A Case of Doubtful Death Read online

  ‘I make no promises. But I might be prepared to temper my actions based on what further information I receive.’

  He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his palms and forehead, then carefully folded the fabric before putting it away. ‘Very well. You recall that I told you of the lady in Germany who Mackenzie loved?’

  ‘Yes, the one forced to marry a brute for money.’

  ‘Indeed. The day before he died Mackenzie came to me and told me the sad tale. He said he had never ceased to love her and indeed she him. He assured me, however, and I believe him absolutely, that their acquaintance was wholly innocent, but such was their mutual affection that a crude mind might have put a certain interpretation on it. Any suggestion of scandal would of course have exposed the poor lady to the most dreadful ill-use from her foul husband and they had determined that much as it pained them, they must never see each other or communicate again. In the last few weeks, Mackenzie had received letters from friends in Germany, which showed that even this was not enough. The husband has been descending into madness and reached a kind of monomania on the subject. He actually believed that Mackenzie was living in Germany and visiting his wife. Mackenzie could think of only one way of protecting her – he must make this evil individual believe that he was dead. He asked me to help him.

  ‘Yes, we did consider carrying out a deception, although we never discussed the detail. Palmer knew nothing of it, but we might have engaged his assistance at a later date. On the night of his death, Mackenzie came to the Life House and told me that he had decided to go through with it. He looked terribly tired and ill. He died, Miss Doughty, there was no pretence about it, he fell and died.’

  ‘And you accuse me of telling fanciful tales,’ declared Frances. ‘Dr Mackenzie’s story is identical to the plot of a sensational novel reviewed in the Bayswater Chronicle last month – For the Love of a Ladye by Augustus Mellifloe.’

  ‘I do not read such things,’ said Bonner, frowning.

  ‘Obviously not, and I am sure that he knew it. He had good reasons to want to disappear, but they were not the noble and selfless motives he claimed and most assuredly nothing he wished you to be aware of. Now then, if you still maintain that he is dead I would like to view the coffin and if I see any reason to have it opened, then I will insist on it being done.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Bonner, ‘but I remain anxious that the reputation of the Life House is not impugned. Very well, I can see that you will not desist from this madness until you have your way. I will arrange for you to see the coffin as you request and you may bring all the witnesses you want, invite the press if you wish, so long as the excursion is represented in a proper light.’

  Frances, taking Dr Bonner at his word about inviting the press, informed Mr Gillan that her eminent medical acquaintance was putting together a little party of interested persons to tour the catacombs at All Souls, and that he might make up one of their number, since it might provide an interesting and instructive item for the Chronicle. Dr Bonner was as good as his word and a visit was arranged for the next day.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dr Bonner, who kept a smart little carriage, offered Frances and Sarah places for the journey, and there was also enough room for the svelte form of young Mr Fairbrother. Sarah looked at Mr Fairbrother with a furrowed brow as if to say that no man ought to appear as handsome as he did, and then stared very closely at Frances.

  They proceeded up the Ladbroke Grove Road and then turned left into Harrow Road. The cemetery, thought Frances, was like a town in miniature and just as the needs of Bayswater had given rise to beautiful shopping promenades and market gardens to feed the demands of its inhabitants, so the needs of the cemetery had also to be fed, but in different ways. As they approached the fine, arched entrance it seemed that every business in the vicinity was in some way supplying the requirements not so much of the dead as the living who mourned them. Shops and yards bore signs declaring the businesses within to be that of stonemason and dealers in statuary, and from their doors came the continuous sounds of grinding and polishing; but only one kind of stone and marble was being fashioned. The goods on display were species of blank tombstones to serve as examples, taking the form of weeping women, angels, ivy-clad crosses, hourglasses and similar solemn testimonials. Other establishments were for the sale of fresh flowers and wreaths or immortelles, whose painted porcelain blooms were the perfect expression of the sadness of loss and a reminder that no living thing, however well preserved, can last forever. Most of the vehicles on the road were hearses and most of the men pausing for refreshment at inns were in undertakers’ weeds.

  On the way Dr Bonner regaled his companions with some of the history of All Souls, and its many beautiful acres and elegant monuments. While Frances was partial to contemplating statuary she reflected on the prevalent custom and taste for viewing the cemetery as a pastime or even an entertainment. On a fine afternoon, fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen came to stroll and talk or sit and eat sweetmeats, much as one might visit a garden that was no more than just a garden. To Frances, however, the cemetery served only two purposes for the visitor, one was to visit the tombs of the dead to remember those friends and relations who had departed. The other was to consider the living, and especially to examine inside oneself, and think of how short a time there was to become the person one ought to be.

  At the entrance to the cemetery they were joined by the other members of the party, Dr Warrinder, who had arrived in a hansom, looking unhappy, and Mr Gillan, beaming with anticipation and holding a notebook and pencil at the ready.

  A cheerful looking red-faced gatekeeper presented them with an illustrated handbook which included a map of the cemetery and introduced them to their guide, a small, serious man dressed in funereal black whose usual role was to preside at interments. He was, as they were to discover, a tireless fount of all information regarding the history and customs of All Souls.

  He began by informing the party that they were to take no note of recent reports that curious sounds had been heard in the catacombs as he was able to reassure them that these were solely due to the wind entering the gratings. He only mentioned this as he wished to ensure that the ladies were not alarmed. Sarah said that he need not worry on her account as she did not believe in ghosts and even if she did, she did not think that something that was made of nothing could do her any harm. Their guide smiled thinly, as if too polite to mention that even something that was made of something was unlikely to be able to harm Sarah.

  On the way to the chapel they passed a greenhouse which, they were informed, had been established by the cemetery to supply a demand for fresh flowers that even the nearby nurseries were unable to meet. Frances wondered if that was really true and what the proprietors of nearby nurseries thought about the rival establishment.

  As they walked along the path to the chapel, Frances was obliged to comment that there was a great deal of costly marble in the grounds, some of it in the portable form of urns and tablets, and wondered if there was any danger of robbery, but she was assured that a night-watchman who was accompanied by a dog and carried a gun, patrolled the grounds, and also took particular care to observe the entrances of the catacombs and mausoleums.

  There were, explained their guide, three separate catacombs in the cemetery, one below the Dissenters’ Chapel in the east and two below the central chapel, where services were conducted according to the Church of England. The catacomb that lay under the building’s colonnade had long since been filled, but the one they were about to see extended under the whole chapel and still received deposits. The remains of many distinguished persons, including surgeons and physicians of note, were to be found there.

  ‘Dr Mackenzie was impressed from his first visit to All Souls many years ago by the dignity and hygiene of its arrangements,’ said Dr Bonner, ‘and while a catacomb vault will cost more than a burial in the earth, it will hold many coffins and is no trouble to maintain.’ He was walking a
little more easily than the previous day, but still required the assistance of his stick.

  ‘Did he have any funeral money put aside?’ asked Frances.

  ‘None, I’m afraid. Dr Warrinder and myself were obliged to meet the expense.’

  The iron gates of the chapel were open and its interior, with an altar below a far window and a double row of dark wooden pews on either side, was like a church, but a church built only for one purpose. Here there would never be the joy of marriage or christening or the celebration of life, only burials and loss. Its centre was dominated by an extraordinary structure – a high oblong plinth, black and shiny as jet, a carved pillar at each corner, its sides dressed in velvet and on top, a deep platform with gilded surrounds. Frances was just wondering if it might be an unusual kind of coffin, when the guide explained that it was a catafalque for the conveyance of remains into the catacombs below, the method for which would become apparent shortly. The machinery operated on the hydraulic principle, which meant that it employed liquid operated by a pump.

  Frances hoped that they might ride down to the catacombs on the great black plinth which would have been quite a novelty, but to her disappointment the guide, who had now lit a lantern, unlocked a side door and she found that she was expected to descend by a narrow, steep stone staircase whose builders had not anticipated that it would ever be used by ladies whose heavy skirts made progress very difficult, or by gentlemen with weak legs. The guide looked on anxiously as Dr Warrinder tottered down the steps and Mr Fairbrother offered Dr Bonner his arm for support.

  Frances had not been quite sure what to expect, a large room like a dungeon, perhaps, and was astounded at the sight of something resembling a wine cellar that might have lain below a great castle or a money vault suitable for a bank. They were looking down a corridor easily wide enough to admit several people walking abreast and lit by gas lamps. The plain arched roof and walls were not the grim bare stone she had anticipated; all were painted white. On either side were vaults for the deposit of coffins, each large enough to hold a dozen or more. She was told that the catacomb was arranged in six aisles and there were 216 vaults in all. The guide showed them the shining metal columns down which the catafalque was able to descend with smooth dignity, and the pump, with a great iron handle, which took two strong men to operate.

  ‘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.
r />   ‘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.’