Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  “Why, I should say he is! He’s my guv’nor! One of the founders and chief stockholders in Park Grove Cemetery, not to mention being a long-established, well-respected undertaker, and an important member of the local community.” He shifted about in his seat, picked up a card from a stack on the table, and—Jesperson’s hands being occupied with the drawing book—gave it to me.

  Smurl & Snigg

  Undertakers of Quality since 1879

  121 The High Street

  Sydenham

  Remembering Felicity had said that the man in the cemetery had addressed her sister as “Mrs. Merle”—I felt the chill touch of horror as I understood.

  Mrs. Smurl.

  I was on my feet almost before I knew it. “We have to go,” I said. “At once.”

  My partner did not question my urgency; he had made the same connection although he managed to maintain a polite demeanor and thank our host even as I charged out the door, back into the rain, the thought of Alcinda’s probable fate burning inside me.

  But what could I do? I had no idea where to find her. I paced up and down, my thoughts in an uproar, my garments getting wetter, until Jesperson hailed a cab and gently but firmly handed me inside. “Courage, ma brave,” he murmured, close to my ear, and somehow this worked like a dash of smelling salts to clear my head.

  “We mustn’t let Smurl know we are onto him,” I said. “I will pretend to have a … some elderly, distant relation near the end of life, and make inquiries about his services. Perhaps, I don’t know, perhaps I can find out where he lives. You, meanwhile, must keep watch, I think, and follow him when he leaves. See if he goes home—or anywhere else—for his dinner, or at the end of the day. How does that sound?”

  “Like a sensible course of action.”

  The journey to the funeral parlor on the high street took little more than five minutes; we could easily have walked it, and saved the fare, although, as the rain was falling even more heavily now, I considered the benefits of arriving only a trifle damp, rather than thoroughly sodden and uncomfortable. After paying the driver, my partner walked off briskly to wait until he should see me emerge.

  My heart was beating a little too fast for comfort when I opened the door. A bell tinkled as I entered, and then I was greeted by a voice nearly as high and sweet.

  “Welcome. Do come in, my dear, and tell me how we may be of service.”

  The woman who came towards me with her hands outstretched as if ready to take some burden from me was, I estimated, in her early thirties; decorously attired in lavender silk, brown hair neatly coiffed, plain-featured except for a pair of melting and expressive dark eyes.

  “I should like to speak with Mr. Smurl, if you please.”

  Clasping her hands (since I had neither taken nor filled them), she made a moue of regret and shook her head. “I am afraid he’s not available for personal consultation at all today—or tomorrow. He is a very busy man, our Mr. Smurl! Perhaps I might be of service? I am Miss Hyacinth Snigg, the daughter of Mr. Edgar Snigg, who is also unavailable at the moment, but you must not let that concern you in the least. I am fully informed about all aspects of the business, and can answer any questions, and am well qualified to give advice. Will you take a seat?” She gestured to a small couch covered in dark red plush.

  “No, thank you; you’re very kind, but I would particularly like to speak to Mr. Smurl.”

  The polished, professional sorrow of her expression gave way to a different, more genuine feeling. “Perhaps you do not understand. I am not a receptionist, but a full partner in this firm, which has been my entire career for almost ten years now.”

  “My dear Miss Snigg!” Now I was annoyed—with myself. “You misunderstand me. I meant no disrespect. If I wished to make arrangements for a funeral, or to take advice on that subject, I should be more than happy to take your advice.”

  She frowned a little. “You have not come here to discuss funeral arrangements?”

  I bit my lip. “Not exactly. That is … The matter is complicated and quite urgent. I really must speak to Mr. Smurl. He is the only one who can help me with this matter. I don’t mind waiting. If he could see me for just a few minutes, I could explain.”

  She set her chin. “If you can explain it to Mr. Smurl in a few minutes, pray take as long as you like to explain it to me. I am not slow-witted, and if it is truly a matter of business, I should be able to help.”

  Fiction at short notice was never my specialty. As my silence continued, I could feel her mood hardening still more against me. It seemed unfair that she should think me one of those women who denigrate their own sex and will only discuss business matters with a man; I wished I had not stated so plainly that I had not come to discuss funeral arrangements, but I could see no way out of it now.

  “My business with Mr. Smurl is of a personal nature,” I said.

  Her eyes glittered. “Indeed? Then you had better approach him outside of business hours—why not call at his home? Or write to him?”

  “I do not have his home address.”

  “Surely you do not expect me to give it to you.”

  “That would be most kind of you.”

  She snorted—a word she would certainly take objection to, but accurate. “I will do nothing to encourage your delusions. You are not the first female person to imagine she might have business of a personal nature with Mr. Smurl.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, giving her my iciest glare.

  “Oh, I think you do, Miss … ?”

  When I did not respond, she sniffed. “It is Miss, I presume?”

  “You make quite a few presumptions,” I replied, still frostily. “I am sorry if you feel I have misled you. That was never my intention. I have come here in the hope of having a quiet word with Mr. Smurl with regard to his wife.”

  I saw that I had surprised her. “His wife?”

  “Yes.” It was a shot in the dark, but I could think of nothing better. “Are you acquainted with Mrs. Smurl?”

  “Certainly.” She drew herself up. “I told you, I have been with the firm for in excess of ten years, and our families have long been friends. I know both ladies.”

  Goodness knows what she made of the shock that registered on my face at this, but she hastened to amplify: “I mean, of course, both Mr. Albert’s mother, and his wife.”

  “I suppose his marriage is quite recent?”

  She frowned. “Why should you suppose that? Mr. Smurl has been married perhaps a dozen years. If you claim to know her …”

  I saw that I had not won her over in the least. “I never claimed to know her. I said my business with Mr. Smurl concerned his wife—yet perhaps I was wrong, as I was unaware there was another lady in his household bearing the same name; the ‘Mrs. Smurl’ I have been delegated to find may have been his mother. I came here on behalf of the Travers family. You may recall a recent funeral—”

  “Oh, the poor young lady! Of course, I remember. How could I forget? She was so young, and beautiful, and her death so sudden and inexplicable! So terribly, terribly sad!” Her eyes were moist, her whole aspect again as soft and yearning as when I had first seen her. But what business could her family have with Mrs. Smurl?”

  “I had assumed they might have met her here, or at the funeral.”

  “Oh, no, that is quite impossible. Neither lady has ever had anything to do with the business. “

  “Maybe, in passing … ?”

  “No. There must be some mistake. Possibly, although I introduced myself quite clearly, I am the lady she was thinking of? If you will tell me the message, I can …”

  “There was no mistake. If she was not at the funeral, then perhaps Mrs. Travers met her elsewhere—”

  “Utterly impossible.”

  We glared at each other. I said, “I find it remarkable that you are so certain.”

  “Mr. Smurl does not entertain visitors—and never does business—in his home. Both his mother and his wife are in poor health, and have scarc
ely set foot out of doors in recent years. Nor do they receive. So unless Mrs. Travers is a doctor or a priest, she has not met either lady.”

  I saw I should have to back down. “Forgive me. Perhaps, after all, she was thinking of you. She was so deeply moved by the genuine kindness she received …” Seeing that she looked mollified, I took another chance. “But I won’t feel I have done my duty unless I have a word with Mr. Smurl. Could I not call back later today? Will he not be in at all?”

  I saw training and business instincts—and perhaps the thought of what Mr. Smurl might say—battling her desire to be rid of me. “He always calls in just before he goes home for his di—luncheon. Between half past twelve and one o’clock.”

  I thanked her, effusively and insincerely, saying I would return. “Might you ask him to wait for me? At least until one o’clock?”

  It had occurred to me there might be another way of learning Mr. Smurl’s home address, and when I met Mr. Jesperson outside, I proposed we should go to the nearest post office to look in the local directory. Smurl was such an unusual surname, we were unlikely to be misled, and, indeed, apart from the business listing for Smurl and Snigg, the local directory revealed only one: Smurl, Albert E. A glance at a map of the area enabled Jesperson to locate his street almost exactly halfway between the funeral parlor and the cemetery.

  I looked at the clock on the wall. “We still have nearly two hours before he may go home,” I said. “Thank goodness the rain is off.”

  We set off at a brisk walk. The area was unknown to me, but I knew I could trust in Jesperson’s sense of direction, and his memory: even a quick look at a map was enough to fix it in his mind.

  Although I knew it was pointless to try plan a rescue before we had set eyes on the prison, I could not help speculating on her situation. Did he keep her locked in an attic or allow her some limited freedom? Were his wife and mother aware of her presence? Did he use her as a servant, nursemaid, perhaps, to the two invalids, or did he, as his mode of address suggested, consider her his wife? Wife and slave and prisoner—unfortunately, those terms need not necessarily be excusive.

  “She may even be a willing prisoner,” said Jesperson.

  His words made me shudder, and I had to disagree. “You saw the portrait—did that look like a lover to you?”

  “Not to me, but recall Mr. Bailey’s remarks—and Miss Snigg’s. A certain class of female must find him irresistible.”

  “Not Alcinda! You read what she wrote—she hated the idea that he might try to make love to her.”

  “And who do you suppose she was trying to convince? Herself? But please, let us not quarrel! I only wish you to bear in mind the possibility that the lady may not thank us; may even refuse to be rescued.”

  I understood. I am not entirely ignorant of what may be done in the name of love. The heart has its reasons, and so on. Even if Miss Travers had not lost her heart to her abductor, she might, like many before her, choose to stay, and suffer his attentions, rather than return and find herself disgraced, “ruined” in the eyes of a world that values women as if they were soft fruit. “But we must give her the chance.”

  “Of course.”

  I took his arm, and, as we walked along together, I mused aloud on how the kidnapping had been managed. Of course, Miss Travers must have agreed to drink some potion, but how had he been so certain he could steal her away from her own funeral? Did he have confederates? Perhaps the doctor who signed the death certificate, or trusted employees who would help him make the switch to an empty coffin and ensure Miss Travers was not buried alive …

  “Of course she was buried alive,” said Jesperson.

  I flinched, my fingers tightening on his arm, and he looked down into my face, surprised. “Surely you noticed the alarm bell system in Bailey’s quarters?”

  “I thought … they might alert him to intruders. Protection against body-snatchers, perhaps?”

  “How should the dead summon their protectors? I admit, I did not understand, until I read the brochure given me by Mr. Bailey.” He quoted the paragraph he’d found so enlightening:

  “ ‘Security coffins, made to Mr. Smurl’s own original design (patent pending), are available for a very reasonable additional charge. The in-built alarm system will alert the on-site security guard (always listening, night and day) within moments of revival, in the unfortunate event of a burial having been premature. In such an event, the coffin is designed to keep its inhabitant alive and comfortable, with more than sufficient air to breathe until disinterment may be effected, which will be done with the utmost dispatch to minimize discomfort and eliminate all worries.’ ”

  “My goodness,” I murmured, feeling weak at the knees. I had to fight the impulse to take great, gasping gulps of air.

  He squeezed my arm. “We may hope that she remained in a state of unconsciousness throughout and never suffered a moment’s fear. Since Smurl knew that she was not dead, there would be no reason to make her ring for help … unless, of course, he simply wished to test his system … Forgive me,” he said, contrite. “Ah, here we are.”

  We had arrived in a long, curving, quiet street where the substantial houses were set well back from the road in their own gardens.

  “Which house is it?”

  “Just over there, I think. Can you make out a number on that gatepost? The one overhung with laburnum?”

  Although I had no idea what a laburnum might be, I saw the bush-draped gatepost, and as we approached, the number 14 was revealed through a veil of leaves.

  Mr. Jesperson opened the gate and ushered me through, indicating that I should precede him up the narrow path to the front door. My mind was quite blank. I stood to one side and let my partner knock on the door. We waited. He knocked again. Prickles of anxiety and frustration ran through me as the seconds dragged by. We could hear nothing moving within, not even surreptitious movements, footsteps, or the quiet closing of an interior door, and yet, somehow, the heavy silence did not suggest an empty house.

  The door, of course, was locked.

  Jesperson reached towards his inside jacket pocket, then checked himself and paused to survey the area immediately around the door. I followed his eyes along the lintel, to the plain doormat, and then to a rather sickly plant, possibly some sort of citrus tree, in a terra-cotta tub to the right side of the door. Stepping towards it, he bent down and lifted the tub, felt beneath it, and, grinning with satisfaction, flourished a key.

  It was a large, old-fashioned key of the sort that may be used from either side, to lock someone out, or in. When Jesperson turned it, I heard the smooth, heavy movement of tumblers, and then the door was open to us. And, a moment later, we both stood in a dark entrance hall with a high ceiling, walls covered in dark green and cream-figured paper, seeing a staircase ahead, and dark, varnished doors, uncompromisingly shut, in the walls on either side.

  “Mrs. Smurl,” called my partner, making me jump. His voice, so loud, seemed more of an intrusion than our entrance had been. “Mrs. Smurl? Please don’t be alarmed. We mean you no harm. I hope you won’t mind, but we’ve taken the liberty of letting ourselves in.”

  I held my breath when he fell silent, and heard something. Meeting his eyes, I saw he had heard it too. A sound too small and faint to identify, it came from behind the door on the right.

  When the door was opened, we saw a room filled with women: all seated, silent and motionless as life-sized dolls.

  “I beg your pardon,” Jesperson began, but his words fell like stones into the stillness, and he did not continue.

  There were six of them, in total, spaced around the parlor like the members of a religious order or ladies’ sewing circle, unexpectedly frozen by a spell like the one that guarded the castle of the Sleeping Beauty. If they slept, it was with eyes wide open but presumably unseeing. I could tell they were living creatures, neither wax figures nor corpses, by the very slight movements caused by their slow breathing and the occasional blink of an eye.

  We crept
quietly farther in without a word although it seemed unlikely that even more violent movements would disturb this unnatural, eerie calm. Examining them more closely, I began to see them as individuals, not the identical dolls they had first seemed. There were slight variations in the colors of the otherwise uniformly simple but well-made silk gowns they all wore, and the same was true of their hair color: chiefly mouselike shades of brown or beige or grey. The sisterlike similarity of their faces was most likely due to the same blank lack of expression on every one, as if they wore copies of the same mask. I was unable to decide if any of them should be described as plain or beautiful.

  Two of them stood out from the others; one because she was clearly much older than the rest, white-haired and slightly hunchbacked; the other for her youth and golden hair.

  This must be Alcinda, I thought, and could not resist saying her name aloud.

  The response was slow in coming but unmistakable. She turned her head in my direction.

  I felt Mr. Jesperson stiffen beside me. I gasped. “Alcinda? Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes remained blank and inward-looking, and she made no further movement.

  “I wonder if there is a magic word we are missing, or if we simply must engage their attention,” said Jesperson. Speaking in a normal, conversational tone, he went on, “Dear ladies, I should be most obliged if you could enlighten us as to the subject of your most skilful, yet puzzling, tableau vivant.”

  “Certainly it is can be nothing in the Bible, or what is popularly conceived of as history,” I said. “Perhaps—a ladies’ Bible study group? Or, no—I have it. A modern, Methodist, English harem, as they await the return of their lord and master.” It had started off as a joke, until I noticed the one chair that was not occupied in the room: a large, battered but comfortable-looking leather armchair, reserved, one must suppose, for the patriarch of this meek little tribe.

  “I prefer my tableau rather more vivant,” said Jesperson. “Come, come, ladies! You are neglecting your duties. You might show a bit of hospitality to your guests.”