I felt no remorse for my actions. I felt only relief that the grave digger had failed to make my family a wisp of smoke carried away on the wind.
Nearly twenty years have passed since that day and when I recall the episode I feel only satisfaction; not in the act of murder, rather in the wheels that act set in motion.
It gave my previously wretched existence a purpose. Grave diggers are, by necessity and nature, a drunken, violent and miserable lot. I was not of this nature and so quickly established a position within the district as master of my profession. I overcame my aversion to the burning of bones, except of course, for the bones of my family, whose nameless grave, I fiercely guarded.
In the warmth of the bone house I would oft sit conversing with the sprightly crackle of a burning skull. There, I would warm my hands as their chatter was silenced forever in the heat of my pyre.
“Goodnight,Pa,” or “Goodnight Ma,” I would say as they were finally consumed. I fancied the larger skulls belonged to men and the smaller ones to women; the skulls belonging to infants I burned without comment. From time to time a gentleman would appear from the shadows and request my sack of bones in exchange for a few pennies. I cared not for his purpose for the pennies were welcome and the bones destined for the pyre.
In the confinement of my life within the beautiful churchyard I found the company of the dead to be, by and large, preferable to that of the living. The company of Mr Fettiplace excluded, of course.
I learned to read by tracing my fingers over the lichen-covered names on the headstones as we strolled about them. It was of no great surprise that the first words I could pen were the insipid inscriptions carved into the stone.
The long, cold nights, I would spend huddled in the bone house, basking in the heat of the eternal glare from the pyre. The flames were never extinguished, not even for a moment, for the dead came two by two on their bleak pilgrimage to my door. “Gotta make room for the new ‘uns.” I would say as I tipped them into the fire.
For too many years had London lived under the sordid influence of King Cholera’s court and on that count, if none other, The Parliament agreed. An Act was passed and a great many opportunities arose for a man with my skills and lack of sensibility. Exhuming the dead had been my life’s work, and with the education Mr Fettiplace had imparted, I was in an enviable position. I was made a clerk for the London Necropolis Company and the decisions I made were seldom questioned. None of my peers had set foot in a graveyard, save to mourn the passage of a loved one, and even then their gesture was fleeting.
It was a simple plan. Those buried within the city confines would be exhumed and moved to alternative lodgings where there was room for all. No longer would the bone house bear witness to the scream of smouldering ribs or the stench of blazing flesh. Its once proud hearth would be quietened forever.
Even though my elevation brought with it riches beyond my dreams or expectations it took me away from my beloved family. No longer could I spend the day talking with my father, my mother or sisters about this and that. No longer could I afford the luxury to sit and imagine the life of those I set ablaze in my house of bones. Now my task was simple and exact; I was to make arrangements for bones to be sent to Brookwood Cemetery.
With each grave exhumed, I clung to the hope that St Mary le Strand would be spared; that somehow the city would stop its infernal growth and my family would be left in peace. When time allowed I would walk to the square of earth where my family lay. So long had it remained untouched, protected by the steady hand of my guardianship, that here and there white snowdrops grew, caring not what lay beneath.
It was during one of these strolls through my previous life that I met my beloved Lucy. She shivered, cold and lonely in the gloom of the bone house waiting for me to come. I believe a beautiful fate guided me to her that evening, and as I wrapped my coat around her that cold night, I knew we would be together for all eternity. She has remained with me ever since that day and we have been blessed with a child, a poor sickly boy who can scarce leave his bed. It has long been a regret that my parents and sisters were never granted the time to meet Lucy and my son, William. They have much in common.
There is much silence between my wife and me now, for we both know that our wretched William is not long for this world. I am ashamed to say that I cannot abide to be in my abode for longer than is necessary; preferring to fill my mind with the complexities of my work. To think what may become of my son is too great an ordeal to suffer.
Mr Fettiplace appeared from time to time over the years, seeing something in the performance of my savage act of murder which appealed to his nature. Yet, until this last week, he asked for nothing in return.
The time had come for St Mary le Strand to cede to the passage of man. I could delay the matter no longer. The eternal miasma which clung to the church, threatened, with each passing day, to erupt and spew forth its foul reek. Overcome with grief, I wandered to their resting place and wept beside the grave. In a repeat of the morning many years before, Mr Fettiplace appeared at my side.
“Grieve for them, Thomas and grieve for them well.” My simple clerk’s suit was nothing to his splendid attire. Had the church bells not struck eleven in the grey morning light, I would have thought he were theatre bound.
“I wish for twelve of your bodies. Eleven from anywhere you choose,” he swung his cane in a great arc, “and one from a particular spot. Can you arrange this Thomas?”
His smile was the least attractive feature of his character, for in it I spied a wicked man, a man with more than just devilment on his mind.
“Of course, sir. Which particular grave interests you?”
“A fellow by the name of Chesterton. Over there under the yew.” He pointed his cane to the farthest corner of the graveyard. “I should like them delivered here.” He handed me a card. “I will expect discretion, Thomas.”
I did not ask his purpose in securing these bones, for what good would come from it? Besides, at that moment I was committed to my misery. Mr Fettiplace had often spoken of matters I did not understand, matters of a personal nature which were disturbing. I am not a sensitive man; as you have heard I committed the gravest of crimes, yet even to me, there were times when his manner was debauched. It was clear he was a man for whom a grudge was debt unpaid.
I instructed my troupe of grave diggers to remove the oldest corpses from the ground, and ensuring they were as complete as possible, deliver them to the address on Mr Fettiplace’s card. The men worked by night and asked no questions a few extra pennies could not quieten.
I had not been present during exhumation since I had completed the task myself and the effect on me was startling and unexpected. As the men worked in silence, for I would not permit idle chatter or tuneless whistle to disturb the dead, I stood and watched amid the snowdrops of my growing disquiet. I had never felt fear before; not even when I was beaten on the embankment or when I split the grave digger’s head in two, yet tonight I was afraid. I was fearful I would never again lie with my father, mother and sisters or idly pass the time of day in conversation with them, until I too passed through the veil.
I sank to my knees and grasped the soil between my fingers, caring not when the men stopped and looked at me. I would not leave my parents to rot in the pit any longer, nor would I allow them to be taken to Brookwood and lie discarded like animal carcasses. I could not permit the carrion to strip whatever flesh was left from their bones and demean them further.
“Pass me a shovel!” I demanded of the nearest ruffian. He meekly obliged, fearing the tone of my voice.
The shovel sank deep with the first push, feeling no resistance below. Again I pushed the shovel deeper, sensing the ache deep in my clerk’s back. The blade slipped through the earth like a knife through softened butter until it found what had been concealed for so long.
With a furious speed I exhumed bone after miserable bone, skull after rotting skull until at last I found them, huddled together in a gruesome quartet.
“Give me a sack, any of you!” I shouted into the dark graveyard. A murmur rose from the men. “Silence!” I shouted again.
I loaded the first of the bones carefully into the sack and felt the first tears stroke the soiled flesh on my cheeks. “Hello again Pa, hello Ma. Milly and Nancy. I’ve come to take you home. Would you like to meet Lucy and William? You remember, my wife and boy. They would so love to meet you.” I caressed the mud away from their eyes. “I’ll fetch us a carriage, won’t that be grand!”
I walked the short distance onto the Strand and hailed a Hansom to take me home. The tormented despair I felt in the graveyard had diminished, leaving behind an excited glee. I had yearned for the unity of my family for so long and now it was a reality. It may, I fancied, provide poor William with the spirit to leave his bed.
“Lucy?” I called. There was no reply, which was often the case in these times. “Lucy, we have guests, very important guests.”
I reproached myself immediately. In my excitement I had quite forgotten it was the middle of the night. Lucy and William would be sound asleep, together in the same bed.
I lit a lamp and slung the sack over my shoulder. My suit was a ruinous mess of filth from my exertions, but I cared not. Tonight was for family, not personal pride.
As quietly as I could I pushed the bedroom door open and stepped lightly inside. The room was cold but in the dim shadow of the lamp I could see the shapes of my wife and son beneath the covers.
“Lucy? William?” I whispered.
The sack had become heavy and as I lowered it onto the bed, the bones rattled against each other with dark excitement.
The flame from the lamp flickered briefly in an unseen draught before it finally settled on my wife and son. The orange glow swirled gently on their polished skulls and amber waves broke in the cavernous pools where their eyes had been decades before. They were beautiful and they were my family.
“Lucy, William. I’d like to introduce my family.” I whispered and tipped the sack onto the bed. The generations of my family danced together in a melancholy skeletal embrace. We were together again, all of us.
The Engineer
I can scarce recall a time when my mind was not filled with matters of a mechanical nature. I do not know from where this simple pleasure derived and I do not query its origin. It is a blessing and it is one from which I am able to derive a living of comfortable, if unspectacular means. Although my lack of standing and qualification has prevented me from acceptance within the spheres of industrial and engineering influence, it is not a source of chagrin. It was this lack of acceptance which drove me to inhabit a place where I would be considered a master of my craft, not merely one of the crowd.
My workshop is situated in a quiet yard, thus providing clients with the discretion a visit to my premises demands. There can be no garish shop front displaying my wares, for the instruments I produce are not to the taste of all in our society. My work is for a more discerning palate, select and creative. I do not fashion the simple toys of an infant’s dreams, nor do I peddle amusements for a gentleman’s parlour. No, it is the instruments of their darkest desires I craft.
I had not always been a purveyor of such articles though. My skills were initially utilised in a far more conventional manner. Having left the restrictive confines of my family I was at once employed in the repair of machinery on a commercial and industrial basis. I worked as apprentice to a tiresome man, a man whose skills were infinitely inferior to my own. His concerns lay between the legs of the East End dollymops, not in the proficiency of his work. This resulted in a short apprenticeship for my teacher quickly realised the breadth of my skill and released me from obligation.
My father, although disappointed with my decision not to join him and my brother in their endeavours, bequeathed me, on his death, a not inconsiderable amount of wealth. This was to the utter displeasure of my brother, who felt it my duty to line his pockets, since he was the elder. I refused, citing that father had left the money to me, and to me alone, to do with it as I saw fit. This left Richard with only a failing business, and in his anger he vowed never to see me again.
Sadness and regret filled my life for many a month and the attempts I made to reconcile were treated with disdain and animosity. It was true, I could have given Matthew the money, or at least a part, yet I would not release it. Within that purse were not merely the paper notes of our father’s fortune but the chance to become something more than he had been, or my brother would ever become. It was my life, my money and I would use it as I saw fit, not he.
I purchased my workshop in a quiet yard, not because of the need for discretion; that was not a consideration then. It was financial necessity that governed my choice. I purchased a press, tools and equipment to allow me to make a business and took my first commission within a week. Repairing sewing machines was never a line of work I envisaged taking, but the mundane nature of it permitted my mind the space to wander and conjure.
Many proud and noble men had been mutilated in the horrors of the Crimea. The once sharp wit of their agile minds was now filled with the tormented screams of their fallen comrades. The lithe strength of their young limbs lay shattered and buried in the blood soaked mud of Balaklava.
It was such a man who, by chance, appeared at my workshop door.
“May I be of service, sir?” I asked. This was clearly a gentleman of distinction who held himself with pride, as men of his class always do.
“You are an engineer?” He enquired, the vapour of his warm breath made steam in the cold air.
“Will you step inside? My hearth is warm.”
The gentleman glanced over his shoulder into the quiet yard before stepping over the threshold. He wore a countenance of such wretchedness that I thought him liable to weep at any moment. The pallor of his grey and waxy skin matched his mood perfectly. I ushered him to the warmth of the grate. “Would you care for brandy? I cannot vouch for the quality but the warming properties are without reproach.”
With some effort and discomfort he raised his gloved hand. “I do not take alcohol.” He looked about the workshop. “I am not sure you will be able to help me.”
I was eager not to lose his custom. “Let us discuss your needs and if I am unable to aid you then you have lost nothing, save for a few moments of your time.”
He sighed deeply. “Very well. I am, as you can see, a man of some distinction. I have served my country with dignity and pride throughout the most savage and inhuman of conditions. I have seen men smashed to pieces by Russian canon, their limbs splintered and bloody lying in the mire. I have felt the bitter pain this leaves in a man. I have felt it in my mind and I have felt it in my body.” He removed the glove from his right hand, then the left with his teeth. Revealed beneath the black leather were beautifully polished mahogany prosthetics. “As you can see I left the Crimea without my arms.” He stared at his wooden limbs without a trace of emotion. “I have grown used to them, for the Cossack’s shaska sliced through my flesh fifteen years ago. Yet the agony of his blade biting through muscle and sinew is as fresh to me as if it happened this morning.” He looked up from his reverie. “Are you married, sir?” He asked.
“I am not.”
He looked back to his hands. “I have never felt the soft flesh of my wife’s cheek, nor the warmth of her breast.”
“Sir, I am not sure…”
“Can you forge me a hand?” He spoke with a voice barely louder than a whisper.
I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him he was mad and would be better served in Bethlem. Yet, I paused, for what is a human if he is not a machine? Is it not a complex, living machine? My pause gave him cause to look up once again. “If you intend to reply, do so now, or I shall leave.” He took a step towards the door.
“Please, sir. Do not leave yet.”
In the chill doorway of my workshop, my future had been conceived. I am no magician, and creating a living, feeling hand was beyond my skill. Yet, I knew I could create fo
r Captain Powell something superior to the crude wooden hands he now had; something altogether more fitting for a man such as he.
With my tools and instruments I set about the task with enthusiasm and vigour. The precision of my work was a joy and the dexterity of my fingers was in miraculous unison with my mind.
How could it be then, that the finished model moved with all the fluidity of a gin soaked cripple? The levers fought against each other and the wires stretched and snapped with every minute movement. My ideas were sound, yet the materials were depressingly primitive leaving me with a monstrous abortion, unfit for an animal.
I knew I was better than this monstrosity, better than a simple repairer of machines and yet here I was falling short on a promise. I buried my head in my hands and roared in frustration. How could it be?
I was disturbed from my anger by the sound of tools falling to the floor. I looked up, just in time to see the heels of a thief fleeing through the door.
“Stop!” I cried and jumped to my feet to give chase. What exactly he had stolen I had not yet discovered but he would not get away with my property, of that I was determined.
Within seconds I arrived on the street and found the rogue lying in the filthy gutter, tripped by his own careless steps.
“What have you taken from me?” I demanded. His silence was joined by a callous toothless, sneer which grew slowly across his wretched cheeks.
“You shall come with me then.” I grabbed his rancid collar and hauled him to his feet. He smelled of gin and corruption.
I had not yet decided upon his fate as we entered my workshop but until we stepped inside he remained passive, as if accepting of his destiny. This, I quickly realised, was to bring about a relaxed state of mind in me, for no sooner had we stepped across the threshold than his mood changed. He was clearly a man adept in subterfuge and violence for he quickly wriggled free of my hold and felled me with one blow to the temple.
“Now, what’ve we got ‘ere?” He began rifling through my tools and equipment, placing them one at a time inside the lining of his loathsome coat.
The Macabre Collection (Box set) Page 7