by Mia James
‘And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where the architects really started to show off,’ said Judith. They walked around the corner and an amazing gateway appeared from behind an overgrown tree, its huge pillars carved from the rock, set into the hillside and opening onto a wide pathway.
‘Welcome to the Egyptian Avenue, a masterpiece of funerary art, reputedly based on the original mausoleum of King Mausolus at Halicarnassus.’
It was incredible, a long corridor of stone climbing up the hill, the trees on each side so overgrown it gave the impression they were looking into a dark tunnel with sunlight at the far end. They walked inside and found that the walls had black iron vault doors set into them, all the way up the hill.
‘Are these tombs still used?’ asked April.
‘Heavens no,’ said Judith. ‘Of course they could be - the families own these plots in perpetuity and we have a key for each one in the office. Grave-owners, or “key-holders” as we call them, can come to the cemetery at any time. But as for interments in these tombs, none of them have been used for decades.’
They walked up the avenue, examining the doors and the carvings in mute awe. April noticed that the keyholes in the iron doors were upside down. For some reason she found that unsettling.
Biker Lady had also spotted it. ‘Why the crazy keyholes?’ she asked.
‘Ah, a silly superstition. Some people believe it confuses the devil,’ she said, forcing herself to smile. ‘Leaves him unable to unlock the door.’
‘But the Egyptians didn’t believe in the devil,’ said Tweed Lady. ‘They had a whole host of different gods.’
‘Yes, but some of those gods were - how shall we say it? - troublesome.’
Waving away any more questions, Judith hurried up the path and out into the sunlight.
‘And this is the jewel in the cemetery’s crown,’ said Judith proudly as they stepped out into the Circle of Lebanon. April looked at her sharply; those were the exact words Gabriel had used to describe it. Had he been here, on this tour? Maybe he had brought Layla along as some sort of horrid foreplay. April knew it wasn’t Judith’s fault Gabriel was a two-timing rat, but she found herself getting irritated with the woman all the same.
‘Why doesn’t this tomb have a door?’ she asked, pointing to a vault with a boarded-up entrance.
‘Vandalism, I’m afraid. In the sixties and seventies we had a terrible time of it, people breaking into coffins, stealing bodies, it was a disgrace.’
Mutters of agreement rippled around the group, until April innocently asked, ‘Was that when the vampires came to the cemetery?’
There was a communal gasp.
‘Vampires?’ said Blue-Rinse Lady’s husband.
‘Yes, there was a lot of silliness going on,’ said Judith, glaring at April, ‘people claiming to have seen all sorts of things in the cemetery. Not surprising given the level of damage that had been done to the tombs, with coffins ripped open and so on. And the fuss contributed to the closure of the cemetery. But I assure you, there have never been any real ghosts or spectres here. Shall we move on?’
‘Some spooks would liven these stiffs up though, hey?’ Biker Lady whispered to April with a wink.
Judith hurried them around the circle. It seemed much wider and more open in the daylight. It was impressive still, but it didn’t have the same magic April had felt that night. Perhaps it’s just the company, thought April.
She watched with detachment as they trooped into the catacombs and inspected the death mask of the child in the Beer mausoleum, the owner of which had paid the equivalent of £2.5 million for the plot.
‘Where’s Dickens?’ asked Blue-Rinse Lady.
‘If you mean Charles Dickens, you should be in Westminster,’ snapped Judith with some asperity, as if it was a personal irritation that the author had failed to be buried here. ‘It was his wish to be interred in Highgate, of course, but Queen Victoria had other ideas. She wanted him in Westminster Abbey, and what her majesty wanted she tended to get. His wife and daughter are here, however.’
‘Ooh, can we see them?’ asked Tweed Lady.
Judith looked awkward. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Is it because of the murder?’ asked Tweed Lady.
‘What murder?’ gasped Blue-Rinse Lady.
‘There was a terrible murder here only a fortnight ago,’ said Tweed Lady knowledgeably. ‘Some poor girl. Police are baffled, apparently. The killer could strike again at any moment.’
A concerned twitter went around the group and April could see people glancing from side to side as if a knife-wielding maniac was about to jump from the bushes.
Judith patted the air in a calming gesture. ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, don’t be concerned, you are quite safe. Despite some inflammatory reports in the press, I can assure you, there is nothing to see.’
‘Have you been to look?’ asked April.
‘No,’ said Judith through thin lips.
‘Where did it happen?’ pressed Tweed Lady.
Judith cleared her throat. ‘By the east wall, in what we call the dissenters’ section.’
‘Dissenters?’ said Blue-Rinse Lady, her hand jumping to her throat with alarm. ‘Were they pagans?’
‘No, no.’ Judith smiled, pleased to be back on safer ground. ‘Dissenters was the term used to describe any non-Anglican burials,’ she said, ‘although burials in that section were not necessarily non-religious, or even un-Christian—’
‘So why can’t we go there?’ interrupted Biker Lady.
‘We can’t go there, dear lady,’ said Judith, summoning up the last of her thinning patience with her unruly tour group, ‘because there is a funeral today and, out of respect for the recently bereaved, today’s tours have been slightly diverted.’
There was a pause.
‘But I thought you said the cemetery was full?’ said April.
Judith was definitely getting uncomfortable now. ‘Some monuments and paths have been moved to make a little space.’
‘It must be someone important, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Really?’
‘They don’t tell us everything,’ said Judith firmly. ‘Now, as I’m sure you all understand, funerals are a private matter, so if you would step this way, we can see the last resting place of a very interesting man ...’
April didn’t know she was going to do it until it happened. She hadn’t planned any of this when she had caught the train to Highgate, but when the moment came, as the tour group turned a corner and April was shielded by a curtain of leaves, she moved decisively. Stepping off the path—Judith expressly forbade this, she thought with a little thrill - she darted behind an angel and hid, listening to her own breathing and the fading voices as the tour ambled on. April stood up and stepped back onto the path, quickly walking up the hill away from the others. It was hard to keep her bearings on such winding, twisty paths with all the thick undergrowth preventing her from seeing where she was headed, but when she glimpsed the spire of St Michael’s at the top of the hill she knew she was going the right way: east, towards the forbidden zone of the dissenters’ graveyard. April didn’t know what she was going to find there, but for some reason she wanted to see the place where ‘it’ had happened for herself in the daylight. If she was honest, she still felt guilty that she hadn’t done more for Isabelle and felt that she owed her something - maybe she could find a clue the police had overlooked. A clue to Isabelle’s murder might even be a clue to her father’s. She walked along the path, lost in her thoughts, wondering what her dad would have made of this place, whether he would have ... She stopped. For a moment April thought she’d seen a ghost, a disembodied face floating above a half-toppled gravestone. She instinctively ducked down out of the line of sight, then slowly crept forward. There was no ghost, but rather a group of about twenty people all dressed in black - the funeral, of course. April kept her distance, but she’d never been to a funeral before and she found herself curious: how did people beha
ve? Did they cry and wail? Did they keep a stiff upper lip? She craned her neck to peer through the leaves at the mourners’ faces. The answer seemed to be that people were generally looking down at the ground with serious expressions, while a white-robed priest said words she couldn’t hear. One woman was weeping into a handkerchief, but everyone else looked either sad or slightly uncomfortable, as if they would rather be somewhere else. April backed away and walked down the path, strangely reassured by having seen the funeral. In fact, she felt remarkably calm, almost cheerful, being here among the long-dead. She had expected - if she was honest, had wanted - her visit here to be depressing and morbid. She had anticipated a general atmosphere of gloom and despondency around the cemetery in which she could immerse herself, but it was quite the opposite. It was calm, picturesque and charming. More importantly, it was near impossible to walk through such an old graveyard without reading the inscriptions and be unmoved by words such as: ‘Beloved daughter Charlotte Gosling, 1897—1919’. ‘In loving memory of Elizabeth Sexton 1878-1899, rest in peace’. ‘Joseph Cottingham, fell asleep, 10th May 1888’.April thought the sentiments were lovely. ‘Eternal peace’, ‘joined in heaven’, ‘passed away’, ‘lives on in our hearts’. It was hard to be cynical about so many heartfelt markers of remembrance. Each one of these people had touched the lives of their families and friends, each one had a resonance and a positive energy. April thought back to Gabriel’s words about the ability of objects to hold feelings and emotions long after the owner had gone, and she knew that he was right. She should have been freaked out with so many dead bodies just beneath her feet, but the horror of death seemed to be cancelled out by the endless love and affection that was displayed on the surface of the stones.
April was so lost in her musings that she almost stumbled into the crime scene. Turning a corner hidden behind dense ivy and a chestnut tree, she found her way barred by black and yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze. April ducked under it and continued along a narrow path near the east wall. The tape was protecting a wide area extending about fifty metres to either side of where she was standing. Does that mean I’m standing right where Isabelle was killed? she wondered. Gingerly she looked around her feet, half-expecting to see pools of congealed blood, but all she saw were leaves, twigs and gravel, not even the heavy footprints of the forensics people. The thought of their light blue moon-suits suddenly made April’s heart lurch as she realised that the same men had probably been walking around her house only days later. She shivered and hugged herself. Suddenly she wanted to get away from here. She turned right and could immediately see the sunlight out on Swain’s Lane through the old iron gate right next to that curious little white stone cottage; the North Gate, the one she had come through that night. Seeing the road out there, only a few hundred metres from bars and cafes, it looked so strange, like staring down the wrong end of a telescope. Back in the enclosed world of the cemetery, it was still the Victorian era and April could feel the gentle presence of the departed, tipping their hats as she passed, polite and welcoming. But here, where the ancient wall ended and the modern world leaked in, bringing its harsh light and blaring traffic, April felt the mood change, darken. It was colder here, the overhead sun pushed back by a thick tangle of branches and creepers, the decrepit tombstones leaning in towards the path, leering somehow. She couldn’t say why, but there was just something different here, like that picture on her grandpa’s wall. It felt ... bad. Even so, she wanted to stop where she had stood before, where the fox had lain, to measure out how far she had been from Isabelle. From what she could tell, April had been very close. She walked carefully towards the gate, the little white house to her right. What the hell is that, exactly? It was like a miniature cottage, with little windows, even a chimney. The coldness felt even more intense here. Yes, it was autumn, but it was also a sunny afternoon - there was no way it should feel this icy. Slowly she approached the building and its white walls seemed to glow in the gloom. Come on, scaredy-cat, thought April, what’s the matter? It’s only a little house. She peered into the dusty black window - and jumped straight back. A white face loomed behind the glass. ‘Jesus!’ she shrieked and was running before her brain could react.
‘Stop!’ came a cry. A voice. A strong, angry voice. A real voice, not a ghost or a vampire. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
April skidded to a halt and turned back as a tall man in work overalls ran out of the house.
‘You do know you’re not supposed to be in here, don’t you?’ he called.
He didn’t come any closer, but April could see he was angry. As if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been? she thought suddenly.
‘I was with the tour and I got a bit lost,’ she said.
He raised his eyebrows sceptically, but didn’t say anything. ‘Well, perhaps I’d better take you back before you damage something.’
He walked slowly up to her and April could now see the man was about forty, with untidy hair and the weathered complexion of someone who had always worked outside. He gestured along the path and she warily fell into step with him.
‘So what do you do?’ she asked.
‘Do?’
‘You work here?’
‘I look after the graves.’
‘Don’t you get scared?’
‘What of?’
‘Oh, you know, ghosts, that sort of thing - it must be spooky at night.’
The man looked at her sharply. ‘No one comes here at night.’
‘Really? Isn’t there any security or anything?’
‘Why would you want to know that?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
They turned left onto the main pathway and the man increased his pace, as if he was keen to get rid of her. He certainly wasn’t one for small talk. Maybe doesn’t see many people in his line of work, she thought.
‘Hey, what’s that?’ said April, stopping at the corner where the path twisted away. There was a waist-high stone vault and carved into the top was an exquisite sculpture of a woman, lying down, one ear to the grave, as if she was weeping, or listening for signs of life. It had a powerful air of melancholy and sadness. ‘What’s that one?’ she repeated.
The man paused before answering. ‘They call her the Sleeping Angel,’ he said quietly.
‘Whose grave is it?’
Curiously, she noticed that her companion seemed to be avoiding looking at the monument.
‘It’s the grave of a girl,’ he said. ‘She was about your age. Francesca Bryne, her name was, laid here in 1894.’
‘How sad.’
‘Is it?’
April looked at him. There was an expression of distaste on his face.
‘What do you mean? The poor girl was obviously loved if she was given such a lovely stone, wasn’t she?’
Before he could reply, they heard footsteps and puffing, and Judith charged around the corner, her face almost purple.
‘There you are!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, I almost called the police out. You must never leave the tour! Never!’ April could tell she wanted to say more, but she had completely run out of breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ said April. ‘I was looking at an interesting head-stone and turned around and you’d all gone. Then I got a bit lost.’
‘In all my years I’ve never lost a guest, not ever,’ said Judith. ‘I’ve a very good mind to report this.’
‘My father just died,’ said April, stopping Judith in her tracks.
‘I, uh, well I ...’ she mumbled.
‘It’s been quite hard ...’ She tailed off and pretended to sob, brushing away an imaginary tear. She could see that Judith was completely thrown; she certainly didn’t want to get involved with an emotional teenager.
‘Oh, well. Perhaps we shouldn’t say too much more,’ she said. ‘I suppose we should just be glad you didn’t get completely lost.’
‘No, this man showed me the way b
ack.’ April turned around to indicate her companion and found she was alone. ‘Oh. I met a man who showed me the way back, he was telling me about this grave, as a matter of fact.’
Judith looked even more perplexed. ‘The Sleeping Angel?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he was saying it’s the grave of a young girl named Francesca, very sad.’
Judith looked at her curiously. As if she had just realised she was dealing with a dangerous lunatic. ‘No, that can’t be true my dear. Now if you’d just like to step this way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, no one knows who the Sleeping Angel was laid here for. There are records of who bought it, but not who is interred here. We speculate it may have been a child, but no one knows for sure. And Francesca? No, no. We have researched the cemetery exhaustively. There is no one of that name buried here.’