The Welfare of the Dead (10 page)

Mr. Pellegrin shakes his head emphatically. ‘No, sir, not the local man. Word would get round every house from here to the river in next to no time. I suppose I am fortunate you are not in uniform – if anyone were to see the police . . .'

‘We generally keep to plain clothes at the Yard, sir.'

‘Good, good. But I need your word, Inspector, that this will go no further. Discretion is vital in our business.'

‘And mine,' replies Webb, though there is a degree of impatience in his tone. ‘You have my word, sir. Perhaps if you can begin by telling us what was stolen?'

Mr. Pellegrin looks nervously at the two policemen; noticing the door of the office has been left slightly ajar, he quickly gets up to go and close it. Once he has sat down again, he bites his lip before he addresses Webb.

‘A body, Inspector.'

Samuel Pellegrin leads the two policemen along the winding path that curves round the back wall of the cemetery, at the rear of the chapel.

‘Any famous names here, sir?' asks the sergeant.

‘In the cemetery?' says Pellegrin. He seems visibly cheered by the opportunity to talk. ‘There is the Watts' memorial. And Mr. Braidwood, the fireman, of course, the far side of the chapel – you recall the Tooley Street fire? That was a fine day – the whole city lined the route – or that's how it seemed; quite affecting.'

‘I can imagine, sir.'

‘Ellen Warwick, of course,' continues Pellegrin, as if going through some memorised roll-call of the dead. ‘Also a large turn-out, if I recollect correctly. Not long after I started here.'

‘Who?' asks Bartleby.

‘She was . . . ah, now, here we are, gentlemen. I am just grateful it was here, and not somewhere more in the open.'

The area in question, to which Mr. Pellegrin points, lies against the grey stone wall of the cemetery, in its farthest north-westerly corner. Shaded by an old cedar, the cold ground supports nothing so substantial as the stone angels and monumental urns that mark the cemetery's more prosperous burials. Rather, it is only broken by a scattering of makeshift-looking wooden crosses, none of which are quite perpendicular
or particularly well-crafted, so that they appear to rise from the earth like the shoots of some peculiar withered shrub. In front of one cross, however, a series of planks have been laid out, which partially conceal an open grave. Bartleby leans down and looks at the cross, upon which the inscription ‘J. S. Munday, 1848' is painted in small black letters, though the paint is considerably weathered and faded.

‘Tell me again how you discovered the, ah, theft?' asks Webb. ‘You said, did you not, that you think the grave was opened and then filled in again?'

‘There is no question, Inspector,' replies Pellegrin. ‘It was Greggs, one of our gardeners, who spotted it. He noticed the earth had been disturbed.'

‘Very observant of him?'

‘It is his job – he knows the grounds well enough. He thought at first it was an animal.'

‘And what caused Mr. Greggs to change his opinion?'

‘He could see it was the whole plot – I mean that it was a very particular area. Then he turned over some of the earth and found the nails.'

‘From the coffin?'

‘All in one spot, or thereabouts, where the fellow had left them. It was obvious the grave had been interfered with, so I told him to open it.'

‘And you found?'

‘It was empty. The lid had been replaced, rather inexpertly, upon the top. Please, take a look – I took care not to damage anything myself.'

Pellegrin bends down and, motioning for the assistance of Bartleby, slides away the planks covering the grave, revealing the dark long-buried wood of the lid, splintered in several places.

‘It is not very deep,' says Webb. ‘Three feet at most?'

Pellegrin nods. ‘The ground in this corner is not so
good, Inspector. I believe the roots are a hindrance. It is, in part, why we reserve it for paupers and other unfortunates.'

‘But the coffin is quite substantial, is it not? Too substantial for a parish burial?'

Pellegrin shrugs. ‘I should say so. But it was not a normal parish affair. It was a case of
felo-de-se
. Suicide. It seems the family made some provision for a decent coffin.'

‘Really? That is interesting. You do not know the details, I suppose?' asks Webb.

‘That is not really our business, Inspector. We place a mark against our register for all such burials, but no more.'

‘No, I suppose not. May I see your records, all the same?'

‘Of course – we have them in the chapel – but they will tell you nothing more, I am afraid. They merely confirm the name and year.'

‘Nevertheless, I should like to see it,' continues Webb. ‘And I should like to speak to the gardeners, diggers . . . all your men.'

‘That may take some time to arrange. We have business at three.'

‘Still, if you please, Mr. Pellegrin,' replies Webb. ‘Whoever you can muster – we must speak to all of them, whether now or later.'

‘But, Inspector, why should someone take a body like this, and after so many years? To break in at night and do such a thing?'

‘It must have been at night?'

‘Nothing like this could happen during the day, Inspector. They would be noticed.'

‘Perhaps there was more than a body, sir?' suggests Bartleby. ‘Something buried with him, maybe. A family heirloom, that sort of thing.'

‘Perhaps,' replies Webb, bending down and looking closely at the coffin lid. He stands up abruptly. ‘In any case, Sergeant, I will go with Mr. Pellegrin and talk to his men. You stay here and see what you can find.'

Bartleby nods, but as Webb turns away, he stops and looks back at the sergeant.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, man?'

‘Sir?'

‘Get down there and examine the blasted thing.'

Bartleby looks into the grave. ‘Down there, sir?'

‘If you have any other suggestions, Sergeant, I am happy to listen to them.'

Bartleby takes a deep breath. ‘No, sir, can't say as I do.'

The two policemen stand to one side, hats in hand, as the three o'clock funeral procession rattles down the drive towards Abney Park's chapel. At its head are the mutes, a pair of stately, bearded men in middle age, bearing long crape-encrusted wands and black sashes about their chests. Then the four coach-horses drawing the glass hearse, their harnesses wrapped in black velvet, their heads plumed with black feathers. Finally the mourners, a dozen gentlemen in solemn mourning, arm-bands and hat-bands in black silk. Mr. Pellegrin brings up the rear, head bowed, hands clasped in contemplation. And yet he steals a nervous look at Webb and Bartleby as he walks past. Webb waits until he is out of earshot before speaking.

‘Nothing in the grave, I take it?'

‘No, sir,' mutters Bartleby, ‘not much except dirt. Though I'd say the coffin was well lined. There was a good deal of cambric. Probably very fine in its day.'

Webb nods. ‘Pellegrin thinks he may be able to find
the manufacturer through his catalogues – he will let us know.'

‘How about the men, the diggers, sir?'

‘Hmm. Neither the gardeners nor diggers had much to say for themselves. Except to confess that they hadn't cast an eye over that plot for a month or more. Mr. Pellegrin was quite aggrieved about it.'

‘You don't think it was one of them, sir?'

‘Maybe; but they would conceal it a trifle better, would they not?'

‘Why take a body at all? I mean, sir, let's be blunt – it'd just be the bones, wouldn't it? I'm blowed if I understand it.'

‘I don't know, Sergeant,' says Webb pensively. ‘They bury the suicides at midnight – did you know that?'

‘I knew it was after dark, sir, yes.'

‘And here, someone comes at night, twenty-five years later, and digs one up.'

‘Maybe they wanted to give him a decent burial.'

Webb shakes his head. ‘A queer way of going about it.'

‘Folk are very concerned with the welfare of their dead, sir.'

Webb looks at the now distant cortège, approaching the tall spire of the chapel and frowns.

‘So are we, Sergeant.'

 

T
HAT EVENING
? L
ET
me see. The fog had cleared and so I took a walk through the streets. To begin with, I had no particular purpose in mind. I merely needed time to think and I found myself on Drury Lane.

I expect you do not know it?

You have heard of the theatre? No. Even the theatre of that name is a couple of hundred yards shy of the road itself; and with good reason. It is an awful street by night, the haunt of beer-soaked Irish and the lowest sort of unfortunate, with a ginnery upon every corner to sustain them. They are the rougher sort of public house, too, with large advertisements for Cream Gin upon the door, and blazing naked jets of gas that spit fire into the street. I expect the landlords despair of decent lamps, even if they might afford them, since they are so easily broken.

In any case, it was there, as I walked along and watched the drunks and the whores, that it struck me. It is a simple truth that is never acknowledged: a man may do exactly as he likes, in this life at least, as long as he is not
caught
. You see, all that day, I had had nagging fears of the police, of the prison cell, nay, even the gallows. But there was no detective at my door, nor policeman dogging my steps, nor was there likely to be. A man requires only a little good fortune, courage
and intelligence, and he cannot be caught.

Very well. Then I shall stick to the facts of the matter.

In short, I walked without stopping until Drury Lane gave way to Holborn, and, quite by chance, I turned eastwards and suddenly came upon the crowded pavement outside the Holborn Casino.

Yes, indeed, the dance-hall.

I knew of its ill fame, of course: a magnet for fast young men and loose women eager for their company. And, indeed, that night, there was no doubting the wretched place's popularity with a certain class of ‘gentleman'. For a seemingly endless row of beetle-black hansoms and clarences lined both sides of the street, whilst unacquainted men and women trotted gaily in, or stumbled drunkenly out, in bunches of two and three. In fact, it was a scene of utter dissipation.

Then it came to me, what I must do.

The police? Oh yes; they were there, to ‘keep the peace'. Two of them. But my theory was quite correct. They had their minds fixed upon pickpockets and carriage-sneaks – I was quite safe. I strolled in with a few young gentlemen in evening dress, accompanying a party of ladies in satin gowns and an excess of frills and feathers. An attendant relieved us of our hats, another of our coats. Then we went down a half-dozen steps into the hall.

What do I recall about the Casino? A good deal of gold leaf and marble. I could make out the band in the gallery, a dozen or more strong, striking up a merry polka; but I could barely see the floor for dancers. The women wore high-heeled boots, the men patent leathers, and both made a riotous noise as they spun this way and that in the large hall.