Flossie stood, unafraid, and watched the plane pass over her. Sometimes she wondered if this war would ever end.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” a voice gushed from behind the gates.
Ada was busy with the lock. Ada had died of cholera, along with her entire family, almost one hundred years ago and was the first and only Turnkey of Tower Hamlets Cemetery. When Flossie had first met Ada, she had seen a small, wiry girl who distrusted everyone and wore a hard, cross sort of expression and a dress that was slightly too large for her slender frame. Now she only saw her best friend.
As Flossie passed through the iron gates, Ada’s words came quickly. “It’s so good that you’ve come. I’ll need the extra hands.”
“Have any of the other Turnkeys come to help?” Apart from Ada and Flossie, there were the elderly sisters Alice and Matilda at West Norwood Cemetery, the strange printer at Nunhead Cemetery, the sensible optician at Brompton Cemetery, the nervy Methodist minister at Abney Park Cemetery, and the imposing Victorian architect Hugo Howsham at Kensal Green Cemetery.
“Of course not,” Ada replied.
“You’ve been hit badly?”
“The northwest corner. Not too badly — mostly shrapnel damage — but it will mean some of the nearby interred waking from rest. And you know how long it can take to settle some of them again.”
As Ada locked the gates behind them, Flossie steeled herself for what she was about to see — Ada’s Advisor. Each cemetery had both a Turnkey and an Advisor. The Turnkey’s job was solely to care for the interred — to keep them happily at rest. The Advisor was the soul of the cemetery itself and could advise the Turnkey on anything involving the cemetery that he or she might need to know. Every new Turnkey was given the opportunity to choose the form their Advisor would appear in. Flossie’s choice had been to bring forth her Advisor in the form of a fox she had known in life.
Knowing she couldn’t put it off any longer, Flossie’s eyes moved upward. And there she was — Ada’s fearsome, imposing stone angel.
She wore a Grecian dress and long cape and she towered behind Ada, wings outstretched to finely carved tips. Her hands were calmly folded, a solemn expression on her face as she peered down at Flossie with her cold gray stone eyes.
“I hope that’s not a present for me,” Ada said drily. “Because I gave up dolls a century or so ago.”
Flossie laughed, imagining serious, often-grumpy Ada dressing up a doll.
“It’s for one of my interred,” Flossie said.
“Well, that’s a relief. I was worried you’d be wanting to play tea parties next.” Ada’s eyes darted around restlessly, as if she weren’t quite sure what to do next.
Flossie placed her iron-ringed hand on Ada’s arm. “Let’s head on over to the northwest corner to see what’s going on. And I promise, no tea parties.”
Thankfully, the bomb damage wasn’t as bad as Flossie had expected. A brick wall had collapsed, and several of the taller obelisks in the vicinity had toppled, but that was all. The shrapnel damage from the plane, however, was much more severe. Many headstones had been badly peppered, arousing a few confused interred from rest. Several of them were easily convinced to return to eternal slumber straightaway, but a mother and daughter from one of the cemetery’s many mass graves had been awakened. They clutched at each other, and it took some time for both Ada and Flossie to coerce them back to rest.
“Part of me still thinks it’s wrong — to persuade them to return to their dreams. It’s as if I’m tearing them apart once more,” Flossie said with a sigh when she and Ada were finished. She placed the doll on the ground and sat upon the edge of a monument, smoothing out the flared skirt of her dress and adjusting her navy-and-white dotted necktie. In life, Mama had hated this outfit, saying it made Flossie look like a flapper. But she had dressed Flossie in it after her death, knowing how much she had adored it. That was love. The real sort. Flossie had learned a lot about love in death. About how it could cross all sorts of boundaries — time and distance, the twilight and living worlds.
Ada sat beside her in the dim light, her ever-present angel blending into the background of the cemetery behind them. “You know very well that’s not true. There’s nothing for them here. To be at rest . . .”
“Yes, I know.” Flossie was taken back once again to that picnic on the grassy hill. She had been so happy. And then the cemetery had called upon her and she had been given her key from the Turnkey before her — a curious little Victorian man who had said he was tired and wanted to return to rest. “Say the words!” he’d told her, anxious to leave, and somehow she had known exactly the words that needed to be said.
I am the Turnkey of Highgate Cemetery; the dead remain at rest within.
She’d uttered the words almost without thinking. Within the blink of an eye, he was gone and she was Turnkey. For who knew how long? Until she was tired, too, she supposed.
Flossie was dragged back to the present as she remembered the other reason she had come this evening.
“I have to tell you something. I saw something strange tonight — a man of the twilight, atop St. Paul’s.”
“A Turnkey from somewhere else?” Ada swiveled around to face Flossie.
“No, that’s the thing. He wasn’t a Turnkey. And he wasn’t with one, either. At least I didn’t see a Turnkey anywhere near him.”
Ada thought about this for a moment. “And he wasn’t distressed at being away from his body?”
“He didn’t seem to be. It gets even stranger. He wasn’t a Turnkey, but he could travel. I saw him do it right in front of me. One second he was there; the next he was gone.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Wait. Here’s the truly strange bit. He’s not even from here. He was German. An officer of some sort. An important one in the SS. I could tell by his uniform.”
Ada didn’t understand as much about the ins and outs of this war as Flossie did. She found the new world outside her cemetery gates a confusing place and didn’t like to leave her cemetery very often. Because of this, she relied on Flossie for a lot of information. But even Ada knew who the SS were.
“A Nazi! In London? Why? What’s he doing here? Surely he’s buried in Germany somewhere.”
“I know! It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“And he could really travel? Just like us? Without being a Turnkey?”
“He didn’t have a key of any sort, but he was carrying something in his hands — a sort of glass object. I couldn’t quite make out what it was. It didn’t seem like it belonged in the twilight. It was too bright.”
“That is odd. What do you think he’s doing here?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t like it. I confronted him and he ran. He didn’t want to be seen — that’s for sure.” Flossie couldn’t get the picture of the man fleeing out of her head.
Ada’s key rattled on its iron ring. They both looked down at it.
“Someone’s at the gate,” Ada said.
“Come on, then.” Flossie picked up the doll, rose, and offered Ada her keyed hand to get up. “We’d best go see who it is.”
As it turned out, however, it wasn’t someone, but quite a number of someones at the gates of Tower Hamlets.
I’m afraid I couldn’t stop them.” The Turnkey of Brompton Cemetery — a tall, thin man with small, round glasses — stood close to the gate’s railings, blocking out the view of the sea of men behind him. He had been Turnkey at Brompton for several years now, and Flossie quite liked him. He mostly kept to himself, but he saw to his interred and cared for them well. There was never a long queue outside his Turnkey’s cottage. His gaze flitted nervously from Ada to Flossie and back again.
“It’s all right,” Ada told him. “What’s happened? Why aren’t they all at rest?”
“They’ve been waking with almost every bombing recently, anxious to help out. I’ve been able to settle them until now. This time they awakened as one when the bombing got particularly fierc
e, asked where help was needed, and then insisted that I bring them here directly. I’ve never seen a group of interred so determined. They don’t seem to mind being separated from their bodies at all.” He leaned in farther, the moonlight glinting off his glasses. “In fact, I think . . . I think they’re rather enjoying themselves.”
Ada snorted at this, and Flossie tried very hard not to laugh.
The Turnkey of Brompton moved to one side, and Ada and Flossie were greeted with the sight of at least a hundred men, all dressed in the same smart uniform. Each of them wore a long scarlet coat, and the combined effect was startlingly bright, despite the twilight giving the color a muted hue. Upon their heads, they all sported special black tricorn hats — triangular hats with three sides, which were decorated with gold braid.
Of all the people Flossie had expected to see at the gates, it wasn’t a large gathering of aged Chelsea Pensioners. Because that was what these men were — former members of the British Army who had, before death, lived at the Royal Hospital Chelsea, a famous retirement home for British soldiers. In their red coats, they were very distinctive; everyone in London knew who they were. In life, Flossie’s mother had taken her each year to the Ceremony of the Christmas Cheeses, where cheese makers presented the Chelsea Pensioners with cheese to thank them for their service. The ceremony had been started back in the late 1600s, but these men seemed to be from this century. Flossie took heart in the fact that several of them were gaping at Ada’s Advisor. It was good to know that grown men were just as afraid of the stone angel as she was.
One of the Chelsea Pensioners stepped up to the gate.
“Good evening, ladies.” The man bobbed his head at the two girls and Ada’s Advisor, then took off his hat, his silvery hair appearing from underneath. He gestured toward the men behind him. “We’re here to help. We heard it’s bad here in the East End. Worse than anywhere. Now, what can we do?”
Both Flossie and Ada were at a loss for words.
Ada found her voice. “I suppose I will need help before long. After all, I’m sure the bombing won’t end anytime soon.”
This sent a buzz through the crowd of men.
Her eyes skating over the large group, Flossie had an idea. She edged closer to Ada. “Follow me,” she said.
Outside the gates, Flossie approached the spokesman for the group. In life, these men would surely have had a keen interest in the war. Perhaps some of them weren’t long dead. Just as she was about to speak, she remembered the doll under her arm and hurriedly put it behind her back, hoping they didn’t think it was something she carried all the time.
“Does anyone know much about the SS?” she asked, her eyes moving over the group. Almost immediately, a louder murmur rippled through the men, and it wasn’t long before one particular man was propelled to the front of the crowd.
“Go on, William,” one of the men behind him said, nudging the tall, distinguished man with a tidy snow-white beard farther forward. “You’d know the most by far. He’s recently dead, miss. Read all the papers in life.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself an expert, though I did read the newspapers every day when I was alive,” William said modestly. “Do you have a particular question, miss?”
Fumbling with her iron-ringed hand, Flossie reached into her pocket and brought out a small notebook and pencil. These were also items she had pulled into the twilight world from the living one. She sketched a picture of the man she had seen atop St. Paul’s, then passed the notebook to William.
“It’s not a very good drawing, but do you know what sort of an SS officer would wear an outfit like this?”
A look of concern crossed his face. “You’re right. He’s SS. And with all his bits and bobs, he’s definitely a faithful and longstanding member of the Reich.”
Flossie had guessed as much. “And do you have any idea why someone like him might be carrying a round glass object of some type?”
William frowned. “A glass object? No, miss. No idea.”
“Maybe it’s a crystal ball!” one of the men from behind piped up. “Though we all know the Germans don’t need one. We can tell them they’re going to lose this war. No crystal ball needed!”
Laughter rang out at this, but not from William, who kept his eyes trained on Flossie, waiting for more information.
Flossie didn’t laugh, either. “Where do you think a man like him would be buried? I’m guessing in Berlin.”
William didn’t seem certain. Another man spoke up now. “The Invalids’ Cemetery for sure, miss. It’s in Berlin. All the top brass is buried there. Always has been.”
“I think we should use the men,” Flossie said to Ada. “Post them around the city. See if we can spot this German officer again.”
“Won’t it be like finding a needle in a haystack?” Ada asked. “London isn’t the smallest of places.”
Flossie considered this. “Yes, but there are lots of places we won’t have to look. He’s not here on vacation and won’t be taking tea at the Savoy. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, but there was something about him. I want to find out what he’s up to.”
It took some time to discuss what to do. In the end, the three Turnkeys decided to divide the men into several large groups and station them at significant locations around London. The Turnkey of Brompton would deliver them to their stations and continue to nip between the groups in order to keep his charges at peace while they were away from their cemetery.
The men marched off behind their Turnkey with vigor.
“Do you really think they’ll see him?” Ada asked.
Flossie readjusted the doll under her arm. “I honestly don’t know.”
“And what do you think they’ll do if they find him?” A bemused expression crossed Ada’s face.
Just then, the all clear sounded.
“I’m not sure.” Flossie raised her voice over the noise. “But if they do, I bet they’ll come up with something. Do you think you can hold the fort here while I duck over to Berlin to see if I can find anything out at this cemetery? I promise I’ll come straight back to help you with any more of your interred.”
Ada snorted. “Only if you bring me back a fancy present. I’ve never been outside of London, you know.”
“Black Forest cake?”
Ada narrowed her eyes and then both girls laughed. They often joked about all the lovely things they’d eat if only they were able to.
“I’ll bring back two large slices,” Flossie said with a wink. And then she disappeared.
Using her ornate key, Flossie unlocked the gates to Highgate Cemetery and then locked them again behind her. When she was done, she surveyed the ever-decaying gloomy landscape. Here and there lay monuments weathered by time. Some had fallen to the ground, others had sunk within it, and still others crumbled or tilted, the ivy claiming more of the cemetery each day.
She felt one of her interred awaken from rest. When she realized who it was, she groaned.
Millicent Gough, died 1872, age seventy-one, cause of death: twisted bowel.
“Hello, Mrs. Gough,” she said to the woman striding toward her in the moonlight. The woman wore a long white burial shroud — rather like a loose nightgown. Her gray hair was pulled tightly back in a bun.
Flossie pushed the doll behind her again and hoped that Mrs. Gough wouldn’t ask too many questions. She needn’t have worried. Mrs. Gough was intent on what she had to say.
“I really must insist! The ivy! The tree roots! My husband paid good money for my plot!” Mrs. Gough’s shroud shook with her agitation, though Flossie noticed that not one gray hair dared escape that bun.
Standing in the middle of the gravel path, surrounded on both sides by towering time-stained obelisks and eternally weeping angels, Flossie tried not to sigh. Mrs. Gough had been a wealthy woman who was far too used to getting what she wanted in life. She was determined that nothing should change in death.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gough, but it’s as I’ve told you so many times before. We�
��re at war. The living are busy just keeping alive themselves, let alone tending to our graves.”
“I think it’s a shocking disgrace. To treat the dead with such disrespect,” Mrs. Gough huffed.
“No one means any disrespect, Mrs. Gough. It’s simply a matter of necessity.”
“That is exactly what you always say.”
“I know —”
“Hmph!” Mrs. Gough cut Flossie off.
Flossie was about to offer to take Mrs. Gough back to her grave, but Mrs. Gough had disappeared. A wave of peace filled Flossie from head to foot, and she knew that Mrs. Gough had returned to rest. (It was always a lovely feeling — particularly lovely when that person was Mrs. Gough.)
With Mrs. Gough gone, Flossie closed her eyes and appeared inside her Turnkey’s cottage. She had a lot to do. She stirred Amelia from rest and then summoned her Advisor. “Hazel?” she said.
“Mistress Turnkey.” Hazel materialized upon the tattered rug, her coat glossy and smooth, her bearing dignified. She was just like the cemetery in many ways, which made sense. After all, she was the cemetery come to life — Highgate in Flossie’s chosen form. Her bright, knowing eyes met Flossie’s, replicas of the original Hazel’s in life.
The original Hazel had lived at the edge of Flossie’s boarding school grounds. Hazel, the fox of the living world, had been wild, of course. Flossie had first seen her bright-yellow, inquisitive eyes peering out from behind a hazel tree.
The Turnkey of Highgate Cemetery Page 2