Constable & Toop

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘Why did you want to find me? I thought you had no need of a Talker.’

  ‘Things have changed.’

  ‘So have I. I don’t help ghosts any more.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ The floorboards above them creaked. Jack was on the move. Sam lowered his voice. ‘So you can find another Talker,’ he said. ‘I’m not helping you. I’ve had it with helping ghosts.’

  ‘This ain’t your normal sort of help.’

  ‘None of them are normal,’ snapped Sam. ‘They all think they’re different. But they’re all the same. Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands. Tell them I love them, tell them where the money is hidden, tell them not to pawn that old trinket. I’ve had enough of it.’

  Tanner slipped behind the desk and expertly picked up a pen between his forefinger and thumb.

  ‘Stop that,’ said Sam.

  Tanner dipped it in the ink pot. ‘I was only going to write you a note asking for your help.’ A drop of ink splashed down onto the desk.

  ‘You can’t make me help you like this,’ said Sam. ‘You’re like the rest of them, trying to spook me into doing what you want. I won’t.’

  ‘All I ask is that you hear me out,’ said Tanner. ‘This isn’t one of your selfish ghost problems. This is important. Now, you going to help me or what?’

  ‘Put the pen down,’ said Sam. ‘All right. I’ll hear you out. Only not here.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘The top of One Tree Hill in an hour.’

  The boy smiled. ‘See you there, Sam Toop.’

  One Tree Hill was a place Sam went when he wanted to get away from everyone. When he was younger he would go there after being teased by his classmates. He went there when the ghosts got too much for him or when he needed to escape the shop and the morbid profession into which he had been born. Mr Constable always said that theirs was a noble trade, helping to mark the passing of unique and precious lives, but Sam sometimes wondered if they were not more like vultures, preying on grief and extracting money from the vulnerable. Sam had heard enough ghosts grumbling about their own funerals to know that the dead were never satisfied. They cost money that could be better spent on food, schooling and medicine. Bodies could be thrown into a hole with no ceremony, or burnt in a crematorium for half the expense and who would be the worse for it?

  Grieving relatives tried to find comfort in the idea of an afterlife, but Sam, who had witnessed it for himself, saw no comfort in what he had seen. Every day he saw the restless spirits pacing the same streets they walked in life, leaving no footprints, making no sound. The dead he saw had found no enlightenment. No nirvana. No joy.

  At the top of the hill Sam could see London’s hazy skyline, the great dome of St Paul’s, the countless rooftops of London’s cramped population and the factories of Borough churning out the black smoke of industry.

  ‘Lovely view from up here,’ said Tanner, materialising next to him.

  ‘Just tell me what you want,’ said Sam.

  ‘You remember that church where we met?’

  ‘Of course.’ How could Sam forget the strange black substance that had rendered him unconscious?

  ‘You were in there before I entered, which means you were there when Lil’ Mags went in.’

  ‘Your dog?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yeah, my dog. You must have seen what the church was like before, then.’

  ‘I don’t know what I saw that night.’

  ‘It’s called the Black Rot. We have to stop it spreading. Houses are losing their Residents. That’s when it sets in. I need someone who can persuade ghosts to replace them.’

  ‘I’ve had it with all of you,’ snapped Sam, unable to hide his anger. Jack was right; ghosts were selfish. Mr Sternwell’s deception over the will had been the last straw but Sam could think of countless examples of similar behaviour. ‘I’m through with helping ghosts.’

  ‘I’m not talking about helping ghosts. I’m talking about saving London.’

  ‘I don’t care about London either,’ replied Sam. ‘It can all go to hell.’

  ‘The way things are going it’s more likely to be the other way round,’ said Tanner wryly.

  ‘It’s not my problem.’

  Tanner stared angrily at Sam. ‘The dead ain’t no one’s problem,’ he said. ‘Just like the poor. Let them ruin themselves with drink. Let their children die like rats. The whole lot of them may as well rot away in their own filth.’

  ‘I’m talking about the dead, not the poor.’

  ‘The poor sit in the dead’s waiting room,’ stated Tanner.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ said Sam. ‘No one can help you.’

  He turned and walked down the hill.

  Tanner shouted after him, but Sam didn’t turn again. Tanner felt furious. He was frustrated that he had wasted all that time searching for a Talker who refused to help. He channelled his emotions into the tips of his fingers and picked up a pebble. For a moment he considered throwing it at Sam but instead he turned and lobbed it into the trees.

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear,’ said a voice.

  Tanner turned. A man stood behind him, with bloodshot eyes and leathery skin. He was a living man and yet he was looking directly at him.

  ‘My nephew wouldn’t ’elp you, would ’e?’ he said.

  ‘Your nephew?’

  ‘I’m Jack Toop. Pleased to meet you.’ The man leaned forward, bringing his face close to Tanner’s. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your request. Shame he wouldn’t ’elp you out.’

  Tanner had met his type before. The way he rubbed his hands together, the way he hunched his shoulders as though in constant readiness to duck out of sight. Men like him could be thieves or killers but they were never good news. Never. In life, Tanner had feared them. In death, they posed no threat to him.

  ‘I’ve got a proposal for you, boy,’ said the man. ‘A proposal to help you out of your little predicament.’

  ‘You mean you’ll help me get ghosts into the houses?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ll get ghosts into ’ouses. Nothing could be easier. But you got to help me out in return. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘Help you out with what?’

  ‘I need some spyin’ done. It’ll take hardly any time. How abouts we make a deal; for every ghost I get inside one of your ’ouses, you do me a little bit of spyin’. How about that?’

  ‘You really think you can convince them to go in?’ asked Tanner.

  Jack laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll drag them in kickin’ and screamin’ if necessary.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tanner. ‘We got a deal.’

  Jack grinned. ‘I’d shake your ’and if I could. Now, give us an ’ouse and, as an act of good will, I’ll do the first one for free.’

  Tanner picked an address from the list at random and read it out loud. ‘Aysgarth House, Three Kings Court, Fleet Street.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll get you a ghost inside before mornin’,’ said Jack.

  42

  Breaking Out

  Lapsewood turned the key General Colt had given him and heard the satisfying click of the Vault door unlocking. He felt the Marquis’ hand on his shoulder.

  ‘May I?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  The Marquis pushed the great door open and they both stepped out.

  ‘Breathe it in,’ said the Marquis. ‘That, my friend, is the sweet aroma of liberty.’

  Lapsewood nodded. Ghosts could not smell but this was no time to quibble. He pushed the keyhole cover to one side and locked the door. ‘We don’t want Brinks getting suspicious,’ he said. ‘He needs to think we simply gave up the ghost and dissipated.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Marquis.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ said Lapsewood.

  ‘Perhaps we should say a few words to mark the occasion,’ said the Marquis. ‘What a fickle mistress freedom has been to me over the years, and yet how smitten I have always been with her. In spite of her inconstance—�
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  ‘Maybe we should save the speeches for later,’ suggested Lapsewood, fearful about spending any more time outside the prison than was necessary in case Sergeant Brinks should make an appearance.

  ‘You are right. There is a time and a place for oration and this is neither the time nor that place,’ replied the Marquis, still speaking louder than Lapsewood would have liked. ‘Where to now?’

  The two men began to walk up the stairs.

  ‘There’s an entrance to the Paternoster Pipe two floors up,’ said Lapsewood. ‘From there you can get to the physi­­cal world and go where you choose.’

  ‘No, I will stick with you.’ The Marquis gripped Lapsewood’s elbow.

  ‘That’s good of you, but there’s no need.’

  ‘I will hear no argument. Where are we going?’

  ‘I need to find a way into the Central Records Library.’

  The Marquis gasped. ‘The CRL?’ He spoke in hushed awe. ‘Why would you risk re-arrest by venturing in there?’

  ‘In order to solve this problem I must find my friend, Tanner. He will be working his way through the London Tenancy List so I need a copy to find him. Assuming Grunt was successful in obtaining Doris McNally’s copy, the only version that remains is the safety copy, which is filed in the CRL.’

  ‘This scheme is bold, daring and utterly insane. I like it. It reminds me of a time while travelling through Arabia when I decided to steal a Sultan’s camel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I forget the reason, but rest assured that when it comes to adventure and escapades, you have seen but a few colours of these in my palette. Lead on, sir. You are my Moses. I am your Israelites.’

  The Marquis was undoubtedly the most insane person Lapsewood had ever encountered. He had no idea whether his presence would prove beneficial or a hindrance, but equally he could see that he was saddled with him now. Besides, perhaps insanity was a useful quality when it came to breaking into the Central Records Library.

  43

  The Girl in the Kitchen

  The ear-piercing scream filled Aysgarth House. Clara sat bolt upright. In her sleepy state she vaguely wondered whether Mrs Preston had seen a mouse again. But the scream grew in volume and intensity and turned into hysterical babbling. Clara quickly dressed and went out onto the landing. Looking down into the hall, she saw Mrs Preston being comforted by her mother. Her father was standing at the kitchen door with Hopkins close behind him.

  ‘Who is she?’ Mrs Preston was managing to say in between her sobs. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s no one,’ replied Mrs Tiltman. ‘She’s no one.’

  Clara stepped onto the stairs. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Clara, go back to your bedroom at once,’ barked her father. He spun around and closed the door, but not quickly enough to prevent Clara seeing that the kitchen floor was stained with a dark, red liquid. ‘Clara, do as I say this minute,’ ordered Mr Tiltman.

  Clara was not used to hearing her father speak in such a way. He looked at her as though daring her to contradict him. She turned and went back to her room but, once she was out of sight, slammed the door shut from the outside and sat down on the landing so she could still hear.

  ‘Hopkins, go to the police station and fetch an officer,’ said her father.

  ‘Should I not remove the body first, sir?’ he replied.

  ‘The police will take care of such matters,’ said Mr Tiltman.

  ‘But, what about your breakfast, sir?’ said Hopkins.

  ‘Good God, man, that hardly matters at this point,’ stated Mr Tiltman.

  ‘But who is she?’ asked Mrs Preston who, in her hysteri­­cal state, appeared unable to say anything else.

  ‘Please take Mrs Preston into the drawing room,’ said Mr Tiltman to his wife. ‘Hopkins will find a street vendor to buy tea on his way back.’

  ‘But I don’t understand who she could be,’ said Mrs Preston.

  ‘The police will deal with these questions,’ said Mr Tiltman.

  ‘That’s right, Mrs Preston,’ said his wife. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock.’

  ‘But the door was locked last night,’ continued the cook. ‘How can she have found her way in?’

  Mrs Tiltman made no attempt to field these questions as she led the overwrought cook into the drawing room.

  ‘Now, Hopkins, please make haste,’ said Mr Tiltman. ‘The sooner the police get here, the sooner everything will be well. I am sure this is just a terrible accident.’

  Clara lingered outside her door for a moment. The temptation to go downstairs and see for herself the horror that she was now imagining was overwhelming, but her father was still down there and she did not want to re-ignite the fury she had seen so she opened her bedroom door quietly and slipped inside. She pressed her back against the door and closed her eyes.

  A body. A dead body found in her kitchen. Clara knew she should have felt sickened and scared by the idea, but she did not. She felt excited. Reporters would come to the house. She had read accounts of such stories. They would name it something like The Gruesome Murder of Aysgarth House.

  Clara wondered if there was something wrong with her that she could feel so excited. But it wasn’t just that; something else was different about the house today. The sense of dread had gone. That indefinable, invisible presence that had borne down on her so heavily over the last few days had lifted. The warmth had returned.

  There was a dead body in the kitchen and yet, for the first time since Reverend Fallowfield’s exorcism of Lady Aysgarth, Clara felt safe in her house.

  44

  Emily’s New Home

  The only time Emily Wilkins had set foot inside a place as grand as Aysgarth House was when her mother had held the position of maid to a family in Islington. So, even now, standing in the kitchen as a ghost, looking down on her own bloodied body, she didn’t feel it would be right to venture beyond those rooms assigned to the servants. She found the sight of her dead self upsetting and was relieved when, at last, Hopkins returned with two police officers to remove the body.

  Upon seeing the corpse the younger of the two policemen put his hand to his mouth and retched.

  ‘Just a street urchin by the looks of things,’ said the elder, who had white wispy whiskers sprouting untidily from his chin and neck. ‘Probably got into an argument with her boyfriend.’

  ‘Bit young for that kind of thing, isn’t she, sir?’ said the younger man, forcing himself to look.

  ‘You’d be surprised. I seen ’em younger than this walking the streets. Prettier too.’

  ‘Funny she should find her way into this house.’

  ‘Must have found the door open and stumbled in.’ The older man walked to the back door and eased it open with the side of his boot. ‘Yep, look. Blood on the handle.’

  ‘The cook swears she locked it at night,’ replied his colleague.

  ‘That hysterical old bird?’ snorted the other. ‘She’s worried about losing her position.’

  ‘But what if it is the truth?’

  ‘Listen to me, Sidmouth. How long have you been on the beat now?’

  ‘It’s coming up to three months now, sir.’

  ‘Three months? Twelve years is my tally. And when you’ve been patrolling these streets as long as I have you get a nose for these kind of things. You have to ask yourself what is more likely, a dappy old cook forgetting to lock a door or a street urchin with her throat cut picking a lock and breaking into a kitchen?’

  ‘Perhaps it was some kind of burglary gone awry, sir.’

  The older man sighed and stepped onto the porch door. ‘You see how the blood leads to the house? You mark my words, this little one gets into some kind of dispute with her fella, has her throat cut, then stagger stagger stagger, plop, she drops dead on the kitchen floor. Come on now, wrap up the body and let’s get it out of here.’

  The younger man knelt down next to the dead body. Emily floated down to his side, with the strangest feeling, as if
she was paying her last respects to herself. The policeman closed her eyelids and set about wrapping up the body for removal. ‘So young,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘So young,’ repeated Emily.

  She felt sorry for the distress she had caused Mrs Preston and for the upset her appearance had caused in the house. She wished she could leave, but the outside wall remained as solid as if she were still alive, so she remained in the kitchen.

  After a few hours, her curiosity grew. Since she could not be seen, what harm was there in exploring the rest of the house? Emily stepped through the wall into the hallway, feeling the freedom of the realisation that the rules of the living no longer applied. She drifted up the stairs. The lightness of her new body was disconcerting. It felt as though the merest breeze could destroy her.

  The dining room, with its matching green curtains and patterned wallpaper, was beautiful. She poked her head into the cabinets to admire the gleaming silver cutlery and white porcelain plates. She wondered if such objects actually made the food taste better. In the drawing room she wished she was able to enjoy the softness of the cushions. But her favourite room was Clara’s bedroom. In spite of her short hair and plain dresses Clara was the handsomest girl she had ever laid eyes on. Emily investigated her wardrobe and found far prettier dresses. She wondered why she chose the dowdier ones. And why did she sit writing at her desk instead of playing with the toys she had hidden away at the back of the cupboard or with the splendid toy theatre by the window?

  Emily was sitting by the theatre, admiring its every detail, wishing she could move the pieces, when Clara’s gaze drifted up from her desk and she looked straight through her. Emily felt so unnerved by this that she turned to Ether Dust and drifted up to the attic window. She spent the rest of the day looking out on the Strand, thinking how all her life she had endured such squalor, with no possessions, no permanent home, no toys or pretty dresses. Only now in death could she observe what it would have been like to have been born into wealth.