Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  Beyond this was the explorers’ section, which had photographs of the most famous travellers, missionaries, traders and hunters, as well as souvenirs of their journeys. Pride of place was held by Mungo Park’s last journal, next to Livingstone’s teaspoons and a slaver’s whip that had once been exhibited in the House of Commons.

  The lights in the next gallery were dimmed, so it was lit only by discreetly placed lamps behind tall foliage. In the middle was a mock explorers’ camp set in the depths of what was called an ‘African primeval forest’. On the columns were carved antelopes, buffaloes, warthogs, a rhinoceros, and other African mammals, and in the ‘jungle’ outside the camp were a stuffed baboon, four hippopotamus skins and an elephant skull.

  The next gallery boasted tools, weapons, clothes and other accoutrements from villages inhabited by cannibals. They included a selection of cooking pots and a fearsome array of knives, the purposes of which were illustrated by a series of graphic drawings. Hulda grimaced in distaste, although Lonsdale thought they owed more to the imagination of the artist than the truth. He had seen knives similar to the ones on display during his own travels on the Dark Continent but had never observed them used for preparing other humans for the pot.

  The last room was dark and had a dais in the centre. It was scattered with leaves, and a statue of a lion stood in its middle. There was a strong smell of paint, and when Lonsdale reached out a surreptitious hand, he felt the statue sticky under his fingers.

  ‘So where are the cannibals?’ demanded Hulda, looking around with her hands on her hips. ‘Clearly, the stage is for them, so where are they?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re being saved for later,’ suggested Lonsdale. ‘Or perhaps the curators decided that all these whooping and screeching visitors would frighten them, so they put the lion here instead.’

  Hulda wrinkled her nose. ‘I rather think that anyone brave enough to eat human flesh will be able to cope with a little noise and fluster.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ countered Lonsdale. ‘Some tribes do it as part of a grieving process – an act of compassion for the dead person’s spirit. It’s not all about victory over enemies.’

  Hulda regarded him narrowly. ‘You seem to know a lot about it, given that you had no idea cannibals would be here until I told you.’

  ‘Tim and I came across it when we were on the Black Volta,’ explained Lonsdale.

  And they had been surprised to do so, because the resident Ashanti had sworn to abandon the practice in the Treaty of Fomena in 1874. Lonsdale had quickly learned that the issue was far from black and white, and that Western invaders – himself included – understood but a fraction of the cultural issues involved.

  Hulda raised her eyebrows. ‘You and Roth had an eventful time, it seems. But perhaps you’re right, and the cannibals will appear after the initial frenzy. What time’s the official opening ceremony?’

  ‘There won’t be one,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Owen decided just to open the doors and let people in. And why not? Opening ceremonies tend to be for the favoured few, but he wants his museum to be for everyone.’

  ‘You sound like a follower of the Paris Commune! Personally, I like a little pomp and splendour. It must be the Prussian in me. Or do you think the Queen was asked but refused, lest someone shoot at her again. They still haven’t caught Maclean, you know, even though the whole country’s looking for him.’ She glanced around quickly. ‘Perhaps he’s here.’

  ‘Yes, if I were on the run, I’d certainly make time to visit a museum,’ remarked Lonsdale caustically.

  ‘A crowd is a good place to hide,’ argued Hulda. ‘Indeed, I can’t even see your shadow Voules, although I doubt he’s far away.’

  ‘But Maclean’s picture is on every street corner in the country,’ pressed Lonsdale. ‘It would be asking to be caught.’

  ‘So where will your friend be?’ asked Hulda, changing the subject because she had no rejoinder; it was something she did a lot, and was a habit Lonsdale found acutely annoying. ‘We won’t learn anything good out here, with the public. We need to go behind the scenes.’

  ‘I’ll ask if he can spare us a moment,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But please be discreet. We don’t want anyone to think he spilled the beans if the cannibal exhibition was a secret.’

  Hulda nodded assent. ‘Send for him then. Tell him we’ll be among the dinosaurs, which will be a lot more interesting than a painted lion and an empty stage.’

  Lonsdale found a museum guard and asked him to deliver a message.

  ‘Yes, I know Mr Roth,’ said the guard. ‘He’s Professor Dickerson’s assistant. I’ll bring him to you at once.’

  The dinosaur exhibition was even more popular than the Empire and Africa and was filled with whooping children and their parents. Its most precious items were the life-sized sculptures that palaeontologist Richard Owen had commissioned for the Great Exhibition some thirty years earlier. One was a very robust Iguanodon, which Hulda whispered was a mistake – Owen’s colleagues had since worked out that the animal was far more gracile, although Owen stubbornly refused to agree.

  ‘There he is!’ she whispered in excitement, pointing to where a small, white-haired, baggy-eyed man was holding forth to a group that hung on his every word. ‘Shall we go and hear what he has to say?’

  Richard Owen had led the British Museum’s Natural History Department for a quarter of a century, so it was no surprise when he had been appointed director of the new facility. He was a naturalist with an astonishing talent for interpreting fossils, and the museum’s existence owed much to his campaign for his specimens to have a home of their own. He was, however, deeply unpopular with both his staff and his scientific contemporaries, who considered him spiteful, malicious, devious, arrogant and a plagiarist.

  ‘Best not,’ said Lonsdale, aware that some of the audience were courtiers and politicians – important people who would resent being joined by mere reporters.

  Remarkably, Hulda did not argue, and only turned back to studying the Iguanodon. Lonsdale sought out the fiercer species and tried to deduce which one might have owned the claw he had at home. While he was staring at a Megalosaurus, he became aware of the familiar scent of old sweat and tobacco. He stifled a sigh.

  ‘What do you want, Voules?’ he asked without turning around. ‘My opinion about whether Megalosaurus walked on two legs or four?’

  ‘Oh, it was bipedal, without a doubt,’ said Voules promptly. ‘The discovery of Eustreptospondylus in Oxfordshire ten years ago resolved that issue, and Owen’s interpretation of Megalosaurus is quite wrong.’

  Lonsdale blinked his surprise that the slovenly, unintelligent Voules should have provided such an erudite response. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I like dinosaurs,’ shrugged Voules. ‘They’re fascinating creatures. But never mind that. Why are you loitering here? To see if Owen will deign to give you a quote for that rag The Pall Mall Gazette?’

  Lonsdale blinked again, wondering how anyone who worked for The Echo could dare refer to the infinitely superior Pall Mall Gazette as ‘a rag’.

  ‘Was it you who wrote about Maclean’s escape from Broadmoor?’ he asked, recalling that The Echo had carried a particularly sensational account of the incident, along with the claim that no man, woman or child would be safe as long as the lunatic was at large, and that all slight, dark-haired men wearing bowler hats should be objects of suspicion.

  ‘It was,’ replied Voules proudly. ‘My editor was pleased with it, although he added the bit about Maclean killing three guards before he jumped over the prison wall like an acrobat. It wasn’t true, but he thought it added spice to the tale.’

  ‘You didn’t suggest he refrain from lying to his readers?’ asked Lonsdale, amazed that any paper would knowingly print falsehoods.

  Voules shrugged. ‘Yes, but he said the article was more interesting with it in. He was right. Our account was much more exciting than the ones in other papers.’

  ‘Because it was a pack of lies,’ argued Lonsd
ale. ‘No one was killed when Maclean vanished. Nor did he steal a gun from the medical superintendent, or leave a letter vowing to dispatch the Queen at the first opportunity.’

  Voules grinned. ‘Perhaps not, but it allowed me to use some lovely adjectives – terror, fear, frenzy, lunatic, murderer.’

  ‘Those are nouns,’ said Lonsdale, then supposed such niceties would not matter to a man who thought newspapers were to titillate, rather than educate.

  Voules’s small, pig-like eyes drifted across the gallery and the people who clustered and jostled around the exhibits. ‘I see Miss Friederichs likes dinosaurs too.’

  ‘She’s waiting for Owen,’ lied Lonsdale, aiming to have Voules out of the way before Roth arrived. ‘He’s promised her an audience in the insect gallery. He says they’ll be able to talk privately there because it’s quieter.’

  Voules nodded briefly and moved away. Lonsdale watched him pretend to browse for a few moments, then aim for the door. He followed and was rewarded with the sight of the reporter scuttling towards the insects, clearly aiming to find himself a good place to eavesdrop. The man was so predictable!

  Lonsdale returned to the Megalosaurus, where he saw someone else he knew. Burnside was struggling to take photographs of the fossil while, all around him, London’s delighted public elbowed, pushed and cooed.

  ‘This is like a foretaste of hell,’ he muttered, grimacing when he pulled the cord on his camera just as a portly woman crossed in front of it. ‘They should’ve let me come in early and take pictures when the place was empty. I asked, but they refused, even after I told them I was the man who saved the Queen.’

  ‘What will you do with your pictures?’ asked Lonsdale politely. ‘Who’ll buy them?’

  ‘Newspapers would, if they had any vision,’ replied Burnside gloomily. ‘But they don’t, so I’ll sell them to folk in the provinces who can’t come to see the real thing. There is a market for them, although it’s distressingly small.’

  Lonsdale left him to his work.

  Not long after, the guard returned to report that Roth would join them shortly. Unfortunately, ‘shortly’ transpired to be more than an hour, at which point Hulda’s temper was barely under control and Voules had come back to find out why she and Owen had not appeared in the insect section. Then Roth arrived, his fair hair in disarray and his thin cheeks flushed. He hurried forward to grasp Lonsdale’s hand in an apologetic greeting. His grip was feeble and his hands were cold.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘Today wasn’t a good time to visit. The doors opened before the mammal hall was ready, and I was still labelling the specimens when the first visitors poured in. I had to lock the cases and hope no one notices that half the labels are missing.’

  ‘Then it’s just as well entry’s free,’ remarked Hulda, ‘or I’d want my money back. Such laxness is unforgivable.’

  ‘May I present my colleague, Hulda Friederichs,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Don’t look alarmed, Tim. She’s jesting with you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Roth, regarding her uneasily. ‘I see. Very droll.’

  ‘We understand you plan to display some cannibals today,’ said Hulda before Lonsdale could introduce the subject in a more diplomatic manner. ‘Is that true?’

  Roth gaped at her. ‘How did you … But that’s a closely guarded secret!’

  ‘We’re the press,’ said Hulda grandly, as Lonsdale eased her and Roth into a place where Voules would be less likely to hear what was being said. ‘Nothing stays hidden from us for long. So what’s your answer, Mr Roth? Is it true or not?’

  Roth swallowed hard. ‘No. That is to say, it was true, but now it’s not.’

  Hulda frowned. ‘I don’t follow.’

  Roth looked uncomfortable. ‘There was a plan to include some real tribesmen in our Empire and Africa exhibit, but it’s been abandoned for now, because they’re not here.’

  ‘Not here?’ echoed Hulda, eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean? That they’ve escaped?’

  Lonsdale heard a sharp intake of breath, and saw that Voules had oozed within earshot. Scowling, he shoved Hulda and Roth further behind a case holding a reconstructed Compsognathus, and blocked Voules from approaching again with the bulk of his own body, heartily wishing the man would leave him alone and find his own stories.

  ‘Of course not,’ retorted Roth coolly. ‘“Escaped” means they were held against their will, but I can assure you that they were here voluntarily, as paid employees of the museum. We had them down in the basement, where it’s nice and warm, but they … left.’

  ‘So, you’ve allowed a group of human-flesh-eating killers to roam London?’ demanded Hulda. ‘What happens if they get hungry?’

  ‘They’ll visit a chophouse,’ replied Roth shortly. ‘They aren’t savages, you know.’

  ‘And what happens when they learn human meat isn’t on the menu?’ pressed Hulda.

  ‘They wouldn’t touch it if it were,’ answered Roth tartly. ‘They’d never eat anyone they’d never met in life – they’d consider it unconscionably rude.’

  Lonsdale glanced at Hulda. ‘Now he’s toying with you.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Hulda sourly. ‘But if you’re not concerned about Londoners’ safety, then what about the cannibals themselves? How will they fare in our winter weather?’

  ‘They’ll don hats and coats, just like you or I would. They’ve been here since the end of summer, adjusting to the climate and allowing us to show them our country. The plan was for them to remain here until the new year, then take passage home.’

  Hulda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even if they’re here willingly, you’re still running a human zoo – parading people around as though they’re exotic animals, to be cooed and poked at.’

  ‘Not poked at!’ Roth sounded shocked. ‘And probably not cooed at either. These are proud people, Miss Friederichs – they won’t stand for insults. Besides, you make it sound as though we kidnapped them. They came of their own free will, and no one forced them to do anything. They’re well paid for their services, and will return home wealthy.’

  ‘So why did they run away then?’ asked Hulda.

  Roth winced. ‘We don’t know. They were looking forward to being the centre of attention, and I expected them to be back by this morning. But they’ve failed to appear.’

  ‘You speak as though you know them well,’ probed Lonsdale. ‘Have you been involved in their care?’

  Roth nodded. ‘With Professor Dickerson, our chief zoological collector – he’s my supervisor. He and I share two great interests – the comparative taxonomy of apes, and ethnography.’

  ‘Ethnography?’ probed Hulda.

  ‘The study of different ethnic groups.’ Roth smiled. ‘That’s why he and I were given permission to hire three native people for the Empire and Africa exhibit.’

  ‘So who are these native people?’ probed Hulda. ‘Where do they hail from, exactly?’

  ‘They’re Kumu, from deep inside the Congo.’

  ‘You say these Kumu have been here since the end of summer, and you’ve been showing them our country,’ said Hulda. ‘I assume you’ve taught them English? In other words, if they’re lost, they can ask for directions. Yes?’

  ‘They aren’t what you’d call fluent, no,’ hedged Roth.

  ‘Then how do you communicate with them? Or do you speak Kumu?’

  ‘Komo,’ corrected Roth. ‘Their language is Komo. And no, we don’t. However, Professor Dickerson knows some Bantu dialects, so we manage with that, their smattering of English, and plenty of hand gestures. We like them very much. In fact, I thought we were friends, so it was a surprise to discover them gone.’

  ‘You didn’t mention them when I visited,’ said Lonsdale. ‘We went down to the basement, but they weren’t there then. I would’ve noticed.’

  ‘No,’ acknowledged Roth. ‘They vanished several days before you were here.’

  ‘Several days?’ echoed Hulda. ‘You’re telling us that cannibals have been loose in London for sev
eral days? How many is “several” anyway? Three? Ten? Fifty?’

  ‘Eight,’ replied Roth. ‘They were gone before you came, Alec, so I saw no reason to mention them.’

  ‘So where might they be?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘You must have some idea.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ retorted Roth firmly. ‘However, I suspect it won’t be London. They found our city air very noxious. I imagine they’ve gone somewhere cleaner, perhaps by a river, where they can fish.’

  ‘Is it possible they had second thoughts about being on display, so decided to make their own way home?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Roth impatiently. ‘First, it’s not as if there are lots of ships sailing for the Congo. And second, they want to do the exhibition. And they will, when they get back.’

  ‘Could they have been abducted?’ asked Hulda. ‘Our assistant editor got wind of their presence here, so clearly, the “secret” isn’t as well guarded as you think.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Roth, giving her a cool look. ‘But I don’t believe they were taken against their will. For a start, they took their belongings – if they’d been dragged away by force, those would’ve been left behind. They’ll turn up. We shouldn’t worry—’

  ‘Can we speak to Professor Dickerson?’ interrupted Hulda. ‘Perhaps he knows where to look for these hapless folk, given that you have no idea.’

  ‘He’s not here either,’ said Roth shortly. ‘He went to Devon, to retrieve some artefacts for the Empire and Africa exhibition. He promised to be back, but … well, he is absent-minded.’

  ‘Maybe he and the cannibals are together,’ suggested Hulda. ‘Enjoying the fishing and the clean air.’

  ‘He isn’t that scatterbrained,’ said Roth irritably. ‘He knows the Kumu need to be here today, and wouldn’t have kept them away. Besides, I saw him off on the train, and they weren’t with him. I wish he was here, though – Owen is furious about their disappearance. Bringing them here was expensive, and he thought the money would’ve been better spent on more dinosaur statues.’