The Macabre Collection (Box set)

by Haynes, David

  “I cannot say but I felt her words resonate somewhere within me.” She sighed, “Pay no attention to me. I shall rest for an hour, and after the locket has been collected, I shall retire to bed.”

  “In that case, I shall remain at home this evening. I feel no desire to meet with Booth.”

  Lily squeezed my hand. “Nonsense. You must meet with him. However else will you manufacture my union with him?”

  I was happy to see the carefree expression return once more to her pretty face. “You really are a terrible tease. I shall arrange for him to come for tea tomorrow.”

  I leapt into the cab. Lily’s demeanour had concerned me. She was not prone to sudden swooning, nor had I ever seen her so glum. What was it about Madame Francatelli that had concerned her so? She had spoken the same words to me, yet I had dismissed them with the same disregard as they had been uttered. Still, she had been almost back to her playful self when I left and I consoled myself with that thought.

  Booth really was a dreadful bore but he had been my friend since childhood and now I felt obliged to continue our association. The St. James club had been our frequent meeting place since coming of age and was a comfortable location to discuss the trivial matters he so much enjoyed.

  After dinner we sat and enjoyed a pipe in the library. “Would it be proper for me to call tomorrow, Matthew? I should very much like to see Lily again.” I had not the heart to tell him Lily was not in the slightest bit flattered by his affections.

  “Of course. Shall we say three?” I could see the happiness weave across his plump cheeks and for a moment I felt contented.

  “She was in delicate spirits when I left this evening. We ventured onto Drury Lane and chanced upon a fortune teller. It was a most disagreeable experience.”

  Booth threw back his head and laughed. “Why you insist on visiting those charlatans is beyond me.” He took a large drink from his brandy glass. “I hoped you would have grown out of it by now, both of you.”

  “What would you have me do? Sit at home and make trinkets from the hair of corpses like my sister?”

  “God forbid! No, you need a pastime. Have you considered politics?”

  “No more than I have considered the ministry!”

  I cut the evening short, for although Booth became more entertaining the further down the brandy bottle he ventured, I felt anxious for Lily.

  The snow had become a miserable rain during the evening and I was contented to be back home again. I had lived there since before mother passed, since before Lily could remember; yet I felt no affection for it. Our family had once been wealthy and employed servants to build fires in the hearth. Not now, not for a long time had this house seen servants. Not since before the time of uncle’s ill-conceived ventures, had someone built a fire or hung a coat for us. Yet my sister and I yearned for nothing. Father knew his brother well and protected the house from his foolish hand, bequeathing it to me alone. Perhaps he saw something in me during those precious few years we were together which gave him cause to trust me so.

  I seldom ventured into the parlour without Lily by my side. I had seen too much on that damned evening to feel anything other than dread when in it. This night was no different, for without Lily the fire had died, and the room was a silent shroud of darkness. I would not step inside.

  I hung my coat and took the lamp she had kindly left by the door before quietly climbing the stairs. An orange glow flickered from beneath her door as I passed. It was not unusual for her to lie waiting for my return. Although she no longer felt the need to hold me through the night, she felt unable to rest until she knew I was home.

  “Lily? Booth was asking for you,” I knew she would be unable to ignore my taunt. I remained beside the door and waited for her reply, grinning like a schoolboy. “I have invited him for afternoon tea tomorrow. He was very eager.” Without reply, I gently pushed the door and stepped across the threshold.

  The dying fire cast a retreating glow across the room, barely revealing the bed where she lay. I had seen that crumpled form, lying silent in the darkness of the night many times before, yet as I gazed closer, something about her struck me as unnatural. Her long chestnut hair hung loose and covered her face; it fell over the side of the bed in a voluminous plume. I was suddenly aware of how cold the room was, as if the fire had not been lit at all.

  “Lily?” I called softly and stepped toward the bed, “Lily, it is I, Matthew.” A feeling of dread had taken hold of my mind, threatening to overcome me. “Lily!” I shouted, caring not if I disturbed every house in Belgravia. I took her cold shoulder in my hand and shook her. “Lily, wake up!”

  Her naked shoulder was as cold as our father’s flesh when they photographed us together, yet I could not draw my hand away. The locket in which she kept our mother’s hair dangled from her neck and dropped over her shoulder entangling her hair. I could see now. It was not her hair falling from the bed, but blood dripping onto the cold floorboards in a steady unrelenting flow. My legs buckled and I fell onto the bed beside her. I roared into the darkness, “You cannot take her. Not Lily. Not now.” Tears ran down my cheeks and dropped in her hair.

  I would see her eyes and I would kiss her cheek again. With a soft touch, I brushed at the hair on her face; it was matted and thick with blood. Why had she taken her life as our mother had?

  But beneath the tangle of her once beautiful hair was not the face of my sister nor was it the wound of suicide. I gasped and felt the room close about me. Lily’s face had gone; her skin had been removed revealing a terrible and bloody mask beneath.

  I could not hide my revulsion, for what lay there was my sister no longer. I fell from the bed as I clambered to be free of this ghoulish apparition and as my head hit the floor, I felt the warmth of her blood on my cheek. Who had done this to her, what devil had removed her face? I wanted to shout again, to roar at the cruelty and the pain, yet I could find no air with which to scream.

  In the gloom I saw a dark shape in the blood. It was the cherished locket she had been making. I took it in my hands; the cold jet was slick with blood. I turned it over and knew at once the hair inside was not that of a dead infant. It had been removed and replaced with a lock of Lily’s chestnut hair. I hurled it into the dying embers of the fire and collapsed once more into the pool of her blood.

  Dinner with Booth

  Booth accompanied me to Brookwood for I desired no others to be present. They placed her beside our mother and father, beneath the soulless eyes of the marble angel who pointed hopefully to the sky. When the first spade of dirt was thrown onto her coffin I walked away; past the cold iron railings, to The Necropolis Station. I had neither the desire nor stomach to watch any longer.

  The police came to my house and left without providing comfort. A lunatic called Lovett had been busy murdering and flaying in the city. He had removed their faces to make macabre masks for his entertainment. Lily was simply one more mask for his collection. This is what the police believed.

  Yet, this was not the case, of that I was sure. Lily was no East End ruffian caught up in a mad man’s lunacy. The leaving of her locket and hair was proof of that.

  “Inspector, I urge you to reconsider. Why would he leave this? He had his prize.” I held the singed locket before his eyes.

  “Sir, you are considering this man too deeply. He is a lunatic who revels in torment and violence. He left this trinket to torture you further, nothing more.”

  Lily’s hair lay intact beneath the protective shield of jet. What had been beautiful in life was reduced to a clotted mass in death. I would not discard it anymore than I would abandon the memento mori in my pocket. The tips of my fingers were calloused where, in my grief, I had reached into the embers and taken it back.

  Lily had scolded me for finding her jewellery so abhorrent, yet here I was, clutching it as if I were a child squeezing a favourite doll. The inspector had left at that instruction and had not returned. Why should he? The case was solved and Lovett was responsible, but I could n
ot rest.

  Booth and I stepped onto the train and into the private carriage set aside for mourners. The empty seats reminded me of the same journey I had made with my uncle at Father’s funeral. Lily had cried at my side for the entire trip back to Waterloo.

  “I should like you to join me for dinner this evening, Matthew. My mother and father are visiting and they will be glad to see you. I will not allow you to be alone this night.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but Booth held his hand to silence my protest. “It is settled, Matthew. We shall speak of it no more.”

  I had not the energy or desire to argue. I did not want to be in company but I wanted less to be alone in that house. Besides, Booth’s intentions were purely sympathetic and his familiar and cheerful countenance was a welcome sight.

  Booth was from a wealthy family with grand connections yet he had never sought to manipulate or use those connections for his own good. He was simply too idle and lacked the ambition which could have provided great fortune.

  “We were so sorry to learn of poor Lily, Matthew. She was a fine girl and William here was very fond of her.” Booth looked distinctly uncomfortable in his mother’s presence.

  “Thank you, Lady Booth.”

  “I trust you have found solace in the words of our Lord.”

  I had not been inside a church for many years. “I find the church to be somewhat disagreeable these days.”

  “Oh my dear. You have seen too much sorrow in your life. First your mother, then…”

  Lord Booth raised his hand and coughed loudly. “I’m sure Matthew scarce needs reminding of his family, especially not today. We should eat now. Come, Matthew and tell me of my son. What has he been doing with his time? I am quite unable obtain a satisfactory answer.”

  Booth was not his usual ebullient self at dinner and conversation was strained and sporadic. For my own part I felt thoroughly miserable and at a loss for what to say.

  “The congregation at St Mary le Strand has fallen by nearly a third this last year,” Lady Booth broke the silence. She had been an ardent advocate of the church for many years. “Why they would turn away so readily is simply beyond me. I fail to see why our so-called middle class are so beguiled by what is nothing more than witchcraft. Two hundred years ago they would all have been burned.”

  “But mother, we are not living two hundred years ago. For that we should be thankful. It is nothing more than a passing fascination and they will all come back to the church.”

  “And when will you return, William?” Booth looked away immediately.

  “Of what do you speak, Lady Booth?” I asked.

  “Spiritualism. There are those who claim to be adept at conversing with the dead and they have formed a religion from it, or at least, they are attempting to. It goes against all the teachings.”

  “I have heard that term once before, Lady Booth. Forgive me, but I do not wish to hear it again.” I met her eyes with my own.

  Booth spoke to break the deadlock. “Quite so. It is, as you say mother, nothing more than a passing fascination. Now, who has seen the marvels of my magic lantern?” I blessed Booth, for in his kindly nature, he had diverted the course of the discussion.

  Booth’s display with the lantern was, at least, distracting. The floating skeletons and phantoms provided unlikely entertainment and for a while my spirits were lifted. Although I felt Booth took a little too much delight in the shrieks of his frightened mother.

  When, at last it was time to leave, I did so with a heavy heart. The brandy had warmed my belly but left a sour, unwelcome sensation in my mind.

  “I can have a room made up for you tonight and for as many nights as you wish it is yours.” Booth grasped my shoulders and looked earnestly into my eyes. I did not need to smell the vapours on his breath for his eyes betrayed how much brandy he had taken.

  “My friend,” I started, “you have been kind enough to invite me here tonight. I shall inflict my misery on you no longer. In any case, I feel I may have offended Lady Booth.”

  He clapped my shoulders. “All the more reason to stay. They may depart sooner!”

  I laughed despite my mood. “You must offer my apologies for any offence. I shall see you in the club tomorrow?”

  “Yes and we shall take a pipe together again.”

  The cab sped over the cobbles sending the drunks fleeing for the verge. They shambled through the streets like the phantoms on Booth’s lantern show. They cared not for the despair of others for the gin they so deeply craved besotted their minds.

  *

  I spent the night huddled under my blankets with a bottle of brandy. I gained no solace from its warmth, for the more I drank, the deeper into the nightmares I slipped. In the shadows of my tortured mind, I swam in pools of Lily’s blood while a flame haired woman and Madame Francatelli looked on and laughed.

  By the time the birds announced the arrival of another grey dawn, I languished still within the confines of my brandy induced stupor. I could not rouse myself from the cold and damp sheets of my terror stricken night, for what reason had I to leave the house?

  Poor Lily was the most generous and kindly person in the world and had not deserved to die in such terrible circumstances. I should have been at home that night. She had been disturbed by that terrible fraud of a fortune teller and I should have been here to comfort her, as she would have done for me. Yet, selfishly I left her alone. I left her to die. I roared into the half-light and clenched my fists until all feeling was lost. I lay there for a while until I knew what I must do.

  I threw back the sheets and dressed quickly. Today I would pay a visit to Madame Francatelli and squeeze her wretched throat until she gasped for breath. She was as responsible as Lovett for Lily’s death and I would have justice.

  I found a claret in the parlour and consumed it to the very last vapour before stepping onto the street. I was unshaven and unwashed but I did not need to be ready for church to commit what I had in mind. I walked with purpose and glared through the mist at the faces I passed. The stench of the city’s rotting corpses filled the cold morning air and formed a sickly medley with the wine on my tongue.

  I passed the church of St Mary le Strand had heard the bells toll the hour of ten. The church could rot for all I cared for I knew I would find no solace in the empty words of religious men and their sanctimonious drivel. I pressed on, mindful of the ever-growing stench of death as I descended deeper into the city.

  Before much longer, I arrived on Drury Lane, where not a week earlier I had ventured with Lily. Snow fluttered from the sky like feathers from dying angels’ wings and awakened the street from its gloomy slumber. Unshaven men huddled and slumped in the doorways, their faces scarred by the pox. They coughed and shivered and muttered their plea.

  “A penny, sir? Me bones are chilled.”

  I ignored them and kept my eyes fixed on the tableau ahead. Madame Francatelli had not fled, as I had feared. Yet as I approached the shop, I could see all was not as it should be. A crimson path cut through the snow and streaked across the road, and into her shop. Here and there, droplets formed bloody wounds in the melted snow. Had someone reached this poisonous fiend before me?

  I reached the shop and stared at the tableau. The words were the same and the picture still remained. Suddenly a man appeared at the door. His apron was a vision of blood.

  “Can I ‘elp you, sir?” He wiped a blood stained fist across his filthy whiskers.

  “Where is Madame Francatelli?” I pointed at the tableau for I was unable to take my eyes from him.

  “Oh ‘er. She left days ago. I’m the proprietor now,” A terrible odour crept around his bulk and mingled with the already vile air. “I’ve just butchered a sow if you’re in the market for a leg, sir?”

  I turned away for I could feel the burning bile rising in my throat. “Where has she gone?” I uttered.

  “No idea. People come and go as the mood takes ‘em.”

  I needed to be away and across the road before m
y stomach betrayed me. The fumes from his shop were as poisonous as Francatelli’s words had been and I had gained nothing by coming.

  What sight must I must have looked as I wandered the noisy streets in my anguished state? The bustle of the throng and the chatter of their voices was a distant echo in my mind. I knew not where I was walking but to stop would have been a terrible mistake for I could not have started again.

  A distant church sounded midday and I was awoken from the void of my reverie. I paused and looked about my unfamiliar surroundings. Filth was piled in the gutters with the rotting corpses of dead animals. The air was a noxious haze of human waste. If I were in hell, it could be no worse that this spectacle of decay.

  I looked for a landmark to raise me from the abyss. I could see none for the buildings loomed over me and covered the sky like a heavy velvet cape.

  “Who ‘ave we got ‘ere then?” A feminine voice called from beyond my view. It was quickly accompanied by the sound of a footfall.

  “Well, we don’t see your sort round ‘ere often. Not unless you want some of this?” I turned to face the voice and was greeted with a sight to match the hellish vista of the street. Dressed in such fineries as would be found in a box at the theatre was a woman of advancing age. Were it not for the thickness of her face paint, I might have estimated her to be close on sixty years of age. She pursed her ruby lips and blew me a kiss. “I’m a pretty sight ain’t I?”

  I turned my back and walked on.

  “Suit yerself.”

  Lost in the chasm of my thoughts, I had walked many miles and into the East End of the city. It was a place of depravity and violence and I was as out of place as the prostitute would be in the streets of Belgravia.

  The cruel monotony of the district was broken as I reached a gaudy display on a shop window. Bright red curtains draped across the glass, and at the bottom, upon a board, was written, ‘Gin.’ It was not the decadent palace of the Princess Louise in Holborn but the purpose was the same and I stepped inside.