The Macabre Collection (Box set)

by Haynes, David

  Anger, the likes of which I had seldom felt before, slithered through my body and coiled itself about my mind in a poisonous embrace. “Leave my tools alone.”

  I kept my eyes on him and searched the floor with my hands. He had knocked my hatchet off the bench on his first foray and now my hands found its shaft. I gripped it tightly.

  “Leave them now!” I roared. He was so absorbed in the act of theft that he ignored my demand.

  I rose silently and without further thought brought the keen blade of the axe down on his arm. The blade had been sharpened this very morning and sliced through the flesh and bone as if it were nothing more than a waxwork model.

  Our eyes met and I saw within his soul the fear and confusion my brutal action had induced. I raised the axe again and in a forlorn gesture he raised his severed arm. “Please, sir.” His plea went unheard and I ended his miserable life on the edge of my blade.

  Disposing of his body was easy, for a great many men of his character are often found floating in the Thames; their bodies wrecked and cut to pieces. Seldom are they claimed, leaving their bloated corpses to sink to the bed of the river like the other detritus. It was in this manner that I dispatched his body. All save for one part, his arm. For in the fleshless bones of his body I found the inspiration to create Captain Powell’s hand.

  Within a matter of days I had stripped the bones of all flesh and engineered such a work of beauty as there had never been. The perfect harmony of organic and inorganic, of divine and corrupt spliced together in perfect accord.

  “And this covering of leather, it is absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes, it helps the engineering remain intact and prevents unnecessary damage.”

  Captain Powell caused the fingers on his new hand to dance inside the gloves. A glimpse of a smile danced across his face and for the first time in our acquaintance he did not appear quite so desolate. I wondered how amusing he would find it if I were to tell him that beneath the leather were the cold bones of a murdered thief.

  “Your work is quite remarkable. May I speak of it with my comrades? There are many more like me.”

  I lowered my head, feeling a flush of pride from his comment. “You may but I would ask for discretion, sir.”

  Such was the pay for my craft that I was able to generate a healthy income from one or two commissions each year. The bones were easy to come by for the city was full of them. Decaying corpses piled high in the stinking cemeteries with simple-minded, greedy, guardians watching over them. I cleaned the bones and worked them into my designs until they were fit to be used as God intended, once again.

  Shrouded in the smug embrace of my success I walked one grey morning to my workshop, passing by the newsagent. It was at once the ghastly headline which aroused my interest. ‘Crimea Captain slays wife.’ I could not read the article in public view for I knew with a terrible foreboding that Captain Powell was the slayer.

  I soon discovered he had murdered his wife by throttling her with his bare hands. The grisly nature of those hands was not recorded, but I knew what they were. His hands had taken on the vile spirit of their donor.

  I collapsed to the floor. What could I do? He had yearned to feel his wife’s cheek and to stroke her breast. Had he too yearned to feel the brittle bones in her neck fracture? Had I provided him the means to achieve his darkest desire? I would torture myself no longer with these morose thoughts. It was not my concern. I was no more responsible for his actions than I was for the Cossack’s shaska cleaving his arm.

  The matter disconcerted me though, of that there is no denying. Yet, why should I be surprised at his murderous act? There is no telling what a man is capable of when he is pushed to the brink of his wits, or pressed into a corner as I had been with the thief. Captain Powell was a man like any other.

  Powell was hanged on the gallows on a cold December morning. His sleeves flapped limply in the breeze so the world could see his loss.

  In the darkness of my dreams, I would hear Powell’s pitiful request and feel his skeleton embrace around my throat. His plight, more than that of the thief, was never far from my thoughts and made me lament the loss of my brother even further.

  One afternoon, as I sat in quiet reverie, I was disturbed by a female voice. Her clothes spoke of wealth and means, yet her voice was as common as the shrill whine of a workhouse girl. “You can provide this?” She handed me a folded document.

  I scanned it quickly and although it was a strange request I nodded my head. “When will you need the first one?” I asked.

  “You are not needed for procurement, merely for expertise. You will begin tomorrow.” She turned and walked away without further word. Loose strands of hair, the colour of the flames in my hearth, fell about her collar.

  Consignments arrived at the door daily and when I had done with them as requested, they were carefully packaged and removed to a destination unknown. I did not ask what purpose my creations served, for I would rather not know. Besides, in this case the purpose appeared to be for entertainment rather than any dark deed.

  On the twelfth day I completed the commission, and with the departure of the final crate, sighed with relief. I cannot explain why but more and more I began to think of my brother. The generous payment I received for this commission was sufficient that I would barely have to work again this year. If he were willing, I would part with half of the payment and deliver it to his hands to do with as he wished. Too long had we been estranged and I would not allow the situation to continue.

  I was restless for the entirety of the grim night hours. I walked to and fro across the cold boards of my room listening to the dull chimes of the distant bells. My brother and I were alike, yet I doubted he had the stomach to do what I had done to succeed. For that reason alone he was destined to fail. Was it my responsibility to ensure his fate was secure? Surely not, and our father would not expect it to be thus. My brother’s pride would prevent him from taking the money, of that I was sure, but I would take it nevertheless.

  I stepped from my door onto the street and paused in the soft, grey light of the dawn. The air was still and had not yet been violated by the call of a hawker or the clatter of a hoof. It was my favourite time of the day, and despite the bleak nature of my slumber, I felt invigorated by the cool air.

  The feeling did not last long for as I reached the city, the fetor grew stronger with each step. There, shrouded in reeking miasma, the dead were laying claim to the land and the living seemed powerless to stop their execrable march.

  I finally arrived at the premises and found myself unable to enter. Instead I remained outside staring at the name above the door. ‘R.J. Chesterton’ and below it in giant golden letters, ‘The Gallery of Wax.’ How long had it been since I had set foot inside? Too long, and yet now I was here, it seemed like only yesterday. The door was ajar and I pushed it open further. “Richard?” My words echoed around the lobby and returned to me like the ghostly voice from a terrible nightmare. “Richard?” I called again and stepped across the gloomy threshold. In the half-light of the vestibule piles of discarded leaflets littered the floor. Had the business finally failed? Bending. I held one of the papers to my face. ‘R.J. Chesterton presents - Ballet of the Bones.” It was dated the previous day.

  A terrible sense foreboding crept spitefully across my soul. “Richard, it is Frederick, your brother.” The building was open, yet clearly not ready for business. I peered along the gallery towards his office. In the gloom a faint light flickered casually, beckoning me on. In times past, the gallery would be full of visitors, even at this early hour. All the displays would have been dusted, oiled and prepared by my father’s careful hand.

  I took the purse of coins from my pocket and held it in my hand. Judging by the destitute appearance, Richard needed the money more than I. Each one of the galleries was empty, the curtains pulled back as if the show had been cancelled. I reached the end of the corridor and found the source of the light. The final curtain was pulled, but a sliver of ligh
t flickered from beneath. Richard was clearly so busy with his work that he hadn’t heard me. A steady mechanical sound came from within; the fluid grace of a precision device moving just as it should. “Richard.” I called again and pulled back the curtains.

  Whatever strength was in my legs deserted me and I collapsed to the floor. My brother was hanging on the gallows beside the skeletal frame of another. The skeleton rose and fell with perfectly engineered grace; it was clear the skill of a master engineer had been involved. It was the work of an engineer who operated outside the restrictive confines of acceptance. I forgot the horror and rushed to my brother; his limp legs were cold and stiff, “What have I done?”

  Under the fading light of the gas lamp, I could see two keys. One, my father’s and the other my brother’s, side by side as the men were in death.

  “What have I done!” I roared into the gloom, for the beautiful design was mine. By my own hand I had created the instrument of their demise in my workshop. I looked to my hands. “What have I done?”

  Encore

  “Is this suitable, brother?” Susanna placed the new poster into my hands. Three skeletons swung from a gallows. Their forms were virginal white against the black abyss of the background.

  I drew her close and kissed her sweet, soft cheek. “Perfect, Susanna. Your work, as always is breathtaking. Are they displayed far and wide?”

  “From here to Parliament!” The curls of her flaming hair dropped carelessly from her bonnet. She dressed like a lady but had not yet completed the transition.

  “Then we must make ready for the audience. I feel, after the success of last night, this may be our finest yet.”

  We had taken our places and watched as the first Chesterton had arrived. No doubt by now, he had found the final design.

  “When can we enter? I wish to watch.” My sister enjoyed a performance as much as I.

  “We must wait. There is one member of the cast yet to arrive and we mustn’t disturb his performance, or get in his way.”

  I had first come to Chesterton’s gallery as a young boy; a young boy captivated by the thrill of a show and in the elegant beauty of performance. Not that I had been granted entry, for according to R.J. Chesterton, his establishment was for gentlemen and ladies of higher birth than mine. Not even when I returned with a penny and paid my entrance was I allowed entry. No, I was dismissed like a diseased dog with a thump in the ear and kick up the backside. Even the theatres would not turn away a boy with a penny, not even one dressed as I was, in rags and grime. Yet Chesterton was better than they, and could afford to turn away custom, if it was not to his liking. He was an arrogant man and even in death thought he was better than the rest. Demanding, with all the self-importance of the pontiff, to be buried alone and away from the paupers in their stinking pit.

  “He’s arrived.” Susanna’s voice wakened me from my hateful reverie.

  “Very good. Now we must wait a little while longer.”

  I had not yet met the engineer, but Susanna had, and it would be unfortunate indeed to be discovered so close to curtain up. We were both anxious to observe the show but our presence must be timed to perfection to derive maximum pleasure. I took a deep breath of the cool morning air to calm my excited state. For all the wealth of theatrical possibilities, I was happy to be leaving the city; the stench of the dead was tiresome, even for me.

  I could restrain Susanna no longer, and after only a few moments had passed, we approached the gallery. I had worked late into the previous night to clear the exhibits, to make ready the stage. The calmness I felt as I winched Chesterton’s decaying body into place was a treasured moment of triumph.

  “Fear not, Chesterton for your sons will be along to join you soon.” The orange glow from the gas lamp made a flickering shadow in the voids of his eye sockets. They were the burning tears of a man in hell.

  Susanna took my arm and we entered the gloom of the gallery. Papers littered the floor from the previous night and they blew lazily around the hall.

  “Hello?” I called. I felt my sister tighten her grip and emit a child like giggle. My heart raced with anticipation for what we might find. What scene had been created for our eyes and ours alone. An agonising scream sounded from the end of the corridor and pierced the charged silence. “Let us see what has become of the Chesterton men. Shall we?”

  Susanna smiled and tugged at my sleeve. “Stop teasing me brother.”

  Each step was deliberate and slow, such as a funeral director at the front of a procession. I savoured the anticipation before we paused at the final curtain. I had provided the props, the cast and the theatre. Now I was anxious to see what they had improvised.

  Finally, we stepped in front of the stage and peered in. The spluttering light cast a delicious glow about the stage and threw ghostly shadows about the walls. Two figures were hanging on the gallows; R.J. Chesterton and his son hanging side by side. The skeleton of the hateful man rose and fell against the steady figure of his son; their arms brushing together in a forlorn caress. At their feet, the last of the Chestertons lay in a pond of his blood. The bloody stump where his arm had been emitted its final utterance of defeat before life was extinguished. By what means he had removed his arm I could not see, but the carving looked to be beautifully and brutally barbaric. It was always such a delightful spectacle to see what a man is capable of, particularly at the point where his mind irrevocably disintegrates. I prayed this magical moment would never lose its charm.

  “Bravo!” I shouted and clapped my hands.

  Susanna squealed with glee. “How wonderfully poetic!”

  “Yes, the entire male line destroyed. It’s almost biblical.” I stepped onto the stage and gathered up the discarded purses. “We mustn’t leave these here, any common footpad could come along and steal them.”

  As we stepped outside of the dingy gallery a column of visitors had already formed outside. “May we go in?” A gentleman asked.

  “Of course, sir. Our finest show yet,” and raising my voice I shouted. “And just for today, entrance is free!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd as they quickly filed inside. “We should be on our way now, Susanna.”

  “I should like to hear their thoughts first.” Susanna tugged lightly on my arm.

  “Very well. The first review and no more.” The first shriek was quickly followed by a howl of distress before a perpetual scream filled the air in a fume of fear. In their clamour to see the source of the anguish, the people outside fought with each other to gain entry. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

  “Come, we must go now Susanna before a constable arrives.” I pulled her to my side and walked away.

  “What of the encore, brother?”

  I smiled. “Ah yes, the encore. We must visit my friend Thomas, for he has a special place set aside for the Chestertons at Brookfield. I believe it is in a despicable pit with the paupers and thieves. They will be quite at home there.”

  The End

  Special Thanks to Kath Middleton

  Contents

  A Funeral

  Voices in the Parlour

  Madame Francatelli

  Dinner with Booth

  A Séance

  34 Bedford Place

  The Police

  Séance of the Souls

  séance

  noun

  a meeting at which people attempt to make contact with the dead, especially through the agency of a medium.

  A Funeral

  January 7th 1855

  Father died today. A porter found him beneath the iron gates of The Necropolis Railway Station in Waterloo. He thought him drunk at first, such was his slumped and easy manner, but his opinion quickly changed. It was likely he had spent the night there, collapsed and cold in the miserable darkness of the night. Yet, no one could tell us for sure.

  He had been a proud man, once. It was his blessed dignity which fought through the twisted abortion his mind had become, and dressed him for his death. The ruined chaos
of his once sharp mind had at least afforded him that. His mourning suit was immaculate, save for the greasy mark from the porter’s boot and his choice of location had been deliberate, as deliberate as his attire. He chose the site which would convey him as speedily to the earth as the angels to heaven, or his demons to hell.

  “Your father has passed, Matthew.” My uncle spoke in hushed tones through his grey whiskers. “God save him, for he is in a better place now.” I stared at this man, whose countenance was as my father’s had been in times before his mind betrayed him. In the days before my mother, his wife, perished. It was now my uncle’s duty to safeguard my sister and me. “I will come to live with you. From this day on, you will be known as my son and daughter. You must never forget this day or what has happened.”

  They brought him home for a while. The dark men in their dark suits paraded him in a parlour chair and took his photograph. My wretched sister and I sat beside him with our hands on his cold, lifeless shoulders. The scent of his hair oil, still faint in my nostrils, could not disguise the odious reek of his decaying flesh. Yet, we sat with him, silent and unmoving as the memento mori captured our family forever.

  They laid him out then. Among the flickering candles and the sickly sweet scent of dying lilies, he waited silently for his guests to arrive. When the grim procession had at last departed, we were sent to our rooms. There, under the dark chill of my blankets, I listened to the chime of the clock and waited for the cold touch of his hand. ‘Goodnight, my beautiful son. Think kindly of me and pray for my soul.’ In the hush of that cold night, the smell of his decaying flesh crept silently through the empty rooms of our home and whispered coldly into my ears.

  They took our father and buried him beside mother at Brookwood. There were so many men employed in digging graves, hunched in the misery of the grey morning. It presented a dismal theatre and it was not the time for a vicar to be anything other than brief. The mutes gathered, solemn and drunk, with their black crepe-clad staffs pointing to heaven.