Constable & Toop

by Gareth P. Jones

  Before the funeral troupe headed home, Rector Bray came to speak to Sam by the hearse while Mr Constable was talking to mourners.

  ‘My church is reborn,’ said Rector Bray. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what you did but . . .’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ replied Sam quietly.

  ‘You’re too modest,’ said the rector. ‘Can I ask what method you used?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘To exorcise the church. The Lord’s prayer, words from the gospels. I am told the Book of Revelations has much of use.’

  Sam could smell brandy on the rector’s breath. ‘I did not exorcise anything,’ he said. ‘Whatever was here chose to leave.’

  ‘Really? How fascinating,’ said the rector. He pulled out from beneath his robes a small hip flask, which he lifted to his lips. ‘Communion wine,’ he said by way of explanation.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Sam. ‘Are you aware of a boy ghost in these parts? A boy who has lost a dog?’

  ‘A boy?’ replied Bray. ‘No. There are plenty enough dying children around here. And plenty enough dogs, come to think of it, but none associated with this church as far as I know.’

  The conversation came to an abrupt end when Mr Constable returned and informed them that the family were ready to leave. He thanked Rector Bray once again for allowing the funeral and the funeral party began the long journey back to Honor Oak.

  31

  Flouting Procedure

  Impromptu meetings were unheard of in the Bureau. Heads of department only ever met at the monthly General Business Cross-Departmental Meeting, which were such slavishly methodical affairs that General Colt usually went out of his way to ‘forget’ them, no matter how many times Mrs Pringle reminded him.

  It was no wonder then that Alice Biggins greeted General Colt with a look of confused shock when he materialised in front of her and demanded to speak to Colonel Penhaligan at once.

  ‘I don’t have a note of a meeting scheduled,’ she said, looking at her appointments book.

  ‘I just want to speak to Penhaligan,’ replied the general.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s in with someone right now. Perhaps if you could return to your office and have Mrs Pringle schedule a—’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ said General Colt and, before she could stop him, he pushed open the door to find Colonel Penhaligan sitting behind his desk in discussion with a well-dressed gentleman with a thin moustache.

  ‘General Colt,’ said Colonel Penhaligan, raising his eyebrows. ‘I think you have stumbled into the wrong room.’

  ‘I don’t stumble and I am in the right room,’ replied the general. ‘I have urgent business.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Alice from behind him.

  ‘That’s all right, Alice,’ said Colonel Penhaligan. ‘As it happens Eugène and I have concluded our business.’ He turned to the other ghost and said, ‘Thank you, Monsieur Vidocq.’

  Monsieur Vidocq nodded and left, closing the door behind him, leaving the colonel and the general alone in the room.

  ‘Now, General Colt, what is it that is so pressing to deserve such utter disregard for centuries of procedural processes?’

  ‘Black Rot,’ said General Colt, slamming the report on the table.

  Colonel Penhaligan didn’t look at it and instead kept his eyes trained on the general. ‘I’m sorry, you may have to speak in full sentences.’

  ‘Black Rot,’ repeated the general. ‘It’s a phantasmagorical wasting disease. It occurs when a haunted house loses its ghost. The last known incidence was in Paris, France.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Parisian Problem,’ said Colonel Penhaligan, resting his elbows on the report and knitting his hands together. ‘What of it?’

  ‘It’s back. We have a Black Rot problem in London.’

  Colonel Penhaligan placed his chin on his hands. ‘I find that quite hard to believe. My man Vidocq just got back from there. He didn’t mention any such thing.’

  ‘Well, my man Lapsewool found differently.’

  ‘You mean Lapsewood.’ Colonel Penhaligan snorted then let out a kind of coughing, spluttering laugh. ‘This has come from Lapsewood, the donkey?’

  ‘I’ll admit at first I thought you’d sent me a real dud one there, too,’ said General Colt. ‘But our boy has discovered a problem which has gone unnoticed by your Prowlers and by Admiral Hardknuckle’s Enforcers.’

  ‘And where is Lapsewood now, pray?’

  General Colt shifted uncomfortably. ‘As it happens, I sent him to the Vault,’ he admitted. ‘Accidentally, I might add.’

  ‘Accidentally?’ guffawed Colonel Penhaligan.

  ‘Yeah, well, some of his methods were a little unorthodox.’

  ‘As unorthodox as marching into a senior head of department’s office unannounced, would you say?’

  ‘Listen here,’ said General Colt, wagging a finger in Colonel Penhaligan’s face. ‘This business requires an un­­­orthodox approach. You know what happened in Paris. We have to stop that happening here.’

  Colonel Penhaligan sighed. ‘General Colt, as you’ll recall, it was I who recommended you for your current position, and with equal ease I can call for a review of your competence so I’ll ask you not to wave your fingers in my face. I know very well what happened in Paris and I have no intention of letting the same thing happen on our own soil. But we have procedure for a reason. First we need proof that such a problem exists in London. I take these things very seriously, but the testimony of a donkey like Lapsewood won’t cut it. In spite of the unacceptable way you have gone about this I am willing to personally ensure that a motion is tabled at the next monthly General Business Cross-Departmental Meeting and that everything is then done to investigate this matter.’

  ‘But that’s not for weeks . . .’ began General Colt.

  ‘I’m surprised you know the date at all.’ Colonel Penhaligan smiled and spoke calmly. ‘But don’t worry yourself. When you’ve been in this job as long as I you’ll understand that procedure and process exist for a reason. Indeed, they are the foundations upon which this great establishment was built.’

  ‘It could be too late by the time that bunch of fusty old duffers decide to do anything.’

  ‘General Colt, we lost our sense of too late when we became ghosts,’ replied Colonel Penhaligan. ‘Besides, I’ll remind you that you are talking about your colleagues.’

  General Colt stared angrily at Penhaligan for a moment, then turned and stormed out. As he opened the door he collided with Alice, crouching down outside the door.

  32

  A Visitor

  Lapsewood and the Marquis stood by the door to the Vault, listening to the clinking sound of the keys signifying the approach of the guard.

  ‘Remember the plan,’ said the Marquis. ‘We turn to Ether Dust, then, as soon as you see a crack in the door, fly. You head upwards, I shall go down. Whichever one of us gets out will return to release the other. Good luck and Godspeed. Let love of liberty lead us onwards.’

  They could hear the cover in front of the keyhole being moved to one side and the key being quickly inserted. Lapsewood watched the Marquis turn to Ether Dust and was about to do the same when he heard his own name spoken.

  ‘Visitor for Lapsewood?’ said Sergeant Brinks.

  Lapsewood froze. He had a visitor. The key turned, unlocking the door. A crack of light appeared. The THWACK of Brinks’ Beater bringing the Marquis down with a thud reminded Lapsewood too late about the plan. The door swung open to reveal Sergeant Brinks standing over the Marquis’s body. Next to him, dwarfed by the Enforcer’s size, stood Grunt.

  ‘Grunt?’ said Lapsewood.

  ‘My old friend,’ he replied, offering his hand. Lapsewood took it, feeling so grateful to see him that he didn’t even mind the dampness of his palm.

  ‘You’ve got two minutes,’ said Brinks. ‘Inside, though.’

  He pushed the Marquis and Grunt inside unceremoniously and slammed the door shut behind t
hem.

  ‘Some accomplice you turned out to be,’ grumbled the Marquis.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you see, I know this man,’ said Lapsewood.

  Grunt looked at the large door that had closed behind him. ‘Sergeant Brinks?’ he shouted.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Grunt,’ replied the Enforcer, his voice muted by the thick door between them. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Lapsewood asked.

  ‘Alice told me what had happened.’

  ‘Alice knows I’m here?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Grunt, ‘I wanted to come because of all the kindnesses you showed me when I started the job. It’s quite a step up, but I’m working my way through the backlog now.’

  ‘Working your way through it?’ said Lapsewood, dismayed that Grunt was succeeding where he had failed.

  ‘Colonel Penhaligan says he’s delighted with my work,’ said Grunt, grinning.

  ‘Delighted?’

  ‘That was the word he used. Delighted. Imagine that. I don’t think anyone has ever used that particular word in reference to me before. I certainly never heard my wife use it and she was a woman blessed with a rich and colourful use of the English language.’

  Grunt mopped away the gunk that had seeped over the top of his neck scarf. Lapsewood looked away in disgust but the Marquis seemed fascinated by the whole thing. ‘Hanged, eh?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Grunt. ‘Newgate.’

  ‘They would have done the same to me, you know, if I hadn’t picked up some rather interesting infections that saw me off first.’

  ‘One minute,’ shouted Brinks from the other side of the door.

  ‘Grunt,’ said Lapsewood, grabbing him by the lapel and instantly regretting it, seeing the effect it had on the flow of grey goo from his neck. He released him. ‘You need to get me out of here. I need to get back to London. I need to find whoever is exorcising spirits and stop them.’

  ‘Exorcising? I don’t know anything about that, but I don’t think you’ve much chance of visiting anywhere,’ said Grunt.

  ‘No,’ said Lapsewood, thinking fast. ‘But you have.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Take a leave day,’ said Lapsewood urgently.

  ‘A leave day?’

  Lapsewood spoke quickly. ‘Yes. Go to London. Go to St Winifred’s School in Whitechapel and get the other copy of the London Tenancy List off Doris. Once you have that you’ll be able to use it to track down a Rogue ghost boy by the name of Tanner. He travels with a pack of spirit hounds.’

  ‘When I open that door again,’ cried Brinks, ‘don’t even think about trying to escape, Marquis.’

  ‘Rogue ghosts? London? Spirit hounds?’ said Grunt, sounding panicked. ‘No . . . I don’t have the forms . . .’ He frantically mopped away at the top of the scarf.

  ‘This is more important than forms,’ said Lapsewood, grabbing him by the lapels and succeeding in increasing the flow of gunk. ‘You need to find Tanner and tell him that the Black Rot must be stopped. I have reason to believe that left untended it will draw something from the Void.’

  ‘The Void?’ exclaimed Grunt.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s what happened in Paris,’ said the Marquis.

  The door creaked open.

  ‘Tell Tanner he needs to get ghosts into the infected houses by whatever means necessary,’ said Lapsewood. ‘That’s the only way to stop it.’

  ‘Whatever means necessary,’ repeated Grunt.

  ‘Yes – and Grunt, say please.’

  Sergeant Brinks stepped inside, his Beater at the ready. ‘Time’s up. Mr Grunt, either follow me or you’ve found yourself a new home.’

  ‘Good luck, Grunt,’ replied Lapsewood.

  Grunt looked at him uncertainly before following Sergeant Brinks out.

  ‘Charming fellow,’ said the Marquis. ‘If you forgive the lack of personal hygiene, that is.’

  33

  The End of Nell

  Nell had spent her whole life pacing the streets of London. As a young girl, her feet had skipped along these cobbles as she sang prettily and sold flowers, only occasionally adding to her day’s take with colourful hankies swiped from gentlemen’s pockets. A few years on and Nell’s steps were slower and her attempts to look appealing were more studied and specifically aimed at the male population. By the time she was in her late thirties with a string of financially rewarding, although ultimately doomed, relationships behind her, she had accrued much of what she desired and could afford to hire hansom cabs. Yet, it was to the streets she always returned in the end. Through poverty or wealth, joy or sorrow, friendship or loneliness, Nell had always wanted, above all, to be seen. She wanted the world to envy her, admire her and notice her.

  Ghosts received no tip of a gentleman’s hat, nor jealous glances from wives. Ghosts were invisible to the living. So Nell sought attention from other spirits. She had liked Mr Lapsewood a great deal. He had been a proper gent, asking her to do up a button. She would seek him out again and embarrass him, prove that death may have robbed her of many things but she still had her ability to ignite the spark in a man’s heart, even if the heart in question had long since ceased to beat.

  On the south side of Blackfriars Bridge she noticed an Enforcer heading her way and floated down to hide in the tunnel underneath. Her desire to be seen didn’t extend to Enforcers. She was, after all, a Rogue ghost.

  It was late. There wasn’t a living soul around. Yet, she sensed there was something in the shadows.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  No echo for a ghost’s voice.

  ‘No need to be shy, love,’ she said. ‘If it’s company you seek, come and see old Nell.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Why you hiding back there? There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re newly ghost-born, is that it? Well, don’t you worry. I’ll show you the ropes. You can trust me.’

  Something moved in the shadows. Too dark to see. The bricks under the bridge were damp with moisture that dripped down to the pavement below. Black smoke edged forward. It was blacker than Ether Dust, but it began to take shape. A shadowy creature with a long nose moved on three legs.

  ‘Oh,’ Nell sighed, disappointed. ‘You’re a spirit hound.’

  She had never seen such a black coat on a dog, alive or dead. Nor one of such size. It was almost the height of a human. It opened its great jaws and let out a soundless growl that Nell felt more than heard.

  She stepped back, feeling a sensation she had not felt in many years. It took her a moment to realise it was fear.

  ‘What are you?’ she asked.

  It was more than a dog. She couldn’t peel her eyes away from the approaching blackness. She couldn’t move. Something held her. The hound loomed over her, its great jaws above her. Deadly. Dark. Silent. She tried to turn to Ether Dust but it wouldn’t allow her, gripping her with its smoky black limbs. She screamed but the beast opened its mouth and swallowed the sound.

  Fear turned to pain.

  Nell felt extreme agony as the hound devoured her, its teeth tearing into her body, wrenching her limbs from her torso, peeling her fleshless skin, unravelling her very soul.

  In a matter of seconds, the ghost of Nell was no more.

  34

  Mr Sternwell’s Last Will and Testament

  It was a busy week at Constable and Toop. The day after Mr Gliddon’s funeral, Sam was once again standing beside a grave in his role as mute. Today it was the funeral of Mrs Eli, a cantankerous old woman whose relatives had struggled to supply the vicar with sufficiently fond mem­­ories for her eulogy. Sam was relieved that Mrs Eli’s ghost wasn’t there to rant at her family’s feigned sadness. While looking out for her, he noticed another spirit lingering nearby, trying to catch his eye. This one was a plain-looking middle-aged gentleman with an honest sort of face and a belly that was obviously no stranger to a large plate of food.

  Sam took it as a good sign that the ghost did not try to speak to him durin
g the funeral, instead waiting until the Eli family were safely inside the local tavern and Sam was taking a walk on Peckham Rye.

  The ghost politely introduced himself as Mr Sternwell of Borough, then explained, ‘I’m looking for some help with a small matter. I’m sorry to bother you about it.’ He had a soft, well-spoken voice that suited his appearance.

  ‘What kind of help?’ Sam responded.

  ‘My will,’ he replied. ‘You see, I drew up a new one before I died, but my death was so sudden I never had time to give it to my solicitor.’

  ‘If you tell me where to find it I’ll post it on,’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes, well, unfortunately, it’s taken me a while to track you down and it’s rather urgent now,’ admitted Mr Sternwell.

  ‘How urgent?’

  ‘My solicitor is settling my accounts today,’ admitted Mr Sternwell.

  ‘What will happen if I don’t help?’

  ‘I’m afraid that would mean my fortune would go to my wife.’

  ‘Is that not the right person to inherit one’s fortune?’

  Mr Sternwell shook his head. ‘Not in my case. We were estranged, you see. Not divorced, but we no longer lived together. I left my fortune to my dear Rosa, the only woman I truly loved.’ He smiled fondly.

  ‘What will come of your wife with no inheritance?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Don’t worry. The will leaves her enough, more than she deserves, in fact. Please, I’m begging you, help me out this once. I can’t bear to see poor Rosa living the rest of her days in poverty. I swear I shall not bother you again nor speak of you to another soul.’

  Sam agreed to help him and returned to the tavern to ask Mr Constable for the rest of the afternoon off. Sam never spoke to his father about the ghostly errands he ran, fearing that he would not approve, but Mr Constable was always understanding. Mr Constable did not ask for details but, as usual, Sam was in no doubt that he knew what was going on.