by Doug MacLeod
‘Plenitude, I must warn that this is the end of our professional relationship.’
Plenitude’s white eyebrows tremour, as though he is about to weep.
‘But why? I have just saved your head from being split open like a melon.’
I nod. ‘Indeed you have, and I am grateful. I never thought I would meet a woman madder than my mother, but I believe I now have.’
‘What’s this talk of dissolution? And do please break the news gently or my heart won’t take it.’
‘I think you will have to agree that last night’s operation was not fully successful,’ I point out.
‘I’ll give you no argument there. But these things happen from time to time. We both survived and we will go on to greater resurrections in the future.’
‘You might, I won’t.’
‘Oh dear, what has happened?’
‘I killed a man, Plenitude. I’m a murderer.’
‘Nonsense. You were being attacked. You acted in self-defence. I’d like to know how you bested him.’
I shiver. ‘I’m not proud of this. He had my arms pinned behind me. There really was no other way I could escape.’
‘What did you do?’
‘One of your wooden stakes was sticking out of the ground, point-first.’
‘It’s the weight of the mechanism on the other end. The stakes sink into the loose earth and suddenly you have this sharpened point sticking up. It can be quite nasty if you’re not careful.’
‘I managed to drive it into his face.’
‘How did you do that if your arms were behind your back?’
‘Actually I more drove his face into the spike. I lunged forward, his face was punctured.’
‘Ugh. Which part?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘In Shakespeare it’s always the eye.’
‘Please, Plenitude, this is most upsetting. You see, he was Mary’s brother.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The young milkmaid we were going to take. Her family must have decided to take precautions. Mary’s brother was brave enough to keep watch in case the body-snatchers came. And of course we did. And for his act of filial love he was rewarded with a punctured face. He was a good man. And here you are making light of things.’
‘I’m not the blackguard you paint me to be, Thomas. The man who attacked you was not Mary’s brother. She had no brothers. He told you that to make you weak with guilt so that you would be more easily overpowered. He was not a member of Mary’s family.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I recognised his accomplice, the one who came after me. I don’t know the one who grabbed you. He’s a newcomer. But the other man was Clemency. They’re resurrectionists. And they’re not gentlemen, like us. They’re beasts. I’ll tell you something else. You didn’t murder anyone. Clemency’s accomplice got up and walked away. Left a nice set of footprints in the earth, he did.’
‘He survived?’
‘Whichever part of his face got punctured, it didn’t kill him. When I went back at dawn, there was no corpse.’
‘Why on earth did you go back? Weren’t you afraid Clemency might be waiting?’
‘I was afraid, I don’t deny it. The reason I went there was perfectly straightforward. Think. I know you are smart.’
‘You wanted to collect your tools?’
‘There’s that. But there’s another, more important thing.’
‘You had to backfill the grave.’
‘Precisely. I didn’t want Mary’s resting place to be disturbed. The news would be out in no time. People would realise we’ve been about. They’d have dug up the coffins by lunchtime. Including, I might add, the coffin that contains your watch.’ He places a hand on my shoulder. ‘You didn’t kill anyone. Do you still want to dissolve our partnership?’
‘Yes.’
‘You ungrateful creature! Out of the goodness of my heart I help you with your grandfather, I teach you a fascinating craft; I buy you an orange muffin that you didn’t even eat though it really did taste very nice; I wash and press your clothes; I rescue your head and this is the thanks I get.’
‘You coshed me.’
‘What?’
‘In Lucifer’s Yard. You coshed me on the head. It’s obvious to me now. I’ve seen how you cosh.’ I indicate the unconscious gypsy.
‘I was not your cosher. I would rather cut my own throat. Lucifer coshed you. I told you that.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Thomas, I would never hurt you.’
‘Not only is your craft objectionable, it is also stupendously dangerous. I wasn’t aware that body-snatching was quite so widespread. Now I discover you have at least two dangerous competitors who would think nothing of killing you – or me.’
‘Yes, it’s most unfortunate. Clemency hates me with a passion. We once worked together, but he was too greedy by half. He took more than just the bodies from the graves. In particular he liked women’s jewellery and had quite a collection. But he was careless about where he kept it. The police found out, arrested him and he was confined to one of the prison hulks on the Thames. Clearly, he escaped. I had hoped that he would be transported to Australia, where most of the dregs end up. Imagine what a hellish place it will be years from now.’
‘I shudder to think.’
‘It is a shame that Clemency was so greedy. He didn’t drink alcohol, which is rare in our profession. He was a good resurrectionist, apart from the pilfering.’
‘Why does Clemency despise you so utterly? Surely his quarrel is with the law?’
‘Clemency believes I informed on him.’
‘And did you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a man of honour. But now that Clemency is at large and seeking vengeance, we must be careful.’
‘Plenitude, I will have no more to do with “resurrectionism”, and I advise you to do the same.’
‘What about the pursuit of science?’
‘I don’t believe you care about it.’
‘I most certainly do.’
‘I’m sorry, Plenitude. This is farewell.’
‘What about loyalty? What about friendship? And what about your watch being buried in one of the coffins?’
‘Should it be discovered, then so be it,’ I say. ‘I cannot continue with this. Now excuse me. I’m late for school.’
I see Plenitude press something into the hand of the semi-conscious gypsy. It’s the gold laurel coin.
‘Buy yourself a nice dinner and some clothes, my sweet darling,’ says Plenitude. He picks up the meat cleaver and continues to speak to her softly. ‘Never eat English people. And I’m sorry about coshing you, but sometimes these things must be done.’
Plenitude whispers something else in her ear, then kisses her cheek. The show is for my benefit, of course. The insufferable creature wishes to prove himself charitable.
I don’t believe it for one second.
CHAPTER 9
I return home to ready myself for school.
Once again, Mother is in the parlour, drinking laudanum and reading Aubrey Wilks. She does not seem concerned that I am dressed as a navvy.
‘Did you go to London again?’ Mother asks. ‘Mrs Dunwoody indicated that your bed was not used last night; nevertheless I ordered her to strip it and remake it. She is never happier than when busy.’
‘I did go to London again,’ I say.
Mother puts down her book and picks up her journal from the side-table.
‘Did you visit your Maltese friend?’
‘I did. I’m afraid Duncan has taken a turn for the worse.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Mother studies her handwriting through a small magnifying glass. ‘In my journal I have noted that your sick friend’s name is Bunton, not Duncan.’
‘Duncan is Bunton’s brother,’ I say, trying to make amends for my blunder. ‘They are both struck down by … the disease.’ I cannot recall the illness I invented.
/> ‘The Dutch quinsy,’ Mother prompts me.
‘Yes. It seems Bunton infected Duncan.’
‘So now it’s a sort of double-Dutch quinsy.’
‘You might say that, yes.’
‘Thomas, are you sure it’s wise to visit a house so blighted?’
‘I am fit and strong.’
‘Mrs Tilley was saying so only last night.’
‘Was there another meeting of your ladies’ literary circle?’
‘No, Mrs Tilley has taken up painting and she was hoping to use you as a life model. She was quite disappointed when you did not show.’
‘I’m glad I was out.’
‘Don’t be unkind to Mrs Tilley. She organised the tickets for Mr Wilks’ reading at The Temperance Hall on Thursday and was kind enough to obtain an extra one for you.’
I sigh. ‘I may have to visit London again.’
‘Surely your sickly Maltese brothers can survive a night without your attendance. And Thomas, I do think that if you are going to London, you should make more of an effort when you dress. Your clothes look squalid, and there is altogether too much greenery sticking to you.’
Having spent half the night in Piper’s Heath I have inadvertently collected various burrs and pieces of bracken. I fear it won’t be long before my fabrications are found out, even by someone as unburdened by reality as my mother.
‘Please join us, Thomas,’ Mother entreats. ‘Now that your brother John has left home, I find myself desiring your company all the more.’
I am touched. Mother rarely speaks like this. ‘Of course, Mother. I will happily forego London and attend Mr Wilks’ presentation with you, if it will make you happy.’
‘I confess that I did first offer your ticket to John, but he declined.’
‘Oh.’
‘He came to call last night.’
‘And how is John enjoying life in his new mansion?’
‘He seems happy enough. Though I worry that fourteen is a young age to take on such a vast responsibility as a mansion.’
‘He has help, Mother. And John has always been mature for his years. Why, he was trading shares at eleven.’
‘I do hope his business dealings remain fruitful. As his sole guardian, I have to sign many of the documents myself. Should John become bankrupt I would lose everything.’
‘I’m sure it won’t happen, Mother.’
‘It had better not or I will chastise John most severely. By the way, he left a package for you. I woke up Mrs Dunwoody last night and told her to place it in your bedroom.’
‘I’ll open it when I return from school. I’m terribly late.’
‘John was very anxious that you open it as soon as possible. Do so.’
The parcel from my brother rests on the end of my bed. Breaking the wax seal, I unwrap a manuscript. It is accompanied by a letter from John. He has already had gilt-edged notepaper printed: From the pen of John Firbank Timewell Esquire (soon to be fifteen) Bradford Manor, Naildown Close, Wishall.
Dear Thomas,
I was hoping to find you at home last night. Sadly, you were absent and Mother was ignorant of your whereabouts. In light of Mother’s fragile state I do think you could show her the courtesy of keeping her better advised of your comings and goings. She made mention of your being out on the previous night as well, on some errand to London to visit an ailing Maltese. A likely story! Mother says it is wrong of me to judge you, since I am fourteen and you are sixteen. But I am a very mature fourteen and you are an infantile sixteen. We could not be more unalike, though this is to be expected given that our lineages are different. I am confident that my anonymous birth father must have been a great accountant and poet, whereas Mother has informed me that your father was ridiculous. Nevertheless, I am writing this note to you out of brotherly love and deepest concern. You are about to become the victim of the most fearful libel. Mr Josiah Atkins, Wishall Grammar’s least attractive schoolmaster – and this is a remarkable achievement in itself – has written a book offering his views on the modern way to educate young men. He uses his twenty-year tenure as a teacher as the basis for the treatise. He already has a publisher, one Mr Rupert Higgins. My manservant Mellors is on good terms with Mr Higgins’ personal secretary, a woman by the name of Celia Grant. Indeed, I believe that Mellors and Celia may be married, though I haven’t quizzed Mellors about this, as an appropriate moment hasn’t presented itself. Thanks to the curiosity of Celia Grant, coupled with the fact that she is apparently the least dependable secretary in England, she perused Mr Atkins’ confidential manuscript and noticed that the name Thomas Timewell appears in it. She made a hasty copy of the offending chapter and passed it to Mellors, since she knows his employer is a member of the Timewell dynasty. The poor woman found one of the words so difficult to write that she had to close her eyes. Thomas, you must read this chapter before you do anything else. If the book is published it will bring disgrace upon you and you will be ruined forever as a gentleman. More importantly, some atoms of your ruination might settle on me. Act decisively!
Yours sincerely,
John Firbank Timewell Esquire (your brother)
I read the enclosed chapter from Mr Atkins’ forthcoming book, The Correct and Proper Education of Young Men.
‘One of the greatest problems facing the modern schoolteacher is that of discipline. In a room of thirty young men in their teenage years, it is all too easy for the rules that form the core of society to be forgotten. Young men have spirit, bravado, a desire to show off. They are naturally boisterous creatures. Fights can break out. Books can be tossed hither and yon. Ink may be thrown willy-nilly. You see, young men have a type of fire in them. But I have developed a rather ingenious disciplinary technique that I recommend to teachers the world over. I will share it with you now.
‘At the start of every school year, I spend a week getting to know the students who will be in my care for the next twelve months. They don’t realise it, but I am studying them, testing them. My purpose is to find the one boy out of thirty that seems of gentlest character. Shy, quiet boys – very often redheads – I examine with deepest scrutiny. And by the end of the week, I choose the boy that I feel will offer me the least resistance. I choose, dear reader, a boy that might even be regarded as a model student. And then, through a clever psychological trick I am proud to have taught myself, I despise that boy. I make my hatred of this boy very plain to the other boys. It is a hatred that incorporates every fibre of my being. I scream abuse at this boy for any transgression he makes, however small. I use every harsh, demeaning, terrifying curse that my biblical studies have taught me. If the boy coughs in a manner that displeases me – and it always will – I toss a handy projectile at his head. I whip this boy almost daily. He comes to live in mortal fear of me.
By now, dear reader, you might think that I am some sort of monster. Far from it. For, while there is one boy in that class that I regularly attack, bear in mind that there are twenty-nine others that I do not. And why not? The answer is breathtakingly simple. I do not need to. On seeing the living hell that this one boy goes through every time he displeases me, the other twenty-nine are rather eager not to displease me. They have seen the canings and the slappings and the boxing of ears meted out to my chosen one, and it is something they are keen to avoid. Terror is a good instiller of discipline, I find. In effect we have twenty-nine well-behaved young men who may be taught with comparative ease and who will one day do their school proud. Of course, we also have one student who may not achieve quite so much, but I think that is a very satisfactory outcome. As a mathematician, I can hardly ignore that twenty-nine successes out of thirty is an impressive result. There are doctors who argue that the constant torments I heap on the “runt of the litter” might somehow scar him in later life. To them I say: Tosh! As he reaches adulthood, he will be inspired by the success of his peers and strive to emulate them. He won’t manage, of course, because he won’t have learned anything in a year of being belted, but he will strive!
‘It is a technique I have used for twenty years and I can think of only one occasion when it has not worked to its full potential. In my most recent year at Wishall Grammar School, I chose a student, one Charles Callow, who seemed more than suitable for my purposes. He was quiet, not very good at cricket and he even had red hair. I felt convinced that I had found my boy, that his constant shrieks of pain would be a gentle reminder to other class members of the need to comply. Sadly, I had not reckoned on Charles Callow having a friend of almost absurd loyalty. You would think – as I did – that a boy would be sensible enough to sever all contact with Charles, after seeing him suffer the worst indignities and brutalities. And yet this friend did not desert Charles Callow as he should have. Indeed, my regular whipping of Charles strengthened the fellowship offered by this friend, an arrogant student called Thomas Timewell. I look at Thomas Timewell, with his cascade of lustrous black hair and provocative lips and I see where I made a mistake. In my haste to inaugurate Callow, I did not take into account that his acquaintance, Thomas Timewell, is guilty of the sin denounced in that blissful book Leviticus. It is a sin that I am deeply disgusted to write, and would advise readers of a nervous disposition to read no further. Thomas Timewell is a nancy-boy. I write this as a warning for all teachers wise enough to adopt my method of upholding discipline. Make sure you choose a boy who does not have a nancy-boy for a friend. For that means your victim will have a constant ally, a support, and all your good work will be blighted.’
I put down the manuscript. Rather than turn my mind to legal recourse, I think of Mr Atkins and how it may be necessary to kill him in some genteel way. It is the first time I have entertained such murderous thoughts but I cannot help it. I don’t mind being called a nancy-boy because I know that I am not one, and such name-calling would not bother me even if I were. My outrage is more to do with the treatment of my friend Charlie Callow: Mr Atkins’ ‘chosen one’. Mr Atkins will pay.
CHAPTER 10
I reach Wishall Grammar School prior to the afternoon’s classes. I catch my breath as once again I file into the classroom with my fellows. On the stairs I greet Charlie, who again quizzes me as to why I have been absent this morning. I merely repeat that it is a long story.