A Case of Doubtful Death (21 page)

‘It is very much lighter here than I expected,’ observed Gillan. ‘Why, I can see to write in my notebook.’

‘Only the main corridor has gaslight,’ said the guide, ‘but on a fine cloudless day it can still be very bright.’ He indicated glass globes let into the ceiling, each at the base of a circular aperture. ‘They collect the light and disperse it, and it is reflected back from the walls. On a day like today, however, we will need my lamp.’

He led the way and they walked along the corridor passing by the vaults, each arranged and sealed according to the wishes of the owners, some with iron gates, and coffins lying on trestles within, some filled with stone shelves, some divided into individual compartments called
loculi
, intended for a single coffin, walled up or covered only by a sheet of glass. There was, they were told, space for five thousand bodies and it was as yet only half filled. The atmosphere was cool and dry, and there was little detectable smell, mainly dust and mould, the dry hint of dead flowers and old velvet. As they walked, the visitors’ boots crunched on scattered fragments of stone on the flagged floor and waded through drifts of dead leaves that had blown in through ventilation gratings.

Other narrower unlit corridors led away from the main one and as they passed each junction, the gentle lamplight gave a hint at more shelves loaded with coffins, reaching further than it was possible to see, its glow passing over the shapes giving a slight and disconcerting movement to the shadows.

At last they stopped and the guide turned and faced them, saying, ‘We are going down here to the vault owned by the Life House, which is at the very far end. From now on the lamp will be the only light.’

The group stood quietly looking about them and no one spoke, but just as the guide was turning to lead the way, there came, echoing and whispering, flowing down the aisles from the depths of the catacombs, a sound that was almost like a voice. It spoke no words that they could understand, but sighed sadly like a lost soul. Dr Warrinder gave a little gasp.

‘Oh take no notice of that,’ said the guide. ‘The winds of the last few days have howled and cried like so many demons.’

There was a rustling like the sound of a newspaper being opened, and then a sudden piercing shriek that made them all jump. ‘Yes,’ said the guide, imperturbably, ‘it does that from time to time. We’re not sure why. This way.’

Frances reflected that in order to perform his duties the guide needed nerves of the finest steel, either that or no nerves at all.

‘Are there many visitors to the Life House vault?’ asked Gillan.

‘Very few,’ answered the guide, ‘but of course the cemetery guards make regular patrols of the catacombs, and will walk down to the end and back as required. But it is very quiet here and if a bell was to sound there would be no mistaking it from any location. Personally, I have never heard a bell and neither has anyone else.’

‘Which only shows that the medical men have done their duty diligently,’ said Dr Bonner, meaningfully.

They proceeded down the aisle and from time to time the guide raised his lamp, to show what lay within the vaults on either side, its yellow light smoothing the brassy shine of nameplates while he spoke of persons of note, or coffins of unusual dimensions or with fine ornamentation, or some interesting story attached to the death. Further on they began to pass empty vaults, where the light passed over bare walls and stone shelves.

‘As you may guess, the Life House coffins, not being triple sealed when initially deposited – as is usual – are kept in the furthest location from the others.’

‘Is it safe to go there?’ asked Gillan. ‘Is there not a danger from breathing the bad air?’

‘I can assure you,’ said Bonner, puffing a little with the effort of the walk, ‘that we take the very greatest care to ensure there is no unpleasantness. The process of decomposition of the dead and the decomposition of wounds that once followed surgery before the introduction of Professor Lister’s antiseptic method are not very different, and we have a far better understanding of these things than was once the case. You will not experience the slightest discomfort or danger.’

Gillan did not look convinced.

‘The bodies are packed in charcoal,’ Bonner continued, ‘and the coffin is of stouter construction than the usual single shell to avoid odours. There is an air tube but that also contains charcoal. A lever is placed by the hand of the deceased and a system of pulleys means that a light pressure is sufficient to open a wider aperture and also cause a bell to vibrate.’

Frances could detect a faint breath of wind on her cheek and heard a new sound, a gentle whispering which was, she assumed, caused by the movement of trees, the noise filtering down through the ventilation gratings. The ‘voice’ came again, and this time they were almost expecting it, so it was not so much of a shock. ‘Hhhhhh …’ it went, ‘Hhhhhh …’ with a rising, querulous pitch. No one commented. ‘Hhhehhhh … hhhhehhh …’ They walked on.

‘Just a little way down here,’ said the guide.

‘Are there many coffins in the Life House vault?’ Gillan asked.

‘No, only four. The last one is Dr Mackenzie’s from a week ago. The one before that was last January.’

‘And Mackenzie’s is still unsealed?’

‘It’s a stout single shell, sealed, but not yet in its final lead or outer coffins. Here we are.’

The Life House vault was barred and the door was padlocked. There were deep shelves against one wall, three of them bearing coffins and on a trestle in the centre the gloomy shape of the newest addition.

‘Hhhhhh!’ came a sudden shriek and everyone jumped back, because the sound seemed to be coming from within the vault.

‘There’s a ventilation shaft very nearby,’ explained the guide. ‘The sound can do all sorts of strange things – I’ll swear it can go around corners, sometimes.’

He lifted the lamp and in its soft glimmer they saw a metal plate on the end of the coffin: Alastair Mackenzie, MD.

‘Has anyone entered this vault since Dr Mackenzie’s coffin was placed here?’ asked Frances.

‘No,’ said the guide. ‘We do inspect the deposited coffins, but as you see that can be done through the bars. We don’t need to go inside. It has been locked ever since the coffin was placed there.’

‘Who has the keys?’

‘The owners and the cemetery guard.’

‘But has anyone else apart from the cemetery officers been down here?’

‘There have been a number of parties like yourselves, but all accompanied by a guide. Most are people come to inspect their own family vaults and they will not have been in this part of the catacombs.’

Frances saw that Mr Gillan was giving her a curious glance.

‘Hhheeeeennnnnn,’ said the voice from within.

Frances nodded. ‘Can we not open the door? I should like to see inside.’

‘Only with the owners’ permission,’ said the guide.

‘I have no intention of allowing anyone apart from myself and Dr Warrinder to enter this vault,’ said Bonner firmly.

‘I cannot imagine why a young lady should wish to look inside,’ said the guide. ‘Now if you would all follow me, there is a vault which has a remarkably fine display of
immortelles
.’

Frances tried to think of some way she could persuade the guide to open the gates, but was obliged to admit defeat. Reluctantly she turned to go with the others.

‘Hhhhennnnryyyy!’ sighed the wind.

She stopped. ‘Oh please don’t be alarmed, Miss,’ said the guide, ‘the wind can play the strangest tricks on the imagination.’

‘It said “Henry”,’ said Frances.

‘Do you think so, Miss? Well, it didn’t sound like it to me.’

‘Does it say that a great deal?’ she demanded. He looked puzzled. ‘Does it say the name Henry a great deal?’

The guide looked at Dr Bonner and even in the dim light Frances could see his pitying smile. ‘I am afraid this can happen when a lady with a bit of an imagination comes down here – she can start to have all sorts of fancies. I suggest we escort her back upstairs.’

Frances hurried back to the vault. ‘Open the door,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

‘I
insist
you open it!’

‘Miss Doughty, you are overwrought and we should leave at once,’ said Dr Bonner.

‘Hhhhennryyy!’

‘It sounds like “Henry” to me too and I’ve never been overwrought in my life,’ declared Sarah.

‘Lead the way,’ said Bonner to the guide.

‘I agree,’ said Warrinder. ‘The cold is affecting my rheumatism. Let us go.’

‘Not until the door has been opened,’ said Frances, resolutely.

‘That is up to the owner of the vault,’ said the guide. ‘Are you the owner of the vault, Miss? I don’t believe you are.’

Frances had to admit that she was not.

‘Well then,’ said the guide, ‘that is the end of the tour and I do hope you have all found it interesting.’

‘Oh my Lord!’ exclaimed Gillan. He was peering through the bars into the vault. ‘I can see something moving!’

‘That’s impossible!’ said the guide.

‘See for yourself.’ He stepped back, and as the guide moved forward with the lamp Frances could see that Gillan’s face was as white as a new corpse.

‘There’s nothing in there except coffins,’ said the guide. ‘How can anything be moving? Nothing can get through the bars.’

‘Rats?’ suggested Warrinder.

‘There are no rats down here,’ said the guide. ‘Nor mice, nor anything alive other than ourselves.’ He moved the lamp back and forth. ‘No, it’s a trick of the light.’

‘Hhennryyy!’ said the voice and gave a loud shriek, and then they all saw it, a dark shape, moving around on top of the coffin.

Warrinder gave a scream. ‘Oh! It’s Mackenzie! He’s alive! He’s alive! Quickly man, quickly, open the vault! I am part owner and I authorise it!’

The guide glanced at Bonner, who appeared to be struck dumb with terror.

‘Do it!’ shouted Warrinder. ‘Do it at once! You may save a man’s life!’

The guide shrugged and took a heavy bunch of keys from his belt.

Frances felt her heart thudding loudly as the key turned with a grinding noise that was echoed by a loud scream from inside the vault.

‘Oh poor fellow!’ exclaimed Warrinder, holding his hands to his face. ‘Somebody save him!’

The door swung open and the guide ran in, followed closely by Frances, Sarah and Gillan. The shape moved and turned, and as the lamp was raised towards it Frances saw the reflection of eyes, small eyes, bright as glass beads. The lid of the coffin had risen to create a slit about an inch high and protruding from it was something like dark shriveled twigs, and then Frances realised what it was she was seeing – fingers, rotting fingers, a last desperate appeal for help, while sitting on top of the coffin, pecking at the fingers with an irritated look in its eyes, was Mrs Chiffley’s parrot.

F
rances would always remember that moment, which was printed upon her mind like a photograph. Dr Warrinder, his hands raised, his features transfigured in joyous acclamation; the guide, his mouth fallen open in surprise; Mr Gillan, his eyes gleaming like an antiquarian who had found a treasure-laden tomb, rapidly sketching the scene in his notebook; young Mr Fairbrother, backing away in alarm; Sarah, as unflappable as a mountain; and Dr Bonner, his face contorted in anguish, the dim light casting his features into a mask of tragedy.

Their guide was the first to speak. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, I earnestly request that we should all leave. I need to inform the cemetery authorities at once.’

‘Oh, but what about Mackenzie?’ exclaimed Warrinder. ‘We must recover him immediately – we may still be able to restore him! Quickly, before it is too late!’

Bonner groaned and placed a hand on Warrinder’s shoulder. ‘Come along, my dear fellow. I can assure you there is nothing we can do for him.’

The guide made an attempt at politely ushering the ladies to the stairs, in the hope that the gentlemen would follow, but to his discomfiture, the ladies would not permit themselves to be ushered.

‘I want that parrot,’ said Sarah.

The guide stared at her.

‘Well, it’s no business being here.’

‘And I might add,’ said Frances, ‘that allowing it to remain might result in the destruction of material that could be important in any future medical examination. Moreover, I know the identity of the owner and can restore it to her.’

The guide unwillingly acquiesced, but not before declaring to Mr Gillan’s considerable disappointment that only he, as official guide, should be allowed to go any further into the compartment. There, not without eliciting squawks of protest, he extricated the bird and handed it to Sarah, then relocked the iron doors. He then shepherded the little party back to the stairs, and the cool and soothing gloom of the Anglican chapel. Mr Gillan did not remain with them long, but with the news hot in his pocket, bounded away at a most unfunereal pace in the direction of Harrow Road in search of a cab. Mrs Chiffley’s parrot bore the indignity of being tucked firmly yet gently under Sarah’s arm with mounting concern, as if fearing that it was about to be plucked for the pot. It repeatedly called upon ‘Henry’ for assistance, that being, Frances assumed, Mr Chiffley’s Christian name.

Once the catacombs had been locked away from visitors, their guide abruptly left, and Frances, after instructing Sarah to bear the aggrieved parrot back to its owner and mention that an invoice for her fee would follow shortly, was left with the three medical men, all of whom were in varying stages of distress and confusion. Fairbrother approached the velvet-draped altar, where he bowed his head and appeared to be praying, Warrinder was walking unsteadily up and down, wringing his hands as if still convinced that there was some hope of restoring some life to the owner of the blackened fingers, while an exhausted Bonner, who seemed to have aged ten years, had sunk into a pew.

Frances approached Bonner and he shrank back from her, an encouraging sign, she thought. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, taking a place beside him, ‘you have something to say to me.’

‘Whatever would I say that I have not already said?’ he exclaimed.