‘I won’t go if I am needed in the shop,’ said Sam, giving him opportunity to change his mind.
Mr Constable smiled benevolently. ‘You are always needed in the shop, Sam, but I get the feeling you are presently needed elsewhere.’
‘My loyalty is to you, not Them,’ replied Sam.
‘Helping out others is what makes us human,’ said Mr Constable. ‘As my own father used to say, charity is the fuel of humanity.’
With Mr Constable’s consent, Sam took his leave, then returned to meet Mr Sternwell. They caught a train to London Bridge and walked to his house in Borough. It was an irritating journey, made worse by Mr Sternwell’s fretting about the time and constantly checking his pocket watch, which must surely have stopped ticking along with his heart. At the house, Mr Sternwell struggled to remember where in the garden he had hidden the spare key and the floorboard under which the will was hidden. When Sam eventually pulled up the correct floorboard and retrieved the envelope he received a splinter in his thumb for his troubles. The solicitor’s, Kessler & Abel, was several streets away and Mr Sternwell persuaded Sam he had to run if they were to make it on time, so Sam arrived out of breath and sweating profusely.
He was greeted by a junior clerk who looked at him uncertainly.
‘I’m here to see Mr Kessler,’ said Sam, prompted by Mr Sternwell.
‘He’s busy at the moment,’ replied the clerk.
Mr Sternwell stuck his head through the door and peeked inside. ‘That’s it. That’s the settlement of my estate,’ he said. ‘That blood-sucking wife of mine is there, as is my beautiful Rosa. You must insist.’
‘I have a document which I believe to be of immediate relevance,’ said Sam to the clerk.
Reluctantly, the clerk agreed to check. He knocked on the door and, after a moment, returned to show Sam in. Inside the room, the bespectacled solicitor sat behind a large desk. Opposite him was a woman the same age as Mr Sternwell, her white hair sharply contrasting with her black attire. Next to her was a much younger woman, wearing a red dress with soft curls falling prettily around her heavily made-up face. They were sitting as far apart as possible.
‘You have something of relevance to the matter of the settlement of the estate of Mr Alfred Sternwell?’ said Mr Kessler, the solicitor.
‘Yes.’ Sam handed him the will.
Mr Kessler examined it carefully, then spoke. ‘May I ask how you came by this?’ He looked at Sam over the top of his glasses.
‘My father works for the postal service,’ said Sam. ‘This was posted to you but mislaid. My father asked that I bring it to you.’
‘An inspired lie, indeed,’ said Mr Sternwell.
‘It seems genuine enough,’ said Mr Kessler. ‘It is dated after the previous will in my possession, so legally we must go by this one.’
‘What does this mean? What does it say?’ asked the older woman anxiously.
‘You may well be worried, my dear,’ said the ghost of Mr Sternwell.
‘I’m afraid your husband left his entire fortune to Rosa,’ said Mr Kessler.
Mr Sternwell’s wife burst into tears. A smile spread slowly across the younger woman’s face.
‘But Mrs Sternwell is looked after too, is she not?’ said Sam.
Both women and the lawyer turned to look at him.
‘Did you open the envelope?’ asked Mr Kessler.
‘No, but . . .’ He looked at Mr Sternwell.
‘Nothing is more than she deserves,’ said Mr Sternwell spitefully.
‘I’m so sorry, Margaret,’ said Mr Kessler.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Mrs Sternwell, still unable to stop the flow of tears. ‘It’s her. She bewitched him. She took a silly old fat man and tricked him into leaving his fortune to her. Meanwhile, I, who stood by him all those years, I am left to rot without a penny to my name.’
The younger woman stood, smoothed down her dress and said, ‘All that money would have been wasted on you, you old bag. Anyway, so what? I made the old fool happy. Now he’s made me happy.’
Realising what he had done, Sam turned to Mrs Sternwell. He tried to apologise but the words stuck in his throat. He turned and fled the building.
The ghost of Mr Sternwell made no effort to follow. Sam had served his purpose. Sam felt sickened by the part he had played in ruining his widow’s life. Failing to look where he was going, he collided with a hurried businessman coming the other way and was knocked to the ground.
‘Mind where you’re going next time,’ snapped the man.
Sam felt disorientated. Confused. He had been in such a hurry getting to the solicitor’s he couldn’t remember the way back. He needed to ask directions but everyone was rushing, wrapped up in the importance of their own concerns. Not one person stopped to check Sam’s well-being as he sat on the filthy pavement, instead swarming around him like ants. Busy, rude Londoners, with no concern for their fellow men. Sam picked himself up and made his way along the street, desperate now to get home and escape the cesspit of a city that was London.
35
Grunt in London
Arriving in amongst the smog of the city, Grunt wondered why on earth he had agreed to help Lapsewood. The last time he had set foot in London the ground had literally been pulled away from under his feet and he had felt the sudden violent tug of the rope around his neck as the baying crowds cheered. Amongst them Grunt spotted the man who had killed his wife, except he was so drunk that he failed to notice the moment when Grunt was hanged. Being such a private man unaccustomed to showy public displays, this was the only moment when Grunt had ever stepped upon a stage, and yet this debut went unnoticed by the one man who really should have been paying attention. It was a cruel world and Grunt did not relish being back in it.
As he walked across London Bridge he reflected that the old city seemed even busier, noisier and fuller than it had when he had walked here as a living man.
Disorientated by the constant stream of people, horses and vehicles passing through him, Grunt stepped off the bridge and hovered above the cold River Thames. The tide was in and the murky waters of the river hurried on their way towards the estuary.
‘Papers, please,’ said a voice from the bridge.
Grunt took a moment to realise it was directed at him. A thick-headed Enforcer with a low brow stood at the edge of the bridge, tapping his Ether Beater, more unthinkingly than threateningly. His name badge read enforcer dawlish.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Grunt. He reached into his pocket and handed over his documentation.
The Enforcer studied it closely. ‘Says here you’ve a desk job for the Dispatch Department,’ he said. ‘What brings you down here?’
‘I . . . er . . . I’m on leave. You know, visiting family,’ lied Grunt.
‘You got a Visitation Permit, then?’ asked Dawlish.
‘I . . . no . . . I thought since I won’t be doing any actual haunting I . . .’
‘Still need a Visitation Permit, haunting or no haunting. Otherwise we’d have ghosts floating about all over the place. Talking of which, what you doing there flying about mid-air? You need a permit for that too. That’s how I knew you weren’t no Rogue, you see. You don’t find them drawing attention to themselves.’ He handed the papers back to Grunt. ‘Now, you can be on your way. Make sure you’ve got the right permits next time you come down here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Grunt continued on to Whitechapel, travelling as Ether Dust to avoid any more encounters like that. Outside the school Lapsewood had mentioned he met the ghost of a sailor who looked as if he had died from being eaten by a shark, judging by the teethmarks visible under his torn shirt. The sailor seemed friendly enough, but warned him against going inside. ‘You mark my words, that place has fallen to the Black Rot, so it has,’ he said. ‘One step inside and you’ll be stuck there forever.’
‘But without the list how will I find Tanner?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know any Tanner,’ said the sailor.
/> ‘He’s a Rogue ghost, a boy. He has spirit hounds travelling with him.’
‘Now, I did see a boy with a pack of hounds recently. He was heading down Bedlam way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grunt.
Grunt turned to Ether Dust and flew south towards Kennington. He found the ghost of an old woman outside the lunatic asylum, who had seen a boy matching Tanner’s description recently. ‘He was checking buildings still had their ghosts,’ she told him. ‘The ’ospital was on his list, but I told him there were so many spirits in there it’s a wonder there’s any room for the livin’.’
It was halfway down Kennington Road that Grunt finally found a pack of spirit hounds tied up to a street lamp. He bent down to take a closer look at the revolting creatures.
‘Oi, leave them alone.’
Grunt turned around to find a young boy with another dog.
‘Master Tanner?’ he said.
‘Who’s asking?’ replied the boy.
‘I’m not an Enforcer,’ said Grunt.
‘I can see that.’
Grunt gulped and felt a fresh globule of grey goo bubble up from his scarf. He quickly mopped it away.
‘You know that’s disgusting, don’t you?’ said Tanner.
‘I have not come all this way to be insulted,’ replied Grunt.
‘What brings you to these parts if not in search of a good insult?’ replied Tanner, grinning cheekily.
‘I have a message from Mr Lapsewood.’
‘Lapsewood? Where is he?’
‘He’s been detained.’
‘Detained? What, like locked up?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘What manner of speaking?’
‘Do you want to hear this message or not?’
‘If he’s been detained what am I doing all this work for?’ asked Tanner, holding up the London Tenancy List.
‘He said you were to get ghosts into the infected houses. He said it was very important.’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘Yes, and he said to say please.’
Tanner smiled. ‘He’s learning. But what? Get ghosts to step into prisons? That’s no easy task.’
Grunt explained as best he could about the Black Rot and how, left to its own devices, it would draw in something from the Void to satisfy its needs. ‘Lapsewood said to coax ghosts in by whatever means necessary,’ said Grunt.
‘Coax them?’ exclaimed Tanner. ‘You can’t coax ghosts because ghosts don’t want nothing.’
‘I don’t know if that’s true,’ said Grunt, thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to be able to give the man who killed my wife a piece of my mind.’
‘Of course.’ Tanner clicked his fingers. ‘That’s it. How do you coax a ghost? You offer them a service in return.’
‘What kind of service?’ asked Grunt.
‘The kind provided by a Talker,’ replied Tanner.
36
What If . . .
Clara was standing outside a pub called the Boar’s Head. It was the address on her list that was nearest to Aysgarth House. In the second column was the name Paddy O’Twain. If it really was a list of haunted houses then Mr O’Twain was the name of its resident ghost. Clara had never been inside a pub and had to summon up the courage to enter.
For some reason her thoughts drifted back to school, when she used to play a game with the other girls called What If, in which they would try to answer questions they dreamt up. Most of her friends came up with questions like What if a prince wanted to marry you? or What if you could buy any dress in the world? But it was always Clara’s questions that had them all in fits of giggles. What if you were kidnapped by pirates? What if your parents were eaten by baboons? What if you could travel to the moon? She thought about that game now as she wondered, What if you found a list of haunted houses?
The answer, she felt, was that you would go and investigate them.
Clara pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The pub smelt of tobacco, beer and sweat, but the atmosphere was convivial and not as intimidating as she had expected. Businessmen and tradesmen chatted and laughed amongst themselves. The large Irish landlady behind the bar with her red hair tied up over her head asked, ‘What can I get you, lovey?’ whilst pulling a pint with one hand and pouring a spirit with the others.
‘I’m not here for a drink,’ replied Clara.
‘You say you want a gin?’ replied the lady, who was only half listening.
‘No, I don’t want a drink,’ repeated Clara.
The landlady handed a customer the pint, winked at him and said, more for his benefit than Clara’s, ‘That’s a shame, because it’s only drinks we sell here.’
The customer laughed.
‘I’m looking for a Paddy O’Twain,’ said Clara.
‘I’m afraid we’re all out of those too,’ replied the woman, earning another laugh.
‘I think he used to work here,’ said Clara.
‘Now, there’s a debatable point if I ever heard one. Paddy was my husband. I’m Mrs O’Twain. And, well, let’s just say that work was never a strong point of Paddy’s.’ With all the customers served, the woman turned her full attention to Clara. ‘Now, why would a pretty young thing come here asking after my dead husband? You’re no debt-collector. So what is it? And please don’t tell me you’re a long-lost daughter come in search of her father, because I’d suspect you of reading too many novels. Besides, I’m afraid all you’d be set to inherit would be a house full of drunkards and a bundle of debts.’
‘I’m not,’ said Clara. ‘May I ask how long ago he died?’
Mrs O’Twain grabbed a cloth and wiped down the bar. ‘It’s getting on for six years now, but debt collectors still come crawling out of the woodwork occasionally. I mean, I knew he was a useless old so and so, but it was only after he died that I discovered he owed money to half of London.’
‘I’m not here about his debts,’ said Clara. ‘I wonder whether you ever have a feeling that your husband is still with you,’ she said. She had rehearsed the sentence beforehand.
‘Thank the good lord, no,’ replied Mrs O’Twain.
‘Not his ghost?’
‘Ghost?’ she exclaimed with a sudden hoot of laughter. ‘The only spirits you’ll find in this place are lined up against this wall.’
A few of the customers at the bar were listening by now. They laughed heartily at this joke.
‘Where did he die?’ asked Clara, her confidence boosted by Mrs O’Twain’s levity.
‘That very chair over by the window,’ said the landlady. ‘I was back in the old country visiting my poor ma, God rest her soul. Paddy was supposed to be minding the place but was instead doing his best to drink our profits. When I returned I found him dead to the world, lying back, mouth open. But no snoring. That was strange. That’s when I realised how dead to the world he was. Poor old thing. Still, at least he went doing what he enjoyed. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’
Next on the list was an address in Eastcheap. Enquiries with the shopkeeper below revealed that the room above had indeed been leased to a man with the same name as that upon Clara’s list. The shopkeeper described him as a pale-skinned poet, whose death from consumption had come as no surprise, and seemed fitting for the type of man he was. However, he was not aware of any ghostly presence either.
Clara continued her ghoulish trail across London, finding none who would corroborate the existence of a ghost, until she reached Drury Lane Theatre. There, when she explained the reason for her visit, the doorman instantly said, ‘Oh, you mean the Man in Grey.’
‘Does he know about the ghost?’ she asked.
The doorman laughed. ‘He is the ghost.’
‘He’s David Kerby?’
‘I’ve never heard mention of his actual name,’ said the doorman. ‘I suppose the Man in Grey has a more dramatic sound to it, and since it’s mostly the actors who see him, they prefer it.’
‘Have you ever seen him?’
�
��Never myself, but then I’m always stuck out here.’
‘Can I speak to one who has?’
‘I daresay you can,’ replied the doorman. ‘Let’s ask this one. Eddie, ever seen the ghost?’
Walking up the steps was a young, good-looking man wearing a flamboyantly patterned coat. ‘Seen him? I think you’ll find I’m playing him. Amongst a number of other roles, of course.’
The doorman chuckled. ‘That’s actors for you,’ he said, with a wink at Clara. ‘Always think you’re talking about them. I’m talking about the Man in Grey.’
‘Oh, him,’ replied the actor. ‘Yes, the spirit who paces the theatre. I have caught a glimpse of that spectre a couple of times.’
‘What do you know about him?’ said Clara.
‘Not much. I don’t think he’s an unpleasant sort of spirit. Some of the older actors say that he learns the lines of each play and that he will whisper them to you if you forget them. I’ve never forgotten my lines, so I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘You don’t get enough to warrant forgetting,’ said the doorman.
The actor smiled, taking the joke in good spirit. ‘It won’t be long before I stride that stage, not as the wailing ghost of Hamlet’s father but as the great Dane himself.’
‘As a dog?’ said the doorman with a loud guffaw.
The actor turned to Clara and said, ‘Some theatres save their clowns and jesters for the pantomimes. As you can see, at Drury Lane we keep ours on the door.’
Back at home, sitting on her bed, Clara thought about Lady Aysgarth. She wished she had tried to speak to her before that awful day. It was too late now. Her ghost had gone.
Staring at her curtains, Clara had a strange feeling, as though there was a presence in the house. It was almost as if something was watching her. If not Lady Aysgarth’s ghost, then what? Something with a darker demeanour than Her Ladyship. There was a coldness to the house since her departure. Clara felt a shiver run down her back.
‘Who’s there?’ she said. ‘Who’s there?’
Constable & Toop Page 13
