The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘But you’re only fourteen, John.’

  ‘Which is why I must prevail upon you to sign one or two documents before you leave.’

  I notice the massive pile of papers on John’s desk.

  ‘Very well, John. It seems the least a mother can do.’

  John shakes my hand. ‘Good afternoon, Thomas.’

  ‘You were not at school today,’ I scold.

  ‘I was busy negotiating the purchase of more stock in The East India Company.’

  ‘I will write you a note to take to your teacher,’ Mother offers.

  ‘You are too kind, Mother.’

  I am a little repulsed by the opulence of my surrounds, and the fact that John is playing dog in the manger.

  ‘John, have you considered that a portion of this building might be put to better use than housing one solitary occupant and his servant?’

  John arches an eyebrow. ‘What do you suggest?’ he asks.

  ‘You could turn part of it into an orphanage, for example.’

  ‘Why would I do that? Is there money in orphans?’

  ‘Given the circumstances of your past, I thought you might warm to the idea. You could house two hundred orphans at least.’

  ‘But I would have to feed them or they would die.’

  ‘You could probably provide the two hundred wee unfortunates with food, clothing and medical care for no more than a shilling each per week.’

  ‘Twelve whole pennies?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’

  ‘That would be one hundred and twenty-four thousand, eight hundred pennies per year.’

  ‘You are a young man of considerable means.’

  ‘It’s still too many orphans. And how would I look after them? I would have to employ more staff.’

  ‘Then do so. It’s called charity,’ I say. ‘It is doing something at your own expense for the public good.’

  ‘And when you become a doctor, will you treat people for free? Will you do it for the public good?’

  ‘From time to time, when there is genuine need.’

  ‘I will think about it,’ says John, doubtfully. ‘But I forget my manners.’ John calls his faithful manservant, who lingers discreetly under a chandelier. ‘Mellors, please fetch a cup of tea for Master Thomas. Oh, and a cup of drugs for Mother.’

  ‘John!’ Mother scolds. ‘You must not call it that. You sound judgmental.’

  ‘Not at all, I encourage your addiction. You must remember that The East India Company has a lively trade in opium, so your habit makes me the richer.’

  Mellors departs to fetch the refreshments.

  ‘Mother, Thomas and I must discuss a matter of utmost seriousness and secrecy. Would you be so kind as to admire the paintings? They are in the art gallery upstairs. Your cup of laudanum will be ready on your return.’

  John hands Mother a folded piece of parchment.

  ‘Take a map, in case you get lost.’

  ‘You think of everything, my little lamb.’

  ‘Please stop calling me that.’

  ‘But it is the truth.’

  Mother leaves the room. When John is sure that she is out of earshot, he speaks with utmost gravity.

  ‘Celia Grant has informed Mellors that you have not yet made contact with the publisher, Rupert Higgins, in relation to the disgusting manuscript by Josiah Atkins.’

  ‘I will deal with the matter. And I agree with you wholeheartedly that it is a disgusting piece of work.’

  ‘If it is printed that you are a nancy-boy, my life could be ruined by association. You aren’t a nancy-boy, are you?’

  ‘No, John, I am not. Are you?’

  ‘I will ignore that. Mr Higgins is a man of great resolve. Even with the best legal representation in the land it may be impossible to thwart publication. Atkins himself might do a tour of the provinces and perform public readings from the work.’

  ‘I don’t think Atkins is likely to give recitations.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the man.’

  ‘He died this afternoon.’

  John frowns. ‘Then the situation is even worse. Many books become more popular if the author is recently deceased. Indeed it is considered by some a wise career move.’

  ‘How do you propose we stop Mr Higgins from issuing the work?’

  ‘There is no alternative. I’m afraid you’re going to have to shoot him.’

  ‘I will not shoot anyone, John. It is against the law, even to murder a publisher.’

  ‘I am not suggesting murder. That is for commoners. You must settle the matter like a gentleman. You must challenge Mr Higgins to a duel.’

  John instantly clams up as Mother walks in. ‘I couldn’t find the art gallery, John. The map is faulty.’

  John paces to where Mother stands, regards the map she is holding then turns it the other way around.

  ‘Now it will be easier, Mother.’

  ‘Once again, I am rescued by my favourite son.’

  This ruffles me. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mother, he only turned the map around.’

  ‘But did you, Thomas?’ Mother arches. ‘I don’t think you did.’

  Mother departs, having put me in my place.

  ‘I absolutely refuse to challenge Mr Higgins to a duel,’ I say.

  ‘You must. I’ve bought the duelling pistols.’

  John reaches under his desk and produces a handsome walnut-veneered case. He opens it to reveal a pair of magnificent pistols resting in burgundy velvet, as though they are precious jewels.

  ‘How does a fourteen-year old come to buy firearms? I hope you didn’t lie about your age, John.’

  ‘I did not. I merely deceived the gun merchant by donning a false moustache. He presumed me to be of legal age. Although, given his strong desire to sell firearms, I think the merchant would probably have served a baby girl with an artificial beard.’

  ‘What if I get shot to death? The manuscript will be printed and it will all have been for nothing.’

  ‘I hadn’t considered that.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘Perhaps a duel is not the answer. Nonetheless, the manuscript must not be published.’

  ‘Do not worry. It will not. Somehow I will see to that, and it won’t be necessary to shoot anyone.’

  Mellors sets out the refreshments as Mother returns.

  ‘What did you think of the pictures?’ John asks.

  ‘I liked the one with those two girls chasing the butterfly,’ says Mother.

  ‘I detest it,’ says John, ‘but it is by Thomas Gainsborough so of course it is superb.’

  We leave Bradford Manor as the late afternoon chill sets in. ‘I am sorry, Thomas,’ Mother says. ‘I did not mean to imply that John is my favourite son.’

  ‘You didn’t imply it, Mother, you said it.’

  ‘They are just words.’

  ‘Words that are very hurtful.’

  ‘Do not sulk. Timewells do not sulk. Think instead of what a marvellous time we will have tonight when we hear Aubrey Wilks read from his latest masterpiece. That should cheer you up. Isn’t it just too exciting?’

  I do not answer. I cannot. At the end of a laneway running off Naildown Close, lurks the satanic gypsy. My blood curdles when I see her. She opens her cape and for the third time reveals the horned landlord of the pit that is bottomless.

  ‘Why won’t you answer? What has distracted you, Thomas?’

  Mother turns. But the woman is gone. I am glad. If Mother is alarmed by a woman who does not wear gloves, the sight of my eldritch tormenter would kill her.

  CHAPTER 12

  I am seated with my mother and her two friends, Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley. We are in the Wishall Temperance Hall, an austere building decorated with pictures of utmost sobriety. There are portraits of men and women from Wishall’s temperate past, glaring down at us should we dare consider drinking liquor. There are dire slogans adorning the walls, warning that alcohol can lead to poverty, madness and even Catholicism.


  Though the hall is filled to capacity, I am the only male in the audience. There is much excitement in the air. Mr Aubrey Wilks will appear shortly to read from his soon to be published masterpiece, The Sensational Story of A Society Lady Who Falls from Grace Most Horribly but Redeems Herself by Committing Various Good Acts.

  The ladies make small talk as they await the esteemed author.

  ‘How was your day, Thomas?’ Mrs Tilley asks, resting a hand on my knee. ‘Were you whipped again?’

  ‘I’m afraid I was.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told the truth again.’

  ‘You really must stop doing that,’ advises Mrs Tilley. ‘It’s rarely done me any good. I expect by now your posterior must be very raw indeed.’

  The idea seems to intrigue Mrs Tilley, who squeezes my knee. I shift her hand.

  Mrs Greenough sniffs and looks around the hall. ‘I can smell alcohol. Someone in this room has been drinking. We should find out who it is and make them swallow hot lead.’

  I am confident that the person who has been drinking alcohol is Mrs Greenough herself. Her breath smells of mint, but there is also the heady aroma of gin, cider, brandy, sherry and petroleum.

  There is rapturous applause as Mr Aubrey Wilks walks onto the stage. He looks as I had expected he would: he is plump and dressed in splendid clothes that are wasted on him. He sports a moustache and sideburns so elaborate that his daily toilet must take at least an hour. He looks pompous and rich. On the lectern he places a manuscript as though it is the most valuable item in the world. His adoring spectators finally cease their applause, and Mr Wilks looks lovingly at his work.

  The reading commences, after some extended throat-clearing.

  ‘When Emma regained consciousness, she found herself in the diabolical bone-boiling works owned by Mr Horace Quigley. Emma gasped when she witnessed her surrounds. While we are happy to use glue in our everyday lives, we never dream that such a mundane substance is of such vile composition. Dear reader, the glue that we use in the drawing rooms of our homes is made of ground up animal bones and little else. Your dead pets are quite possibly holding up your wallpaper.’

  There is a gasp from some of the ladies. Mrs Greenough hiccups.

  ‘Here was Emma, confronted by the hideous realities of glue-making, for there was a pile of carcases in the corner of this dreadful, abominable place. What disturbed Emma even more was that she was wearing a bridal dress. Even in her alarm she could not help but notice that the dress was of a delicate ivory shade, with exquisite embroidery and flounce hems. How had she come to be dressed like this? What was afoot? The next sound that pretty Emma heard chilled her very blood: “You have forced me to this, Miss Newland.” It was the voice of Horace Quigley, the most evil man ever to cross Emma’s path. Emma was a strong-willed woman but gasped inwardly when Quigley strutted vilely out. He was wearing the costume of a bridegroom. On a handsome man it might have looked fetching, with its finely embroidered waistcoat, crisp bowtie and white corsage on the jacket lapel. On Quigley, however, it looked like a mockery of all things holy. “You did not agree to marry me when I asked before, but you will certainly agree now.”

  ‘ “Mr Quigley,” cried brave Emma, boldly. “I do not love you. And you cannot force a lady to marry.”

  ‘ “That is where you are wrong, Emma Newland.” With an evil laugh, Quigley gestured towards the ceiling of the bone-boiling works. The beautiful Emma was horrified to see her splendid father Samuel gagged and suspended on a devilish rope. Twenty feet below the unfortunate parent was the mighty glue tub, boiling and bubbling away.’

  There are more horrified gasps from the audience. ‘Horace Quigley leered as he swaggered over to a series of ropes and pulleys. He pulled one of the ropes, and Emma saw her dear father lowered a full three feet towards the vile substance below him.

  ‘ “Please do not harm him,” Emma begged, beseechingly.

  ‘ “Only if you agree to marry me.”

  ‘ “Very well, I shall do it.”

  ‘ “I had anticipated your answer and have taken steps to expedite matters. Allow me to introduce you to the Reverend Mooney.”

  ‘A man of the cloth emerged from a cloud of steam. He was fairly short and wore glasses with exquisite tortoiseshell frames and golden arms bearing a Latin engraving.

  ‘ “You mean for us to get married immediately?” gasped Emma, running swiftly from Quigley.

  ‘ “Indeed, that is what I have arranged.” There was an evil malevolent glint in Quigley’s hateful cold eye.

  ‘Unable to restrain herself, Emma called out in desperation to the smallish man of the cloth. “Reverend Mooney, surely you must see that this marriage ceremony is irregular. There is glue. There is my father suspended above it. He was put there against his will, as am I. You are a man of God. I do not wish to marry Horace Quigley and I beseech you not to proceed with the wedding service.” She shook her pretty little head violently from side to side. “I will not marry him. No! No! A thousand times no!”

  ‘ “I’m afraid you are wasting your breath, Emma Newland,” said Quigley. “For the Reverend is deaf and cannot hear a single word you say.” ’

  Mr Wilks steps away from the lectern, enjoying the collective shock of his audience. Mrs Tilley is so impressed she holds her hand, palm side out, to her forehead. Then the room erupts with applause.

  Graciously, Mr Wilks puts up his hand to silence his admirers. ‘My loyal readers, to see how that episode turns out you will have to purchase my next book, to be published by Mr Rupert Higgins.’

  It is now my turn to gasp. Mr Aubrey Wilks and the late Mr Josiah Atkins share the same publisher.

  Many members of the audience mill about in the foyer to drink water, eat sensible portions of celery and discuss Emma’s best course of action. Mr Wilks himself is not there. It is probably just as well, given the sensation he has caused.

  ‘I admire the use of language,’ says Mother to Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley. ‘Aubrey Wilks has a masterly way with English, especially the word “evil”.’

  ‘No other author uses the word “evil” to such great effect,’ agrees Mrs Tilley. ‘What do you think, Thomas? I would love to learn your opinion.’

  Mrs Tilley gives me a deep look that is intended to be alluring, but is marred by the fact that she has a large piece of celery stuck between her two front teeth.

  ‘I think he overuses the word,’ I say.

  ‘Now, Thomas,’ says Mother, ‘you are merely jealous because you cannot write such glowing prose yourself.’

  ‘And how did the Reverend Mooney know when to appear?’ I ask.

  ‘He was announced by Mr Quigley,’ says Mrs Greenough, as though I am an idiot.

  ‘But the Reverend Mooney is deaf. He wouldn’t have heard the announcement.’

  ‘Yes, that is the clever twist of it all.’

  I remain patient with Mrs Greenough. ‘Don’t you think that even a deaf person might discern the significance of Emma shaking her pretty little head violently from side to side?’

  Mother is angry now. ‘Really, Thomas, will you stop spoiling things by pointing out such tiny flaws?’

  A new voice joins the conversation. ‘The Reverend Mooney couldn’t see very well.’

  The voice comes from behind me. I turn to see the most beautiful girl I have ever beheld. She has long, straight black hair like mine, an angelic face and a peacock-blue dress beaded with exquisite beads. I sense with alarm that Mr Wilks’ literary style is having an adverse effect on me. I gaze at the vision and realise I no longer have any idea what words she spoke.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I say.

  ‘The Reverend Mooney couldn’t see very well,’ the girl repeats. Her voice is – I won’t describe her voice or any other part of her because I am concerned I may lapse into the language of Wilks again. You will just have to imagine for yourself the most beautiful girl in the world, and appreciate that the girl before me makes the girl you have imagined look li
ke a toad.

  ‘How interesting,’ I say to the girl.

  ‘I don’t think it’s interesting at all,’ snaps Mrs Tilley, noticing my sudden infatuation.

  ‘How are we to know that the Reverend Mooney could not see very well if the author does not inform us?’ I ask the ravishment before me.

  ‘The author did inform us,’ the girl replies.

  I hardly want to quarrel with this vision of loveliness. Nevertheless I am tired of hearing Mr Wilks compared favourably to Shakespeare and cannot hold my tongue.

  ‘How did the author inform us?’ I ask.

  The girl does not seem perturbed by my question.

  ‘The author told us that the Reverend Mooney was wearing glasses. He also told us that the Reverend Mooney emerged from a cloud of steam. Therefore his glasses would have been steamed up. He wouldn’t have seen that Emma was shaking her head.’

  It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.

  ‘You are right,’ I say, bowing my head. ‘You are absolutely right. Please forgive me for being obtuse.’

  ‘You were not obtuse. You were most polite.’

  There is a pungent smell in the air. I suspect that jealous Mrs Tilley has made silent gas in the hope that the girl might think I am responsible. But the girl seems as charmed by me as I am by her. The ruse hasn’t worked.

  ‘May I ask your name?’ the girl enquires.

  ‘Thomas Timewell at your service. And you are …?’

  ‘Victoria,’ the girl says. ‘Victoria Plum.’

  ‘What an exotic name.’

  The girl blushes. ‘I used to get teased for it. The girls at school would call me Plumbum.’

  ‘That is appalling.’

  ‘It is Latin for lead.’

  I am emboldened and speak more freely than I should.

  ‘To be teased in Latin is dreadful,’ I say. ‘If anyone calls you Plumbum again, let me know and I will give them a Latin taunting they will never forget.’

  She laughs and it is as though a bell chimes in the clear mountain air. ‘You seem well educated, Thomas. How is it that you know Latin?’

  ‘My aim is to be a doctor. Many parts of the body have Latin names.’

  ‘Will you be a medical doctor or a surgeon?’