by David Haynes
He flicked the cigarette into the wind and watched it tumble through the air and out of view. Perhaps it was time to dust off the old cabinet and see how much it was worth. If only to keep Moreton and Sons afloat for a few more months.
Chapter 4
November 1852.
Regent Street,
London.
Benjamin Porter stopped and peered through the shop window. It was the smell that had drawn him there in the first instance but now it was another of his senses that was being tickled. The crusts looked golden and warm and in the centre, pools of rich brown gravy bubbled over the lid; steaming and unctuous. He had been here before, when times were better. When he could afford such a breakfast as a pie made of mutton or beef, or if the mood took, of eel. He pushed his frigid fingers into his pockets, more in hope than expectation, and found exactly what he expected; nothing.
How long had it been since he had eaten a breakfast of anything other than stale bread? Six months? Perhaps more, it was difficult to know. A man stepped around him on the way out of the shop. The expression he wore barely concealed the repulsion he so evidently possessed for those like Porter. Yet once, not so long ago, he had been such as that man; bloated and arrogant with little regard for those of lower station.
The last of the money was gone and with it all hopes for salvation. He had no stomach for knocking a man to the floor to steal his purse or for begging like a degenerate. He looked to the skies in hope for he knew without doing either he would find himself sprawled in the filthy gutters of Whitechapel like so many others.
What had happened to him? How had a life full of potential fallen so terribly far? He walked away from the shop; he had no desire to torment himself further. His landlady had been kind enough to allow him the rest of the week to pay the rent or find himself alternative lodgings. She had seen him through his previous employment and had witnessed the fall in his fortunes. It was merely her regard for his past which allowed her to afford him this grace. But now, her good nature could be relied upon no longer and he must leave.
There were others less likely to grant him favour and those others would not wait for the police to extract their payment; whatever form that may take. A cold wind blew across his naked neck and sent a violent shiver through his bones. His upbringing had not prepared him for a life on the street and it was sure to be a short winter for him; short, bitter and probably final.
He had received an education. It was the finest his father could manage and he could read and write as well as any man. A position as a clerk at the docks alongside his father was an enviable place to be. Yet it had not been enough. The endless drudgery of days spent hunched over ledgers and charts had not soothed his restless spirit and soon his wanderings took him to the dollymops and gambling houses with money he did not have. He sat beside the flashily dressed men with their Birmingham jewellery and played roulette and French hazard as if he were a Lord of the Realm. And when he lost and the bonnets cried in sham anguish at his misfortune he played again and chased the loss until his pockets were barren of coin.
Time and time again he returned. First with his own purse, then with his father's and then finally at the expense of his employer. It did not take very long for his dishonesty to be revealed and to be exposed to its fullest extent. A heartbroken and mortified father was quickly followed by the clubs and staffs of men whose wages he had spent. He had fled but had not gone far for he could not leave the city. For where else was as familiar to his feet as London? Where else could he find employ? London was the world and it was life.
He slumped against a wall and blew hot air onto his fingers to bring them back to life. Soon the snow would come and clean the streets of their rotten filth and with it bring a silent death to those sleeping in its arms. If he could find employ before then, there might still be chance of life. He didn't want to die for he had much to make amends for. He desired so much to make his father proud again; to see him again and embrace the man who had given him so much and expected so little in return. He yearned to bring respectability back to his own life, and in turn, to that of his poor father.
He watched a man step from the shop opposite. He was dressed smartly with top hat and cane and his moustache had been waxed to delicate points at the tips. He looked about the street with the air of a man who knew what he wanted but had not yet discovered it. It was a man of import, of that there could be no mistake.
Porter looked above the gentleman's hat at the elegant signage. "Moreton The Undertaker." It was simple but the letters looked strong and clear in gold. It stood out from the others on the street. They were faded and worn as if the very air had withered their power to attract custom. It matched the man entirely.
The gentleman attached something to his door and stepped back inside the warmth of his shop. Had the shop been there for very long? He had not seen it before and it looked too clean to have inhabited the street for any length of time. He gathered his coat about his body and tugged at the inadequate collar before stepping briskly across the road. He was eager to see what this man, this man of importance had attached to his door.
The window was covered in heavy black drapes and the door was of solid construction. Any man with a penchant for macabre voyeurism must look elsewhere for he would not be permitted to take his pleasure here. A note had been affixed to the door and it flapped in the wind. Porter wiped the freezing tears from his eyes and read the letter.
"Wanted - Undertaker's Assistant. Must be able to read and write. Apply within."
Had Porter been in different circumstances the opportunity which now presented itself before him would have barely garnered a second look. As things stood the moment was upon him to make a decision and it was a moment he intended to seize. He pushed the door open and listened to the sweet and gentle jingle of a bell above his head.
"May I help you, sir?" Outside, the day was a dismal affair; grey and without warmth. Yet inside the premises, the light was warm and golden under the instruction of the oil lamps. The smell was a distant reminder of his previous occupation. He looked to the source of the voice but could see nothing but shadow.
"I have come to apply for the vacant position, sir."
A smiling face emerged from the shadows. "And you can write?"
"I can, sir. And read."
"Then why are you dressed in the attire favoured by vagrants and footpads?"
Porter peered closer. It was the same man he had seen outside, he was sure. "I have made some unfortunate and costly decisions but I have come to my senses and now wish to make amends."
"There is desperation in your eyes, and your attire indicates that you are lost. Your countenance is one I have seen before; it is that of a man who knows he is not long for this world. Am I correct in that deduction?"
Porter looked down at his tattered shoes and his frayed trousers. It did not take a mystic to see the nature of his condition. "Sir, I am unafraid of hard labour and you would find me obedient and courteous." He paused and looked the man in the eye. He had not come here to be made ashamed at the hands of a stranger. "But I will not allow you to torment me further. Good day, sir." He turned and pulled the door, sending the little bell into a frenzy.
"No sir, you misunderstand me. I did not mean to imply those matters count against you. Quite the contrary, they work in your favour. Tell me your name so we can be better acquainted."
Porter turned slowly. He had detected no sarcasm in the voice. "I am Benjamin Porter and I am pleased to make your acquaintance Mr Moreton."
"Very good, Benjamin. You shall start your trial this very hour. You are without lodgings I assume? There are rooms above the shop, and while I cannot say they are lavish, they are at least comfortable and warm."
Benjamin could barely catch his breath. Not five minutes had passed since he had been standing cold and hopeless on the street and now he was being offered employment and lodgings. He could not help himself and smiled broadly. "Sir. Mr Moreton. I am forever in your debt. I shall not let
you down I can assure you of that. As for lodgings, I find myself released from a previous obligation and would be delighted to accept your offer."
Moreton laughed. "Then the matter is settled. A period of one month will be your trial period and, if after the elapsed time, I am satisfied with your endeavour you will be made my assistant. Understood?"
Benjamin nodded. Today had been so empty of promise as to be be a version of hell. Yet now his fortunes appeared to have changed for the better. It was enough to make his head spin.
"Now, Benjamin, you must take yourself upstairs and wash. I shall see to the matter of finding attire more suitable for your new position. Follow me."
Benjamin followed Moreton through a curtain into the back room. More lamps lit the space which was much larger than first impressions might suggest. "Please." Moreton indicated the stairs which Benjamin started up immediately.
"Oh and one last question, if I may?" Moreton asked.
"Of course." Porter turned to address the other man.
"You are not at all of a delicate disposition are you, Benjamin?"
*
For the following month Benjamin worked tirelessly in his new position. He was confined, for the most part and under strict instruction from Moreton, to the tiny office which occupied one of the smaller back rooms. Once again he found himself surrounded by the ledgers and documents for which he held little affection. However the work was less hurried than he had known in his previous employ and he was left to his own devices for much of the day. He used this time wisely and developed his own system of filing using his own methods. There appeared to have been little or no order to the untidy system operated prior to his arrival.
He saw little of Moreton during that first month but this did not overly concern him for he was satisfied to be employed and off the streets once again. What did concern him greatly though was the lack of noise from the bell above the door. It seldom rang and when it did, it sounded again quickly afterward signalling the departure of the customer. If there were no customers then there would be no business and without that there would be only a forlorn and short-lived existence on the streets of London.
Moreton seemed unconcerned with the impending doom and busied himself in one of the other rooms at the rear of the shop. He was so infrequently out of the room that had new custom stepped across the threshold, he would have missed them entirely.
Toward the end of his trial period Benjamin ventured to the door, where Moreton spent so much of his time, and knocked.
"Mr Moreton!" he called. "Might I have moment of your time?"
No response came from the room; there was not even the usual sound of movement from within. Porter put his ear to the wood and listened. After several seconds he was utterly convinced the room was empty and took hold of the door handle.
"Ah Porter, there you are. I have been meaning to talk to you about your position." Moreton appeared from behind him carrying a single candle. His face was lit by a warm amber glow and the shadow which danced upon the wall possessed a pair of sharpened tusks where his whiskers were waxed.
Benjamin immediately let go of the handle and turned to face his employer. "Then we think alike for I was also looking for you to discuss my future. I trust my endeavours have not left you disappointed, sir?""
"On the contrary, Porter, your endeavours have been beyond reproach and that is why I need not extend your trial period any longer." He held out his hand and Benjamin took it eagerly.
"Does this mean, sir that I am to be your assistant?"
"What else could it mean? Of course you are!"
Benjamin beamed and was unashamed about it. "I cannot thank you enough Mr Moreton. I simply do not have the words."
"Hush now. Tomorrow you will begin your education at my hands. Tomorrow you will meet your first cadaver, if you are ready?"
Benjamin swallowed hard and chided himself. As ridiculous as it sounded, he had not considered this possibility before.
"Come now, Benjamin. You surely did not expect your sole responsibility to be one of maintaining my ledgers. Why there is barely enough work to keep a man such as yourself from boredom. No, sir. Tomorrow you will learn the art of undertaking." Moreton reached out and took him by the shoulder. "You are a man of great potential, Benjamin, and I will not see you flounder or fail to reach the heights for which you are destined. You will come to love this great job of mine, for we do a great service to mankind. We are the bridge between this world and the next and there are few more important roles in life."
Benjamin felt himself pulled toward the door and he allowed it for it was difficult not to be drawn by Moreton's enthusiasm. "Do not fret unduly at the thought of what may come tomorrow, Benjamin, for tonight we shall dine like kings. We shall drink like lords and you shall sleep like the dead. Come along now for we must step briskly, dinner will be served in The Albion Tavern presently and we would do well not to miss it tonight. I observed a delivery of mutton made there this very morning.
The next day, Porter arrived at work for eight o'clock sharp. His head felt more than a little muddled for nothing stronger than a watered ale had passed his lips for the past few months, until the night just past. Moreton had seen to it that several bottles of the cruelest claret had been placed on their table. His insistence that they all be consumed before either man retire was enough to send Porter to his bed in a stupor.
As usual Moreton was already in the shop and this morning he was more cheerful than ever.
"I can see us becoming great friends, you and I. Why I could hardly keep up with you last night, Porter."
It was difficult to estimate Moreton's true age but he had at least fifteen years, probably more on him. It was he who had the problem keeping up with the older man. "Sir, I am honoured you think that way."
Moreton put his arm on his shoulder and drew him from the office. Porter allowed himself to be taken even though he knew where he was going. "It is time to begin, Benjamin." Moreton slid a key into the lock and pushed the door open. "May I introduce, Gerald Seymour."
Porter looked into the room. The same room he had stood outside of the previous day. He could see nothing but he barely needed to for the smell which flew from the room was one of death and decay. He had smelled it before, on the clothes of men who slept in the gutters. They were the clothes taken from men who had passed; forlorn and forgotten save for the smell of their souls.
"Step inside, please."
Benjamin looked to Moreton. He did not want to take another step and he definitely did not want to meet Mr Gerald Seymour; not in this world. He felt a shove in his back and he stumbled into the room. The room was lit by oil lamps but their fumes could not compete with those of death and Benjamin gagged. A table lay in shadow at the far end of the room but as Moreton drove him closer, the absence of light could not disguise the hellish contours of a corpse lying beneath a sheet. "I am not sure I am quite..."
"Oh but you are." Moreton replied and Benjamin fancied he could hear a trace of mirth in the other man's voice.
"The odour, it is quite strong, Mr Moreton. Do you not smell it as I do?"
"To me, all humanity smells the same, whether alive or dead." Moreton took his hand away and stopped beside the table. "It is quite natural to feel some trepidation at this point. Indeed, on my first occasion I became quite ill with terror but do not fear, it is only a fleeting sensation and you will soon come to feel as I do for them."
"Feel, sir? I am quite sure I shall never feel anything other than revulsion."
Moreton laughed and threw back the sheet.
At first Porter closed his eyes but fear gave way to curiosity and he slowly opened them again. Gerald Seymour had clearly been a man fond of fine food and wine in life for his stomach was rounded and full. No doubt in the cruel light of day his skin might have taken on a less colourful hue but in the half-light of guttering lamps he appeared merely at rest.
"He is dead?" Benjamin asked.
"Of course!" Moreton replied.
<
br /> "But he appears so peaceful." He turned away from the corpse. "As if he is sleeping."
"And pray what did you expect? A tortured face lined with bitterness and pain? Or perhaps a face so disfigured as to be monstrous? No, Benjamin. You will seldom see such a sight on the dead."
Benjamin turned back to the body. "And when did he pass? How did he die?"
As you slept, drunk in your bed. Do not ask how he passed, ask instead how he lived. For each body tells a story, you just need to know where to open the page." Moreton placed his hand on Seymour's ample stomach. "A man of wealth and taste you might say."
"Indeed."
Both stood in silence for a moment before Moreton moved his hand from the stomach and placed it gently on Seymour's cheek. It was a gesture of tenderness, of compassion and it made Benjamin sick to his stomach. "Poor Gerald." Moreton whispered.
"You knew him?"
