The Macabre Collection (Box set)

by Haynes, David

  “Why have so many people died today, uncle?” I asked.

  He removed the handkerchief from his mouth. “People die everyday, Matthew. Today they are simply putting them all together; in one place.”

  “So we can find them? So they don’t get lost?”

  He looked down at me. “So they will not foul the streets and rot with the dogs.”

  The trees were barren and their spindly, finger-like branches could not prevent the wind from whistling around the graves like a furious banshee. My sister clung to my leg with all her might and as we watched my father being lowered into the ground. I heard her fragile voice whisper, “When will we see them again, Matthew?”

  “Do not fret my dear Lily. We shall see them again soon and we will be happy together.”

  My uncle threw soil onto the casket and dabbed his eyes with the white handkerchief. He led us away, through the malevolent sneers of the men digging graves, and onto the waiting train.

  “Will father be happier now, uncle?” I asked.

  He looked down at me, “I do not know if a man can be truly happy when he has left so much behind.” He smiled and touched my head, as my father had often done.

  Voices in the Parlour

  My uncle had never sought to encumber his life with a family of his own and had made no effort to marry. Yet, he took us in as his own, and made us at once feel nothing less than wanted. Lily seldom left my side and when she did, she returned in such a state of distress that I feared for her sanity.

  “You will never leave me, I’ll always be with you, won’t I? Shuddering and shivering in the grief of her loss she would cleave to my body repeating the gloomy mantra. In the dark night hours she would come to my room and climb in beside me. With her arms draped around me, she would slip silently into her dreams, waking only to scream at the touch of an unseen hand.

  My uncle took our father’s room as his own. The smell of his cologne still lingered in the air and on the abandoned clothes in his wardrobe. Yet uncle appeared not to notice, or he cared not. He continued with his life as if the death of his brother were nothing more than a passing nightmare; distasteful yet fleeting. The reminder was too great for Lily, who cried and flinched with every touch of his caring hand. She had lost too much, too soon and the wound was deep and permanent.

  Somehow, within the maelstrom of our grief, a melancholic equilibrium was reached. It returned our lives to an order not felt since the time before our family was buried in the earth.

  Uncle’s kindly, yet ambivalent attitude towards my sister and me, was unalike my father’s demonstrative personality. His infrequent displays of affection were, I suspected, as much to do with awkwardness as they were do with his true feelings. For I felt that we were both loved.

  He appeared confident, affluent and charming on first impression. However, I learned that this was not, in fact, the case. One evening, as my footsteps echoed through the empty rooms of our house, I found myself outside the parlour door. It would not cross my mind to disturb him in the evening, for although he seldom entertained visitors, he preferred not to be interrupted.

  “I assure you, Alfred, it is quite the most extraordinary entertainment I have ever witnessed.” I spied my uncle through the crack in the door. He was hopping nervously from foot to foot, silhouetted against the flames in the fireplace.

  “Quite. And how do you think this feat was achieved?” I could not see the source of the voice but it sounded deep and assured.

  “Feat? I do not believe this was a feat, sir. This is religion.”

  There was laughter then, but not from uncle, who wrung his hands nervously, like a child waiting to be scolded.

  “And is this religion of any benefit to society?”

  “I believe so. Will you take a brandy with me?” My uncle was as submissive as a lamb to slaughter.

  “No, Henry. I have other matters to attend. Bring her here and we shall observe this so called religion for ourselves. I shall see it for myself.”

  “Very good. I shall make the arrangements and send word.”

  The sound of his footsteps hastened my retreat but my eavesdropping had left me curious.

  In the years before the death of my mother, we had been members of the congregation at St Mary le Strand church. Dressed in our finest clothes, we were pressed into the pews; where we listened to the vicar speak his piece. To my ears, it was as dull as algebra, yet my mother and father listened and took heed of the words. On each and every Sunday, the four members of our family made pilgrimage in such a way, and believed The Lord loved us in return. Yet, with the death of mother, father lost faith in that notion and our visits grew fewer and fewer.

  The notion of religion and entertainment being as one was the most curious element of their conversation. I had always found church to be a dreary affair; where entertainment is as far from the experience as heaven is from hell. It was with a deep resolve that I sought to see for myself what my uncle had made reference to.

  He did not entertain guests often and so I found it peculiar one night, to hear the muffled exchanges echo up the stairs and into my darkened room. Immediately I leapt from my bed, where poor Lily lay in slumber, and crept to the foot of the stairs. The parlour door was once again ajar, allowing a slice of light from the oil lamp to trickle into the hall. The house was cold and the floorboards chill under my feet, yet I felt nothing but excited curiosity for what I might find and peered into the room.

  “Gentlemen, may I introduce, Miss Susanna Fettiplace.” My uncle was dressed smartly in my father’s Sunday suit. A gathering of four gentlemen stood from a table and bowed in turn to the lady. I could see nothing of her face but her hair, the colour of the flames in the hearth, tumbled down her neck. She too was dressed elegantly, as my mother on her visits to church. There was something about her, an alluring arrogance, which reminded me of my mother.

  She sat with her back to the door and the gentleman re-took their seats. They surrounded her as if she were an actress on the stage and they were her audience. Just then, a gentleman appeared with a casket mounted upon a trestle and rolled it into the centre of the room. It was nothing more than a wooden box, but appeared to me as a coffin. She showed no signs of fear and climbed inside without comment. The gentleman spoke; his white hair bounced about his head like fleece. “If I may address you, gentleman? My sister will now sink into a trance. In the darkness of her coffin she will liase with the poor departed souls of your dearest. I give you Spiritualism.” He beamed and closed the lid.

  Many silent moments passed as I held my breath and waited for something to happen. I had never been to the theatre and father had kept us away from the side street deformities which were so popular amongst his associates. My stomach churned with dread; I had only seen two coffins before and each held the bones of my parents.

  Abruptly the silence was punctured by a melancholy wail from within the coffin. In the gloom of the parlour, the men looked on with unease. All save for the silver haired conductor, who crept closer and looked on with glee at their expressions. A series of raps and scratching sounds emitted from within until finally a voice carried forth.

  “My brother, is my brother here?” It was a female voice but in the confines of her tomb was both deep and resonant.

  My uncle spoke. His voice quavered with fear, or emotion. I know not which.

  “Yes, brother I am here. I am here in your house.”

  Was this my father speaking? How could it be for he was buried deep in the earth at Brookwood? Yet, the voice had asked for his brother and my uncle had answered the request.

  The silver haired gentleman lifted the lid with a deliberate flourish and stepped once more into shadow.

  She rose silently from the coffin and stepped quickly about the parlour as if she were looking for something.

  “Brother? I cannot see you, for this medium has my soul but not my eyes. Where are you?”

  My uncle took one tentative step forward. “I am here, Edward.” He placed his ha
nd on her arm.

  “My children, are they safe?” Her voice was feminine, yet uncle appeared not to notice or care.

  “Of course. They are asleep and they are loved.”

  The lady suddenly lurched away from uncle’s touch and began a series of violent shudders, which spun her in a circle.

  Through the crack in the door, I felt the pressure of her wild, intense expression focus solely on me, but I was powerless to turn away. In the next moment, with my horror mounting, she heaved violently, emitting a guttural sound. I watched transfixed, as a plume of white vapour crawled from her mouth and spilled onto the rug. It fell in great silken ribbons until it pooled on the floor. I could do nothing but stare; even breathing was too much of an ordeal. As the final vapours gathered at her neck, a ghoulish face took shape and peered out. I rubbed my eyes for this could not be; it could not be real. Yet, I was looking directly into the eyes of my dead father.

  She turned to face my uncle again. “That is much better, Edward. Now I can look upon your face.”

  I did not hear uncle scream, for my own tormented mind drowned out all sound as I fell to the floor in blessed oblivion.

  Madame Francatelli

  January 12th 1869

  “I have no idea how you can bear to do such a thing, Lily. The very idea of it is repulsive.” I turned away from my sister. She was decorating the locket with a single pearl, and although the jet was beautiful, what lay inside was utterly distasteful.

  “It is no more repulsive than that terrible photograph you insist on holding.” She twisted the locket in her hand and held it up for my perusal. “There, quite beautiful. What do you think?”

  I did not need to turn and gaze upon her work, for I had seen many such items of her creation. Her mourning jewellery was intricate, delicate and beautiful, yet the lock of hair within was as ugly as the freaks in The Promenade of Wonders.

  I looked from the window of our parlour to the snow covered street below. “I am sure it is quite delightful.” Instinctively, I reached into my waistcoat and touched the crumpled paper of the memento mori. The picture had lain masked under a deliberate fold for many a year. I had seen my father’s cold, dead eyes for the final time when I caught his morbid stare through the crack in the parlour door. I could not look upon that horrifying sight again.

  “Why do you find my work so distasteful, Matthew? People find great comfort in knowing their loved ones are beside them.”

  I took her hand. “It is not your work I find so abhorrent. It is the clamour for all things dead I find so debauched.” I took the locket in my hand; the jet was cold to my touch. “It is nothing more than a forlorn memory of something which will never come again.”

  She took the locket from my hand and slapped my wrist playfully. “Oh, Matthew. You really are the most miserable man I know. Come, we shall go and gaze upon those unfortunate souls on Drury Lane.” She took my arm and whispered conspiratorially, “I have heard there is a woman with a beard twice the size of uncle’s.”

  I could not resist her cheerful smile and allowed myself to be led from the house. Lily could bring cheer to the most glum of gatherings. She was too young to remember the passing of our parents, yet when uncle had passed, she was the one to guide me and take my hand. Her playful demeanour concealed a resolve which I did not possess.

  “To The Promenade of Wonders!” I called to the driver. We had long enjoyed the passing of an afternoon in the company of the freaks of Drury Lane. Some were nothing more than crude attempts at deception. Others though, were so monstrous that women were forbidden from looking upon them. This notion would enrage my sister to the point where she would be unable to control her feelings. Her vociferous display was often more entertaining than what lay inside but it always resulted in her admission.

  Some felt outrage at their performances and claimed society was diseased for their part. Yet I felt no guilt, for where would these souls be employed if not here? Besides, I had heard the monsters were made wealthy from their exhibitionism. Far more wealthy than I.

  Lily did not know the meaning of silence, and it was often a source of irritation, but I was glad of the distraction on this afternoon.

  “I felt so sad for their loss. You could see the despair in their eyes when they spoke. It is bad enough to lose ones parents but losing an infant must be a terrible weight to bear.”

  “I cannot imagine. When will they collect the piece?”

  “They are sending for it this evening. They seemed such a lovely couple, if not a little old to have a young child. I wonder whether they will have another?”

  “I do not imagine losing a child would encourage further attempts.” I was eager to change the subject, for death was not a subject I felt inclined to dwell upon. “I shall be eating with Booth at the club this evening.” I smiled at her. “He is fond of you Lily, but you know that.”

  “I don’t know how you have the patience to eat with him. He is the most wretchedly dull man in London.” She was silent for a moment before continuing.

  “Are you still friends with Mr Laurie? Now, he is a wonderful gentleman.”

  “Laurie is a terrible libertine, as well you know. I would no sooner have you meet him than I would have you meet Lucifer.”

  She giggled and grabbed my hand. “I do love to tease you, Matthew. You must learn to develop a sense of humour or we shall never find you a wife.”

  “I do not require a wife.” I gazed into the ashen faces of those we passed as the cab rattled along the cobbles towards our destination. Like our uncle, I had never sought the affections of a wife, for what good could come from it? Yet I desired this blessed union for Lily and hoped it would assuage my fear of what would become of her when I too inevitably passed.

  We stepped from the cab into the chill of the afternoon. “Where would you like to go?” Lily asked.

  “I think I should like to stroll for a moment.” The frequent flurries of snow had deterred the usual throng from gathering and I fancied a stroll would clear my mind.

  “As you wish.” She took my arm.

  It seemed that every shop façade had been altered in some way to display a new and gruesome act. The displays seemed to change with the passing of days. No doubt their deceit, once discovered, encouraged their hasty departure.

  After a short time Lily pulled on my arm. “A fortune teller!” she cried. “We must step inside. I insist.”

  I paused and gazed at the tableau indicating what lay inside - ‘Madame Francatelli – Fortune Teller.’ The crude illustration depicted a woman of exotic appearance staring into a glass ball. A thousand such claims adorned the streets of London, many with a great deal more theatricality than this rudimentary example. I attempted to pull my sister away. “I would much prefer the warmth of The Promenade of Wonders. Besides, where is this bearded lady you spoke of?”

  Lily would not be moved. “Oh Matthew, where is your sense of adventure? Come along. We shall see what the future holds for us!”

  What had, at one time, been a grocer’s or other merchant’s shop had been transformed into a dismal oubliette. The flame from the single oil lamp on the table barely illuminated the exposed bricks on the walls.

  “Please sit.” A woman who bore no resemblance to the illustration on the tableau gestured towards a pair of wooden stools. In the gloom, it was difficult to determine her age but her long departed youth was cruelly exposed.

  “My brother and I would very much like our fortunes revealed,” Lily said cheerfully. The woman said nothing but stretched her hand onto the table, palm upward over a glass ball. I sighed and placed two pennies in her hand; her flesh felt cold and unpleasant.

  She removed her hand and dropped the coins into her skirts. “Who is first, sir?” I could detect the sour aroma of gin on her breath and not a hint of the exotic in her accent.

  Without pause Lily leapt in. “I wish to be first Madame Francatelli!” I envied her enthusiasm, for all I felt was disappointment at the lack of comfort.

&nbs
p; Madame Francatelli waved her hands above the ball with a lamentable lack of conviction before she locked her eyes on Lily.

  “You have the spirit of someone who has lost a great deal and yet I fear there is more to lose. There is grief, there is sadness, and over everything, there is death.”

  I waited for more but she remained silent and simply stared at Lily who seemed equally transfixed. “What more have you to say?”

  “There is no more. This is your fortune,” she turned her head and caught my glare, “both of you.”

  I was astounded by the temerity of this woman. A few mumbled words uttered in the rank darkness of a butcher’s shop did not constitute a penny’s worth of entertainment. I rose to my feet, pushing the chair noisily backward with my legs. “How dare you take two pennies from me for this! I will see you closed by the…” I felt a tug on my trouser leg. “Matthew, please. I would like to go home now.” Her voice was like a stranger’s to my ears, fragile and whispered.

  I looked down into her eyes, and for the first time since she was a child, I saw distress in her eyes. I took her hand and led her out of that filthy hole. “I should never have allowed it; I am to blame.”

  By the time we arrived home, the afternoon had diminished leaving only the darkness of the evening behind. I led Lily directly upstairs and into her room. The fire had gone out but I quickly built another and before long the room was lit by the warm glow from the flames.

  “Whatever did she mean, Matthew?" She lay on her bed.

  “Nothing. She was a common thief masquerading as a psychic. Tomorrow I shall return with a constable and close her deceitful enterprise. She will be in front of the magistrate before the day is out, mark my words.” She looked so forlorn, my aggression was not helping. “Why has this troubled you so?”