The Welfare of the Dead (43 page)

Webb pushes the door cautiously open, and peers into the undertaker's. In turn, he is abruptly met with the beam of a lamp shone directly in his face.
He sees enough, however, to make out the garb of its owner.

‘Who's that?' inquires a stern voice.

‘Put that blasted thing down, constable,' says Webb with considerable gravitas.

‘Lord! Sorry, sir,' exclaims the blue-uniformed constable. ‘It's Inspector Webb, ain't it?'

‘I suppose it is pleasant to be recognised,' says Webb, ‘although you almost blinded me, man. E Division, I see.'

‘Yes, sir,' replies the constable, fingering the ‘E' marked on his collar rather nervously, ‘this is my regular beat. But I ain't called the Yard, sir, not yet anyhow.'

‘Never mind that,' says Webb, impatiently, ‘what brings you here, Constable?'

‘Well, I normally say good night to the old party that lives here, sir, just to keep an eye on him. He owns the shop; lives above it.'

‘But?'

‘Found the place left open, sir. Thought it was burglars but I can't see nothing taken.'

‘And Mr. Siddons?'

‘You know the gentleman, sir?'

Webb sighs. ‘Why else would I be here?'

‘Well, there's no sign of him. It's not like him, sir. Man of regular habits is Mr. Siddons – known him for years; never known him to quit the shop, much less leave it open like that.'

‘I suggest, Constable, you go back inside and light the gas. Then we can have a proper look and not break our necks, eh?'

Constable E59 accedes to the suggestion and, once the gas is lit, Webb enters the shop. A tour of the upstairs living quarters, however, reveals nothing. The two show-rooms downstairs likewise appear empty,
though they contain the impedimenta of the trade: palls and shrouds, principally in white, black or purple, laid out in delicate folds; coffin fabrics, from cambric to silk; handles, name-plates, lid ornaments and crosses, in copper, silver and bronze. All are carefully laid out in cabinets and glass-topped sliding drawers. The second room, however, also holds a row of substantial shelves, upon which are laid a dozen or more display-caskets of varying sizes and designs. The room is deliberately reminiscent of a church vault, with an architecturally redundant arch of bricks above the shelves to emphasise the point.

‘He's not here, sir,' says the constable.

‘Wait a moment,' says Webb, pondering the shelves. ‘Tell me, Constable, have you been in here before?'

‘On occasion, sir. The old gent has showed me round once or twice, as it were. Proud of his work.'

‘Do you recall if he normally stacks his boxes quite like that,' says Webb, gesturing towards the bottom shelf, where two substantial-looking oak caskets are laid, one atop the other.

‘Can't say I do, sir – maybe they're running out of space.'

‘The room is for display, constable. They do not need to pack them in. Besides, there is space. Here,' says Webb, bending down, ‘help me lift this one clear.'

The constable offers Webb a rather puzzled expression, but does not disobey, and the two men lift the top casket and place it on the floor.

‘Weighs a ton,' exclaims Webb, breathlessly.

‘The best ones are lead-lined, so he tells me, sir. I'm sorry, sir, but what do you think is wrong?'

Webb motions for the policeman to be silent, as he tentatively crouches down over the shelf, and pulls at the lid of the coffin that rests there, tilting it up and back, so he can see inside.

As he does so, the constable audibly gasps. For inside, lying curled to one side in the ruched cambric layers, is the body of Joshua Siddons.

‘I
THOUGHT YOU'D GONE
home, sir,' says Sergeant Bartleby, as he enters the undertaker's in Salisbury Square. ‘I sometimes wonder if you ever sleep.'

‘Sergeant – well, I am glad the constable found you. I should have gone back to the Yard myself but I wanted a few moments alone here, to think.'

‘I was playing a nice game of whist with the night-watch, sir.'

‘Whist?'

‘Well, a game of skill more than chance, anyhow, sir.'

‘How much did you lose, Sergeant?'

‘I brought you the notes you asked for, sir,' says Bartleby, ignoring the question, and proffering Webb several sheets of paper. Webb, in turn, takes them eagerly and scans each sheet until he finds something of particular interest.

‘I knew it,' exclaims the inspector.

‘Knew what, sir?' asks Bartleby, patiently.

‘Come here, Sergeant,' says Webb, beckoning Bartleby towards the back of the shop.

‘Have a look at this,' says Webb, pointing to the open coffin.

‘Siddons.'

‘Quite. I had realised that much, Sergeant. What else?'

Bartleby bends down over the body; it is peculiarly curled up on one side, the eyes open, the mouth almost contorted.

‘Hardly serene, is he, sir?'

‘No. Have a good look at his hands.'

Reluctantly, Bartleby reaches down and holds each one of the dead man's hands up to the light. His nails are scratched and, in several cases, almost torn from the flesh; and two fingers hang at odd angles, apparently broken. He hurriedly puts them down.

‘Someone left him in here alive, didn't they?' says Bartleby.

‘Well done, Sergeant. He tried to push his way out; failed and suffocated. The coffins are lead-lined and quite air-tight. Now anything else?'

Bartleby looks up and down the wooden box. ‘That's the only queer thing, sir. A penny. By his hand there.'

‘Good. Now, come here,' says Webb, directing Bartleby to where the coffin lid lies on the floor. ‘See how the fabric is shredded?'

‘Where he tore at it.'

‘Yes, but when he realised he could not escape, he did more than that, Sergeant,' says Webb, peeling back the torn cloth. ‘Look. He got through to the lead; he knew he would.'

Bartleby crouches down besides the lid. Underneath the torn cloth, the metal is scored with a series of minute scratches. But they are far from random, since they form a sequence of rough characters.

11201

‘Scratched in a hurry, with that coin. And I knew I recalled it from somewhere,' says Webb, brandishing the paper in his hand.

‘Sir?'

‘Jeremy Munday's plot. It is the number of Munday's plot at Abney Park. 11201 B12. “B12” is the grid location, but that is the number. Now tell me, Sergeant, why should this man expend his last moments on this earth, barely conscious, etching that number into his own . . . well, let us say resting place.'

‘He meant to tell us something. But there's a line through it, too, like it's crossed out? Did he change his mind?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Sergeant. What does it mean, crossing it out? To negate it. What negates a burial? Though, I suppose I must admit, you gave me the clue yourself. You said there was nothing to be found at Abney Park. I think you were right. Because Jeremy Munday was never buried there at all.'

‘Somewhere else?' say Bartleby, hesitantly, trying to follow Webb's reasoning.

‘Read through the newspapers again, Sergeant. Munday was bankrupt; he knew he would be tried for fraud and Lord knows what else. It is the one possibility we have ignored, when we wondered what happened to his body. What if he found a unique way to rid himself of the problem? What if he convinced the world he had died by his own hand?'

‘Sir?'

‘A mock funeral, with Siddons' connivance. It would not take much more – a certificate was easy enough to come by in those days – why, it still is. The coroner would do little more than hear the word of some doctor, suitably corrupt, and the family. I wonder if the wife was in on their little game, or did they trick her too? A resurrection of sorts. It explains a good deal, I think.'

‘Fanciful, sir. And you have no evidence. So you think Munday is still alive? That he did this?'

‘I do not think that. Not quite. But with Siddons dead, I think only one other man knows the truth. And there is only one way to be certain, Sergeant. Come.'

‘Where, sir?'

‘Oh, Sergeant. Please.

Newgate, where else?' ‘Newgate? They won't thank you for it at this hour, sir. Not on a whim.'

‘It is more than that, Sergeant. I don't care if we have to kick the warden himself out of bed. I will tell you more on the way.'

Newgate Prison is at its most dismal by night. The great granite blocks, which form its windowless walls, give the gaol the appearance of some vast pagan monolith, black enough to absorb the light of a thousand street-lights, let alone the dozen or so clustered around it. The Lodge, at which visitors must seek admission, is equally grim, resembling a medieval prison in miniature set into the great walls, fronted by a small door, no more than four and a half feet in height, topped with metal bars, tipped with iron spikes. Bartleby's estimation of their welcome proves correct, for it takes some half an hour before the two policemen are admitted and various bolts and locks released, in groaning complaint at such nocturnal irregularity. But, at length, they are indeed led inside by lamp-light, through several small rooms into the principal cell-block. Its dark iron-railinged walkways and galleries, extending over several floors, form the heart of the male wing of the prison. On either side are the cells of more than two hundred men, most awaiting trial at the Criminal Court. But it is at one end of the block, upon the first floor, where two cells for condemned men are located.

Webb ignores their guide's comments upon ‘keeping odd hours at Scotland Yard', and follows the light of the guard's lantern in stony silence, until it shines into the cell of Jasper Woodrow.

‘Visitor for you,' says the guard, addressing not Woodrow, but another officer who maintains a solitary vigil outside his room, seated on a wooden stool. The latter gestures magnanimously towards the bars.

‘Mr. Woodrow,' says Webb, ‘I would rather like to speak to you.'

The man, lying recumbent upon the solitary wooden bed within, stirs a little, but does not look up.

‘He ain't asleep, sir, I promise you,' says the seated guard. ‘Been tossing and turning all night.'

‘You,' says Webb to the first guard, ‘give me that light and let me in.'

‘But how should I get back then, sir, without it?'

‘Wait or take your chance. I expect you know the way well enough. Or do I charge you with obstructing the police?'

The guard sullenly hands over his lantern and unlocks the cell door, letting Bartleby and Webb enter, and pointedly slamming it behind them. It sends an eerie metallic reverberation that echoes along the entire floor, and distant complaints, the shouts of prisoners woken from their rest, answer it in return.

‘Woodrow, rouse yourself,' says Webb. ‘I must speak with you.'

The man in grey prison uniform merely turns over upon the bed.

‘You must hear me out, sir,' says Webb. ‘Your friend Siddons is dead. Killed. I think you must know who did it.'

At this, Woodrow sits up and turns to look at his
visitors. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, his face somewhat thinner than is natural.

‘Dead? You think I killed him, I suppose.'

Webb ignores Woodrow's sarcasm. ‘No, sir. I don't think that. But I think you know who did. The same man who dug up your grave, I expect.'

‘My grave?'

‘Don't play the innocent, sir; although, I suppose, it seems possible now that you are innocent, in a sense. Come, you are Jeremy Sayers Munday, are you not?'