A Case of Grave Danger

by Sophie Cleverly

  Mother returned to the room then, with the water, interrupting my musings. It amused me to see that she had put it into an old baby feeding bottle – the round glass kind with a rubber tube out of the top. I could soon see why. She propped it up next to Oliver in the bed, and he sipped it gratefully. His breathing quickened as he gulped down the water.

  ‘Careful now,’ said my mother, patting his damp forehead gently. ‘We don’t want you to choke.’

  ‘We certainly don’t,’ I agreed.

  Mother was giving me a questioning look. I looked down and realised I was still holding on to Oliver’s hand. I let go as discreetly as I could.

  She shook her head at me. ‘Come along, Violet. We’ll get you a change of nightdress and you can sleep in our bed until morning. Your father’s going to stay up. He says he won’t be able to sleep again after all this rigmarole.’

  Well, that was one way of putting it.

  Better than ‘all this mess where the boy we thought was dead was in fact alive and wandering the cemetery in the dark of night’.

  I stood up and followed Mother out of the room. But I risked one last glance back at Oliver, the dog still resting at the end of his feet, guarding him.

  I could have sworn I saw the edges of his lips curl into a weak smile.

  * * *

  The next day (or I suppose later the same day, for I’d been awake most of the night), as the sun pushed through the rainclouds and streamed in through the window, my first thoughts were of Oliver. Or admittedly, that the whole thing had been a nightmare. It was only as I rubbed my eyes and saw my parents’ eiderdown and heavy furniture that I realised it had been real.

  Mother had already risen and neatly made her side of the bed. I swung my legs off the side. Even though I’d scrubbed most of the mud off in the washbasin, there was still some remaining on my skin. I stood up and peered in the mirror – I looked like someone who’d been trawling through a graveyard in the rain. No surprises there.

  I sneaked a glance into my room as I walked past. Oliver was sitting up in the bed, a breakfast tray on his lap, Bones still happily snoozing by his feet. The boy smiled at me weakly. I blinked and smiled back, before remembering I was still only wearing a nightgown. It might’ve escaped people’s notice last night, but I knew I’d be in big trouble if I didn’t get dressed properly. The only problem was that all of my clothes were in my bedroom. Hmm.

  I walked on. ‘Mother!’ I shouted down the stairs.

  ‘Don’t shout, Violet!’ she shouted back. ‘It’s unladylike!’

  ‘Can you fetch my clothes for me?’ I asked. ‘My room’s occupied.’

  I heard a sigh, followed by, ‘Of course, darling.’

  Until a few years ago, we’d had servants in the house who would have done that sort of thing for us – Thomas and I had had a nanny and then two governesses, first Miss Stone and then Mrs Barker – but one by one they had all left our service. Costs had to be cut, according to Father, because everyone was having to tighten their belts these days. I was devastated when our housekeeper had left – her name had been Mrs Keaton and she was the warmest and friendliest of people. She’d always give me sugar cubes as a treat when Mother wasn’t looking.

  We still had one servant remaining, though – Maddy. Maddy lived in one of the two attic rooms at the top of the stairs. She was a housemaid, and it was her job to light the fires in the morning, to clean and polish, and to change the beds. She would usually take on ladies’ maid duties, too, helping us wash and dress. She’d been away the past few days; Father had allowed her to have her yearly week of time off to visit her family in Yorkshire.

  This meant that Mother was doing a lot more than she was used to. As she helped me into my dress that morning, she kept sighing and muttering about how there weren’t sufficient hours in the day. It was almost enough to make me feel bad for rescuing Oliver and giving her more to worry about.

  Almost.

  Mother cooked us a breakfast of slivers of bacon and eggs with (nearly) fresh bread. It was a struggle to finish it; my stomach was churning. I supposed the events of last night hadn’t been good for me. I was still awfully worried about Oliver. Exactly why, I couldn’t say. I barely knew him. I’d spent more time with him ‘dead’ than alive.

  That was a thought. I looked up from my plate at Father, who was polishing his shoes opposite me. The question had been plaguing me all night. ‘Was Oliver really dead, Father?’

  His mouth twisted as he considered it. ‘I don’t think so. Doctor Lane said he was unconscious. There’s a wound on the back of his head.’

  ‘So he was knocked out?’ I asked, chewing a scrap of bacon thoughtfully. Bones pawed at my leg, having been summoned by the smell of food.

  ‘That seems to be the case. I need to ask him again if he remembers anything of what happened, but I fear his state is too fragile.’

  ‘He seems better this morning, though,’ chimed Mother from over by the sink. ‘A bit more colour in his cheeks. And the doctor said he looked a lot better than he’d expect after a turn like that.’

  Well, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to look better than he had done last night. He’d been whiter than goose down.

  ‘Does he have any family?’ I asked.

  Father shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I asked him if there was anyone I could contact to say that he was alive, and he said no.’

  I felt another pang of sadness for the boy. I stroked Bones gently while his nose crept towards my plate. We would have to cheer him up somehow.

  I realised as breakfast progressed that Thomas hadn’t woken up yet. When he finally arrived, he walked in yawning and stretching. ‘Good morning,’ he said cheerily.

  I gave Father a quizzical look. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Know what?’ demanded Thomas.

  ‘The miracle that happened last night!’ I proclaimed.

  Mother swatted me with a dishcloth. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Violet.’ She turned to Thomas. ‘There was a small incident in the night …’

  ‘A boy who we’d presumed dead,’ said Father.

  ‘Who you’d presumed dead,’ corrected Mother.

  ‘Who I’d presumed dead.’ Father frowned. ‘Wasn’t actually dead at all, it seems. Merely deeply unconscious. Your sister found him out of his coffin and wandering the cemetery. A messy business, I assure you.’

  Thomas wrinkled his nose, seeming untroubled by the ghastly news. ‘How did that happen? Didn’t you check first?’

  Father gave him his best stop being insolent or else glare but it wasn’t particularly effective. No matter what facial expressions he made, I always thought he resembled a friendly bat. His round glass spectacles only added to this.

  It was a good question. Father was usually so sharp, and did his job perfectly. Was something bothering him?

  ‘We need to get on with the day – there will be no more talk about this at the breakfast table,’ said Mother, plonking Thomas’s plate down in front of him. ‘It’s positively unhygienic.’

  So we ended the conversation. Mother usually had the final say on these things.

  It wasn’t until later that I heard my parents talking about Oliver, who had spent another whole day resting. They were in the drawing room, and as I passed the door I heard the mention of his name. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t placed an upturned glass to the wall to hear them better.

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’ asked Mother. ‘We can’t very well just have him live here, can we?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ replied Father, and I heard the clink as he put his evening brandy down on the side table. ‘I could really use an extra pair of hands. If he truly has nowhere else to go, he might be happy to work for his lodging.’

  ‘We know nothing of his character! He could be a depraved lunatic for all we know.’

  I tried not to laugh. And Mother said I was dramatic!

  ‘He hasn’t done anything to indicate that so far,’ Father replied. ‘You should thi
nk a little higher of your fellow man, darling.’

  ‘But that’s just it: he’s nearly a young man, Edgar. And he’s no relation of ours. What will the neighbours say when they hear of this?’

  ‘They don’t need to hear about what happened in the cemetery. Of course Doctor Lane is aware, but we don’t yet understand the situation. At the moment the boy doesn’t seem to remember anything. Most likely he was just hit by a cart, or banged his head on the kerb.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What’s the harm in telling people that he’s a distant cousin?’

  ‘You feel sorry for him, don’t you?’ Mother asked.

  Another pause. ‘Well, I feel responsible,’ Father said eventually.

  ‘You’re so distracted these days,’ she chastised him. ‘I know things are difficult, but if you wouldn’t keep doing funerals for those that can’t afford it—’

  Father cut her off. ‘Who else will, if not me?’

  Mother made the tutting, sighing noise that she often made when she knew she was losing an argument. ‘Well, dear, I suppose it’s up to you. On your head be it!’

  Unlike Mother, I wasn’t the least bit afraid of what people thought. What I was afraid of, however, was the shadowy face I’d glimpsed at our window. Who could it have been? On the night that Oliver had been found out amongst the graves too. Was that a mere coincidence? The questions buzzed in my mind as I tried to sleep that night. Who had been outside our house? And could they be the very same person who had tried to send Oliver to his grave?

  hree whole days passed before Oliver seemed to have recovered. At least, he’d recovered on the outside – I was sure he’d never forget the events of that night when we’d found him wandering the graves. I was certain that I wouldn’t.

  I hadn’t had much of a chance to speak with him about what had happened. Any time we found ourselves alone together, Mother would appear and fix me with a steely glare before swiftly escorting him somewhere else.

  As soon as he was up and about, Father had broached the subject of Oliver becoming an apprentice – out of his guilt over what had happened, I supposed. Apparently the boy was keen and incredibly grateful (unsurprisingly, since he didn’t have anywhere else to go – or if he did, he didn’t seem to recall), and Father was already showing him around the funeral parlour. Oliver was dressed in a pair of Father’s old overalls, patched brown ones that were tatty and slightly too big but unstained thanks to Mother’s overzealous scrubbing.

  I watched them both, not saying a word, but silently fuming. I liked Oliver from the brief interactions we’d had, I really did, but I wished Father would pay more attention to my existence. He wanted an extra pair of hands, and I’d always tried to be that for him. I knew more than anyone should about funeral procedures and embalming and coffins. Yet I had the misfortune of having been born a girl, and that apparently meant that I would never be taken seriously. Whenever I told him what I wanted, he would listen to me, stroke my hair, and then tell me that my life was for living, and not to be spent with the dead.

  It was all nonsense, really. Why shouldn’t a woman be an undertaker? Women brought life into the world, so I didn’t see the harm in them helping on the way out. After all, I’d heard that in rural communities it was usually the old ladies who did the duty. They knew the workings of life and death better than anyone.

  When I’d told Mother this, though, she had just sniffed and said, ‘You may help your father with some matters, of course, but it’s really a most improper occupation for a young lady. Who’s going to want to marry an undertaker?’

  ‘You did!’ I pointed out.

  She shook her head. ‘You are not your father, Violet,’ she said. Then she’d told me to go and finish my embroidery, and that was the end of that.

  It was bad enough knowing that Thomas would be allowed to take my place, but a stranger? It was all just so incredibly unfair.

  After a while I couldn’t stand to watch them any longer. So I went and polished the wooden coffins until I could see my reflection in them and the air was thick with the smell of polish. There were cast-iron coffins too, and some covered in velvet or with elaborate carvings. Some even had what we liked to call ‘everlasting flowers’ – beautifully made out of lead and sometimes encased in glass. I thought they were lovely.

  The weather brightened up a little, so when I’d finished polishing I went to sit outside with my book, on the old bench under the oak tree. Bones lay down beside me, happily chewing a stick. The air still smelled like rain. I’d just reached the part in the story when Frankenstein tries to re-animate his creation when a hand fell on my shoulder, and I swear I jumped sideways a few feet.

  It was Oliver. ‘Afternoon, miss,’ he said. Bones stared up at him, one ear inside out.

  ‘You may call me Violet,’ I replied, trying to sound friendlier than I felt.

  He seemed to sense it all the same. ‘Have I upset you? I’m sorry if I have. I … I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I’m proper thankful to your family for taking me in and I thought, maybe … um … we could be friends?’ He sat down on the bench beside me.

  I sighed. ‘No, no, it’s not you at all. It’s Father. I wish he’d take me for his apprentice. I know enough!’ I glanced around, just in case Mother was about to pop her head out of a bush and chastise me.

  Oliver smiled then, a kind, lazy sort of smile. ‘I bet he’ll see it one day, miss … Violet. Something will change.’

  ‘Perhaps if he gets a blow to the head!’ I instantly regretted my words, but it spiked some curiosity. ‘Speaking of which, if you pardon me asking, have you remembered anything about what happened to you?’

  He shut his eyes, as if trying to see the answer in his mind. ‘I can remember … pain. Here.’ He turned and parted the hair at the back of his scalp, where the angry wound was turning to scar tissue. Bones gave a sympathetic whimper from down by our feet. ‘Before that … I don’t know. I know I’m Oliver. My mam died when I was young, an’ my pa sent me out to earn a bit of chink by shining shoes. I went to the free school too, run by Miss Blissey, down in Copper Steps? Never did me much good, though. Couldn’t get the hang of reading, but I’m decent at sums.’ He paused. ‘My pa was gone not long after.’ He sighed. ‘Went off to work one day, never came back.’

  I winced at that. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He just shrugged. ‘At least he might not be dead. But I suppose he thought I could stand on my own two feet just fine.’ He leaned down and gave Bones a pat. ‘Since then I just did odd jobs for people. I cut lawns with push mowers for grand folk, cleaned windows, an’ more shoe shining of course. Then … then …’ He trailed off.

  ‘You don’t remember what happened after that?’

  ‘No.’ His brows knitted. ‘There’s a chunk of my life missing. I don’t know how long. Could be days, could be years! It’s like a fog I can’t see through.’

  ‘It’ll come back to you, though, won’t it?’ I asked. I was thinking of how Thomas fell out of a tree when he was five, and couldn’t recall how he’d got up there or even what he’d eaten for breakfast. Sometime later it occurred to him that he’d been chasing Ruffian, the big ginger cat from down the street. And it had been boiled eggs for breakfast, he proudly announced.

  Oliver lifted his eyelids again and looked at me, and I was pleased to see that his brown eyes had lost their hollow shadows. ‘I hope so. I mean, what if I didn’t just fall? What really happened?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ I said with a wince, ‘we’ve got no way of knowing now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Oliver looked puzzled.

  ‘Well, we could have taken a look at the evidence,’ I said. ‘But, you see, I think someone stole your papers. Your death certificate, the notes on your cause of death and how you were found, everything. At the very least, they’re missing.’

  ‘What?’ He kicked at a stone in the wet grass. It went flying and Bones tried to chase it. ‘Blow me! If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.’

  No
w that I’d said it aloud, it did seem very strange. ‘You’re right there. But Father couldn’t have thought it suspicious at the time, or he would have looked into a post-mortem examination.’ I watched Bones slink back to us, looking pleased with himself for catching the stone.

  ‘Post …?’ Oliver began.

  ‘After death,’ I explained.

  He took a deep breath. I imagined the cool air must have felt glorious to his lungs. ‘I don’t really want to think about that,’ he said, staring out at the cemetery. ‘I … I think I need help.’ His tone changed suddenly. I could hear the vulnerability in his lowered voice.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, picking up the book from where I’d dropped it.

  His brow furrowed. ‘Well, what if … what if maybe someone tried to kill me?’

  Bones dropped the stone and stared up at him, his head tilted to one side. I was too stunned to say anything.

  ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to do that,’ he continued, his eyes fixed on the graves in the distance. ‘I’ve never done nothing to nobody. But if they did try to kill me an’ they find out that I’m still alive, then maybe they’ll want to try again.’ He gulped. ‘I’ve been feeling so uneasy, like something bad happened to me. An’ now this thing with someone stealing the evidence an’ all … I think I might be right.’

  ‘Murder,’ I said, the word hollow in my mouth. ‘A real murder attempt.’

  He looked up at me. ‘That’s why I need your help, miss.’ I didn’t correct him this time. ‘I … I’m going to need your help to solve my own murder – if I’m going to have any chance of stopping it from happening again …’

  y shock at Oliver’s unusual request quickly turned to excitement.

  ‘Really?’ I asked, clutching my book to my chest. ‘You want me to investigate?’ This could be fun, I thought. Dangerous. Exactly the sort of thing my mother would hate me to do, but that I knew I would love. If they weren’t going to let me help out at home, perhaps this was the way I could prove myself.