A Case of Grave Danger

by Sophie Cleverly

  Oliver was coughing outside. He was lurking about in the hallway beside my door as he waited for Father – I could see the shadow of his ill-fitting shoes in the crack beneath as he shuffled in the morning light.

  I was planning on seeing if I could get involved in the arrangements – not least for a chance to get out of the house and perhaps do some investigating. Mother helped me into my corset and dress, but I knew she was expecting me to stay inside and to either do housework or sit around being ladylike, and she would kill me if she found out what I was really planning to get up to. Oh well, I thought. At least I’ll get a decent funeral.

  Once Mother had gone down to the kitchen I waited quietly and listened for Father and Oliver’s hurried footsteps on the stairs – I knew they would be heading out to make sure that the coaches and horses were all in order. Together with Bones, who was slinking down the stairs beside me, I was going to see if I could sneakily follow them. I pinned a hat to my hair and fetched my coat from the stand.

  But as I exited the front door of the shop, I heard something that I couldn’t possibly ignore.

  ‘Murder!’ a well-dressed lady gasped from a few feet away.

  Bones’s ears pricked up, and if I’d had a greyhound’s ears, I suspect mine would have too. Time seemed to slow for a moment.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said a different lady from behind her fan. ‘Shocking, isn’t it?’

  I bounded over to them. ‘Wait! Who’s been murdered?’ But my efforts were fruitless. Both ladies looked at me with disdain and hurried away up the street towards the entrance of the cemetery.

  ‘Ugh,’ I huffed, glancing down at Bones. He inclined his head towards them and whined. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘We need to investigate. This could be connected to what happened to Oliver and the others.’

  With a quick bark, Bones bounded off. With absolutely none of the caution that I knew I should have had, I hurried after him.

  Today’s event was for an older man, however, not a young man – a taxidermist named Mr Walcott who had lived on Rathbone Street. Father had told me that last night. I soon realised that Father had underestimated Mr Walcott’s popularity. The street outside the chapel was filling up. The crowds parted a little to let us through – being accompanied by a large black greyhound often had that effect.

  Black-clad mourners lined the pavement – mostly men, but there were groups of women too, like the ladies I’d heard speaking of murder. I had to get more information – find out if this was a potential victim of our culprit. I sidled up to a suited man who was standing alone, smoking a pipe. He had frown lines that suggested a near-permanent scowl.

  I pulled out a freshly starched black handkerchief and sniffed loudly. ‘Ooooh,’ I wailed, blowing my nose as I patted Bones dramatically. Sure enough, the man scowled at me, looking rather disgusted. I had his attention, at least. ‘It’s just so dreadfully sad!’ I sobbed.

  ‘Here for old Walcott, eh?’ the man said gruffly, looking away from me. I often noted how uncomfortable men became when ladies were being hysterical.

  ‘Gone too soon,’ I said, waving my handkerchief for effect. ‘What a … what a man he was! And such a wonderful … taxidermist!’ I broke into racking sobs as the suited man tried to edge away from me.

  He exhaled a cloud of angry smoke into the autumn air, his frown still heavily plastered on. ‘He wasn’t much of a man. He was a gambler and a cheat, for my money. Knew him, did you, lassie? I don’t think most of this lot did.’

  I dabbed at my eyes. ‘I was … merely a fan of his work,’ I said. ‘Are we not surrounded by his doting friends and family, mourning his tragic …’ I paused, unsure if I should try it, and then barrelled ahead anyway: ‘murder?’

  ‘Ha!’ The man nearly dropped his pipe, and Bones jumped. ‘Not likely. He choked on his fish and chips, or so I heard. This lot are just here because of the rumours.’ He laughed, not a happy laugh, and then walked away, shaking his head.

  I frowned at the pavement, thinking. The rumours? What rumours? If Mr Walcott was no victim, then was he a murderer himself? Could Mr Walcott have been the villain we were looking for?

  But as I was lost in these thoughts, Bones brought me back to earth with a thud as he began desperately pawing at my leg.

  I looked up – and it was then that I saw her.

  The Black Widow.

  It was only for a moment. A flash of her eyes beneath black lace as her head turned, the spider clinging to the back of her hair in its lace web. She was walking through the crowd on the other side of the street, holding something – pieces of notepaper, it looked like.

  I stood, as if in a daze, watching as she handed one to a nearby lady who had just arrived. The pale lady read it, looked briefly horrified, and then folded it into her purse. They exchanged a few whispered words before the Black Widow tucked her papers away inside a tattered deep red notebook.

  I was still debating whether to follow her when I noticed that Bones had made the decision for me.

  ‘Bones!’ I hissed. ‘Come back!’ But it was too late. He was trotting through the crowds towards her as she turned and began to head for the chapel. I had no choice, did I? I had to follow them.

  I stepped off the pavement, and a horse reared up beside me, its carriage driver pulling to a halt.

  ‘Oi!’ the driver cried in a gruff voice. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

  I paid him no mind. I was on the case!

  I reached the pale lady and tugged on her sleeve. ‘What did she tell you?’ I demanded hurriedly.

  She just shook her head, eyes wide. ‘A murderer in our midst!’ she said, without looking at me.

  I wanted to ask more, but Bones was still following the Black Widow. I could just see him up ahead, trotting paws in hot pursuit as the gossiping mourners parted to let her through.

  She’s going into the funeral, I realised.

  I left the pale lady where she stood, and ran after the Black Widow.

  Or at least, I tried to run. It was like swimming through treacle – people got in the way of every step. When I finally reached the entrance to Seven Gates cemetery with its grand chapels, the Black Widow had vanished.

  ‘Did she go inside, boy?’ I asked Bones, who had stopped.

  But Bones was sniffing and poking at something on the ground. A crumpled ball of white against the dirty brown of the pavement.

  ‘Good boy,’ I said as I reached down and picked it up. Had the Black Widow dropped it? It was a couple of torn pieces of paper, so I picked the ball gently apart and flattened it against my dress. I could tell it was a page from a journal, perhaps the one that the Black Widow had been holding.

  The first read simply, in angry capitals:

  IS A MURDERER

  It was ripped off at the top, so I didn’t know who it was accusing. Was this what she had shown the shocked lady in the street?

  But the second piece was neatly ruled and handwritten in a way that suggested either keen precision or madness. I read the words.

  I put my trust in you. I thought you would understand. You knew a love like the light of the sun, as I did. I did what I had to, to survive – for more than survival. For a life. But then you took the sunshine from me. And all was dark. We froze in the winter. Everything I loved was taken. Now you too will know the feel of the cold.

  * * *

  My skin prickled all over. This could mean nothing good.

  I hastily crumpled up the journal page and hid it away in my dress. I would have to show this to Oliver.

  A sound rang out over the streets then, a low, mournful clanging. The chapel bell was tolling. I looked up.

  There she was, all in black, slipping inside the chapel.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said to Bones, and to the world in general. ‘We’re going to have to follow her, aren’t we?’

  needed a disguise. Thinking quickly, I unfolded the black handkerchief and tucked it into the brim of my hat, making a makeshift veil. It wasn’t very convincing, but it at least h
id my eyes from view.

  I was about to run inside when the crowd swarmed around me, with the swishing of many ladies’ skirts. The funeral procession had arrived, and was lurching up the street beside us. Everyone was huddled together, a cloud of gossip and whispers. Nosy lot, I thought as I pushed in between them. Then I lifted my veil to get a better look.

  There was the large black mourning carriage. I recognised the coachman driving the horses as Mr Dreyfuss, who had the most fantastic bushy moustache, like a broom that had taken root beneath his nose. He wore his silk hat at an angle, the long black crape weeper cloth descending over his cloak. He was tipping the hat at people in a jaunty fashion as he passed, which I felt fairly certain he wasn’t meant to do.

  The horses were black, too, of course. Father liked to tell people that their names were Orpheus and Eurydice, which I suppose he thought was more fitting than their actual names, which were Daisy and Buttercup.

  Managing to grab hold of Bones’s collar, I watched as the procession slowed even further to make the turn through the chapel archway and through into the courtyard. I caught a brief glimpse of Father and Oliver riding a carriage, and tried to hide behind an exceptionally wide man in the hopes that they wouldn’t spot me. When I looked out again, I could see everyone descending from the carriages and hopping out on to the cobbles. The pallbearers went to the back of the hearse to start shifting the coffin.

  Everyone began moving towards the chapel, and I tried to listen to what they were saying, but the chatter had grown louder as soon as the procession passed, and it was hard to filter the noise.

  ‘Did you see him?’ I heard someone say.

  ‘I wonder if it’s true?’

  ‘Someone really ought to tell the police …’

  What has the Black Widow been telling them? I thought. Did she accuse old Mr Walcott? And why? If we could only catch up with her, perhaps I’d be able to find out.

  I decided to try on Oliver’s accent, dropping more of my Hs and Ts. ‘’Ere,’ I said to a nearby woman, who moments before had been whispering to her friends. ‘You ’eard these rumours, then?’

  The woman’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘Me and Bessie here, we love a good scandal!’ Bessie giggled. ‘We just couldn’t believe it when we heard! We had to come down and look. With all respect to old Mr Walcott, of course, God rest his soul.’

  Hmm. This was going to be more difficult than I’d thought. How was I to extract information about the rumours?

  I twisted the hem of my lace through my fingers. ‘Was ’e a good man?’

  ‘Oh no, he was a gambler and a cheat, the old goat,’ said the woman. ‘But that’s nothing, is it! Not to murder!’

  ‘Ha!’ Bessie laughed again, and I wondered why she was laughing. But before I could say any more, the two women bustled away.

  I was swept along with the crowd as it poured towards the twin chapel, the Church of England side. I pulled the lace back down over my eyes and tried my hardest to look as though I definitely belonged there, although it seemed most of the crowd weren’t friends and family of the deceased any more than I was. Or if they were, they didn’t seem to be particularly sad about his passing. There were plenty not even dressed in mourning black – cooks in floured aprons and tailors in patterned waistcoats with their scissors. They all seemed to be there to watch the spectacle.

  As I neared the entrance, I noticed the men began to split off.

  Ah, yes, I thought. Although I’d never been allowed to go to a funeral before, I’d been inside the chapels many times, sneaking in at night to get a good look around. There was a gallery at the back for the ladies, with a screen across to protect our delicate feminine eyes or something of the sort.

  One of Father’s men was at the door, greeting everyone. Blast. It was Mr Patel, who had known me since I was knee high. Thank goodness for the veil. But I had to say something, or I wouldn’t get in. And what about Bones? I was still gripping his collar tightly, the back of his tail swishing against my legs.

  I loosened my grip for only a second but as soon as I did he shot away, slipping amidst the sea of black-clad funeral-goers. ‘Bones!’ I hissed, but it was too late. He bounded through, getting caught on a long black scarf as he went, its lady owner gasping as it wrapped round him. Then he disappeared from view, vanishing into the chapel. Oh no! I thought.

  Well now I had no choice. I had to go in.

  After a quick whispered prayer to whoever would listen, I moved forward with the crowd.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Mr Patel, giving me a small bow.

  ‘Uh …’ I said, racking my brains, ‘… bonjour? Je suis … très … sad,’ I mumbled, dabbing at my eyes.

  He tilted his head sympathetically, and waved me inside.

  I couldn’t believe that had worked.

  I stared up at the vast Gothic ceiling of the chapel as we entered, but I quickly remembered why I was there. The Black Widow. Would she be heading to the gallery, or lurking in the shadows? There was a surprising amount of noise – I was certain people were meant to be quiet and respectful at a funeral, but instead everyone was chattering. They were doing so in lowered voices, but the effect was like a cloud of murmurs hanging over the room.

  The coffin wasn’t in yet, but some of Mr Walcott’s taxidermy creations had been placed at the front by the altar, including a tea party of rabbits and a rather unimpressed-looking black cat.

  I hung back by a pillar and looked around, desperately searching … There she was. Over the other side of the chapel, near the stairs to the women’s balcony, in her long black dress and lace. There was a glint as the spider brooch at the back caught the light.

  Just as I was about to move towards her, I heard a familiar voice from the door near the altar.

  ‘Bones?’ It was Oliver. He must have been sent in to wait until everything was in place, at which point the undertaker’s men would usually go outside.

  I stood on tiptoes and saw Bones was right at the front of the chapel, scarf hanging over his face, enthusiastically greeting Oliver. I saw a few people pointing at them. Oh no.

  Where was Father? That was something I didn’t know about funerals – where the undertaker would be while it was all going on. I could only see Oliver, who looked baffled as he petted Bones, turning his head as if trying to see where the dog had appeared from. He pulled at the scarf and tried to throw it over the dog to hide him, but Bones wiggled free.

  I leaned round the pillar and waved at Bones, hissing his name. His ears pricked up, and I tipped my head towards the Black Widow. ‘Over there!’

  Perhaps I was overestimating the intelligence of my dog, but I felt certain that he would know to come back to me so that we could track the woman. Unfortunately, he had other ideas.

  Time seemed to stand still as Bones leaped into action. He bounded past the stuffed cat, sending it flying into the lap of a bespectacled man in the front row, and clattered up the aisle. The woman in black spun round with a gasp, only to find herself knocked to the floor by an overzealous greyhound.

  Now that the lady’s veil was askew, I could see that she had a sea of freckles and not a scar in sight.

  She also looked extremely surprised.

  I realised, with increasing horror, that it was not the Black Widow.

  ‘Sorry!’ I called out, as the entire congregation turned and stared at me. ‘Bad dog!’ I winced and hurried over to pull Bones off her.

  It was then that I felt a sturdy hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You, young lady, are in big trouble,’ a voice hissed in my ear.

  Well, that answered my question.

  Father was right behind me.

  And he looked furious.

  ather marched us outside to the courtyard where the funeral carriages were now standing. Bones whimpered, his tail between his legs. He knew he’d done something wrong. ‘This is all your fault,’ I hissed down at him.

  Oliver had slipped out of the side door and was now waiting in the shadows.
He tipped his hat at me politely.

  ‘Oh, don’t give her that,’ Father snapped. ‘Not after the mess she’s just caused!’ He turned back. ‘Are you going to explain yourself? A funeral is NOT the place for a girl.’

  Well, there went any notion I had of telling the truth. If Father thought I was too delicate to even look at a funeral, what would he say if I told him I was on the trail of a murderer?

  ‘Perhaps I just wanted to see a funeral for once,’ I said, wrenching my arm free from Father’s hand. ‘You let me help out at home all the time, but I’m never allowed to come here. It doesn’t make sense.’

  When Father was truly angry his face would turn pale and drawn; his eyebrows knitted so tightly, his brow furrowed. That was precisely the face he was wearing that moment.

  ‘And why in heaven’s name did you bring the dog?’

  I bit my tongue. ‘Um. He followed me?’ Bones whined in agreement.

  Father looked completely unimpressed. ‘Your antics might have just ruined my reputation, do you understand? How dare you behave in this manner!’

  ‘S-sorry,’ I tried, as Bones cowered behind me. ‘I don’t think anyone recognised me, my face was covered, I …’

  Unfortunately, Father showed no interest in my apologies or explanations.

  ‘Oliver,’ he growled. ‘Take her home.’ He turned to me. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’

  Oliver took my arm, but his grip was so light that it barely registered. I thought he seemed uncertain whether he was more afraid of my father or of me.

  ‘But Father—’

  ‘But nothing, Violet. This is my profession. There is no excuse for letting your wayward behaviour put everything I’ve worked for at risk! Now, go! Mr Walcott isn’t going to bury himself!’

  Before I could say anything more in my defence, Father was storming back into the chapel.

  A cold breeze blew up, swirling the autumn leaves around us. Oliver dropped my arm. ‘Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘What were you really up to?’