Constable & Toop

by Gareth P. Jones

  The shop bell rang and Jack shot up from his seat like a startled rabbit.

  ‘That will be Mr Constable now,’ said Mr Toop. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘You were working for him when I last saw you,’ said Jack. ‘How did you wheedle your way into his business then?’

  ‘He made me partner.’

  ‘He’ll turn me in if he knows about me.’

  ‘No, he won’t.’

  ‘It’ll be in his interests not to.’ Jack spoke in a threatening whisper.

  Sam’s father left the room, leaving Sam alone with his uncle.

  ‘Any more of that soup, boy?’ Jack held the bowl up for him to take.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like it.’

  ‘Sensitive soul, ain’t you? Funny you should act so much like a woman when you’ve been brought up entirely by men.’

  As Sam took the bowl he saw the ghost of a young woman in a nightgown step through the wall and fall to her knees, sobbing loudly. ‘Oh, I’ve found you. Please, you must help me. How could he do it? How could he? With my own sister too? He said he’d be mine forever and now he’s with her,’ she wailed.

  Sam glanced at his uncle. He had no desire to reveal his gift to him. He tried to ignore the ghost but she continued to go on. ‘They say you’re a Talker. You can hear and see us. They say you’ll help us. Please help me. I must tell my Tom not to marry her.’

  Sam disliked the maudlers and the mopers most of all, always coming to him, begging for help. At least this one was pretty. A few years older than Sam, twenty perhaps, but even in death he could see she had been a beauty.

  He shifted his eyes to indicate that he would speak with her outside, then poured a ladleful of soup into the bowl and placed it back in front of his uncle.

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to your old man,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘We used to be as thick as thieves, me and him. I don’t know what he’s said about me before, but every story has two sides. Most have more.’

  ‘He’s never mentioned you,’ replied Sam honestly.

  Jack swallowed a mouthful of soup. ‘This tastes better now, lad. You’ll make someone a good wife some day.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, there you go again with your sulky looks. It was a joke.’

  The lady in the nightdress sniffed.

  ‘And pay no attention to her, neither,’ added Jack in a hushed voice. ‘I’ll bet her chap’s better off with the sister than with that moaning old trout.’

  5

  Penhaligan’s Problem

  Colonel Penhaligan was sitting as usual behind his desk. For a man who took every opportunity available to talk about how he had died fighting for his country, he had always been strangely silent about his lack of legs. He wore a plush red army jacket, with shiny gold buttons and ornate epaulettes on his broad shoulders. Thick black sideburns framed his permanently frowning face.

  On the wall behind his desk was a large painting of him, wearing exactly the same clothes, while sitting on a horse, looking every bit as stern and serious as he looked now as Lapsewood entered the room.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he barked.

  Lapsewood sat down in front of the huge desk. Like everything in the Bureau it had been finished to look as real as a fine oak desk from the physical world. The only difference was that Colonel Penhaligan was able to lean his elbows on it without them passing straight through.

  ‘How long have you been with us, Lapsewood?’

  ‘At the Bureau? Twenty years this December, sir. I started as a clerk in the Central Records Library then was transferred to the Dispatch Department ten years ago.’

  ‘So you were ghost-born in 1864,’ said Colonel Penhaligan. He jotted down the date then said, ‘1792.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lapsewood felt unsure how to respond to this.

  ‘That’s my date. I’ll be celebrating my centenary in a few years’ time. Started as a Prowler then worked my way up to the head of department. Few ghosts make it that long, and do you know why that is?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘They date. They lose touch. They become irrelevant. As ghosts, we don’t age, but as time goes on many find it difficult to deal with the changing nature of the world. Take the steam train.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m not following. You want me to take a steam train?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t want you to take a steam train. You think I’ve asked you to come up to my office in order to ask you to take a steam train? What’s wrong with you, man? I’m talking about myself. The idea of being propelled across the country on a huge metal beast on tracks at unnatural speeds would have filled me with wonder and delight as a child, like being told that I could fly like a bird through the sky. It would have been a fancy. But I have managed to adjust to that idea. With new technologies come new ways for the living to die and, here in the Dispatch Department, we need to adapt to these changes. It’s not just keeping our records up to date, you know. The world is full of Rogue ghosts who seem to think they don’t need polter-licences to mess about with things in the physical world or Opacity Permission forms to be seen. It’s a real problem, Lapsewood.’

  ‘I thought Enforcement dealt with the Rogues,’ said Lapsewood.

  ‘Hardknuckle’s bunch of half-baked Enforcers can no more deal with the Rogue problem than a horse can knit.’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Lapsewood, trying to keep up.

  ‘It’s my Prowlers who gather the intelligence that allows us to keep on top of the problem. Like that man, Vidocq. Excellent Prowler. Shame about his being, you know . . .’ Colonel Penhaligan lowered his voice and said, ‘French. But I haven’t asked you here to talk about him. We’re here to look at the options ahead of you.’

  ‘Options, sir?’

  Colonel Penhaligan sighed, clearly annoyed at having to spell it out. ‘You’re behind with your paperwork, Lapsewood. Woefully behind.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Save it,’ said the colonel, raising a hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve heard it all before. Tell me, Lapsewood, how did you die?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I fell ill and never recovered.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-two, sir.’

  ‘I see. And you never heard the Knocking?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Lapsewood, shocked to be asked such a thing. ‘Only Rogue ghosts hear the Knocking and ignore it.’

  ‘So you have unfinished business?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know what.’

  ‘Perhaps you should consider applying for a research licence, venture to the physical world and finish that business of yours.’

  Lapsewood’s head was spinning. ‘But sir, I don’t want to. I like my job here at the Bureau. I like my work.’

  ‘And yet you’re getting behind. Why is that, Lapsewood? There’s no plague at the moment, no exceptionally bloody wars. Granted, mortality rates are on the rise due to the ever-increasing population, but this has been happening for years. You have fallen behind because that’s what happens. You did well to last so long. It’s time for someone new. I was thinking it might be a good opportunity to give Mr Grunt a chance. He seems ever so eager to please and, of course, he’s rather young, in ghost terms of course.’

  ‘Grunt in my office, sir?’ Lapsewood was sickened by the idea.

  ‘Exactly.’ Colonel Penhaligan rapped his knuckles on the desk.

  ‘But please, I’m not ready,’ Lapsewood protested. ‘I want to be like you and stay working here for as long as possible.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve got breeding. Good stock. It’s the same as horses. Breed two thoroughbreds and you’ll have a thoroughbred; breed a couple of donkeys and have a guess what you’ll get.’

  ‘I’m not a donkey, sir.’

  ‘What were your parents, Lapsewood?’

  ‘My father was a shopkeeper and my mother was a maid, sir.’

  ‘Exactly, Lapsewood. Donkeys, the both of them.’

  ‘Please sir, I’m begging you, I’ll do anything.’

  Colonel Penha
ligan sighed. ‘I like you, Lapsewood. You’ve got ambition, you’ve got gumption. You want to prove me wrong about this whole donkey business, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll give you a chance to prove yourself.’

  ‘You mean, I can go back to my office, sir?’

  ‘Good grief, man, no. I don’t want you in my department. Luckily for you, General Colt from Housing has been badgering me for someone to go and help him out with some sort of problem he’s got.’

  ‘Housing, sir?’ Lapsewood had never even heard of a housing department.

  ‘Haunted houses. It’s one of the smaller departments,’ said Penhaligan. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it and I have no interest in finding out. If you ask me, General Colt is about as useful as a blunt bayonet. I’d have him replaced if I had my way, but I did say I’d send him someone.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Colonel Penhaligan, with an exasperated sigh. ‘Dispatches has plenty enough to keep me occupied without any need to meddle in other people’s business. Run along now before I change my mind.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  On the other side of the door, Lapsewood was relieved to find Monsieur Vidocq gone. Yet even in his absence, the suave Frenchmen was holding a greater percentage of Alice’s attention than Lapsewood could manage while he was present.

  ‘How was it, then?’ asked Alice.

  ‘I’m being transferred to Housing,’ replied Lapsewood gloomily.

  ‘Oh, General Colt’s department.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘He’s a lazy one by all accounts. I know I grumble about old Colonel Grumps in there, but at least he takes an interest in the work. As I hear it, Mrs Pringle has to do everything, while old Colt spends all his time on the golf course. I wonder what Colt wants you for.’

  Lapsewood didn’t like the way she said it, as though she could never imagine anyone in their right mind ever wanting him for anything.

  ‘At least you won’t have to come up here and see him any more,’ said Alice.

  Lapsewood hadn’t thought of that. There would be no more excuses to come and see Alice. He searched her face for some sign of sadness but found none.

  ‘Oh, listen to me,’ she said. ‘Prattling on, wasting your time when you need me to tell you where to go.’ She pulled out a large book from her desk drawer, listing all the departments in the Bureau. ‘Housing . . . ah, here we are,’ she said. ‘Room 412 on the fortieth floor.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lapsewood, cursing his cowardly heart more than ever. He walked solemnly to the door.

  ‘Are you really going to leave like that?’ asked Alice.

  The words stopped Lapsewood in his tracks. He felt as though his dead heart had started beating again. Alice couldn’t bear the thought of him walking out any more than he could. There was more to be said. There were feelings to reveal, sonnets to be penned, songs to be sung, declarations to be made. Finally he could admit his feelings and Alice Biggins would reveal hers.

  ‘No, Alice,’ he said, his new-found confidence deepening his voice. ‘I’m not going to leave like that.’

  She laughed. Such a beautiful laugh. As light and carefree as the song of a lark.

  ‘I did wonder,’ she said. ‘The Paternoster Pipe will be much quicker.’

  All of the joy vanished. All of Lapsewood’s dreams, all of his hopes drained away like water down a plughole.

  ‘I prefer to walk,’ he said.

  He opened the door and left.

  6

  Mr Constable’s Good Nature

  So well did Mr Constable know his old friend and business partner, Mr Toop, and such a kind and intuitive man was he, that he could tell something was troubling him from the heaviness of his footfall descending the stairs. However, such was the man’s tact that he spoke no word of his suspicions. Instead the two men exchanged polite pleasantries and discussed matters of their working day before Mr Toop finally brought up what was so obviously on his mind.

  ‘In all the years I have known you, I’ve never asked for a favour, have I?’ said Mr Toop.

  ‘None,’ conceded Mr Constable.

  ‘And yet you have bestowed many upon me. You made available these lodgings for me and my boy when we needed a home, you gave me work when none would employ me, and you made me your business partner when you could have easily kept me as an employee . . .’

  Mr Constable raised his palm so that Mr Toop might stop. ‘I do not consider these favours,’ he said. ‘But rather, rational business decisions made for sound and wholly selfish reasons. Giving you lodging above your place of work was merely a way to ensure your punctuality. I employed you because you are a first-rate carpenter and, as for making you a business partner, is there any better way to give someone an incentive to work hard than to give them an interest in the business they work for?’

  Mr Toop smiled at this modesty. ‘If not towards me, then you will at least concede that your benevolence towards my boy has no motive but philanthropy.’

  ‘I will not concede that point,’ countered Mr Constable. ‘What you call benevolence, I would label selfish indulgence of a childless old man given the great opportunity to play some small part in the upbringing of a brilliant and inspiring boy.’

  ‘You are impossible, Mr Constable.’

  ‘And with these words you seek to butter me up for this impending favour, I suppose,’ said Mr Constable with an impish grin.

  Mr Toop’s face, however, remained resolutely solemn. ‘Do you remember my brother, Jack?’

  ‘Of course. Such a colourful character will leave an indelible imprint upon the mind of any who encounter him.’

  ‘He appeared at the door late last night.’

  ‘Ah, I am relieved.’

  ‘Relieved?’ exclaimed Mr Toop.

  ‘Yes, for I feared my inability to raise a smile was due to me having lost my touch. Now I can see there are extraneous factors for your determined sobriety I am filled with relief.’

  ‘He is upstairs with Sam. He came here to seek refuge.’

  ‘Well, it was a horrendous night,’ said Mr Constable. ‘I thought I would lose my chimney again in the storm.’

  ‘Refuge from the law,’ said Mr Toop.

  ‘And because of your familial loyalty you want to help him in spite of the history between you,’ surmised Mr Constable.

  ‘It is only a week. I feel I owe him this much. He has promised never to return. But as this property belongs to you I wouldn’t feel right in keeping it secret from you.’

  ‘And yet you would rather it kept secret from everyone else,’ said Mr Constable. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh, I can see we’re going to get on splendid, all four of us,’ said a third voice. Jack appeared on the stairs. He walked down to the shop and offered Mr Constable his hand. ‘Mr Constable.’

  Mr Constable shook it. ‘Jack,’ he said.

  ‘What marvellous company you keep, Charlie,’ Jack said to his brother. ‘Your own name on a shop and this excellent fellow as a partner. It seems the business of death has done you well. And that boy of yours, what a cook he is. I swear that soup would enliven even a dead man’s taste buds.’ Jack laughed and lifted a small black pipe to his mouth.

  ‘If you are to stay here and remain unseen, you must also avoid arousing any of the other senses,’ said Mr Toop.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ replied Jack, his grubby fingers packing the pipe with tobacco from the pocket of his waistcoat.

  ‘Neither one of us smokes, so it would seem strange for customers to enter and smell tobacco.’ Mr Toop snatched the pipe from Jack’s mouth.

  ‘You always did look out for me, didn’t you, Charlie?’ said Jack with a sneer.

  ‘And you always found ways to embroil me in your troubles.’

  ‘As I recall, I played no small part in solving some of them.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Mr Toop barked. ‘Get back upstairs.’

 
; ‘Sending me to bed with no supper, is it?’ said Jack.

  Mr Constable stepped between the two brothers and said, ‘I believe Charles is only looking out for you. We have appointments all morning. It would be better for you to go back into hiding if you are to remain unseen.’

  Jack looked Mr Constable up and down, grunted, then turned and headed back up the stairs.

  7

  General Colt

  The doors, floors and walls of the Bureau were constructed in such a way that made them impossible to pass through. Lapsewood didn’t know how they did it but it was one of the things he liked about the place. Apart from the obvious advantage of preventing anyone wandering into private meetings, it helped sustain the pretence that the Bureau was as real as any place of work. Lapsewood felt the satisfaction of knuckle against solid wood as he knocked on the door with Housing Department engraved on its golden plaque.

  ‘Enter,’ called Mrs Pringle.

  Lapsewood stepped inside. Alice’s face was still at the forefront of his mind but General Colt’s secretary could not have been less like her. She was old and haggard. She had been ghost-born in the late seventeenth century, judging by her clothes, and had the look of one who had not so much died as rotted away.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. She looked up from the novel she was reading and peered at Lapsewood over the top of her glasses.

  ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood,’ said Lapsewood, reading the title. ‘Dickens’ unfinished novel.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Dickens was kind enough to supply me with the final chapters posthumously,’ she replied, unsmilingly. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Lapsewood, transfer from Dispatches,’ he announced.

  She looked him up and down. ‘Oh really? Oh dear. Oh well, go on in.’

  Lapsewood went through to the main office. The walls were lined with large dusty books; hundreds of volumes, detailing every rule, law, by-law, edict, clause and guideline that made up the complex Bureaucratic Procedure. General Colt was sitting with his feet on the desk, eyes shut, his enormous walrus moustache moving in time with the sound of his heavy breathing. The rest of his face was covered by a large wide-brimmed hat. Lapsewood paused and turned back to Mrs Pringle.