage to London city, with which your name is associated–”
“Forgetting those events would be difficult. Even at a point this far removed from them.”
“Exactly so,” allowed Rollingwood. “But with the re-establishment of order, there has been a blurring of memory; I am certain that for the majority of people, even those who were directly affected – I mean the survivors, of course – there would be scant recall of your identity. We forget, do we not? Perhaps laudably so. But as I indicated, there are some who still recall that affairs might have gone very much worse, had it not been for some of your efforts.”
“Very well, Mr Rollingwood.” I set the poker down, angled just inside the doorway, and stepped back to afford entry to my visitor. “I assume you have some other purpose here, other than informing me that not all the world considers me a total blackguard. If you would care to inform me as to how I might assist you, please do so.”
“I will not trouble you long.” Gazing about himself where he stood in the centre of the inn’s parlour, the gentleman removed his gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his coat. “My errand is simple. I merely wish to remove your wife hence, and take her to London.”
“My wife is dead, sir.”
“Of that sad circumstance, I am aware.” Rollingwood’s smile had already disappeared, now replaced by a spaniel-eyed expression of sympathy. “Allow me to express my deepest condolences upon your loss.”
The gentleman’s sentiment was only exceeded by the apparent sincerity that had engendered it. He was of that breed possessing a surfeit of human warmth, which suffered others’ pangs as sharply as though they had been his own. Such persons must be constituted of sterner stuff than is the general run of Mankind; how could they survive in this cruel world otherwise?
“That is all very fine, Mr – Rollingwood, is it? – Mr Rollingwood, then. All very fine.” I regarded him askance, as though prepared to witness his kindly mask whipped away, and replaced with a rather more cunning one. “If you had come all this way merely to express that commiseration, then you are certainly welcome; I do appreciate it. But you speak of removing that person whose loss I am still grieving, as though she were a chest of drawers that has become inconvenient through disuse. You will have to pardon me if that remark gives me some pause.”
“No, no; forgive me, Mr Dower.” He slightly bowed his head, revealing through his thin, fine hair the scalp which had been pinkened by the morning sun; by the time he was past his thirties, he would likely be balding. “Perhaps I spoke hastily; I meant no rudeness – but I know as well that you are a busy man, with a great many duties to which you must attend. Life must go on, even as we mourn.”
“Just so,” I said. “I do indeed have a number of… pressing concerns.” I was hardly about to inform him of being beleaguered by amorphous, water-borne postmen bearing enigmatic messages, and being shot at in the night by unknown persons; I could scarcely see how any of those things were his business. “So if there were some other matter which you wished to discuss with me, I would appreciate your informing me of it.”
“By all means.” He placed his hands behind the small of his back and drew himself taller, as though on military parade. “I have the pleasure of representing the Gravitas Maximus Funerary Society, and it is on behalf of that esteemed organization that I appear before you today.”
“Forgive my ignorance, Mr Rollingwood; I am sure that your… society, or whatever it is… would rank as high in my opinion as it does in other people’s, if I knew what it was. I lead a secluded life here, of my own choosing; many famous things happen, of which I remain happily unaware.”
“I am certain that is the case; I harbour no intention of disturbing your solitude here – which is rather to be envied, I assure you.” Another tilt of the head, this time with the ingratiating smile having returned to his face. “As you might have surmised from its name, the corporate entity with which I am associated has a great deal to do with the dead – indeed, it exists for no other purpose.”
“The dead seem to be taken care of well enough, by those means which Mankind has employed for quite some time now – at least, that is, I am not aware of many complaints coming from those who have passed on.”
“But are they, Mr Dower? Are they?” My visitor spoke with a sudden passion. “We live in a modern world–”
“Unfortunately.”
“Precisely my point! Times have changed, and we must change with them.”
“I was rather hoping to be dead myself,” I averred, “before that became a necessity.”
“But you are not, sir; and thus you bear a duty to those whose terminated circumstances render it impossible for them to defend their own interests. Think of your wife, whom you loved while she was with you. Is it fit that she not be memorialized in a fashion commensurate with your tender, sacred memories of her?”
“Very likely not–” His words evoked some agitation in me. “But there’s little I can do about it now.”
“Forgive me–”
“Why should I?” The full fury of my temper was set free, like maddened horses unstabled. “You turn up on my doorstep unannounced, which seems to be a privilege that the whole bloody world grants itself, and then you go blathering on about my poor dead wife. You profess yourself to be well disposed toward me, and then you speak as if I were exactly the same heartless bastard that everyone else has determined me to be. Very well then; I am that monster! Have you satisfied your curiosity concerning that? I sincerely hope so, as I fail to see what other business there is to transact between us.”
“If not business, then pray let there be peace between us, Mr Dower. I meant no insult to you.” Rollingwood wrung his hands before himself now, in a perfect agony of abasement. “If you wish me to depart, with my having given you nothing but my deepest apologies, then so be it – what a clumsy, blundering idiot I am! But say the word, and I will burden you no longer with my presence.”
“Never mind.” I was somewhat mollified, as one would be when confronted by an errant hound, grovelling in shame. “You were brought here for something you obviously felt important; something to do with this Funerary Society in whose service you are – and something to do with my late wife. I can scarcely see any connection between the woman and your organization – or any organization, for that matter; her earthly affairs are at an end. But I am capable of giving you enough courtesy, and a few minutes, for you to state your exact purpose.”
“I appreciate that, Mr Dower; I will endeavour to be brief. Our world, as you and I seem to agree, is full of modern contrivances, the wizardry of newly unleashed forces. Alas, the mastery of them lags behind their advent; much consternation is brought about by bumbling, well-intentioned souls, who throw switches and engage gears without fully comprehending how these devices operate, and things that might go wrong with them.”
“Trust me.” I spoke sourly. “I have some experience in that regard.”
“Indeed; I know to which you refer. But a few days ago – your wife’s funeral service went badly awry, did it not?”
His words prodded one of my eyebrows up into a gaze of suspicion. “How do you know about that?”
“We have resources, Mr Dower. Though not all have yet heard of the Gravitas Maximus Funerary Society, we are in fact a well-funded organization. This allows us to employ operatives in many parts of Britain – even, I might say, in as remote a corner as this. They are ever alert for instances of memorials to the dead, which could have – to say the least – gone better.”
“Why so? It strikes me as a peculiar preoccupation for anyone, let alone an organization of some substance, as you claim yours to be.”
“Permit me to explain.” Rollingwood graced me with his easy smile once more. “I believe my information to be accurate, that the service in the village church – which stands no more; I have gone by its charred remains – was marred by those modern contrivances to which you profess such an aversion.”
“If you refer to those damnable mechanical angels, with the corpses of dead babies stuffed inside, then you are correct, sir. Fluttering about like a swarm of pink bats – that is what the modern world has brought to us? Better that we had stayed in the caves that our fur-clad ancestors inhabited.”
“Ah, but the failure was not that of Modernity – the fault was in the hands of those who too weakly grasped its possibilities. It is a common condition.” Rollingwood spread his hands wide. “Even here among your rural neighbours, the enthusiasm for all things futuristic is but in its early stages. A few years hence, one might come to this place and find that it resembles more the London metropolis that now is, rather than the backward village that it was.”
“I confess that this has always been beyond my understanding.” His mild comments elicited from me one of those rote monologues by which I am so able to convince anyone listening as to what a gloomy bore I am. “This mad desire for the Future – what folly! People believe it to be a Paradise within close attainment, in which all that pleases – and more! – will be granted them. And then the Future does arrive, as it has for all Men before, and we find that it is the barren wasteland in which everything we had, and cherished, is taken from us, and buried in the sod.”
To his credit, Rollingwood left me alone with my grim meditations for a moment. After a few seconds, he discreetly cleared his throat.
“Sir, your opinions are shared by others – though I confess, not many. But it is greatly for the benefit of those such as yourself, that the Gravitas Maximus Funerary Society was founded. To the degree that we are able, we seek to ameliorate the suffering of those who have witnessed the sad last memorials to their loved ones being transformed into riotous calamity, such as happened to yourself. Perhaps a day will come, when the new technologies applied to funerals will have been fully mastered, with appropriately decorous services the result. But until then, we strive to rectify the unfortunate situation that exists for a growing number of people.”
“Indeed?” I gave him a sidelong glance. “And how exactly do you and your society go about doing that?”
“We amend whatever damage had been previously done, by performing another service, warranted by us to be of extreme tastefulness and consideration for the feelings of the deceased’s survivors.”
“That,” I said, “sounds like an expensive proposition.”
“Yes–” Rollingwood made his admission with a nod of the head. “There are some costs involved.”
“Then, sir, you are talking to the wrong man. What resources I have were nigh exhausted by the simple insertion of my late wife into the ground here. To do more than that would likely pauperize me.”
“Put your mind at rest, Mr Dower. Our services are offered to you gratis, as it were.”
“Your organization is of a charitable nature?”
“By no means–” With an upraised hand, Rollingwood disavowed the notion. “The Gravitas Maximus Funerary Society is captained by entrepreneurs who seek to turn a reasonable profit. And yet they are civic-minded as well, and wish to improve the general lot of Mankind.”
“That is a vain endeavour.”
“I understand your believing so,” said Rollingwood. “Nevertheless, I assure you that the Society’s directors are practical men.”
“And yet–” My skeptical eyebrow arched upward again. “They wish to do me some elabourate favour, and for no recompense. When I was a man of business, with my little watch shop in Clerkenwell, I did not dispense my wares for free.”
“To you, sir, the services are given – but they are in fact paid for, by a benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Does he, indeed?” If my eyebrow could have gone any higher, it would have been near the top of my head. “I hope you will pardon my doubts as to this person’s intent – but those extraordinary experiences with which you credit me have also led to a belief that secretive people generally have reasons for wishing to remain so, and they are rarely good ones.”
“I wish that I could ease your apprehensions in that regard, but alas! I cannot. The generous person’s exact identity is unknown to me – but of his motives I have been modestly informed. Your late wife–”
“You may refer to her as Miss McThane; you will not offend me by doing so.”
“Yes… well, then; as you wish.” Rollingwood was visibly discomfited, but recovered himself. “The late Miss McThane had… hm; how shall I put it?… a rather colourful career before making your acquaintance.”
“Now you are coming close to offending me.”
“My apologies, but I do wish to be frank with you. Her associates in that previous existence were not all of the most impeccable nature–”
“I am aware of that. One of them I had known, her most intimate. He was a greater rascal than ever she had been – but not, I had once hoped, irredeemably so.”
“Exactly, Mr Dower. Practitioners of vice rarely become paragons of virtue, but they do sometimes repent at least a small bit, and seek to make amends for their misdeeds. Such seems to be the case here: I am not certain whether your soi-disant benefactor is acting upon his conscience alone, and out of his own purse, or whether he is in communication with a number of the late Miss McThane’s other admirers–”
“Admirers, are they?” My eyebrow descended sufficiently as to allow for the upward roll of my gaze, accompanied by the slow shake of my head. “If any there remain, this person would have needed to take up his charitable collection along the rows of cells in Her Majesty’s Pentonville prison, as I would imagine that the majority of them reside there and nowhere else.”
“Perhaps so,” allowed Rollingwood. “Your knowledge on the point exceeds mine. Regardless, the upshot is that payment has been made in full, and that the relocation of your wife’s body – excuse me – to a more suitable final resting place can proceed immediately. Accomplished, of course, with the more decorous memorial service provided by our Society.”
“You set a low bar when it comes to decorum; merely refrain from burning the chapel down and you will have succeeded at that much. But I am puzzled: where do you intend to take her? And why?”
“To London; the cemetery at Highgate, to be exact. And our doing so would be at the express wish of the person who approached us about the matter. Miss McThane’s residence here on the Cornish coast was a relatively brief episode in her life, be it the last of them; she was more a Londoner to her bones, thus a burial within the city might have seemed more appropriate to her memory. And – I speculate here – perhaps another, more sentimental reason exists. The man’s generosity is spurred by a certain fondness he must have had for her while alive; perhaps he wishes to be able to pay his respects at her graveside, in private and at times convenient to himself. Allowing him to do so seems little to ask.”
Rollingwood’s speech kindled no rancour in my breast. Another, I knew,
had been the greater love of this woman’s life – but I had been the last. If yet one more had remembrances of her affections, so be it; God knows she had been a generous sort.
“This elegant memorial of which you speak–” I persisted with my questions. “Am I to be witness to it?”
“It is hoped that you would agree to do so. Those arrangements, for your comfortable transport and lodging, have also been provided for.”
I mused upon all that had been presented to me. My inclination was to allow this post mortem shuffling about to proceed as Rollingwood had indicated. As matters stood, my late beloved was planted weed-like in a rather forsaken patch of graveyard, with more trampled mud than grass about it. The location hardly seemed suited for one who had possessed such vivacity while she had been above the ground, however diminished that energy might have been in her last declining days. And if all of London’s charlatans and criminals came there to give their bare-headed tribute… very likely, she would have enjoyed that.
Still I hesitated, perhaps more from fatigue than doubt.
“An interesting proposition you lay before me, Mr Rollingwood. I promise to give it my most earnest consideration, though it might be some days or even weeks before I can give you an answer. It seems an undertaking – so to speak – that would require some effort, and preparation, to bring to a satisfactory conclusion. There are arrangements to be made; I would imagine that the disinterment of the casket would require both some civil as well as clerical permission – and at the moment, I am not certain whether our village priest is available, or even alive.”
