by Mary Hooper
Grace went icy cold.
He looked inside, then looked again, swearing incredulously. He threw it down and shouted a string of curses. He peered at the floor, opened drawers in the desk and then, blaspheming and shouting, ran from the room.
Grace didn’t hesitate. She slipped out of the cupboard, left the red room and returned to the small sewing room, which was now empty. She picked up the piece of embroidery she’d been working on earlier, and then sat still for a moment to allow her mind to take in what she’d just seen and try to cope with the immensity of it.
It had been he. Of course! Hadn’t she sensed that all along? He’d been the figure in church at the dignitary’s funeral, the one whose attendance had brought her out in shivers. And in his store – she hadn’t recognised him exactly, but something deep inside her had registered the horror of his presence. His had been the remembered acrid cigar smell and the scented hair pomade. His the aura of evil . . .
From elsewhere in the building she heard shouting and she quickly bent over her sewing, hearing the crackle of paper as she did so. The certificate! She must get rid of it as soon as she could.
But where to put it?
The fire was the obvious place, but, it being so late in the day, there were barely three poor coals smouldering in the grate and no flame to catch the thick paper quickly and burn it to ashes. Besides, it would surely be better to keep it – in order to prove its duplicity. What about her room, under her mattress? Thinking of this, she stood up and then just as quickly sat down again, realising that they’d be sure to search the servants’ rooms – and that of Lily’s sister first. They’d search everywhere. And then a possible exception occurred to her. Would they look in God’s waiting room?
Immediately she went from the workroom and hurried down the stone steps leading to the cool chamber which that day contained the gentlemanly corpses of Mr Truscot-Divine and Mr Mayhew, both due to be buried at Brookwood the following day. They were quite ready for their ceremonials, lying in their coffins in their best suits, their arms neatly folded across their chests. The lids rested loosely on the coffins, for these wouldn’t be nailed down until just before their interment. Grace knew this was to guard against them being buried prematurely (and, of course, to allow Mr Unwin the opportunity to relieve the corpses of any valuable objects).
It was fiercely cold in the room. One candle burned in a tin holder, and this flickered and guttered in the damp, creating shuddering shadows and a dark, morbid atmosphere. It did not deter Grace, however, and she picked the nearest coffin, which happened to be that of Mr Truscot-Divine, moved the lid and slipped the certificate inside and under his mattress. As she did so she could not help but be reminded of the other time she’d done such a thing: the sad addition that she had, some six months earlier, made to that other coffin in that other place. How strange that that moment was so inextricably bound up with this . . .
But it was no time for reminiscence, and, lifting her skirts, she quickly ran back up the stairs to the workroom. She could hear noise and confusion in the red room – the voices of both Unwin cousins and Rose, crying and protesting – and decided it might be wise to go and speak to Mrs Unwin and thus obtain some sort of alibi. She found this lady in one of the workrooms with Jane and two other girls, fashioning wax flowers into wreaths.
Grace dipped a curtsey. Over the last few days she’d found it extremely difficult to hide her hatred of the Unwin family and remain polite and deferential towards them, and now – in view of what she’d discovered about Sylvester Unwin – it was a struggle to sound normal.
‘I’ve almost finished the bay wreath, madam, and didn’t know whether to make a start on the pillow embroidery next,’ she said, holding up the new piece of work she’d taken from the basket. ‘Or perhaps you want me to begin something else?’
Mrs Unwin smiled falsely at Grace, employing a lot of teeth and gum, for she, too, was trying to act normally and as if not engaged in a mighty subterfuge. ‘Do take whatever piece you want to from the work basket, Grace,’ she said. ‘How did you manage with the bay wreath?’
‘Quite well, madam,’ Grace said meekly. ‘Would you like to see what I’ve done?’
‘Indeed. You sew so very nicely – some of the girls would do well to try and emulate you.’
‘Thank you, madam,’ Grace said while the other girls stared at her resentfully. ‘I’ll bring it for you to see.’
The tiny embroidered bay wreath was brought in, examined and shown to the other girls – then suddenly thrust back into Grace’s care when a distracted George Unwin flung open the door.
‘It’s gone!’ he shouted to his wife.
Mrs Unwin turned to stare at him. ‘What has?’
‘The document! What d’you think?’
‘But I saw it myself not half an hour ago. How could it have gone?’
‘Never mind if it could, it has!’
Mrs Unwin suddenly remembered where they were, and that discretion was their byword. ‘Not in front of the girls, in particular –’ She stopped herself. ‘Let us go to the red room.’
Mr Unwin left and Mrs Unwin followed him, silent and dismayed. Lately, she’d been unable to think of anything except the coming inheritance, which (she’d decided) would finance her retirement to a seaside villa. She’d had enough of the funeral trade, of pretending concern, of giving sympathy when she didn’t feel any, of feigning interest in the vexing question of whether to have red roses or pink carnations in a wreath. She sometimes found herself longing to say to grieving relatives, ‘What does it matter? They’re not going to see them, are they? They’re dead!’
As Mr and Mrs Unwin shut the door behind them, the Unwin staff gravitated as one to the far end of the workroom, all the better to try and hear what was going on. The voices of all three Unwins were raised, which made eavesdropping easier.
‘Where in the name of hell is it?’
‘If I knew, I’d look there!’
‘It must have been taken by outsiders.’
‘Perhaps a draught from the window?’
‘What, took it out of its envelope? Don’t be ridiculous, woman!’
‘Can’t whoever made it make another?’
‘No time,’ said Sylvester Unwin. ‘The other faction is right behind us.’
There was a moment’s silence and then George Unwin said, ‘It must be an inside job. Get everyone together, and we’ll search all the rooms.’
The whole Unwin staff, including the blacksmith and ostlers, were then gathered together in the hall and told that something important had gone missing and their rooms were to be searched. This was carried out in a very short time, for their rooms contained nothing but a bed and a chair, and none owned more than one change of clothes.
As the other workers, pretending concern, enjoyed the drama of the occasion, Grace fought hard to keep her composure. She was certain that the servants would be questioned next, and perhaps searched, and although no one would find anything on her, she feared greatly that it would be Mr Sylvester Unwin who’d do the searching. If he did so, if he as much as touched her, then she knew she wouldn’t be able to control herself any longer. She might not be capable of killing him, but she would not stand there and be pawed by him. She would be tempted to bite and scratch and maul him. And then, of course, the game would be up.
‘No one has left the building within the last hour, have they?’ Sylvester Unwin asked.
As everyone shook their heads, Mrs Unwin did a quick headcount. ‘Not as far as I can see,’ she said.
‘So if the missing document is not hidden in the building, then someone must have it on them.’
‘Hang on.’ George Unwin pulled out his gold pocket watch and, shielding the engraved words To Thomas Perkins from his loving wife, clicked it open. ‘Someone has left the building. Two people actually. Tomorrow’s cadavers have gone off to Waterloo Depository ready for the morning train.’
‘Well, they haven’t taken it!’ scoffed his wife.
&
nbsp; There was a moment’s silence and then George Unwin said thoughtfully, ‘They might have. I went down to the cool room earlier to make sure all was in order, and noticed that one of the coffin lids was slightly displaced.’
‘You’re saying that a corpse got up and stole the certificate?’
George Unwin gave his wife a withering look. ‘I’m saying that someone put it in the coffin to get it away from the house.’
Hearing this and feeling quite faint with horror, Grace looked at the faces of the other girls and tried to copy their more innocent, interested expressions. She had long known, of course, that the London Necropolis Railway always collected any coffins destined for a Brookwood funeral the night before the event, but in the stress of the moment hadn’t remembered this.
‘Now what?’ asked Mrs Unwin.
‘Now we must go after the coffins,’ said Sylvester Unwin. ‘Where is it they’re going, exactly?’
‘The coffin depository, just by Waterloo station in Westminster Road,’ said George Unwin.
‘And whose corpses will I be looking for?’
‘Mr Truscot-Divine and Mr Mayhew,’ Mrs Unwin answered. ‘In polished cherry wood and oak respectively.’
‘Or what looks very much like oak,’ George Unwin murmured. He turned to his cousin. ‘Do you want company?’
Sylvester Unwin shook his head. ‘You stay here and search again, in case we’ve got it wrong,’ he said curtly. ‘Besides, my driver’s outside in my gig and there’s only room for me.’ He pushed the nearest servant. ‘Go and get my jacket, girl.’
Everyone began dispersing, whispering to each other and trying to work out what was going on, while Grace went back to the sewing room, pale and trembling. Now what should she do? If she let things take their course, then the certificate would be retrieved by Sylvester Unwin and everything would be as before.
She could not let that happen. No, somehow she had to finish what she’d started: she must hail a hackney cab and try to get to the coffin depository first.
x
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Sylvester Unwin went into the street where his gig and driver were waiting, he couldn’t find them, for a thick London fog had rolled up and, although the horse and trap were but a few feet away, they were lost to his vision.
‘What-ho!’ Sylvester Unwin shouted. ‘Where the devil are you?’
‘Here, sir!’ the driver said, and coughed as the damp and murky air hit the back of his throat.
‘Damn you, man! Have you moved?’
‘I have not, sir!’ The driver waved his whip. ‘Here I am, sir, sitting in the gig and waiting just where you left me.’
Sylvester Unwin stretched his arms out in front of him and endeavoured to peer through the gloom. The fog was banked up and in some parts looked more substantial than in others, one moment appearing grey, then muddy brown, then a thick and putrid green. Occasionally a thin ray of sun shone through and turned it a pale yellow. No matter the hue, however, it rendered one almost blind, clung to clothing, seeped into limbs and chilled flesh to the bone.
‘It was right as rain here up to an hour ago – then it came off the river. A regular pea-souper,’ said the driver.
‘Keep talking so I can find you!’ called Sylvester Unwin.
‘Here, sir! Straight ahead!’ the driver shouted several times, and finally Sylvester Unwin’s outstretched hand touched the side of the gig and he hauled himself on to the seat beside the driver.
‘Damn fog! Damn city!’
‘Where is it you’re wanting to go now, sir?’
‘Waterloo station. Quick as you like,’ Sylvester Unwin replied.
‘I don’t know about quick, sir,’ the driver said doubtfully. He adjusted his scarf so that it covered the lower part of his face and became a makeshift mask through which to breathe. ‘And I shouldn’t think there would be trains running tonight. Not in this.’
‘I’m not getting a train,’ growled Sylvester Unwin. He breathed in deeply and began coughing. ‘Leave off the chat. Just get me there as damned quickly as you can.’
‘Do you want to pay for a link boy?’ the driver asked, for he could see, ahead of them, boys waving flaming torches and walking before vehicles to help light their way.
‘Get two,’ came the reply. ‘Just get me there.’
‘Aye, sir! Link! Link!’ the driver called into the impenetrable darkness, but the nearby boys were already taken and eventually, after Sylvester Unwin swore that he’d strangle him with his bare hands if he didn’t get going, he flicked his whip.
The horse obediently set off, but his eyes could no more penetrate the pall than those of human eyes, and the creature immediately stumbled upon a wooden crate which someone had discarded in the middle of the street. The horse righted itself, but it had injured its foreleg and its orientation had gone – as had that of the driver – so after some confusion and a wrong turning, the horse found itself lost in the murk and trying to climb a set of slippery marble steps up to a front door.
‘Stupidity!’ Sylvester Unwin roared as the gig’s wheels stuck on the bottom step. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’
‘Can’t see a thing, sir!’ the driver apologised. ‘Worst fog I’ve ever been in.’
‘So what if it is. Get back to the road and get going. Find some link boys! Pay them double!’
Halting, swearing and shouting instructions by turn, Sylvester Unwin began his slow progress towards the building more commonly known to the workers on the Necropolis Railway as the Stiffs’ Storehouse.
x
Grace left a full ten minutes after Sylvester Unwin, partly because she couldn’t bring herself to leave the relative safety of the funeral parlour and partly because she greatly feared being in close proximity to the man who had ruined her. Somehow she felt that the evil which emanated from him might still be able to harm her.
It was thinking of Lily, however, of her present and unknown plight, that finally spurred Grace into action. Looking out of the window and seeing a dense fog, she obtained a length of white muslin to tie around her face and filter the air being breathed, for one thing she could remember Mama telling her was that to go out in a thick London fog was dangerous to the lungs. The muslin obtained, however, the question came of how to get out of the funeral parlour. Should she make some excuse, tell the Unwins she felt ill, pretend she was going to a hospital or some such thing? But supposing they didn’t allow her to go?
She frowned, steeling herself. Why ever should she worry about the Unwins? If she got the certificate back, then she might never have to see any of them again – at least not as their employee. If she didn’t get it and they stole the inheritance, then how could she ever work for them, knowing what she did? Could she really go on with the pretence that everything was normal simply to keep a roof over her head?
No, she would just disappear, she decided, so this was what she did, bidding farewell to no one and slipping out of the front door unseen.
Entering the world of fog was like being transported to the land of the blind. People groped their way along the street, coughing as they breathed the fog into their lungs, tapping canes in front of them, holding out their arms like sleepwalkers or – if they were lucky enough to secure the services of a link boy – grasping his shoulder while he lit their unsteady progress along the pavement. Grace quickly realised that there was no point at all in taking a hackney cab, for having gone no more than fifty yards she came across two such cabs which had lost their way in the grey gloom and had tangled with an omnibus. All three vehicles were missing one or more wheels and now stood at a standstill, lop-sided and broken. In the road nearby stood two carthorses, left to feed quietly from nosebags until the fog lifted.
Grace edged past the big houses that fronted Edgware Road as quickly as she could, using their railings as markers and guides. She was conscious of the necessity for speed but this seemed near impossible, for one could only fumble along, apologising to those one bumped into, tripping ove
r dogs and occasionally finding oneself down a dead-end alley or back at the place one had passed not ten minutes before. Children ran by, playing at ghosts, hooting and wailing and frightening those of a nervous disposition, and some people simply sat themselves down to wait in convenient doorways until the fog lifted a little and they could find their way home. On reaching Oxford Street things became easier, for the windows of the shops were lit with lamps and each provided a small haven of brightness in the gloom. Passing the Unwin Mourning Emporium, Grace even saw Miss Violet, her smile as cheerful as ever, greeting a customer who’d come in out of the murk, although the rest of the store was practically empty.
She hurried down Bond Street, ignoring the elegant shop windows, hearing every now and again the shrill whistles of the peelers as every petty crook and pickpocket in London tried his luck. Many shops suffered when the fog was thick, for the thief would come in boldly, take the nearest thing and disappear back into the fog before the shopkeeper could take a step to apprehend him. Several times running feet pounded past Grace followed by futile shouts of ‘Stop thief!’
From Bond Street, Grace went to Piccadilly, and then down Haymarket towards the Strand. She was on her old ground now – her watercress-selling ground – and made use of her knowledge of the alleyways for shortcuts, although the closer she came to the river the worse the pall of fog hanging over them became. Once she was accidentally knocked to the floor by a market trader who wheeled his barrow into her, and once she came across a man who’d tumbled unknowingly into a cellar and was calling plaintively for someone to rescue him. She dared not, however, spare the time to stop and help.
As she neared the Strand there was a decision to make, for Waterloo and the Necropolis station were on the other side of the river and she didn’t know whether to try for a ferry boat or to head for Hungerford Bridge, still some distance off. This little iron bridge had recently been bought out by a consortium wanting to use it for trains, however, and she didn’t know if it was open for pedestrians. If she got there and it was closed, it would mean a long walk downriver to cross at London Bridge and this would delay her considerably. After an anguished moment trying to decide, she made her way to the waterfront to see if there were any ferries going across.
