by Alex Duncan
Tartar Street was not far away, thankfully less crowded, and the high terraces cast the street into a dark shadow. Rosie found the house easily enough, pulled the bell and waited for an answer.
The door opened and she said, ‘Oh!’ For the man in front of her was the sombre dressed gentleman she had met on the street barely five minutes before, whilst asking for a florist.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
‘Good morning, you must be Mr Styx, the undertaker?’
‘Dr Styx actually, it is only my sad duty to aid in the other job when it is needed. And you are?’
‘A friend,’ said Rosie, holding up the flowers. ‘I wish to deliver these to the grieving Mrs Smith, and,’ she pulled out a handkerchief and pretended a small sob just for effect, ‘if you’ll permit me, to see the late Mr Smith one last time.’
The doctor placed a hand on her shoulder and beckoned her up the steps.
‘I think you’d better come inside.’
◆◆◆
Henry Versatile had to say it; he had no idea what all the fuss was about.
‘I’ve no idea what all the fuss is about.’
‘What are ye talking about?’ asked the landlord of the Crossroads tavern, leaning proudly over his bar and refilling the old man’s tankard with a pale ale.
‘I mean to say; what’s to like, the boorish crowds, the ceaseless noise, the painted smiles? Not to mention all those guards policing from every dark corner. Don’t ask me what that’s all about. I, an innocent, felt guilty just walking past them.’
The landlord looked at him. His smile was still wide and toothsome, and utterly forced.
‘At least you have to confess that the improvement is ten fold from what it was, all that fighting and nonsense from the factory workers and simpletons that should know their place, bunch of good-for-nothings if you ask me.’
The old man lifted his shoulders and dropped them as he took a long drink of his ale and the landlord’s smile began to crack.
‘Well, sir, we are all very happy here, happy, happy, and we think this country would be a better place if it followed our lead.’
There was a curious manner to his words that Henry couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said, tossing a few coins onto the bar and taking his leave. He pushed his way through all the people stood shoulder to shoulder, found a stool to sit on in a corner and looked out through a window into the centre of the town.
Even then, as he sat watching the thoroughfare, he could see a young lady, wearing a gaudy, golden shawl and a ridiculous bonnet full of feathers, being escorted away from the crowds by two stern looking guards, her head held low and a look in her eyes he couldn’t fathom. The crowds still wandered in every direction, bumping into each other and bowing and apologising and excusing, and no one made so much as a momentary glance in the direction of the young lady. It was loathsome, he thought, as bad as London.
He pulled out a notebook and a stub of pencil lead to jot down everything he had come across so far; all the people, all the rush, all the guards. He’d no idea what it all meant, or if there was any connection to their strange friend from the night before. He had very little to go on. The only breadcrumb that seemed worth following was the business of the man dying of fright that everyone was harping on about. That sounded more up his street, and it didn’t sound like the first time such a thing had happened; he’d heard careful, furtive whispers that implied otherwise. From the gossip, several people, possibly more, had come to an untimely end in just a matter of weeks. It might be worth talking to Mr Smith’s widow and see if she knew anything.
He continued to mutter to himself, sipping his ale and scribbling in his book but could clearly see, through the corner of his vision, unpleasant looks thrown his way from various people in the bar. He tried his best to ignore them and turned his back to the room.
‘Precious lot,’ he mumbled quietly into his ale.
Beside him there was a partition of bubbled glass, grossly distorting the face on the other side. The man (for it was a man, but that was about as much as he could tell) turned his way, leant in and tapped on the glass to get Henry’s attention. As the man moved his chin stretched, his eyes shifted wide across his forehead and his nose seemed to split into many different things all sliding over his face as he spoke, such was the effect of the bubbled glass.
‘I know what’s on your mind,’ the man said. His voice was husky and deep and his accent wasn’t as false as many he’d heard that morning throughout the town.
‘You’re wondering why everyone looks like they’re smiling as if they were posing for a portrait. You’re wondering why everyone’s talking like they’re in a play on the stage and you’re wondering what that glazed look in everyone’s eyes is.’ The man was whispering so low now that Henry had to lean into the glass to hear him.
‘It’s fear old man, plain and simple. Fear,’ he said. ‘They don’t want to end up like Mr Smith down Tartar Street.’
Henry went to speak but the man cut him off.
‘You watch where you step old man; there’ll be guards spying on your every move, guards and worse besides. Even when you think you’re alone, they’ll know what you’re doing, what you’re thinking, what you’re dreaming…’
‘Egad! What drivel is Ezekiel spouting now!?’ shouted a well-dressed, blonde haired gentleman coming between them and patting the man on the other side of the glass hard on the shoulder.
‘You must excuse him my good man, Ezekiel is one of our more…eccentric locals.’ He lifted the man up and Henry got a look at him for the first time. The man was wearing expensive clothes, though he was shabby and unkempt and his face was drawn, sallow and unshaven. He also smelt strongly of drink.
‘As you can probably tell, he likes his ale far more than his tailor. But he’s most fond of teasing folk with his curious bedtime stories, aren’t you Ezekiel?’
The man didn’t speak. In fact Henry was sure he looked as if he might break down in tears.
The handsome gentleman (who Henry instantly disliked) passed Ezekiel back to an ugly associate behind him.
‘Take care of him Mr Monk, there’s a good chap. Go and get some frsh air,’ he said in a bored tone of voice that was usually saved for when discussing the weather.
Henry watched all of this with a dazed detachment. He had felt a similar clenching in his gut at Ezekiel’s words as he had done in the night when waking to the cries of their foreign stranger.
‘H-o-w-l-a-l-a h-o-w-l-a-l-a!’ he heard again in his mind as he watched the man being led away, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. ‘How-la-la how-la-la!’
‘Don’t look so pale my good man. Mr Monk will see him right. Won’t you Hugh?’
The ugly man grunted as he pulled Ezekiel away, his eyes boring straight into Henry’s and the door of the Crossroads shut behind them.
‘Man of few words my Mr Monk, don’t you know,’ said the handsome man. ‘But rather handy in delicate situations.’ He nudged Henry in the side and the old man smiled obligingly.
‘Lor’, I could do with a beverage to cool my humours on such a day. There is a great excess of excitement in the air, don’t you agree? Won’t you join me Mr…?’
‘Homespun,’ answered Henry. ‘Alas I must pay my condolences to the widow of Mr Smith.’
‘And you won’t be the first (heaven knows why) to visit the lady this morning. If you hurry you might catch another who I helped on her way, and if you do see her your day will indeed be the brighter for it. She was a most becoming flower of the rarest variety.’ He gave Henry a knowing wink and patted his lips together.
‘I had a right mind to pursue my temptations there and then, don’t you know. I believe one must always follow one’s basest desires; they will inevitably be the most fun. Ha ha!’
Henry moved away from the gentleman as politely as he could and made his way to the door. He couldn’t stand the company of the fashionable beaus; they spoke only of fun
and frippery. He was certain that if you were to shine a light through one ear it would appear, just as bright, through the other.
‘Should I see her, I’ll be sure to send your…compliments,’ he said, his jaw clenched and his knuckles white. ‘Did you catch the lady’s name perchance?’
‘You’ll know her by her beauty Mr Homespun, but if you do need a name, ask for a Miss Lizzie Simply.’
◆◆◆
Rosie had stared death in the face many times. It was part of the job. She remembered her first time being drawn out, tearful and unpleasant. Her grandfather had brought her into the middle of the room and held her firmly as she looked down into the face of a man who had taken his own life after his young wife had died of the pox. At first Rosie had wanted to pull away and run from the room but Henry held her tightly, too tightly she remembered, and told her stay still. She saw the man, lying so neatly on the floor as if his last moment had been frozen in time, his eyes wide and lifeless, and the longer she looked at him the further away he drifted. She stared down at him until whatever had been left of his life had gone and all that remained was a body, a husk. She could only imagine she now saw the dead in much the same light as someone in the medical profession might do, with cool eyes and a clear mind.
But that had been before.
This time it was different.
The doctor had led her up the stairs of the modest town house and towards a room on the first floor. She had noticed in the lobby several large and overflowing trunks stacked in a pile in a corner and the walls of the house were completely bare, only grimy squares on the wallpaper remained as memories of where pictures once hung. The whole place had the echo of emptiness.
‘In here,’ said Dr Styx, gesturing, impatiently at a closed door. ‘I beg you to cover your face. Young ladies of a delicate nature have been known to swoon at such a thing.’
‘Then you are lucky that I’m as delicate as iron doctor. Open the door if you please.’
The man did so and Rosie stepped inside.
Coming from the street in the late morning, the room by contrast was uncommonly dark and ice cold, like accidentally stepping into the late evening. There was a deep, purple sheen to everything; spreading out from the thick, closed curtains, and the weak sound of sobbing was mingled with an incessant buzzing all around them. Flies were everywhere, so many Rosie had to swat them away with a handkerchief and there was an acrid, burnt stench in the air.
The spring wind picked up outside, whistling through an open window, parting the curtains and sending a white beam of light down to the bed where Mr Smith lay and Dr Styx pulled back the sheet covering his face.
Rosie lifted her handkerchief to cover her mouth. Just like her first time, she wanted to look away but forced her eyes to stay on the form in front her. She knew she wasn’t staring death in the face this time. There was some other mischief going on here.
The body was of a man possibly in his late thirties or early forties, but it was hard to tell. There was a horrible grey pallor to his skin that had a bleak, decayed quality to it. He lay on his back but his figure was unusually twisted around the centre and his arms were stiff and raised up with his palms facing out to the room.
And then there was the face.
Rosie had no idea how the gossips had known, but she knew now they were right. From the look of him, Mr Smith had indeed died of fright. His eyes were gaping wide, his jaw hung unnaturally low, almost broken, and there was a fixed expression of such unknown extremities of terror that Rosie had to finally turn away. She dropped her bunch of white flowers at the foot of the bed and turned to look at the crumpled, shaking form of Kitty Smith sitting in the dark corner.
‘Kitty?’ she asked. It was familiar to call the young lady by her first name, but she could think of no other sympathy to offer her other than familiarity.
The lady gave no answer and continued to quietly sob into her hands.
‘Kitty Smith?’ she tried, more forcibly, and the lady looked up. She wasn’t a pretty sight, her eyes and cheeks were red and puffy and she wiped her wet nose across her sleeve.
‘What happened here?’ Rosie asked.
Kitty was still silent and stared at her late husband for a while before turning back to Rosie and taking a deep breath. When she spoke her voice was slow, precise and curiously detached.
‘There were people, but the room was empty. Then there was smoke, but there was no fire. And there was screaming, but there wasn’t any noise.’
Rosie pulled her shawl around herself as she felt the room get colder, or perhaps it was only her, she thought.
‘It was as if a nightmare came alive and took him.’
She turned back to the doctor, stood in the doorway, and raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t look at me miss, she’s been saying things like that since I got here.’
‘You said there was no noise Kitty, no screaming. Are you sure there wasn’t something else, something you couldn’t recognize?’
Kitty Smith stood up from her chair and walked into the light. She wore a thick travelling coat over her nightdress and a hardwearing pair of men’s work boots on her feet.
‘Silence? No, there were…it’s difficult to explain…’
‘Please try.’
‘There were…words, in my head…’
‘Words you didn’t understand, over and over?’
‘Yes…words…like…’
‘Like what?’
The young lady hesitated.
‘Like what, like what?’
‘I think that’s quite enough for today miss,’ said the doctor, coming into the room and taking Kitty Smith by the arms, leading her back to her chair. ‘Thank you a thousand times for bringing the flowers, Mrs Smith is ever so grateful, but as you can see she is worn out with grief and not herself. I entreat you to call on her another time and I’m sure you’ll find her back to her old self.’
‘Back to her old self? She woke up this morning and found her husband beside her utterly gone. This is not something to be taken lightly.’
‘I agree!’ the doctor shouted, scaring the poor Mrs Smith, who fell back into her chair, ‘which is why we should leave her in peace to…gather her thoughts.’
Dr Styx ushered Rosie with some vigour out of the room and shut the door behind him.
‘Dr Styx, there are several more questions I’d like to ask that lady in private if you’d be so kind.’
She tried to push past the man but he held his place firmly enough.
‘What questions miss? I’ll be sure to pass them on once she has had sufficient rest.’
‘Why, for instance, does her husband look like he’s been dead for weeks? Rigor mortis has already set in and he only died a matter of hours ago.’
‘Ah, well, that is a question for a doctor, not a widow, and I, as a doctor, would be able to tell you that it is simply and unquestionably a result of a very rare strain of consumption that Mr Smith has tragically suffered.’
‘Consumption?’ she cried, not believing her ears. ‘Dr Styx I have seen consumption a number of times and it does not look like that. The man looks as though he’s had an argument with the devil himself and come off the worst.’
The doctor forced a laugh as he moved Rosie away from the door and back down the stairs.
‘You seem to believe you know a great deal about medicine Miss…I’m sorry what did you say your name was again?’
‘I didn’t say.’
‘No of course you didn’t. And what is your relationship with the Smiths?’
‘I told you; I’m a friend. Now if you’ll just…’
Rosie again tried to make her way past the man, but he insisted on getting in front of her and, though she knew her strength doubled such a man as he, she didn’t want to show him that a fashionable lady of society could also out-wrestle a lion.
‘I’m sorry miss but Mrs Smith will be resting now.’ He opened the front door onto the street and pushed her onto the first step.
&
nbsp; ‘Look here Dr Styx, they were all packed up and ready to leave, I saw their luggage and the house was empty, you can’t tell me that something rum isn’t afoot.’
‘Excuse us Miss…whatever your name is…but visiting hours are over!’ And with that he slammed the door in her face.
Rosie stuck out her tongue at the closed door and walked down the steps back onto Tartar Street. Shamed to admit it, she was glad to be out of there and back into the open. Even the dull light of the street was comforting after the wintry coldness of that room and the strange burnt smell of death that filled it.
She stood still for a moment, taking a number of long, deep breaths of calming, clean air when a hand passed gently across her throat, took a hold, and yanked her hard back into a dark alleyway.
◆◆◆
‘I shouldn’t…er…struggle if I were you,’ said the croaky voice close to Rosie’s ear, ‘I don’t want to harm you. Only give me what I want.’
‘‘nd what would that be?’ Rosie managed to ask without tripping over.
‘The tickets…to the event…tomorrow night…at the theatre. Hand them over and I’ll leave you without a…er…scratch.’
The voice was rough and forced but not altogether unfamiliar. Rosie coughed and steadied herself in case she slipped on the back of her dress, as she was pulled deeper into the shadows of the alleyway.
‘I didn’t realise that they were in such demand sir, perhaps you could make me a more tempting offer and I’ll think it over.’ She was rather enjoying herself now and loosened up her shoulders, making ready to strike.
‘No…er…funny business, just hand them over, or...’
‘Or?’
‘I warn you miss. I’m well versed in the art of boxing and in some corners I’m considered a…er…what’s the word for someone who’s a boxer?’
‘A pugilist?’
‘That’s it, a pugilist. I’m considered a pugilist of some repute. I’ll not flinch at striking a young lady, you hear me.’
‘Your manners leave much to be desired sir,’ she said, gripping both her hands round the man’s wrist.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’