by David Haynes
"Here." She handed him a damp cloth. "So what can I do for you Mr Moreton? And don't ask me to do your dry cleaning either."
Bobby felt embarrassed. Not just because of the bacon banjo but because he couldn't quite recall how much of a dickhead he'd been in Crabbe's. "Look, I'm really sorry about all this. I'm not normally like this, it's just been a bad few days and I was letting off a bit of steam yesterday. I'm sorry if I offended you last night." He winced, waiting for the reply.
"You didn't say anything to offend me. You asked me for a drink that was all. No harm done. Not to me anyway." She looked at the wedding ring on his finger.
Bobby opened his mouth to speak but didn't know what to say.
"And before you ask. Not a chance. You look worse than you did yesterday, and if at all humanly possible, you smell even worse. Now, are you after Mr Johnson?"
He could hear the mockery in her voice but it was playful and it was clear she was trying to make light of the situation. To save him, to save both of them from embarrassment of what she thought was a married man making a terrible pass at her.
"Is he in?"
"No but he'll be back after lunch if you want to come back then?"
Bobby inhaled deeply. "I've got a feeling that doing anything after lunch might be tricky today."
"Well, are you looking to buy or sell?"
"Sell. Definitely sell."
"You seem pretty sure about that?"
He took a moment. "You know what? I am actually. I want to sell Moreton and Sons. I want to sell it. Can you do that for me?"
Esther laughed. "Maybe not today but we can make a start. Gimme twenty minutes to lock up and I'll come to the shop. Okay?"
"Okay." Bobby walked away. "I'll put the kettle on."
Bobby sat in the office and ate the remainder of the sandwich with a cup of tea. Apart from the embarrassing moment with the sandwich he felt positive and liberated by the steps he'd just made, albeit they were only small ones. What would he do once he'd sold the company? He'd always fancied visiting America. Maybe if things went his way he might find work over there. He wouldn't have to worry about working full time though; maybe just a bit here and there to keep his hand in. The house and business would more than pay for an extended period just travelling and seeing what was what.
It was an exciting prospect. He couldn't remember a time when Moreton and Sons hadn't been on his mind in one way or another. Ever since the first time watching his dad embalm Rita Taylor, the expectation had been there. Not that he minded that, at least not at first. It made him feel grown up and important. The way everyone in Littleoak spoke to John Moreton as if he was the Bishop or the Doctor, or sometimes God, was magical.
"It's because they know they'll be coming to me when the time's right and they want me to take care of them. They want John Moreton to be the one who buries them. No-one else."
And he was right. That's what they wanted. No-one said it of course, but everyone knew that John Moreton would see more of their body than their husband or wife had done in probably twenty years or more. It was important they knew him before that happened and it was important they didn't upset him.
Not that many people did. He was a hard man to fall out with, and if like Clifford Greene, you crossed words with the man, well you just got treated the same way as everyone else. With dignity and respect. It was just safer to be in his good books that was all.
How could he even think about selling the business? He might as well cut his arm off. Running Moreton and Sons wasn't meant to be easy and it certainly wasn't meant to be fun but it was supposed to be important. It was supposed to make the people of Littleoak feel safe. If he left it behind who would bury them? Some grey man in a grey suit with the cold stare of disinterest, that was who.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went into the embalming room to wash his face. The water was icy cold, and as he raised his wet head, the cat walked across the draining board in front of him. "I'm staying for a bit longer. Try not to eat any more of the guests please." He turned away without waiting for the inevitable hissed reply. He hoped Esther wouldn't be too annoyed at his change of heart but as he sat down at the computer and started going through the emails, he knew it was the right decision.
Almost immediately the exciting sound of the brass doorbell ringing drove him from his seat. He walked out of the office and started speaking. "I'm sorry, Esther but I've had a change of..." He stopped talking. It wasn't Esther standing in the shop. Not unless she'd aged by about sixty years and changed gender. He wanted to turn back around and put his emergency suit on, the one reserved for when accidents occurred. For when bodies had been lying somewhere for a while before being found. He looked a mess and he knew it.
His degenerate appearance was further compounded by the immaculate dress of the customer. His long woollen overcoat was as black as night and his shoes as dark and lustrous as a fine granite headstone. He was tall too and the top hat he wore only added to his towering form. It gave the man a degree of elegance and charisma before he even spoke a word.
Bobby smiled. He knew he would have to give it his all to impress a man such as this. He walked toward the customer with his hand out. "Good morning. I'm Bobby Moreton. Can I help you with anything?"
The man was elderly and slightly stooped but even so he was taller than Bobby by some margin. He reached out his gloved hand and accepted Bobby's gesture. "And I sir am Richard Jacobs." He lifted his hat at the brim. "And I have a proposition for you Mr Moreton. A proposition you may find difficult to refuse."
Chapter 7
April 1854
Moreton The Undertaker
Regent Street,
London.
"And will you require mourners or do you have your own?" Benjamin asked.
"A dozen mourners if you please and a full complement of mutes too. Mind they don't drink too much."
"Very good. I can vouch for their characters myself. They are all sworn to sobriety." Benjamin filled out the ledger. "And will there be anything else?"
"I think not. This has already cost us more than the man was worth."
"I can assure you our prices are more than competitive. In actual fact..."
The man held up his hands. "I dare say, Mr Porter, yet I can also see this business has been more than kind to Mr Moreton." He tried to peer around Benjamin's shoulder. "Where is he by the way? I have not clapped eyes on the man since he collected poor Edward."
Benjamin smiled. "He is tending to your brother as we speak and there is no finer man to conduct such care. There is no greater privilege than to prepare a man for his burial. It is a matter which both Mr Moreton and I take very seriously."
The customer was becoming impatient. "Yes, yes. You may send the bill of payment to my offices." He turned away and walked quickly from the shop.
Benjamin sighed and closed the book. It had been eighteen months since he had first set foot inside the shop but it felt much longer. Not that he found it tiresome or a tedious way to spend the working day, quite the contrary. It was a most rewarding profession and the sense of pride was something he had not expected to feel. No, the reason he felt it had been longer was his comfort at dealing with all matters of death. It no longer felt an odd profession at all.
He had never forgotten the terror and revulsion he had felt when he first placed his his hands on the cold flesh of Gerald Seymour; it was not to be forgotten. But the sensations he felt that morning had long gone and were now replaced by something altogether different; altogether more pleasing.
He had meant what he had said a few moments before. Tending a man, or woman, who had passed was as much a privilege as aiding a woman give birth. It was a calling and Benjamin had heard the voice. His cheery disposition and natural attention to detail provided Moreton with the perfect assistant and soon Benjamin was effectively managing the shop and making arrangements for the lavish funerals Moreton was famous for.
Moreton's retreat from the day to day business gave t
he man time to pursue his own interests. With these he confined himself to the preparation room and locked the door. Benjamin did not question the strange noises which came from the room until late into the night. Nor did he question Mr Moreton over his seeming ambivalence to the business. No, he would never question the man who had given him everything. He simply wanted to help him; in whatever guise that took.
However contented he had become with his position, an equal measure of pain scratched at his bones. In eighteen months he had not yet found the courage to see his father again. His needs were few and the wages Moreton paid him more than adequately covered his desires. The rest, he put in a sack beneath the floorboards in his room. One day he would look on his father's face and present him with the money he had stolen. It would be then that he would see that look in his eyes again; the look of pride at his only son's fortune. Then and only then would that deep sense of disappointment which haunted both of them be wiped out forever.
"He was satisfied?"
Benjamin jumped. It was seldom that Moreton ventured into the shop and his voice was an uncommon but welcome sound. Moreton spent much time with his wife now and Benjamin feared the worst. "Mr Moreton! How wonderful to see you this morning. Yes he was quite satisfied." Benjamin opened the ledger, inviting Moreton to examine his work.
Moreton barely looked at it. "I do not need to examine it to know the quality is there. It has always has been so." Moreton looked tired, as if he had not slept the night just gone.
"Can I bring you some lunch? Perhaps one of those buns you so enjoy? I can be back in no time at all."
Moreton smiled at him. "My appetite has gone and I do not think it will return." He sat at the stool behind the desk. "I am weary, Benjamin."
"You work too hard, Mr Moreton. You must take a few days to recover your strength. I can manage quite well on my own."
"Of that I have no doubt. You are a most capable fellow and will make your father proud once again."
"Then allow me to help." Benjamin added bluntly.
Moreton took a moment before answering. "I fear you will think me quite insane."
"Insane, sir? I could never regard you that way. You have shown me nothing but kindness and your compassion for your fellow man is simply astonishing. You are a great man."
"And yet this kindness and compassion is making a fool of me and turning me into someone quite different. I have become obsessed, Benjamin, and I cannot stop. Even if my heart desired it was so and it does not."
"Of what matters do you speak? You must allow me to share your burden. I insist."
Moreton remained silent and Benjamin had too much respect for the man to push him further. He checked his pocket watch. "I do not think we shall take any more custom today. As your assistant I recommend we close early and catch a cab to your home. I so look forward to seeing Mrs Moreton again and enjoying one of her wonderful dinners. I thought she looked much brighter last week. I am hopeful the return to warmer weather will bring her..."
"Quiet!" Moreton roared. "You will be silent on the matter of my wife!"
Benjamin stepped away. "I did not mean to cause offence, sir. I was merely expressing my fondness for her."
Moreton looked up at him. His bloodshot eyes flashed with fury for a moment before it passed and once again kindness filled his eyes. "I am sorry, Benjamin. I am tired and her health pains me so. Lock the door and we shall visit my Alice together."
Benjamin turned the sign on the door and locked it. "I shall fetch my coat from upstairs and meet you in the yard."
"You do not require a coat Benjamin." Moreton turned and walked beyond the desk into the darkness beyond. "Follow me." He whispered.
It had been a long time since he had entered the preparation room with such a feeling of trepidation, but as Benjamin stepped across the threshold he knew things were not as they should be. It was not the smell for that had become as common as cologne or horse manure; something more sinister was at work.
The room held two tables but only one was due to be used this day. The only cadaver present should belong to Henry Gibbs who was due to be interred in the morning. Yet both tables were in use and it didn't take Moreton long to show who lay on the other.
Moreton threw back the sheet. "My poor Alice passed from her desperate life this very morning, Benjamin. Her last breath was taken at my side in the chill darkness of the dawn. Look at her, she is as beautiful as she was on the day we wed; before the illness ate at her guts like diseased vermin." He placed his hand upon her cheek and was silent.
Benjamin looked down at Alice and felt tears sting his eyes. She was beautiful and now her face was devoid of the creases of agony which had been forever etched into her flesh. "She is at peace, my friend, and free of pain." He reached out and put his hand on his benefactor’s shoulder. He felt Moreton shudder under his touch.
"I would forever remember her this way but I know my mind will recall her face in other ways. It will find the images of her as she writhed in agony night after night. As I dared not give her yet more laudanum to take away her pain. As she cried and screamed for me to end her suffering with my pillow." He almost spat the words. "I could not do it. I was not strong enough and I let her suffer. I allowed her to suffer far more than I would an animal!"
He fell to his knees beside the table. "I will not see her this way for eternity. I will not allow it!"
Benjamin knelt beside him. "I feel your grief. I feel it to the very pit of my soul. We have dealt with others' grief you and I, yet we are ill prepared for our own. I will see you through this, Jerome. I will aid you in any way I can, you have only to ask."
Moreton looked up, his cheeks wet with tears. "You are a good man and I shall hold you to your offer."
"Anything."
"Then you will take the carriage to Bethlem this very night. When you arrive you shall ask for Tidd the night-porter."
"Bethlem?" Benjmain asked, confused.
Moreton stood again and wiped away the tears. His face grew serious. "Yes. There will be a parcel for you to collect. Now leave me with my wife."
"But..."
"Leave at once!"
Benjamin edged out of the room leaving Moreton staring into his wife's eyes. What business could send him to Bethlem tonight? And why did Moreton feel the need to express such urgency? He dismissed the thoughts; it was not his concern. Grief can do strange things to a man and Moreton's behaviour was no more erratic than any other.
He walked quickly to the yard and made ready the carriage. He had never been to the lunatic house before but he was aware of it, as anyone in the city was. Nevertheless it was not somewhere he would venture given the choice. Thankfully it was only a short journey of no more than two miles and in the carriage would take only minutes to get there.
The cool spring air was a welcome relief and it carried with it the sweet scent of blossom to cleanse the fetid city air. He rattled along the streets, past the stalls selling pastries and gingerbread; through the markets selling eels and whelks. The city lived on and cared not for the loss of others. It simply cared not for the trials of man. He cracked the whip and moved the horses on faster. He had no desire to be in Bethlem when night fell; no desire at all.
After a short journey he arrived at the gates. A great wall had been built around the place. It sought to keep the city safe from the horrors of those interned within. Benjamin peered through the gates and up along the wide driveway which ended at the building itself. A dome crowned the otherwise austere architecture, but it did not soften the view, for what lay inside was not the beauty of a cathedral choir but the wail of a lunatic.
Benjamin climbed down and called through the gate, "Hello!" It was unlikely his voice would be heard by anyone in the building for it was a hundred paces or more away. "I'm here to see Tidd!" he called hopelessly.
He was greeted by nothing more than the steady rumble of carriages on the street behind him. His mind drifted back to his conversation with Moreton. "Anything," he had answered. "I sh
all aid you in any way I can." And yet here he was tripping at the first step. He grabbed the iron railings on the gate and shook them with all his strength. "Tidd!" he roared.
As if instructed by anger and brute force, the gates moved back under his touch. He watched as they silently swung open and invited him onto the grounds. It could not be correct for the gates to be insecure in this way and he did not relish the thought of climbing back down to close them again. Yet, as he drove through he pulled the horses to a stop and climbed back down for he could not bear the thought that lunatics should be free to roam the city whenever they chose.
He spurred the horses on and quickly arrived at the front of the hospital. The sun had already started to quicken its pace toward temporary oblivion and he was anxious to collect whatever package was being kept and return safely to Moreton. He looked around the grounds to satisfy himself there was no danger and once again dismounted. It was clear an architect of some renown had made his plans a reality here. Yet as he took in the grand style a feeling of dread fell upon him like a dark shroud. He banged on the double height wooden door and waited.