by Tony Pollard
‘When we were resurrecting we had a real quick way of doin’ it,’ he said, without breaking from his labour. ‘We didn’t bother diggin’ out the entire grave. We just dug down to the coffin from the foot end of the grave. Then we dropped that hook and rope under the end of the casket and pulled it up through the shaft we’d dug. The soil left in the grave acted as a counterweight. Easy peasy, nice an’ easy. But now that you want to open the coffin and put something in it’ – he cast a curious eye over my sack – ‘then you want to seal it back up. All that means emptying the entire grave to expose the lid then throwin’ all the dirt back in again when we’re done. I’d say it’s goin’ to take us three maybe four hours longer than normal.’
‘Well, gentlemen, it looks as though you’re going to have to earn your money after all.’
‘The good news is that we won’t be taking a corpse out over that bloody wall,’ said William, determined to get the final word on the subject. ‘Always the most dangerous part of the operation, gettin’ the stiff back up the road without being rumbled. Just as well, given it’ll be dawn by the time we’re done.’
I let the matter drop, and if anything was quietly relieved at William’s positive appraisal of the situation. After all was said and done, I wasn’t just paying for the job, I was buying peace of mind, and what had to be done had to be done.
The cold was beginning to bite again and made me wish they’d brought three shovels instead of two. For want of anything else to do I shone the lamp down into the hole that was beginning to grow at my feet. Root fibres matted the sides of the deepening trench and here and there an old bone poked out like an ivory hat-peg. I picked a yellowing femur from the heap of freshly deposited spoil and pondered the identity of this long-term resident. While I was distracted Bittern stopped digging and made a grab for the sack, which I had carelessly left unattended at his end of the trench.
‘Pretty thing, ain’t it?’ he said menacingly.
I flashed the lamp to catch him peering into the sack. ‘Put that down, Bittern.’
‘Bet it’s worth a bob or two, eh?’
I took a step towards him, but William interjected before I got close enough to act. ‘You heard the man: put it down. Whatever is in there, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.’
‘Come on, Will, you’re as curious as I am.’
‘We’re here to do a job, Bit. Put the bloody bag down and get back to work.’
‘What’s got into you these days, Will? The straight and narrow made you soft or what?’
William was not to be goaded. ‘I won’t tell you again, Bit. If I have to come over there…’
Bittern at last complied, though there was a definite belligerence about him as he took up his shovel again. I retrieved the bag and, seating myself on a grave slab, watched them work, the confidence which William had begun to inspire shrunk to nought. The hole grew deeper, both men now visible only from the waist up. I couldn’t stand it any longer and rushed back to the edge of the trench.
‘Here, one of you hand me your shovel.’
Bittern looked up, still smarting from his reprimand. ‘This isn’t work for a gentleman like you, sir, you’ll only get calluses on those fine surgeon’s hands.’
‘Give ’im your shovel, Bit, take a break,’ barked William.
Once again Bittern did as he was told and slapped the shaft of the shovel into my hand before vaulting out of the hole. I dropped into his place, careful to take the sack with me. Bittern sat down on his haunches, his back resting against a nearby gravestone. I could feel his resentment growing with every shovelful of earth. The work got harder the deeper we went and my arms soon began to ache.
Noticing that we were in danger of creating two separate shafts, William began to remove the baulk of earth between us. With this done he left me to clean up the remaining loose earth and returned to digging away the trench floor from where not long after came the clatter of iron against timber. The lid of the coffin creaked beneath our feet like a rickety wooden floor. I bent down and swept the surface with my hand, feeling along the edge for the screw heads.
For just an instant I was aware of a commotion coming from above me, from outside the grave, but there was no way of telling what, for rising before me was a now dreadfully familiar iron stairway. Reaching forward with a rag-bound hand, I took a grip on the rail and pulled myself on to the next step. Brunel had taken me to his heart once more.
32
William stooped over me, the sides of the trench rising around him like tall cliffs. ‘Thought I’d lost you there, sir. Take it easy, don’t try and move too fast.’
My legs were stretched out along the lid of the coffin, my head resting against the side of the grave. Ignoring William’s advice, I attempted to regain my feet. A spasm of pain jumped like a spark from the back of my head down into my shoulder.
‘Steady, lad, steady,’ said William, gently pulling me forward.
Only then did I notice the stream of blood trickling from his left arm, just above the elbow. Putting a hand behind my head, I found more blood, sticking against a gash nestling in the lee of my ear. ‘What the hell happened, William?’
‘Bittern clouted you with the hook and then told me I’d get some of the same unless I passed your bag up to him. I did as I was told but made a grab for his legs and sent him sprawling. I tried to climb out to get at him, but I’d forgotten about the pocket pistol he used to carry about. Never did see him use it, not once in all the time we worked together. But he used it tonight all right – the bastard shot me in the arm.’
With the return of my senses, I began to panic. ‘The bag – where’s the bag, William?’
‘Don’t overexcite yourself, doctor. It’s no use. He took the bag and whatever was in it.’
I staggered to my feet. ‘We have to get it back, William, we have to.’
‘Can’t worry about that now. Got to get out of here,’ he replied, eyes squinting against the dirt in his lashes. ‘Sexton heard the shot and came on, flashing a lamp after Bittern left. Didn’t see us, or the unholy mess we’ve made. But the sun’ll be up soon.’
‘We can’t leave, not until we’ve filled this hole back in.’
‘Are you mad? If you ain’t noticed I’ve been shot in the arm and you’ve had what few brains you appear to ’ave left bashed in. Just who do you think is to do the shovelling?’
‘We are. Now come on. Pass up the shovels and give me your hand.’
After pulling him from the grave I tied a length of the rope around his arm and stemmed the flow of blood. Smarting, he offered further remonstration, but seeing that I would not leave without putting the grave back as we had found it, he reluctantly agreed to pitch in. With great difficulty we pushed, shoved and coaxed the soil back into the hole as best we could manage. I had to stop at regular intervals to allow spells of dizziness to pass, while William skilfully worked his shovel with one hand and a foot.
By the time we had stamped the earth down and replaced the wreaths, which went some way to disguise our less than perfect restoration, the dawn was well advanced.
William took a last hearty swig from his flask and lay back on the examination table with the wooden gag in his mouth. I could swear he thought the wound a fair exchange for the privilege of openly drinking alcohol in the hospital. At a nod from me he bit down hard and I began to probe the wound in his arm. The bullet had been deflected by the bone and was lodged in the muscle. My vision was blurred after the blow to the head and I was clearly in no condition to be operating on a wounded man. The trip back to the hospital had also taken its toll.
The barrow, which William had brought along to transport the corpse, might have served a useful purpose in carrying one of us away from the cemetery. That was if either of us had been in any fit state to push it. I was all for leaving it where it was but William, quite sensibly, was concerned that it would arouse suspicion if found next to the cemetery wall – especially so as Bittern’s gunshot had already been heard. And so,
under his direction, I manhandled it to the edge of the path and tipped it into the canal.
Using one another as crutches, we hobbled away from the cemetery, leaving the heavy barrow to slip slowly beneath the surface of the water. Houses round about were beginning to show lights as people rose and readied themselves for the day. As soon as a safe distance lay between us and the cemetery we crossed from the path to a road where, unable to continue on foot, I hailed a cab. Only when the vehicle began to make its way through the early morning traffic did William point out I would have difficulty paying the cabbie. I patted my clothes and discovered my wallet was missing.
‘Bittern lifted it when you were out cold.’
We may have been reduced to the status of vagrants but I was determined our journey would continue uninterrupted as William was in immediate need of medical attention. Coming to a halt outside the hospital gates, I ordered him to stay put and, after reassuring the cabman I would return momentarily, popped into the porter’s box.
‘Been in the wars, sir?’ asked the chap on duty at the sight of my clothes caked in dirt and my collar soaked with the blood from my wound. Fortunately, though, the man was familiar to me and after listening to a cock-and-bull story about being waylaid by footpads he agreed to lend me the cab fare.
William was now in more danger from me than the lead ball in his arm and, frustrated in my efforts to locate the projectile, I withdrew the probe. My brow was slicked with perspiration and I was just about to lapse into unconsciousness when a gloved hand took a firm hold of my wrist.
‘What on earth has been happening here?’ asked Florence.
‘He’s shot,’ I rasped. ‘I’m trying to remove the bullet.’
She let go of my wrist and, taking hold of William’s arm, gently straightened it out before scrutinizing the hole now enlarged and distorted by my clumsy attempt to locate the bullet.
‘I’ve seen a few gunshot wounds in my time,’ she said, tutting at the poor quality of my work. ‘Why not let me take a turn?’ Grateful to be relieved of the responsibility and feeling decidedly nauseous, I stepped away from the table.
Divesting herself of coat and gloves and then tying on an apron, I expected the nurse to attend to William, but instead she guided me into a chair and began to examine my head, pushing it forward until my chin came to rest on my chest. My nausea began to subside but was replaced by a stabbing pain as Florence prised apart the flesh on either side of the gash behind my ear. Realizing the hopelessness of my situation, I surrendered any pretence at being a doctor and with this capitulation once again accepted the role of patient to her nurse.
‘This is down to the bone,’ she said, rushing back to the table to snatch up one of the few strips of cloth not yet soaked with William’s blood before pouring half a bottle of alcohol over it. I braced myself but still gasped with pain as she applied it to my open wound. ‘It looks as though someone came very close to dashing your brains out.’
Guiding my hand to the cloth, she ordered me to keep it in place. ‘You will need stitching up, and William is in serious need of attention. I will get help.’
‘No!’ I gasped, still smarting from the needling pain. ‘Please don’t do that, Florence. I’ll be fine. Please attend to him. There’ll be trouble if we are found in this state.’
The bullet rattled around the sides of a metal dish like a ball in a roulette wheel before it slowly came to rest. With the slug removed Florence stitched the wound. It could only be hoped the old man was strong enough to fight off the almost inevitable infection – for him the wheel of chance was still spinning.
Leaving William to rest, Florence returned her attentions to my head and only when satisfied that no dirt remained inside the wound did she begin to stitch me back together. Her needlework was assured and rapid, and for the latter especially I was exceedingly grateful as it hurt like hell.
‘What on earth happened to you?’ she asked while tying off the thread.
‘We were robbed,’ I replied, which was at least the truth.
But this did not satisfy her. ‘Robbed? What were you doing to get yourself robbed? Surely the neighbourhood is not that dangerous.’
As she had left me no option but to spin another tale I went on to explain that we had been out for a drink the night before and ended up in a disreputable part of town where we were waylaid by a gang of thieves, who proceeded to beat me and shoot William.
‘You must go to the police,’ insisted Florence, clearly horrified at my portrayal of London’s cruel underbelly.
‘Can you imagine how Sir Benjamin would react if he were to get wind of the affair? His opinion of me is low enough as it is. And, besides, William can ill afford to be involved with the police.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Let us just say his past record is less than unblemished. Sir Benjamin would dismiss him for sure.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Florence, who had become rather fond of the old fraud. ‘It would be terrible to see him lose his job.’
William was breathing deeply but regularly; in fact, he was snoring. We agreed that he would be taken to my rooms to recover. All the hospital needed to know was that he was ill. I rubbed my hand over the stitches, which were small and regular – she was indeed an accomplished seamstress.
33
‘I can forgive most things,’ said William, five days after being shot, ‘but betrayal ain’t one of ’em.’
I had just finished tying fresh bandages around his arm, strapping the limb across his chest. The effect was to make him look a little like one of Brunel’s Egyptian mummies. ‘I can understand that,’ I replied, speaking as one not unfamiliar with the concept.
The mended man tested my handiwork, twisting his torso one way and then the other. I was pleased to see the motion caused no obvious sign of pain.
‘So we’re going after ’im, right?’
‘I am going after him,’ I said, having no choice in the matter, as the failure of my mission had served only to intensify my nightmares. ‘But I’m going alone: you are in no condition to take part in such an enterprise.’
William grumbled and slipped off the table, bending his knees like a fencer limbering up. ‘I only need one arm to fire a gun,’ he replied with uncharacteristic determination. ‘And anyway, you’ll never find the weasel without my help.’ He walked over to where his coat was hanging and jerked a bottle from a pocket. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he spat it into a bucket but instead of taking a swig proceeded to empty the entire contents into the drain. ‘And there’ll be no drinking until the job’s done.’
This was all very odd. ‘I never thought I would see the day when you poured drink away.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t do to go into this business half-cut. I want to be stone-cold sober when I kill that bastard – that way I’ll remember it.’
William’s rate of recovery had been most impressive. His fever had passed after a couple of days, and it was all I could do to keep him resting after that – his thirst for revenge seemed to be driving him like an engine.
He was right of course: I stood little chance of finding Bittern among the maze of wharfs, warehouses, drinking dens and alleys that he and his kind inhabited. William and I both had our own reasons for wanting the man, and so with another night approaching, there seemed little reason to delay the hunt.
‘As I can see there will be no stopping you, I suggest we make a start.’
William grinned. ‘First off, we’re in need of some weaponry. I got a knife but we should be fightin’ fire with fire. I know you got that nice little pocket revolver, but what about me?’
‘How do you know about the pistol?’
‘Oh well now,’ he said, realizing his error. ‘You know, your coat fell on the floor one day and I just, well, came across the pistol in one of the pockets. Nice little piece she is.’
‘You mean you were going through my pockets!’ William’s light fingers were well known, and I had more than once turned a blind eye to him pocket
ing a ring or other trifle that occasionally made it as far as the mortuary on a corpse. Though I liked to think he would never lift from me he was clearly not above a little window-shopping.
‘I am sorry to hear you suggest such a thing,’ he replied indignantly.
‘Never mind that now. We should be grateful that Bittern didn’t check my coat last night, and I do have another pistol. I’ll fetch it from home. Where shall we meet?’
‘The Three Barrels,’ he said, naming the public house where our meeting with Bittern had taken place.
Agreeing to see him there in little over an hour, I stopped off at the office to collect my hat and coat. Florence caught me in the corridor just as I was about to leave the building.
‘You are in a hurry,’ she said.
Her arms were full of blankets. ‘Don’t you have nurses to do that sort of thing?’
‘I want an excuse to see what they’re doing in the laundry; things are not being cleaned as well as they could be.’
She studied me for a while. ‘You look terrible, George.’
‘Nice of you to say so,’ I shot back, knowing all too well how gaunt I had become.
‘How’s your head?’
I put a hand to the stitches, which were just about ready to come out. ‘Fine, thanks to you.’
She took a step closer as if to check for herself. ‘I am really worried about you. Get some sleep, for pity’s sake.’
I fumbled with my coat, tugging a sleeve over my arm. ‘Easier said than done, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Florence, I really must dash.’
She nodded, but then as I was making my way towards the door, called after me. ‘How is William?’
I turned but didn’t stop, pushing the door open with my shoulder. ‘He’ll live. The devil always looks after his own.’
The Three Barrels was just as desperate a dive as I remembered it, and yet again full almost to bursting. William had already made himself at home in the snug, a glass sitting in front of him.
I squeezed in beside him, placing my hat on the table. ‘Thought you weren’t drinking?’