Constable & Toop (15 page)

‘That's true, but look down here.'

The Marquis led him to another spot on the ground, where he had placed several chippings from the wall in rows and scratched rough lines on the ground.

‘I don't understand,' said Lapsewood.

‘It's a chessboard, dear boy,' proclaimed the Marquis.

‘A chessboard? What use is that in escaping?'

‘None whatsoever. I told you, the only way of escaping is to make a break for it whenever that guard opens the door, but it will help pass the time while we wait. Which will you be? Black or white? You have to imagine the colours, of course.'

Clara's Aunt Hetty had done all the talking in the taxi journey back from the school in Whitechapel. She had been full of ideas of how Reverend Fallowfield could improve his act. Clara had not spoken a word. Unlike her aunt, she felt as if she had witnessed something terrible. Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the memory of that poor woman's terrible screams.

At home she went straight up to her room where she sat down by her toy theatre. It was a beautifully rendered version in miniature of Drury Lane, bought for her seventh birthday. With its stringed actors and moving curtains, it had provided many hours of entertainment for Clara as a child as she inflicted countless plays on her nanny. The plots mostly derived from real play titles she had heard her parents discussing, but which she had not seen. Her versions of
She Stoops to Conquer, The Duchess of Malfi
and
Love's Labour's Lost
were particular triumphs, even if they did bear little resemblance to the original works.

Clara had given up her career as theatre impresario in miniature some years ago and she was not the kind of girl to cling on to items of her childhood out of sentimentality. Few of her dolls had survived the great cull of 1881, when she turned twelve and decided she was no longer a child. But the theatre had remained in the corner, being too beautiful an object to throw away, even for as unsentimental a young lady such as herself.

She sat silently moving the actors on and off the stage, thinking about Reverend Fallowfield, Lady Aysgarth and the poor woman in the school.

Opening her notebook, she pulled out the list. She could scarcely believe it had come from the ghost, but the more she thought about it, the more she believed it to be true.

Clara unfolded it and read the title at the top.

The London Tenancy List: D. McNally's Copy

Below was a list of London addresses. There were private residences, theatres, schools and public houses. Some were familiar, others were not. Down the right-hand column was a list of names. By Drury Lane Theatre was the name
Mr David Kerby
. The space alongside the Tower of London was crammed with long-dead kings and queens. Then she found her own address.

Aysgarth House, Three Kings Court

Clara moved her finger to the right and found the corresponding name:

Lady Aysgarth (gb 1864)

Clara's hands trembled as the sudden realisation hit her.

‘Ghosts,' she whispered to herself. ‘It's a list of ghosts.'

Sam stood by the hearse watching Mr Gliddon's coffin being lowered into the ground. The brothers stood next to each other, their shoulders touching, their heads lowered. Their dead father stood silently opposite them. Sam had attended so many funerals that he could not remember a time when they hadn't been an ordinary part of his life. He had grown up watching black-shrouded widows weep for their dear departed husbands, parents beat their chests with the pain of their lost infants and every other manifestation of grief. It wasn't that he was uncaring, just that the procedure and routine of a funeral cloaked the raw human emotion they contained. Perhaps that was the point of them.

Sam looked at Mr Constable. He too had grown up in a world of grief, so how was it he was able to convey a veneer of pained sorrow, as he stood at a respectful distance behind the family? Had Sam not known him so well he would have considered this a remarkable act, but Sam knew that Mr Constable was blessed with a natural empathy for every living soul and an ability to sincerely mourn the passing of each one. When so many in the profession of undertaking were considered cynical profiteers, none who met him had anything but kind words to speak of Mr Constable.

Rector Bray threw a handful of dust onto the coffin lid. There had still been a whiff of alcohol on his breath when Sam had greeted him but the fear had gone from his eyes. Mr Gliddon's gravestone lay against the stone wall, bearing the euphemism
Fell Asleep
. Sam stared at the words. If death was sleep, then what were ghosts? Dreams? Nightmares?

Neither the rector nor Sam had mentioned his previous visit, although it weighed heavily on Sam's mind and he had relived the experience over and over in his dreams the previous two nights. He had looked for signs of the strange black substance in other buildings but seen none. He had wondered what role the boy ghost with the pack of dogs had played in the whole business. It was rare that Sam wanted to see a ghost again, but the boy Tanner intrigued him.

After a short eulogy from Edward Gliddon and a few words from Rector Bray, the funeral was over. When Sam heard the sound of knocking he knew it was for Mr Gliddon. Relief, fear and sadness swept across the ghost's face as he turned to face the door that was only visible to him. He glanced at his sons. ‘Richard, take good care of the business,' he said. ‘Edward, take good care of yourself.' With these final words the ghost of Mr Gliddon stepped through the Unseen Door and vanished from sight.

Before the funeral troupe headed home, Rector Bray came to speak to Sam by the hearse while Mr Constable was talking to mourners.

‘My church is reborn,' said Rector Bray. ‘Thank you. I don't know what you did but . . .'

‘I didn't do anything,' replied Sam quietly.

‘You're too modest,' said the rector. ‘Can I ask what method you used?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘To exorcise the church. The Lord's prayer, words from the gospels. I am told the Book of Revelations has much of use.'

Sam could smell brandy on the rector's breath. ‘I did not exorcise anything,' he said. ‘Whatever was here chose to leave.'

‘Really? How fascinating,' said the rector. He pulled out from beneath his robes a small hip flask, which he lifted to his lips. ‘Communion wine,' he said by way of explanation.

‘Tell me,' said Sam. ‘Are you aware of a boy ghost in these parts? A boy who has lost a dog?'

‘A boy?' replied Bray. ‘No. There are plenty enough dying children around here. And plenty enough dogs, come to think of it, but none associated with this church as far as I know.'

The conversation came to an abrupt end when Mr Constable returned and informed them that the family were ready to leave. He thanked Rector Bray once again for allowing the funeral and the funeral party began the long journey back to Honor Oak.

Impromptu meetings were unheard of in the Bureau. Heads of department only ever met at the monthly General Business Cross-Departmental Meeting, which were such slavishly methodical affairs that General Colt usually went out of his way to ‘forget' them, no matter how many times Mrs Pringle reminded him.

It was no wonder then that Alice Biggins greeted General Colt with a look of confused shock when he materialised in front of her and demanded to speak to Colonel Penhaligan at once.

‘I don't have a note of a meeting scheduled,' she said, looking at her appointments book.

‘I just want to speak to Penhaligan,' replied the general.

‘I'm afraid he's in with someone right now. Perhaps if you could return to your office and have Mrs Pringle schedule a—'

‘There's no time for that,' said General Colt and, before she could stop him, he pushed open the door to find Colonel Penhaligan sitting behind his desk in discussion with a well-dressed gentleman with a thin moustache.

‘General Colt,' said Colonel Penhaligan, raising his eyebrows. ‘I think you have stumbled into the wrong room.'

‘I don't stumble and I am in the right room,' replied the general. ‘I have urgent business.'

‘Sorry, sir,' said Alice from behind him.

‘That's all right, Alice,' said Colonel Penhaligan. ‘As it happens Eugène and I have concluded our business.' He turned to the other ghost and said, ‘Thank you, Monsieur Vidocq.'

Monsieur Vidocq nodded and left, closing the door behind him, leaving the colonel and the general alone in the room.

‘Now, General Colt, what is it that is so pressing to deserve such utter disregard for centuries of procedural processes?'

‘Black Rot,' said General Colt, slamming the report on the table.

Colonel Penhaligan didn't look at it and instead kept his eyes trained on the general. ‘I'm sorry, you may have to speak in full sentences.'

‘Black Rot,' repeated the general. ‘It's a phantasmagorical wasting disease. It occurs when a haunted house loses its ghost. The last known incidence was in Paris, France.'

‘Ah, yes, the Parisian Problem,' said Colonel Penhaligan, resting his elbows on the report and knitting his hands together. ‘What of it?'

‘It's back. We have a Black Rot problem in London.'

Colonel Penhaligan placed his chin on his hands. ‘I find that quite hard to believe. My man Vidocq just got back from there. He didn't mention any such thing.'

‘Well, my man Lapsewool found differently.'

‘You mean Lapsewood.' Colonel Penhaligan snorted then let out a kind of coughing, spluttering laugh. ‘This has come from Lapsewood, the donkey?'

‘I'll admit at first I thought you'd sent me a real dud one there, too,' said General Colt. ‘But our boy has discovered a problem which has gone unnoticed by your Prowlers and by Admiral Hardknuckle's Enforcers.'

‘And where is Lapsewood now, pray?'

General Colt shifted uncomfortably. ‘As it happens, I sent him to the Vault,' he admitted. ‘Accidentally, I might add.'

‘Accidentally?' guffawed Colonel Penhaligan.

‘Yeah, well, some of his methods were a little unorthodox.'

‘As unorthodox as marching into a senior head of department's office unannounced, would you say?'

‘Listen here,' said General Colt, wagging a finger in Colonel Penhaligan's face. ‘This business requires an un­­­orthodox approach. You know what happened in Paris. We have to stop that happening here.'

Colonel Penhaligan sighed. ‘General Colt, as you'll recall, it was I who recommended you for your current position, and with equal ease I can call for a review of your competence so I'll ask you not to wave your fingers in my face. I know very well what happened in Paris and I have no intention of letting the same thing happen on our own soil. But we have procedure for a reason. First we need proof that such a problem exists in London. I take these things very seriously, but the testimony of a donkey like Lapsewood won't cut it. In spite of the unacceptable way you have gone about this I am willing to personally ensure that a motion is tabled at the next monthly General Business Cross-Departmental Meeting and that everything is then done to investigate this matter.'

‘But that's not for weeks . . .' began General Colt.

‘I'm surprised you know the date at all.' Colonel Penhaligan smiled and spoke calmly. ‘But don't worry yourself. When you've been in this job as long as I you'll understand that procedure and process exist for a reason. Indeed, they are the foundations upon which this great establishment was built.'

‘It could be too late by the time that bunch of fusty old duffers decide to do anything.'

‘General Colt, we lost our sense of too late when we became ghosts,' replied Colonel Penhaligan. ‘Besides, I'll remind you that you are talking about your colleagues.'

General Colt stared angrily at Penhaligan for a moment, then turned and stormed out. As he opened the door he collided with Alice, crouching down outside the door.

Lapsewood and the Marquis stood by the door to the Vault, listening to the clinking sound of the keys signifying the approach of the guard.

‘Remember the plan,' said the Marquis. ‘We turn to Ether Dust, then, as soon as you see a crack in the door, fly. You head upwards, I shall go down. Whichever one of us gets out will return to release the other. Good luck and Godspeed. Let love of liberty lead us onwards.'

They could hear the cover in front of the keyhole being moved to one side and the key being quickly inserted. Lapsewood watched the Marquis turn to Ether Dust and was about to do the same when he heard his own name spoken.

‘Visitor for Lapsewood?' said Sergeant Brinks.

Lapsewood froze. He had a visitor. The key turned, unlocking the door. A crack of light appeared. The THWACK of Brinks' Beater bringing the Marquis down with a thud reminded Lapsewood too late about the plan. The door swung open to reveal Sergeant Brinks standing over the Marquis's body. Next to him, dwarfed by the Enforcer's size, stood Grunt.

‘Grunt?' said Lapsewood.

‘My old friend,' he replied, offering his hand. Lapsewood took it, feeling so grateful to see him that he didn't even mind the dampness of his palm.

‘You've got two minutes,' said Brinks. ‘Inside, though.'

He pushed the Marquis and Grunt inside unceremoniously and slammed the door shut behind them.

‘Some accomplice you turned out to be,' grumbled the Marquis.

‘I'm sorry, but you see, I know this man,' said Lapsewood.

Grunt looked at the large door that had closed behind him. ‘Sergeant Brinks?' he shouted.