The Welfare of the Dead (13 page)

Sergeant Bartleby strolls briskly out of Scotland Yard, past the Clarence public house, and on to Whitehall. It is almost dusk and a cold evening. Although at first inclined to walk, the approach of a chocolate-coloured ‘Westminster' omnibus, bound for the Bank, persuades him to take a seat inside. It is a choice he regrets, however, since a crowd pile in at Charing Cross. They include a large matron with a hatbox and mysterious wicker-basket, from which emit occasional yaps and barks; a junior office boy, dressed suitably for the part, with a workaday tweed suit and a super-abundance of hair-oil; and a trio of infant boys, given to climbing, together with a harassed female, most likely a servant, since she is too young to be their mother. Pushed into a corner, the sergeant idly wonders if a uniformed officer would receive the same treatment.

The bus, nonetheless, travels swiftly along the Strand. It only slows when it has passed St. Clement's. For, as it approaches the narrow arch of Temple Bar, a brief altercation with the owner of a waggon serves to distract the driver. Once this is resolved, the vehicle does not stop until Bartleby alights, a little past Bolt Court, where the conductor offers a gracious ‘mind yer feet'. Thence it is a short walk to Salisbury Square, on the opposite side of the street, through a narrow alley.

The square itself is no match for the regular London square, such as Trafalgar or Bedford, being both considerably smaller and irregular in appearance, an accidental void between opposing buildings. It boasts a hotel, a couple of printers, and, upon the western side, the public façade of Siddons & Sons, identifiable both by its name in tasteful gold leaf, and a window displaying a draped urn, carved from marble, illuminated by a half-dozen small jets of gas. It is to this establishment that Sergeant Bartleby turns his steps.

The interior of Siddons & Sons, or at least the ante-chamber in which visitors are received, before visiting the show-rooms, proves to be as plain as the exterior. Dimly lit, it contains merely a trio of uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a sombre-looking black-suited employee seated at a small desk, atop of which sits a single vase of dried flowers. The only lively touch is the small fire crackling in the hearth, though it gives out little heat, and, above, upon the mantel, the room's solitary nod to ornamentation: a small Parian statuette of a girl, dressed in Roman attire, her head bowed, a piece marked ‘Maidenhood', in small chiselled lettering.

Bartleby briskly introduces himself. He relishes using the words ‘of Scotland Yard', and they have the desired effect. For he is swiftly ushered through an unobtrusive side-door, along a corridor, and, after a few hushed words of consultation, into the presence of Joshua Siddons, proprietor.

The room of Mr. Siddons is a little brighter than those reserved for his visitors. In addition to the lights on each wall, his desk supports two lamps, capped by shades of delicately etched glass; moreover, his fireplace blazes fiercely, and is wide enough for two persons to stand or sit in front of it. The chair upon which he sits, and the one to which he directs Bartleby,
are well-padded. It is, in short, more like the study of a comfortable bachelor.

‘So, my dear sir,' says the undertaker, before Bartleby is settled, ‘this is a sad day. A loss. A great loss. But, if it is not presumptuous of me to say it, you have chosen the right establishment.'

‘Sir?'

‘I mean to say, Sergeant, a loss for the Metropolitan Police is a loss for the metropolis; there can be no doubt of it. And, rest assured, it will be not so much a job of work for my men, sir, as a welcome duty. A duty, I dare say, Siddons and Sons are best equipped to perform.'

‘No, sir, you don't quite—'

‘Come, come,' says Siddons, talking over the sergeant's protestations, ‘I know, my dear fellow. The Commissioner is not made of money; we can discuss a small discount when the time comes. The first matter, I should say, is the coffin . . . I assume the deceased had no family. Married to the “force”, eh?'

‘No, sir, please – I am not here to arrange a funeral.'

‘Not here to arrange a funeral? My dear fellow, I am at a loss.'

‘A police matter, sir. I think your man must have misunderstood me. We rather hoped you might be able to assist us.'

Siddons looks surprised. He takes out his black-bordered handkerchief, and rubs his nose.

‘I see. You must forgive me, Sergeant. I believe I have caught a slight cold. But how on earth can I assist Scotland Yard? Oh, pray, my good man, say it is not an exhumation! They are so contrary to the spirit of our profession.'

‘Well,' replies Bartleby, ‘it is rather too late for that, sir.'

‘Too late?'

‘To be blunt, sir, a body was stolen recently from Abney Park Cemetery, dug up. The manager, Mr. Pellegrin, has asked us to look into it.'

‘Good Lord – yes, I know Pellegrin – but why on earth should anyone do such a thing in this day and age? And how do you imagine I can help you?'

‘He said it was one of your coffins, sir.'

‘Really?' replies Siddons. ‘Well, then I am sure it was. Pellegrin knows his business.'

‘Then might you have some record of the deceased? At the moment, we merely have the name and year.'

‘Records? I might find you the man's profession, I should think,' replies the undertaker, pensively. ‘We take note of that, and we may have the next of kin – but Pellegrin should have all this, else who pays for maintenance of the plot?'

‘That is the thing, sir. The chap was a suicide – though he had some money to be buried, looking at the coffin.'

‘How odd. What was it? What type?'

‘The coffin?' says Bartleby, taking out his notebook, ‘I have it here. Ah, yes, a “Patent Inconsolable” in rosewood, cambric-lined.'

‘Three and six. Your man was not an utter pauper, at least, Sergeant. Well, you had best tell me the name – I will have someone look into it.'

‘J.S. Munday, sir. And the year was 1848.'

Mr. Siddons laughs, a rather nervous impulsive laugh, that quite unsettles the studied sobriety of his thin face.

‘Forgive me, Sergeant,' he says, ‘you are chaffing me, surely? This a prank of some kind?'

‘Not at all, sir,' says Bartleby, perplexed.

‘But surely Mr. Pellegrin would recall,' says Siddons, ruminating, ‘although, I suppose it is a few years before his time. Good Lord. Well, what is promised us in
Isaiah, Sergeant?' continues the undertaker with a slight smile. ‘“The earth shall cast out the dead”, is it not?'

‘I think we can assume it wasn't the hand of God, sir. Perhaps you had better tell me what you know?'

‘You need only go back to the newspapers for that year, Sergeant.'

‘And what should I look out for, sir?'

‘Eloi Chapel, Sergeant. Let me tell you about Eloi Chapel . . .'

Inspector Webb puts down the last of his reading material, just as Bartleby enters his office.

‘You might knock, Sergeant,' says Webb.

‘Sorry, sir.'

‘Well, you've found something, I can tell from your eager expression. It reminds me of a dog with a bone. Out with it, if you must.'

‘The grave, sir, Siddons knew it straightaway.'

‘Really? How so?'

‘He said the man was notorious in the undertaking trade, sir. Jeremy Sayers Munday. Hung himself. I hadn't heard of him myself, but perhaps you have – he was the man behind the Eloi Chapel Company.'

‘I recall the name of the chapel – a scandal of some kind?' says Webb.

‘Apparently. It was an old church they fixed up in the forties and cleared the vaults for burials. Siddons said they held services for six thousand dead before they closed it down in forty-eight.'

‘Ah yes,' says Webb with a smirk, ‘but, in fact, it only held a few hundred? Yes, I remember it well – it caused quite a commotion at the time.'

‘They only found out when they caught them dumping bodies, burying them with quicklime. Mr. Siddons couldn't quite recall the place – Hackney
Marsh, he thought. I can look back through the papers, if you like.'

‘I should say you'd better,' replies Webb. ‘Well, at least now we can find the gentleman's family, inform them of their, ah, loss. Did Siddons have any note of the next of kin?'

‘He said he would have to dig around for it, sir, if you'll forgive the expression. Wasn't sure he would, given the unfortunate circumstances. Even if he does, I don't suppose the family'll be too glad to hear about it.'

‘No. Still, ironic, is it not? That someone should exhume Mr. J.S. Munday, when he couldn't bring himself to bury most of his customers?'

‘Mr. Siddons said much the same, sir – quite tickled him.'

Joshua Siddons looks thoughtfully at the leather-bound ledger that sits upon his writing desk. The leather itself is a light brown, the cover embossed with a geometric pattern, the spine rather care-worn but with the date ‘1848' visible in gold letters. Siddons opens the book, leafing through the pages until he comes to a particular point. He pauses for a moment, as if lost in thought, then tears the page out, creasing it into a ball, and turning to throw it upon the fire.

He returns his gaze to the damaged book and, after a few moments more, begins to methodically tear out the remaining pages.

‘T
HAT CHILD IS
determined to thwart me!' exclaims Melissa Woodrow, returning to the downstairs parlour of Duncan Terrace. Annabel Krout, who sits upon the sofa, reading the latest issue of the
Leisure Hour
, looks up. ‘A whole bag of sugared almonds,' continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘and she barely said “thank you”! She was so sullen, I'd half a mind to take them back.'

‘Oh,' replies Annabel, ‘perhaps she is just a little tired?'

‘A little terror would be more accurate,' replies Mrs. Woodrow, sitting down. ‘Lucinda can just be so stubborn when she has a mind to be – she has it from her father's side – and she is quite determined to sulk.'

‘Because we did not take her to Regent Street today?'

‘Precisely,' replies Mrs. Woodrow.

‘May I say something, Melissa?'

‘Of course.'

‘Well, it really is not my place, but I can't help wonder if she would improve with more company of her own age? Does she have many play-mates?'

‘Annabel, my dear,' replies Mrs. Woodrow, putting her hand lightly on her cousin's arm, ‘I know you mean well, but she has such a delicate constitution,
and, besides, she has Jacobs and myself here. In any case, we could hardly have taken her out after yesterday's little adventure. She must learn her lesson . . .'

Mrs. Woodrow pauses, at the sound from the hall. ‘Ah, that will be Jasper! Best not to say anything about Lucinda's little mood, dear. It will only make him cross.'

Annabel agrees, putting down her magazine, as the front door slams shut. The voice of Jasper Woodrow can be heard, calling for his manservant, to assist in the removal of his coat and procure him a ‘refresher'. When he finally enters the parlour, Annabel notes the latter article to consist of a large glass of brandy.