by Simon Clarke
The wind blew harder, invoking what sounded like a chorus of astonished gasps from the trees: for all the world, it seemed as if those elms and oaks were shocked by what they witnessed taking place here tonight.
Thomas held the lantern high, fixing the scene to memory. He would write an account of these dramatic events at the earliest opportunity. Fifteen lanterns had been set out in a circle around the grave. They splashed their white light over black tombstones that jutted from the ground like a monstrous array of teeth. The only white-stoned tomb lay in the centre of the circle of lanterns. Chiselled onto the box-shaped monument was the name: joshua gordon denby. Abberline was present, of course, together with a representative of the local council who would ensure that the rules of exhumation were adhered to.
Ten soldiers had been assigned to help the inspector with his grisly task. The men were intelligent, resourceful, and they possessed strong arms – all of which they put to good use. Following Abberline’s direction, they hammered posts into the ground. To these they attached canvas sheets, which would screen Denby’s tomb from the road. After swiftly dismantling the tomb’s marble structure they began to dig. It all seemed so dreamlike: the little pool of light in the midst of dark countryside, the gleaming tower of the church, the other-worldly sighs issuing from the trees, the silent figures tirelessly digging soil from the grave pit.
The church clock sounded the passing of five o’clock. Five solemn chimes that shimmered across the fields – a ghostly sound that decayed on the night air. Thomas set the camera onto its tripod. The camera itself was a brown wooden box one foot high, one foot wide and one foot deep. A cumbersome brute and heavy. One of the soldiers darted across to help him as he tightened a brass screw to fix the camera to the tripod.
Abberline nodded at Thomas – a silent encouragement. This was grim business, but it must be done. Important clues might lie hidden in the grave with those cold bones. Thomas felt the chill penetrate his own living body – perhaps Death, itself, giving him a foretaste of the icy eternity of the grave?
Spades crunched the soil, as rhythmic as breathing. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The Singing Trees were a chorus of whispers. Flickering lanterns sent shadows on a wild dance amid the gravestones. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch … Thomas’s nostrils were filled with the heavy scent of damp earth. Crunch. Crunch …. Thud!
‘Inspector Abberline, sir,’ the soldier said. ‘We’ve reached the coffin, sir.’
Abberline nodded. ‘Please bring it up.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘Be ready with the camera.’
Thomas poured flash powder into a little trough on top of the camera. When ignited this would provide enough illumination for the photograph to be taken. He hoped the breeze wouldn’t blow the powder away before it could be used. The church clock ticked away minutes with what seemed deathly slowness.
The soldiers worked with quiet professionalism. They were a close-knit team and barely needed to utter a word to one another in order to understand what their comrades required of them. They put their shovels aside as two men in the bottom of the grave attached ropes to what lay in the pit. Moments, later the two men held up their hands for their comrades to lift them back to the surface. The process went smoothly and swiftly. Six soldiers gripped a rope apiece. Abberline looked down into the grave, nodded and stepped back. The soldiers continued their grim task and began hauling the ropes.
Thomas watched the long box rise smoothly out of its pit. Once clear, the men carried the coffin between them and set it down in front of the camera. Thomas angled the instrument until the lens pointed at the coffin lid. Beneath that rotting wood would be the skull of Joshua Denby.
The local government official stepped forward to wipe dirt from the coffin’s name plate. When he was satisfied that the name matched the one on the gravestone, he nodded to Abberline. ‘Proceed, Inspector.’
Abberline picked up an iron bar from tools lying on the ground. One of the soldiers unwrapped a parcel of brown paper. From this he handed out what looked like white scarves. These were the linen strips that had been soaked in that strongly aromatic substance known as camphor. Each man tied the fabric over his mouth and nose. Abberline did the same. The soldier passed Thomas a strip of fabric, which he quickly tied in place. The smell of camphor was so intense it stung the inside of his nose, making his eyes water. Nevertheless, he didn’t allow its powerful effect to distract him. He gripped the lens cover with one hand and rested his finger on the switch that would ignite the flash powder.
Abberline jammed the sharp end of the bar between the lid and the coffin itself. The man’s eyes were bright between the brim of his hat and the white cloth masking his nose and mouth. ‘Remember what I said, Thomas. As soon as I remove the lid take the photograph.’
‘I’m ready.’ Thomas felt his muscles tense.
The soldiers stood in a semi-circle. They seemed to hold their breath in readiness. Even the eerie chorus of the Singing Trees had fallen to the faintest of expectant whispers.
Abberline pried the lid with the iron bar. Nails screeched as they came loose. With a burst of speed, Abberline seized the edge of the coffin lid and hurled it back.
Thomas’s gaze locked onto what lay in the coffin. He’d expected bones, a skull, mouldering clothes.
But no …
What he saw shocked him to the depths of his soul. A head lay on a black satin pillow. White hair fanned outwards across that dark fabric. A face … a whole face … pale skin. Pink lips. Open eyes staring up into his. Staring with the surprise of a sleeping man suddenly roused from deep sleep.
‘Thomas, the photograph.’
Thomas Lloyd removed the lens cover. He pressed a switch. The powder ignited, unleashing a searing flash that illuminated what Thomas would remember until his dying day.
The corpse of Joshua Gordon Denby, which had been lying in the ground for three long years, was preserved – perfectly preserved.
CHAPTER 27
CLICK!
The lock turned with shocking loudness. Laura froze as the sound seemed to echo all the way from the attic down to the cellar and back again. Nerves, she thought, her heart pounding, it’s just nerves making you imagine the lock was so loud. Even so, she paused a full minute. When she didn’t hear the quick footstep of someone coming to investigate the cause of the noise, Laura opened the door. Success. Picking the lock with the hair pin had been surprisingly easy. Now she could not delay – not for a moment. The household would be waking soon; she must act quickly.
She’d already dressed in her day clothes. A candle burned in its holder on the floor by the door. Quickly picking it up, she stepped out into the corridor that ran the full length of the attic to the servants’ stairwell. Her mouth turned dry, her heart clamoured – what she planned to do horrified her– in fact, made her sick to her stomach–but she must see her plan through. If she didn’t, lives would be lost. The master’s balloon ships had to be destroyed. If they weren’t, Mr Lloyd, the handsome young journalist, would fall from a balloon and be killed. She’d seen his fate in a vision. Now came her chance to save him. Laura had been raised a Christian, and she saw it as her Christian duty to preserve human life, whether it be the life of one dear to her own heart or a stranger.
Laura padded along the night-time corridor, holding the candle high. As she walked, she heard the fluting notes again. They heralded the approach of the spirit which had haunted her of late. She dreaded its appearance. A cold, blue terror filled her. What she wanted to do was flee back to her room and hide shuddering under the bedclothes.
I cannot do that, she told herself. I must be brave. A higher power demands that I preserve the life of Thomas Lloyd. His life is to be saved. He is a man of destiny. She continued, the candle’s glow lighting her way. Suddenly a door swung open beside her. One of the maids is awake. They’ll raise the alarm! Laura turned to see a man standing there, however. Red hair, green eyes, a gap between his front teeth. Blood seeped over his lips and down his chin. Captain Sefton … his ghost had co
me to rebuke her … she was certain.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,’ she whispered. ‘I am making amends now. I will destroy the balloons.’
She reached out to touch his face: a gesture of compassion and apology. Her fingers pressed against a cold, hard surface. Captain Sefton had vanished. Instead, a closed door with her hand resting upon it.
‘I’m not insane.’ The words bubbled from her lips. ‘Truly, I’m not.’
That’s when she saw a white, spectral figure at the top of the stairs. The phantom pointed down the stairwell. It wanted her to hurry, not to hesitate, not to be distracted: she must fulfil her task. So down the stairs she went. From the kitchen, she collected matches and a heavy glass jar full of lamp oil. She would rely on her night sight now; the candle might be noticed by anyone looking from the house. Whatever happens, she must not be prevented from completing her quest.
Laura opened the back door, and cold, night air blew in at her as if to push her back indoors. Resolutely, she hurried through the fierce breeze toward the work-sheds. Light shone from a building at the stable block. A door opened to reveal a figure wearing a long leather apron. Possibly a mare was about to foal and one of the stablemen had stayed up to watch over the birth. Laura retreated behind a line of bushes lest she be seen. After a few moments, the man returned to the building. She gripped the matchbox in one hand and the jar of lamp oil in the other and hurried toward the work-sheds.
The pale phantom gleamed in the shadows. He, or she, or it, appeared to be watching her. Then creatures from the spirit world must possess other miraculous powers, too. Perhaps it senses the flow of time, she thought, like we can feel the flow of water onto our hands. And what if it sees thoughts and dreams flooding from people’s heads, like we can see steam pouring from a locomotive’s funnel?
Panic fluttered dangerously inside her. ‘I’m not being claimed by madness, am I? Please God, I am still sane, aren’t I?’
The phantom raised an arm with an outstretched finger, pointing at the sheds where the master’s inventions were stored. It demanded that she execute her plan, and not hesitate for a moment longer. Already lights shone from windows: maids would be donning their uniforms; kitchen skivvies would soon be preparing breakfast for the staff.
Carefully now, she approached the area that servants were forbidden to enter. There would be soldiers on guard. The master’s work was secret. She’d been told that the balloons were battleships of the air; they’d win wars; whoever possessed these vessels would become master of the world.
Yet she saw no guards. The way ahead was clear. There was no sound, other than a breeze sighing through the forest. Now the phantom stood by a door that was slightly ajar. Holding the container of lamp oil to her, as snugly as if it were a baby, she entered the shed. The balloons were empty of gas. Fabric envelopes lay limp upon the floor. Everywhere coils of ropes hung from walls. This vast barn of a place was, fortuitously, deserted of people.
In her mind’s eye, she saw what she should do. Pull the cork from the glass jar, splash the lamp oil over the balloons, light a match – then: WHOOSH! Everything burns … everything destroyed.
After that she would be content. Thomas Lloyd wouldn’t be killed. Perhaps the phantom would be satisfied that she’d completed her task and would leave forever. Laura Morgan could return to her maid work. She would see Jake again. There would be dancing and music and happiness.
She put the box of matches on a table. Then she prepared to pull the cork from the jar.
That’s when a figure lunged from the shadows. The phantom? No, she saw a flash of yellow coat. The hands of a living man gripped her by the throat. She felt the heat of them – the fierce, angry heat. A pair of brown eyes glared into hers. With one hand gripping her throat so tightly she couldn’t breathe, he tugged the flask from her hand and set it down on the table. The next thing she knew both his hands closed around her throat. Her single thought: it hurts so much …. Laura tried to struggle free. She couldn’t. Nor could she scream.
Black spots filled her vision. Blood thundered in her ears. The phantom’s white face ghosted through the man’s head. Briefly, the eerie spirit face became superimposed on her murderer’s face, as if he wore a stark mask, pale as death.
Her knees buckled; all her strength gone. She hung limply as he grasped her neck with a savage strength.
‘Do not shout,’ he hissed in strange accents, ‘or I will kill you.’
The man in the yellow coat picked Laura up as if she weighed nothing at all. Swiftly, he carried her from the shed, and away into the darkness of the forest – to a place where her screams would never be heard.
CHAPTER 28
At 6.30 that morning, the soldiers bore the coffin into an outbuilding allocated for use as a laboratory. The men set the heavy casket on stout wooden trestles. Dirt on that grim box had already begun to dry and fall off, as if it had begun to shed its macabre skin.
A man of about forty, with a neatly clipped beard and thick, black eyebrows watched the proceedings. He wore a slaughterman’s leather apron over his clothes. Thomas noticed that the man had assembled an apparatus composed of an array of glass pipes on stands, together with beakers of various sizes. Tellingly, there was a table on which were laid a row of tweezers, forceps and scalpels. The tools of the anatomist.
The soldiers bowed their heads at the coffin before respectfully leaving the room.
‘Doctor Penrhyn.’ Abberline held out his hand, which the doctor shook. ‘I appreciate you coming here at such short notice.’
‘I am grateful that you asked me to conduct the investigation. Coming from you, this is a great honour, Inspector Abberline.’
‘Thank you. Allow me to introduce Mr Thomas Lloyd. He’s assisting me in this case.’
Thomas and the doctor shook hands.
Doctor Penrhyn said, ‘I can take a specimen from the skeleton whenever you wish.’
‘If you’ll allow me to examine the remains first, Doctor. Oh, by the way, you’ll find more than bones.’
‘But I’m told that the body’s been in the ground for three years?’
‘I think you should see this for yourself.’ Abberline nodded to Thomas. ‘If you’ll help me with the lid? Don’t forget to cover your mouth.’
Thomas eased the cloth over the lower half of his face. Once again, pungent camphor aromas flushed through his nostrils to burn his throat. Abberline ensured that his own mouth and nose were similarly protected. Doctor Penrhyn, meanwhile, donned a purpose-made surgical mask.
‘Ready, Thomas?’
Thomas nodded. Both men lifted the lid free. Inside that narrow box reposed the corpse of Joshua Denby. The long, grey hair still had the appearance of being neatly brushed. The dead face was white as milk. His eyes were partly open. The man had been buried in evening clothes – it gave the impression of him simply resting before heading out to a formal dinner.
‘This is truly remarkable,’ breathed the doctor. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on a cadaver in this state of preservation after being so long in the ground. See the skin? Soft … still pliable. Like living skin.’
Thomas’s lips gave an involuntary twitch beneath the linen mask as the doctor gently pinched the skin on the back of the corpse’s hand.
Abberline examined the face. ‘There is very little deterioration of the eyes, too. The iris retains its colour. Pupils are welldefined.’
Then the policeman did something so unexpected, and so shocking, that it made Thomas gulp and clamp his hand to his mouth. Abberline pulled the protective mask from his face, leaned in close over the cadaver, and inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘I don’t smell anything other than lavender oil, do you, Doctor?’
Doctor Penrhyn removed his mask and sniffed. ‘Lavender oil and camphor: the usual method of masking odours of death.’
‘What is so significant about the state of preservation?’ Thomas asked when his bout of queasiness had passed.
Abberline said, ‘It arouses m
y suspicions somewhat. The doctor’s test will prove if those suspicions are correct. However, before the doctor begins work, there’s just one more thing.’ The man removed his coat and jacket and placed them on a chair. He then rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Thomas’s stomach turned somersaults as the Inspector pushed his hands down inside the coffin between the dead flesh and the wooden sides. He pulled out several small cotton bags.
‘Potpourri,’ he said. ‘Put into the coffin at the same time as the body to mask the smell.’
‘Nothing unusual there,’ Thomas managed to say. Just.
‘A penny.’ Abberline held up the coin. ‘Must have fallen from one of the eyes.’
‘How delightfully pagan,’ chuckled the doctor. ‘Pennies on the eyes to pay the ferryman’s fare into the next world.’
‘Ah …’ Abberline worked his hand under the corpse’s shoulder. ‘Interesting. What do we have here?’
He pulled out a black object, the size and shape of a cigarette case. Frowning, he turned it over in his hands. A moment later, he inserted a thumbnail into one side of the object and opened it like a book.
‘By Jove, a photograph.’ Abberline’s face flushed with triumph. ‘Look, Thomas. What do you see?’
Thomas stared in astonishment. The photograph was of the tintype kind, meaning it had been formed on a sheet of tin. The image had also been hand-tinted to include a flash of bright yellow on a black and white background.
‘It’s the Faunus statue,’ he exclaimed. ‘One of the Gods of Rome – it’s gold. Pure gold!’
CHAPTER 29
The grey light of dawn pierced a knothole in the timber wall. Laura Morgan gazed at her surroundings. Spiders had woven billowing veils across the underside of the roof. Serrated saw blades hung from a nail in a plank. She realized that the stranger in the yellow coat had shut her into the woodcutter’s hut. When she placed her eye to the knothole she saw trees. She caught a glimpse of the folly, too, the mock ruin of an ancient temple that housed the statue of a Roman goddess.
