by KW Jeter
The resemblance to some malodorous rain forest, of the sort more commonly found about the globe’s equator rather than in our otherwise chilly latitudes, did as much as the encompassing heat to muddle my thoughts; the scalding mist caught in my lungs prevented drawing a full enough breath to clear my head. I kept myself close to Rollingwood, so I might grasp his arm for support, in the event of a swooning loss of balance–
“Good God, man; what is that?”
A moment was required for me to realize the voice that had spoken was my own; it had sounded distant and dream-like – or more properly, nightmarish – from the tepid fog settling upon my brain.
Another moment passed before that which had prompted the outburst came fully into view – dismayingly so, as though one were to discover the apparition that had tormented a night’s sleep was in fact real, and sitting at the foot of the bed in the morning sunlight.
“Think nothing of it,” said Rollingwood. “The creature is harmless.”
“It might very well be, while it is over there–” I pointed toward a spot several yards away, and a particularly overgrown section of foliage. “My concern is about what happens when it and its fellows come over here.”
For what I had spotted was some sort of canine, of a not inconsiderable size, with a slinking gait and hunched shoulders, and a spotted hide. The muzzle of its lowered head displayed a distinctly unpleasant and slavering grin, as though it were relishing the discomfiture that its appearance had produced in me. So unexpected and outlandish was its presence upon nominally British soil that the name by which such an animal was called – for I had seen engravings in naturalist tomes depicting it – had been driven from my mind.
“It is merely a hyena.” My companion helpfully supplied the vanished word. “They can be a bit nasty, as adventurers’ reports have related – but can I assure you that we have nothing to fear.”
“Bloody hell.” Alarm evoked a coarser vocabulary to my speech. Two more of the beasts had appeared – perhaps there was a whole pack of them close by. Their eyes glittered with a malign intelligence, their exposed teeth giving the appearance of fierce delight, as though they were already anticipating being able to sink their yellowed fangs into the throat of their prey – presumably me, given how they had fastened their gaze in my direction. “What are those devilish bastards doing here?”
“What do wild animals do anywhere, that is home to them?” Rollingwood’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I am not conversant with their exact habits, but I rather imagine they spend their time either lolling about to no great purpose, or killing and eating whatever is smaller and more hapless than themselves. Nature is a grim business, over all.”
“For God’s sake, man, I wasn’t inquiring as to how they occupy themselves – I meant, how did they come to be here? Hardly a native species, are they?”
“By no means, Mr Dower; the hyenas were imported to this spot. Some years ago, one of London’s new breed of entrepreneurs, made wealthy beyond our ability to imagine, indulged the fancy of having a private zoölogical garden set up on the grounds of his estate nearby. The man had an entirely laudable aversion to iron cages, though, feeling it cruel and unnatural to pen up beasts that had been freely roaming about the African plains before their capture and transport here to England. Thus he allowed them to run free in the gardens surrounding the Georgian-period mansion he had erected – with not always salubrious results, from the reports I have heard. His dinner parties became increasingly ill-attended, ladies of genteel taste being particularly put off by the screams of various herbivores being torn apart, and the scenes of general slaughter that were visible out the dining room windows.”
“I can well imagine.” Not for the first time, I speculated on the peculiar fascination that the moneyed classes had for exotic animals, not being content to go peer at them in whatever foreign clime was more suitable to them, but absurdly keen on bringing them back as well, thinking them to be no more inconvenient than slightly larger lapdogs. I had experienced for myself the fruits of such folly, having once been pursued with carnal intent by a mechanical Orang-Utan, the deranged replacement for a sad creature that had sickened and died upon being shifted from temperate Borneo to the chillier wastes of Yorkshire. “But your explanation,” I persisted, “does not suffice. What are these hyenas – and God knows whatever else – doing here in the cemetery of Highgate? Surely the beasts procured by this foolish individual are kept safely penned within the limits of his estate.”
“Well… they were.” Rollingwood seemed abashed himself, as though another man’s foolishness had been his own. “But… events happened of their own accord, as they so often do in our affairs. The gentleman in question was somewhat distracted by the apparent failure of his zoo-keeping enterprise – very well, a great deal distracted by it. So much so, that in the turmoil of his subsequent thinking, he paid little attention to those matters of business that had afforded him the funds for such pursuits. He came to ruin, as one might expect; his rivals picked clean the bones of his financial carcass. Despair led to suicide, in the particularly grisly manner of a pistol shot to the head, in the presence of some of the larger carnivores prowling about on his mortgaged estate – which beasts availed themselves of the opportunity to consume those mortal remains that his bankers and creditors had overlooked.” A slow shake of the head indicated Rollingwood’s innate sympathy. “Very sad, indeed. The circumstances of the gentleman’s death made it difficult to find a purchaser for the mansion and its grounds, which thereby fell into neglect. Impelled by hunger, the uncaged beasts knocked down the fences which only had sufficed to hold them as long as they were well-fed. The warmth of the environs here at Highgate attracted the animals – no doubt it seemed reminiscent of those more equatorial regions from which they had been brought. And the cemetery offered the additional advantage of – how shall I put it? Prey; yes, that would be the word.”
“Do you mean to say that the native English foxes and hedgehogs – and mice and the lesser vermin – are sufficient for the appetites of African lions?”
“No… not exactly. The larger predators – including the hyenas, which I would advise you to steer clear of – remain a bit hungrier, shall we say, than they would if they were back in their native land. A few of the larger herbivores, having escaped the quarters in which they were previously pent up, still survive; if you look there–” He directed my attention with an outstretched forefinger. “Just there – you can spot one.”
I looked where Rollingwood pointed; after a moment of peering scrutiny, I made out in the distance an elongated muzzle, the attached gaze possessed of a bovine tranquillity as the head bobbed above some low treetops.
“That,” Rollingwood helpfully commented, “is a giraffe.”
“I bloody well know what it is. They might not be all that common a sight in Cornwall or even London, but people have still heard of these daft beasts. Are there many of them wandering about here?”
“Not enough to satisfy the appetites of the other creatures who prey upon them, and so their numbers are continually diminishing – a circumstance which has led to certain unfortunate… incidents.”
That last word seemed evasive to me. “Such as, precisely?”
“Allow me to inform you that Highgate is no longer as popular a destination for the casual stroller, out for the day from the city, as it once was. And let us leave it at that.”
“You are insane–” I stared at Rollingwood with a sudden and alarmed comprehension. “The whole lot of you – Gravitas Maximus Funerary Society and all the rest. This is your notion of a more decorous funeral service?” Looking away from him, I quickly surveyed the overgrown foliage encircling the spot where we stood; I fully expected some snarling beast to spring from its concealment at any moment, intent on my throat. “How do you expect to get my late wife safely into the ground, if we are all going to be gnawed upon at the side of the grave?”
“Calm yourself, Mr Dower – provisions have been made for your
security.” Rollingwood turned partway about, in order to gesture toward the party that had accompanied us to the cemetery. “These individuals are more than adequate to ensure that no harm comes to you, from man or beast.”
“But they are nothing more than your hired mourners!” I had previously given but scant attention to the dozen or so black-clad figures who stood about the coffin some yards behind us on the path. They seemed an unimpressive lot, as might be expected from their willingness to be engaged for the purpose of expressing sham grief over the interment of one whom they had never met in life. “I see no great advantage in having them here, unless you somehow are capable of directing the lions’ attention first to them, then once the beasts’ appetites are satiated, we would be able to make our escape.”
“These men possess virtues other than merely being edible.” Rollingwood smiled with smug assurance. “If they appear somewhat disreputable to you, it is because they are drawn from those ranks of society in which harsher conditions prevail, than those to which you and I are accustomed.”
“To be frank–” I gave them closer scrutiny. “They look like criminals.”
“Oh, to be certain; have no doubt about that. But when recruiting associates who will not flinch from necessary action, however violent, one will not find many saints among the candidates. But they are reformed at least a little bit, by the application of ready pay.”
The doubts I entertained were not lessened by Rollingwood’s easy assurances. I could not refrain from further studying these employees of the Gravitas Maximus Funerary Society. Even from this distance, habitual villainy was apparent in their faces. The unfortunate circumstances of my career have given me ample – alas! – opportunity to note such: the ill-shaven cheeks and lantern jaws; the narrowed squint shifting about in all directions, searching for the least chance of illicit gain, whether it be an apple palmed from a monger’s cart or the dynamited vaults of the Bank of England; the shoulders hunched into armour against the cudgels of prison guards, the great knobby hands dangling before, emptied for the moment of some victim’s throat. The Society might have garbed them as best it could, into grieving black suits and top hats adorned with ribbons of mourning crêpe, the latter already shrinking and coiling snake-like in the cemetery’s heavy mists, but the result was no more convincing than if wolves were draped with a fancy dress of lambs; the pointy teeth remained still apparent.
* * *
“Hold on–” Another apprehension seized me. “Are these men armed?”
“But of course,” said Rollingwood. “Would you expect them otherwise?”
“My expectations are not at issue. Do you think it wise?” My continuing scrutiny had revealed to my eye the tell-tale shape of those instruments weighting the men’s coat pockets, suitable for assaults on other persons. “I would not be startled to learn that some of them are murderers, who have somehow evaded the final punishment for their misdeeds.”
“Very likely they all are, or at least the majority of them.” My companion spoke of the matter with unnerving calmness. “Why would we have hired them, if they lacked appropriate experience for the job? If the need arises for defence against a voracious wild animal, then this crew will not flinch at the sight of blood.”
I remained unconvinced of all about which Rollingwood had attempted to reassure me – it was a subject of conjecture as to whether I was more ill at ease contemplating the sudden appearance of those wild beasts which were presumably skulking about unobserved behind the cemetery’s lush fronds, awaiting the best opportunity to assuage their hunger, or the possibility of a felonious insurrection among those who were supposed to be guarding us. That of which I entertained little doubt was that this entire memorial expedition was an episode of folly, ill conceived and unlikely to end well, with the risk of disaster increasing exponentially, the longer we remained here.
“And of course,” continued Rollingwood, “such creatures as these, and the larger and more vicious ones, are not the only dangers that threaten, and against which you should be protected.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” I eyed the man with a newly incipient suspicion. “What dangers do you mean?”
“My dear Mr Dower – let us just say that I was not greatly surprised when you accepted our invitation to come here to London. I’m certain that your residence in Cornwall is at most times imbued with tranquillity. But when that quiet is broken – say, by a rifle shot – then it’s understandable that you were alarmed.”
“You know of that?”
“Well…” He gave a noncommittal shrug. “One hears of things.”
I debated with myself, as to demand from him the identity of the marksman who had taken aim at me that night. After a consideration only requiring a few seconds, I decided to refrain – either he knew no more of the assassin, and thus could tell me nothing; or he did, but would dissemble in the evasive manner he had already displayed.
“Very well.” I saw no point in wasting any more time than necessary. “Perhaps we should commence with the service. Given the circumstances, I don’t believe that a little haste would be all that unseemly. I am the one who is best acquainted with the deceased, and I can assure you that my late wife was never one for lingering farewells.”
“But of course; I agree with you entirely.” Rollingwood gave a small nod toward the others. “Our mourners – and in their additional capacity of our bodyguards – are engaged by the hour. And while your benefactor placed no limits on his expenditure, I see no reason to abuse his generosity. We are only waiting for Jamford to arrive; when he is here, we will commence with all due alacrity.”
“Jamford?” The name rang no bells with me. “Of whom do you speak?”
“The clergyman who will deliver the eulogy. Our Society enlists his aid whenever possible, for just such memorial purposes. We find him to be eloquent and unusually tasteful in his choice of words. Which is an important consideration, as not all of our clients are of – shall we say? – the common faith. Some of them are in fact rather eccentric as to their beliefs, if they profess to have any at all. The Reverend Jamford is accommodating in these matters – but then, he is free to be, as strictly speaking he is no longer associated with the Church of England.”
“Did he leave of his own accord, or did they throw him out?”
“I believe the relationship was sundered by mutual agreement. He had apparently been outspoken – to an embarrassing degree – on certain obscure points of theology.”
“I take it then, that he was able to find some other, perhaps nonconformist denomination that was more to his liking?”
“There are several such from which to choose, Mr Dower; we live in unsettled times, with many finding no comfort in the old ways. As to the specific peculiarities of Jamford’s faith – I’ve heard him say that the group is called the More Loving Embrace, or something like that – I’m not quite sure what they would be.”
“More Loving Embrace? Sounds dire, to be frank. But never mind; it makes no difference to me.” The fellow could have been a naked devil-worshipper, painted and prancing about to the drums of some Caribbean isle, and I would have found him no more objectionable than the last cleric with whom I had conversed, the lately incinerated Weebsome. “I imagine this person will perform as decent a job as any other – if he ever arrives.”
“Punctuality is not his long suit, I fear. His thoughts reside for the most part in the world to come.”
“Is there no way we can dispense with his services? I would not mind, and at this point, the likelihood of Miss McThane being disappointed is minimal.”
“No–” Rollingwood gave a shake of his head. “Not without contravening the wishes of the benefactor who is paying for all. I was informed that he gave quite explicit instructions as to how we were to proceed.”
“Damned cheeky of him – it is my dead wife that we are re-burying. I would have thought that I had a greater say in how it is to be accomplished.”
“Perhaps, Mr Dower, it is p
recisely your feelings that he took into account.”
“If he had, then his doing so is a rarity in my experience. There have been few if any times that–”
“Hold.” Laying a hand upon my arm, Rollingwood interrupted my oft-repeated tirade. “Your prayers – if I believed you had any – have been answered. We need wait no longer to proceed with the service; the man has arrived.”
Looking back down along the path, encroached on either side by the unnaturally steam-lushened foliage, I saw the group of those who had been hired to protect as well as mourn, however unconvincingly they might, divide like a respectful Red Sea before a promenading Moses. The figure who passed through their midst was not robed in chasuble or other liturgical vestments, as one might have expected at a more ornate London funeral; in his black serge coat and trousers, the only sign of his clerical vocation was the simple white-linen dog collar about his neck. Simplicity ended there, however; his visage was of a grimly commanding sort, a fierce chin raised like the prow of a ship cresting Life’s stormy seas, a forehead crevassed by the constant severity of his thoughts, a squinting glare like chips of ice embedded in flesh hardly more pliant. The unbridled state of his snowy hair gave further testament to his eccentric convictions; it sprang uncombed and untrimmed from his brown-spotted scalp, in the manner of those who no longer feel bound by society’s conventions, thus appearing rather like the prophets of old. Tucked in the crook of one arm was a ponderous morocco-bound Bible, its pages festooned with tattered slips of paper, scrawled with enough memoranda and emendations as to have completely rewritten the labours of King James’ committee of Hebrew and Greek scholars.
