“Behold, the dead are come among us!” cried Madam Rose in triumph. “They walk among us, in Earthly form!”
Bowman looked around at the audience about him, his sense of apprehension growing. Hands had been lifted involuntarily to mouths, eyes were opened wide. Madam Rose ceased her hypnotic rocking and held up a hand as if to bring the room to order.
“A spirit is among us,” she announced portentously. “Show yourself! Show yourself!”
It took three hospital orderlies to lift Hardacre onto the trolley at Charing Cross. His corpse had been brought from Bow Street by Black Maria, a black wagon usually reserved for the transportation of living prisoners. He was to be transferred to the hospital’s dissecting rooms on the orders of Inspector Edmund Treacher, so Doctor Crane could conduct a thorough post-mortem in the morning. The old, rusty trolley was wheeled through corridors and passageways, down to the dissecting rooms in the basement of the building. This was the coolest part of the hospital, and so the most apt for the storing of cadavers. It was lit by gas jets mounted on the walls that seemed to lend a deathly pallor to the very air. The walls and ceiling were tiled in the same pattern as the floor; small rectangular tiles, most cracked, some conspicuous by their absence, stretched over the vaulted ceiling. Four raised slabs, also tiled, were placed at regular intervals along the furthest wall with a basin between them. Looking like altars at some temple, these macabre plinths were of waist height and just long enough and wide enough to hold an adult body. Each of them had a raised rim to prevent the spilling of fluids over their sides. A small plug hole was set into the furthest end to funnel any seeping liquids away from the corpse and into a drain beneath.
At a signal, the three porters manhandled Hardacre’s stout body onto the slab nearest the door. As he was still fully clothed, they bent to begin the task of undressing him, throwing his clothes into a basket by the door for disposal or distribution to the poor. Had Hardacre been alive to see it, he would no doubt have seen no humour in the irony. Once stripped, the body was washed with hot water from the basin and scrubbed with carbolic to minimise the smell from a night’s stay in the dissecting rooms. It was debated whether the corpse should be shaved, but as the orderlies were keen to have an early night, the idea was abandoned as being beyond the call of duty. If Doctor Crane wanted the body shaved for his investigations in the morning, they agreed, he could surely do it himself. And so Hardacre was left upon the slab, his great mountain of a belly protruding monumentally to the ceiling. As the last of the orderlies left the room, he turned down the gas to the lights in the room and the body was left alone in semi-darkness. Several minutes passed after the soft click of the closing door had died away. A tap dripped into a basin. And then there was a distinct movement on Hardacre’s body. Had anyone been present to see it, they might have noticed the tiniest flicker of a muscle in Hardacre’s left cheek. An involuntary spasm, surely, they would have reasoned. Many were the stories of limbs jerking into life on the dissecting slab as the muscles contracted or relaxed. There were even tales of cadavers sitting up and exhaling whatever gases had been fermenting in their stomachs, then falling back to the slab again as if in sleep. But the movement in Hardacre’s cheek was far from being the involuntary spasm of a long dead muscle. It was an indication of something more. Hardacre was alive. His great belly heaved as he took a breath. Soon, it had settled into a rhythm and was joined by a flexing of the fingers in each hand. Finally, his eyes snapped open. Looking around him, Hardacre assessed his situation. He was alone, at least. The timing had been perfect. Rubbing his face to encourage the blood to return to his cheeks, he swung himself round on the table with an effort and sat with his legs dangling down before him. The pins and needles in his feet subsided as he looked around. He was in the dissecting rooms, he guessed, though he could not think where. Steadying himself against the slab, he slowly got to his feet and stood for a while to get his balance. A triumphant smile spread across his face. Stroking the great beard on his chin, Hardacre made his way to the basket by the door and retrieved his clothes.
A scream pierced the air in the Empire Rooms. Madam Rose had completed her invocations and now, with hands raised, she beckoned towards the screen as if enticing a child to join her. To gasps, a figure stepped from behind the screen. It was shrouded by an almost impenetrable mist that hung about the stage, but Bowman could plainly see it was the mysterious Mr Khy. He hunched his shoulders a little and held his arms across his body in what seemed to Bowman a ridiculous attempt to disguise his great bulk. To the audience, however, it was entirely convincing.
“That’s him!” called the man from the back of the room, on his feet and pointing towards the apparition on the stage. “That’s my uncle!” His legs seeming to give way in his hysteria, he fell back in his chair, crossing himself feverishly. “May God forgive us.”
Soon the air rang with cries of “May the Lord protect us!” and “Christ have mercy!” Even in this room of a hundred people, Bowman felt entirely alone. Feeling a hand on his arm and a tugging at his shirtsleeve, he turned to face Elizabeth. Her eyes were the widest he had ever seen them, and her other hand was at her throat in a gesture that Bowman had once found beguiling. He suddenly became aware of a weight pressing against his chest. He was finding it hard to breathe. Elizabeth gazed at Khy in an expression of genuine awe.
“Can it be?” she whispered. “I can see him, inspector. I see the spirit before us!” In her fervour, she stood to join in the chorus, swept along by the hysteria in the room.
Bowman opened his mouth to offer her some words of caution but couldn’t find the breath. He felt a cold sweat prickle on his forehead. His hands felt clammy. As he shook his head and prepared to gather his coat from his chair in order to leave, his attention was again drawn to the veiled woman on the front row. Unlike those around her, she sat impassive, clearly unmoved by the events unfolding before her.
To take his mind off his sudden discomfort, Bowman forced himself to analyse the scene before him. Madam Rose’s audience had abandoned all notions of individuality and seemed to behave as one mind; trusting, yearning and above all believing. It was going to be a productive evening. Soon the hysteria would die down and Madam Rose would question the ‘spirit’. The questions would be vague enough and Khy would answer with nothing more than grunts and nods. Madam Rose had already gleaned enough information to impress the audience with her veracity. The man’s uncle, they had heard, had died a tragic death at sea. The odds were that he was, if not a sailor, then a young man at least. Also, her fingering of the watch had yielded her another clue. As she had turned it between forefinger and thumb, she had felt the distinct edges of an engraving. Looking down briefly during her incantation, she could plainly see the words ‘G.R. from E.W.’ engraved on the back of the case. The initials would be useful. The man in the audience would unwittingly fill in the gaps in the narrative as her questions continued, convincing himself and those around him that this was indeed the spirit of his uncle. And so she would continue with the evening, taking a new possession from the tray and spinning a story that would prove vague enough to apply to someone in the audience. The high emotion in the room, Khy’s appearance and the smoke hanging about the stage would do the rest. Before Madam Rose could fully embark upon her well-rehearsed routine, however, the proceedings were interrupted. The man that Elizabeth had recognised as the scientist Nathaniel Cokes leapt to the stage and began wafting the air about him with his hands. Bowman felt his mouth drying. As he watched the unfolding scene, he had the unerring sense that the walls were closing in. His heart beat against his chest.
“This is monstrous!” screamed Nathaniel Cokes above the din. “A sham and nothing more!” His snow-white beard jutted from his chin. The room was still and, for a moment, Bowman was unsure as to how the crowd would react. He clutched the arm of his chair, both in expectation and in an effort to control his breathing. Then everyone was on their feet, shouting with indignation at the usurper on the stage. There were cries
of “Leave the stage!” and much booing and hissing. Bowman heard the man from the back of the room scream, “Be silent, sir! Return to your seat!”
“I will not be silenced!” screamed Cokes above the noise. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, setting his face into an expression of determination. Bowman could see that Goldoni, alerted no doubt by the braying of the audience, had entered the room again, jostling his ushers before him. The inspector could barely breathe now. He was sure something must be wrong. Turning to his companion, he tried to ask for help but saw that she was absorbed in the proceedings. Bowman’s blood ran cold. He was certain he was dying. On the stage, Madam Rose had risen from her seat and approached the intruder.
“How dare you interrupt a communication from the spirits?” she growled ominously, pointing a finger of accusation. Nathaniel Cokes took a step away from her but was plainly not ready to give ground.
“Communication be damned,” he replied, clearly unmoved by her portentous tone. “I repeat, this is a sham!”
Bowman felt Elizabeth lean forward beside him. “But the spirit before you,” she implored Cokes. “Do you not see him?”
Bowman clutched at his chest. His clothes were stuck to his skin with sweat and the room seemed to have shrunk to half its size. The ceiling pressed down upon him.
Cokes fixed Elizabeth with a determined stare. “No Madam, I do not. Because I see through the eyes of a rationalist.” Madam Rose seized her chance, accusing the intruder of the one thing guaranteed to disarm him in front of such a crowd.
“He is a non-believer!” she crowed in triumph. Despite this interruption to her well-polished routine, she was rather enjoying herself. “The spirit will not show himself to a sceptic!” There were more shouts for Cokes to leave the stage, and many men raised their fists in his direction. Two ushers jumped onto the stage and held Cokes by the arms, attempting to remove him from the room. Bowman knew he had to leave. He gasped for air in vain, the room now spinning before his eyes.
Cokes, though slight in stature, was evidently strong in his intent. “There is no spirit!” he yelled, looking towards the screen behind which Khy now cowered, uncertain of how to proceed. “You have all seen exactly what this fraud wanted you to see.”
Madam Rose took a gasp of exasperation. “Fraud?” she bellowed with some force. “How dare you?”
A young man in a fine cravat and brocade waistcoat leaned forward towards the stage. “The ectoplasm,” he called to the agreement of those around him. “How do you explain that, sir?”
“It is a substance called dry ice or fixed air.” Cokes tried in vain to be heard above the abuse being spat upon him from all sides. “You may see it commonly enough at the theatre!” he concluded bravely.
Madam Rose turned to the ushers holding Cokes by the arms. “Gentlemen,” she said with a generous smile, “will you kindly remove this man from the room and see to it that he leaves the building?” There was an outbreak of spontaneous applause as Cokes was bundled from the auditorium. Madam Rose seemed unmoved by his protestations, aware as she was that, although she may not have won the argument, she had certainly won the battle for audience support.
As the room returned to order, Inspector Bowman turned to his companion. “I am sorry, Miss Morley” he gulped, retrieving his coat, “but I have to - ” He couldn’t find the breath to finish. He needed air.
Elizabeth looked at him sadly. “But, inspector,” she began, plainly disappointed. “The spirits. Are you not curious to see more?”
Bowman rose from his seat and, throwing his coat over his arm, made his way carefully down the row of spectators. They each gave him room to pass, but Bowman could see the looks of suspicion on their faces. It was obvious to all who saw him that Inspector Bowman was not of their mind. Casting a final look back to Elizabeth, Bowman could see that she was once more absorbed with the proceedings on the stage. His vision now a blur, he pulled on his coat and headed for the door, leaving Elizabeth Morley and those around her to continue their commune with the spirit world.
In the lobby outside, Inspector Bowman leaned against the wall trying to calm his erratic breathing. He saw the two ushers attempting to manhandle Cokes down the stairs. Goldoni was standing over them, pulling himself up to his full height to direct proceedings.
Cokes was calling for his coat as Bowman approached. “I will not leave without it,” he spluttered.
“Let the gentleman go,” Inspector Bowman gasped, finding his breath at last. “I’m sure he has no wish to disrupt the evening further.” At a nod from Goldoni, the ushers released their grip, leaving Cokes to smooth his clothes.
“Please,” began Goldoni, pointing a finger towards the closet behind the counter. “Fetch the gentleman’s coat. Then I am sure he will see himself out.” Goldoni spat this out, leaving Cokes in no doubt as to what was expected of him once his coat was returned. Cokes offered his hand to Bowman in gratitude.
“Thank you sir,” he said.
Bowman cast a look to the ushers as he shook the scientist’s hand. “I trust you have come to no harm?”
Cokes was struggling into his coat now. Bowman noticed it was of a heavy material and came almost down to Cokes’ feet. “I can assure you I have suffered no more injury than a glancing blow to my pride. And you, sir? You seem distracted.”
Bowman swallowed hard. His anxiety was subsiding but he was concerned. He remembered such episodes from his time in Colney Hatch and he remembered the treatment, too. He shuddered at the thought. “I am quite well,” he lied. “Thank you.” Cokes fastened the buttons on his coat, produced a scarf from a voluminous pocket and threw it dramatically over his shoulder.
Just as Bowman was about to accompany Cokes from the room, he felt a blow to his elbow and was pushed momentarily against the wall. A figure pressed against him, pushing something urgently into his hand. Bowman blinked in surprise, about to voice his indignation, when the figure disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived. As the inspector recovered his wits, he had just enough time to see the back of the mysterious, veiled woman disappear down the steps to the front door. He was about to set off in pursuit, if nothing else to see what she had intended by such strange behaviour, when his fingers closed around the object she had thrust into his hand. It was a crumpled piece of paper. Holding it close to a lamp that burned on the counter, Bowman slowly unfolded the paper to reveal a handwritten note, obviously scrawled in haste amidst the melee of the meeting. ‘Highgate Cemetery,’ it said simply, ‘Noon tomorrow.’ Bowman looked up with hopes of calling out to the unknown woman. As his eyes moved to the steps through the door, he saw that she had, quite simply, vanished.
XVIII
Dead Or Alive
The following morning saw a further change in the weather. It was barely possible to discern exactly when the night had finished and the day begun. Thick, thunderous clouds loomed over the city depriving the streets of light. The watery, ineffectual sun could do nothing more than lend a lighter shade of grey to one corner of the sky. The morning air was heavy with the expectation of a downpour. An ominous peal of thunder rolled over the city streets.
In the windowless dissecting rooms below Charing Cross Hospital, Sergeant Graves and Inspector Treacher stood downcast next to an empty slab, a haughtier than usual Doctor Crane at their side.
“This is it, gentlemen.” Doctor Crane peered over his glasses at them as he spoke. “This is where the orderlies left him. I fancied you might want to take a look.”
Sergeant Graves looked around the room. The only way of effecting exit or entry was through the very door through which they had come. Ever conscientious, he took a notebook from his pocket. “What time was he brought down here, Doctor Crane?” he asked.
“At approximately half past eight last night,” the doctor responded archly, his clipped Scottish vowels betraying his annoyance at being summoned at so early an hour in the morning.
“And you know for sure that he was dead?”
“Of course he
was dead.” Treacher was standing dumbfounded at the slab, his eyes cast down as if some clue to Hardacre’s whereabouts might lie on its stained surface. “He dropped like a stone in the cell, foaming at the mouth and fitting something terrible.” He looked up to Graves who was scribbling furiously with the stub of a pencil. “It was all over in an instant,” he continued. “No sign of any pulse, not a breath from his body.”
Graves finished the sentence with an energetic stab at the paper then looked up to meet the doctor’s gaze. “Your immediate thoughts, doctor?”
With a sigh, Doctor Crane removed his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose with a bony hand. Graves was clearly testing his patience. “Unfortunately, Sergeant Graves,” he began, “it seems the only piece of evidence we had simply got up and walked away.”
“You mean the body was removed?” asked Treacher not unreasonably.
Doctor Crane replaced his spectacles and smoothed an errant hair over his balding head. “That would be entirely conceivable, Inspector Treacher,” he said magnanimously enough, “if it were not for the fact that an orderly saw him walk out the front door of his own accord.”
The two men couldn’t help but stare at the doctor, their mouths wide open.
“And he made no attempt to stop the man?” Treacher was aghast at the news.
Doctor Crane looked down his nose. “Would you?” he asked, pointedly.
Graves was writing furiously again. “So, the orderly could offer a positive identification of the man?”
“You must talk to him yourself, sergeant, but he told me the man’s appearance exactly matched that of the cadaver he took delivery of last night. He recognised the clothing and the tattoo.”
Graves stopped writing, his pencil poised. “Tattoo?”
The Head in the Ice Page 16