by A. E. Moorat
'What do you think, Perkins?' asked Quimby at last. He had been gazing around the cemetery as they walked, wondering how he might be guaranteed of a place here when he turned up his toes. Brunel had bagged a spot, apparently; Babbage, too. Was there a waiting list, he wondered, as with Blacks? Then again, Highgate had just been opened and there was talk of it being a most salubrious setting for one's interment...
'What do I think of what, sir?' said Perkins. There was an edge to his voice that Quimby had learnt to recognise was hunger. Perkins was liable to become most disagreeable when he was hungry.
Most disagreeable.
'The cemetery?' prompted Quimby, 'quite a construct, do you not agree?'
'Oh, very nice, sir.'
'Better than Pere-Lachaise in Paris?' asked Quimby. 'It's modelled on Pere-Lachaise, you see, so one would have thought they would have taken the trouble to improve upon their inspiration in the process...'
'Well, sir, I couldn't say, sir,' said Perkins, 'not having been to Pere-Lachaise, sir.'
Quimby started. 'You've not been to...? Have you even been to Paris, Perkins?'
'No, sir.'
'Oh,' said Quimby, then, thinking about it, supposed not. Why, after all, would Perkins have been to Paris?
They walked along for a distance. The leg brushing.
'Perkins?'
'Yes, sir?'
'I was wondering. Perhaps when we've killed the journalist and retrieved the photogenic drawing and discovered a way of affixing your prosthetic leg on a more permanent basis and perfected a formula that will finally cure you of your craving for human flesh...Then, well...'
'Yes, sir?'
'Well, perhaps we could take a trip to Paris, just you and me. How would that be?'
There was a pause. Quimby thought he heard a snuffle and decided he best ignore it. 'That would be grand, sir,' said Perkins at last. 'Thank you very much.'
'Of course. Wonderful. Little holiday for us both. Probably what we deserve, isn't it?'
'Yes, sir.'
Drag, drag, drag.
As they walked, Quimby caught sight of a young boy to his left, walking between the graves, drifting in and out of darkness like a wraith, so that Quimby at first wondered if he had imagined him but no, there he was again. Like the boy at the gate he seemed covered in soot. His clothes ragged.
There was a long moment of silence then they were close to the centre of the cemetery. Dusk had become gloom had become dark, and though their eyes had been adjusting neither of them were able to see very well. However at the entrance to the catacombs were, as had been arranged, torches, though the flame was absent and they were required to light them, which Quimby did, with some difficulty and cursing, until he and Perkins stood at the stone entrance, each with a flaming torch, ready to enter.
'It's for your benefit that we're here, Perkins,' whispered Quimby, 'I hope you know that.'
'Yes, sir,' whispered Perkins back.
'We don't have any of this palaver when I need food, do we? When I need to eat I just...what do I do when I need food, Perkins?'
'You call for me, sir?'
'Exactly,' still whispering. 'There's none of this creeping about in catacombs. So I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm making here. Now, listen, when we meet these low-downs, I want you to look as though you mean business. We need to raise some question about the supply of the product they may find unpalatable and refuse to answer. Our aim here is to drive down the price. Is that clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Let's go.'
As he moved aside the wooden gate and took a step into the catacomb tunnel he looked to his left and saw a third urchin, this one sitting atop a gravestone, the heels of his bare feet tapping a drum beat on the stone, the mist seeming to bulge and blossom around him. But then Quimby and Perkins were out of sight, stepping into the catacombs where Quimby found himself inhaling a smell he had never previously encountered-he, a man who had watched his manservant eat human brains from his writing desk!-but no, this was a different nature of aroma-of earth, moist and dank and cloying, it seemed to lodge in the throat as they moved forward carefully along the low-ceilinged tunnel, moving underground.
There was the sound of scuttling ahead. Quimby glanced up and saw areas of the tunnel wall that seemed to be broken, as though for holes, and it occurred to him that the catacombs ran deeper and were more complicated than he could ever have imagined, and not for the first time he was most glad of Perkins' company.
The scuttling.
The flickering.
More than once, he called, 'Hello?'
For this, he thought-for this most unorthodox meeting place-the price was going down. It better had be.
Then they were upon it, the clearing, a circular area as though built in anticipation of some revitalised Hellfire Club gathering, with grey, dank stone rising up, up and away from the circle, portholes and window in the stone.
'Hello there, your Lordship.'
The voice seemed to echo from within the folds of shadow. Quimby wheeled within the circle, as did Perkins, both trying to locate the sound of the voice, chins raised, heads jerking this way and that.
'Burke?' said Quimby.
'No, it's Hare, sir,' came the voice, 'Burke's over there.'
'You have a companion, I see,' came a second voice.
'Good Lord,' said Quimby, thoroughly exasperated, 'show yourselves y'two blackguards, it's not as though your faces are mysteries to me.'
From one of the walls he saw a pair of legs appear. The torchlight danced and moved and he was afforded a glance of a man, Burke, he thought, sitting in one of the cubby holes, his legs dangling down into the pit, his arms folded in front of him.
'We need to negotiate,' said Quimby, uncertainly. Hare-where was Hare? He hoped Perkins had his wits about him.
He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling indeed. He had come here hoping to negotiate better terms for the fresh corpses they needed to keep Perkins fed while they worked on a cure, but it was clear that Burke and Hare had something else in mind.
'We need to negotiate,' came the mocking echo from one of them, and there was a laugh in return. Shadows formed and reformed, the walls seeming to shift and move with them. Quimby, tired of the games, walked over to the wall where Burke had sat but when he reached it the man was no longer there.
'Your Lordship.'
He wheeled around, went again to the centre of the room where he joined Perkins, the pair of them holding their torches aloft to squint into the darkness, occasionally tensing when they saw a shadow shift, a movement in the darkness.
'I'm afraid, your Lordliness,' came the voice, startling Quimby a little, 'that Mr Hare and I will no longer be supplying you with corpses. Isn't that right, Mr Hare?'
The second voice came from the other side of the room.
'That is so right, Mr Burke. Rightily-right, indeed it is.'
'I see,' said Quimby, trying to assert his authority, 'then this meeting is at an end, and we shall take our leave. Quite why this information could not have been conveyed over a glass in the The Plough I fail to understand.'
'Because the meeting is not at an end,' came the second voice, Hare, 'we have further requirements...'
Good Lord Jesus Christ. For Quimby knew exactly what was coming. Blackmailed! Again.
'...for though we wish to discontinue the provision of cadavers for yourself and your...man...'
There was something about the way he'd said 'man'. Oh God. Did that mean...?
'...we will be requiring the payment of funds to continue, lest we lose all sense of direction making our home from the hostelry one night and blunder quite by accident into a police station whereby, the ale having loosened our tongues, we reveal some of the gruesome goings-on at Pembridge Villas, Notting Hill, home to the estimable Lord Quimby.'
'And find yourselves equally culpable, man,' snapped Quimby.
'My Lord, don't take us so literal like,' mocked Burke, 'I dare say we mig
ht formulate a more sophisticated plan-one not quite so incriminating for us, that is-come the right time. The point, however, is this: either you pay, or you will find yourself opening the door to find Sir Robert Peel's men on your step. Am I right, Mr Hare?'
'Rightily-right, Mr Burke.'
Quimby held his flaming torch away from himself at arm's length, in the hope that neither of them could see him lean towards Perkins and from the side of his mouth whisper, 'Can you see either of them, Perkins?'
'No, sir.'
'Soon as you can, grab one.'
'Wouldn't do you any good, your honour,' said one of the voices.
Blast.
'Now,' came the other voice, 'there's one more thing, and then we can all be on our way.'
'What's that?' seethed Quimby.
'The revenant, your worshipfulness.'
Beside him there was a sharp intake of breath from Perkins.
'I don't know what you mean. What revenant?'
'The one standing by your side, my Lord.'
'It is clear to me that you have taken leave of your senses, man,' roared Quimby, 'for I don't have the faintest idea what point it is you're trying to make.'
'Your Lordship, we may be grave robbers...'
'The best...'
'...but we are not stupid, we have seen that which appears on the bench in your basement: jimson weed, belladonna, monkshood. A little bit of investigation and putting together of two and two to make four and well, it seems, your manservant is a zombie, sir, a member of the living dead--'
'Yes, he is,' roared Quimby warningly, 'and dangerous, too.'
'Exactly, which is why we're taking him. Having been availed of the fact of his added strength, not to mention, obviously, his invulnerability, we feel he would be a most valuable addition to our operation.'
'I beg your pardon,' said Quimby indignantly.
There was a scuttling sound in the blackness.
The reply was steely. 'You heard, my Lord.'
'Sir?' said Perkins beside him, worried.
'You must be out of your mind, my friend,' said Quimby. 'I do not agree to this request.'
'It is not a request, sire,' said Burke, 'it is a condition. Either we leave with the revenant or we leave alone and head straight to the peelers...'
'...or at the very least to formulate a plan on how best to approach them,' corrected Hare.
'Is that clear, your Lordship? We'd like him now, please.'
'Sir?' said Perkins.
Quimby ignored him. 'And if I refuse?'
'Refusal's not an option.'
Quimby snorted. 'Refusal is indeed an option. Answer the question, man. What is your course of action should I reject your demands?'
'I mean to say, sir,' came the voice from the darkness, 'that refusal is not an option should you wish to avoid the gallows...'
Quimby swallowed.
'...for either we leave here with your manservant or leave on our way to the peelers. Your choice, sir.'
'You must think me a fool,' said Quimby, 'if you do that you have nothing. No revenant. No income. Nothing but the glee of seeing me hang.'
There was a chuckle in the shadows. 'I should imagine that might well be pleasure enough,' said the other voice, 'isn't that right, Mr Burke?'
'Certainly, Mr Hare, his Lordship's lack of grace concerning some of our more recent cadavers has been most irksome to behold and I must admit I have found myself wondering whether a lesson in manners might be in order.'
'This is what it boils down to, is it?'
'Your Lordship's disposition towards us leads us to believe that you may not honour our agreement; indeed, that you might attempt to employ the revenant against us. Therefore we're of the belief that we need the revenant to continue with the scheme. If you follow me.'
'I'm to give you my manservant in order that you should feel more secure when you're blackmailing me?'
'In the absence of collateral, sir, yes. What is it to be?'
'This beggars belief,' sighed Quimby almost to himself. He looked at Perkins who looked imploring in return.
'They leave me no choice, Perkins,' he said.
'Sir?'
Quimby's shoulders dropped. They had him over a barrel. Either he give up Perkins or face an appointment with the hangman.
There was a long pause.
'I shan't go, sir,' said Perkins, trying to sound firm.
'We don't have any choice.'
'Sir.'
'Look, it may only be for a short time, until I can get this sorted out.'
'Hurry it up, Mr Quimby, we don't have all night,' urged Burke.
Quimby sighed hard, unable to meet Perkins' eye.
'We grow weary of the wait, sir,' said Burke-or was it Hare?-warningly. 'Either you hand over the gimp now or we go to the peelers straight away.'
Quimby decided. He took a deep breath. He wondered what on earth had possessed him, because instead of handing Perkins over to the men, as all reason and logic dictated that he should do, he said, 'Firstly, you're not taking my manservant. He stays with me.'
Beside him, Perkins let out a gasp of relief.
'And secondly,' added Quimby, 'don't you ever call him a gimp again.'
There came a dry laugh in reply.
'Then you leave us no choice, your Lordship. Mr Burke, let us repair to the peeler house at once.'
There was a scraping, dragging sound as Burke and Hare extricated themselves from within whatever hiding places they had been lurking.
'Look...' started Quimby, 'can't we talk...?'
His words echoed in the circle.
'Hello?'
Then he was dashing to the sides, holding the torch up to the cubby holes. But there was no sign of Burke. No sign of Hare.
'Blackguards. Just like their fathers,' raged Quimby, moments later, as he and Perkins trudged, with great despondency, back through the catacombs in search of the exit.
'Not a shred of loyalty between them,' he added, then lapsed into baleful introspection.
They walked, their torchlight describing black patterns on the walls, the only sound that made by the dragging of Perkins' leg.
'Why does this happen to me?' wailed Quimby a few moments later, breaking the silence. 'I really do have the most confounded luck. Blackmailed by a guttersnipe journalist and now this.'
'Do you think they'll make good on their threat, sir?' asked Perkins.
'It's not a chance I intend to take, Perkins,' said Quimby, sadly, 'All I want around my neck is a silken scarf or the long, shapely legs of an athletic lady of high birth and low morals. I have no desire to try the hangman's noose for size. I can't possibly risk it.'
'So what are we going to do?'
'I am going to pack up and leave Pembridge Villas. Percy's widow is travelling on the continent. I can find her, I suppose, and she's apt to welcome me with open arms. Or open something at least.'
'Leave Pembridge Villas, sir?' said Perkins incredulously.
'I see no other option.'
'And what of me, sir?'
'You, Perkins, may do as you please.'
'Then it pleases me to stay with your Lordship.'
'Oh,' said Quimby. 'Oh, that really is rather kind of you, Perkins, it is most appreciated.'
They lapsed once more in wordlessness-the comfortable silence of two friends.
'Perkins,' said Quimby after some moments, 'one of these days we're going to catch those two, I promise it, and you may feast upon them while I lurk in the background chuckling maniacally.' He warmed to the thought.
They had reached the exit.
'I would certainly enjoying seeing them as foodstuffs, sir,' said Perkins. 'In fact, I was just thinking about baking one of them in pastry to make...'
'Perkins,' interrupted Quimby, 'if you're about to tell a joke about making Hare pie then I strongly suggest you think again before I change my mind and hand you over to them gladly.'
The door pushed open with a screech like that of a mating fox.
'Sorry, sir, just trying to lighten the mood.'
'Yes, well, don't, because right now I'm--'
They stopped dead.
In front of them in the cemetery, lit by a full moon, stood a group of children numbering about twenty: urchins, chimney sweeps, waifs and strays, a dirty and ragged bunch. They stood in silence and were stock still, most with their arms by their sides as though standing to attention. Each wore the same expression: a blank, glassy stare, a disquieting half-smile.
One of them stepped forward, holding something that he threw-something that landed with a thump at Quimby's feet.
He looked down.
Burke would have been staring back at him if his eyes hadn't been rolled back into his head. He would have been smiling if his mouth wasn't wide in a final scream, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Crusted blood covered his mouth and chin, and the skin of his neck was tattered and torn where the head had been hacked off.
There was a giggle from the children. Quimby looked up in time to see another urchin step forward. This one held a second head by the hair and, like the first, tossed it forward.
Hare. Eyes half closed, mouth full of dirt as though in his final agony he had taken a bite of the sod.
'Oh dear,' said Quimby.
XXVII
The same time,
Soho
'At last,' managed McKenzie, struggling to capture his breath, 'at bloody last.'
Egg, his comportment very much that of a beleaguered man, dropped his shoulders and sighed, having finished running, there was nowhere else to go. He had reached the end of an alleyway off Dean Street, inside which the scent was stomach-churning, rubbish and excrement strewn about it, and was almost dark.
Neither man paid the aroma much heed, however, both of them recovering from the exertion, a chase that had taken them halfway across the city, or so it seemed. Egg, the much younger man, had nevertheless been unpleasantly surprised and thus caught unawares by the endurance and tenacity of his pursuer and now the two of them stood as equals in exhaustion, both of them catching their breath, their hands on their knees.