IT IS LATE AFTERNOON when Sergeant Bartleby jogs up the narrow winding stairs that lead to Decimus Webb’s office. The room is one of several belonging to the Detective Branch, situated above the old arched gateway that guards the cobbles of Great Scotland Yard. Cramped, ill-ventilated, with the distinct smell of horse dung from the yard outside, it is little used by its tenant. Today, however, with nothing to occupy his time but reading several long-winded reports and pursuing a detailed claim for the sum of £2 10s., travelling expenses, Inspector Webb is to be found in situ.
Bartleby takes a breath and knocks on the open door, cautiously stepping over several crates full of books and papers that partially block the entrance. Webb looks up from his work, and beckons him to sit down – but it is no easy task for the sergeant. The office interior, dimly lit by a pair of gas-lamps, its walls decorated with ageing yellow flock, contains obstacles for the unwary pedestrian, similar to those on the landing. In fact, the accumulated detritus of several years of investigations are laid out upon the floor, with papery traces of old murders, abductions and frauds scattered around Webb’s desk.
The arrangement is not entirely Webb’s fault. It is common knowledge that the search for a new, spacious, more reputable headquarters for the Detective Branch has long been a talking point and a challenge for the Police Commissioners. Nonetheless, as Bartleby sits waiting for his superior to finish writing, he wonders if he ought to suggest the purchase of some drawers for filing. He is about to say something, when Webb speaks up.
‘Well, what is it?’ asks the inspector, at last, putting down his pen.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ replies Bartleby, instantly repenting of the putative drawers. ‘A letter from Inspector Hanson, and a telegram from Mr. Pellegrin, Abney Park.’
‘I remember the fellow’s location, Sergeant – well, what does it say?’
‘Which, sir?’
Webb sighs. ‘Begin with Hanson.’
‘Ah, well, in short, sir,’ says Bartleby with a slight smile, ‘it appears they’ve lost Mr. Brown. They had a watch on his lodgings but he . . . ah, here it is,’ he says, pulling out the letter in question, ‘he “evaded the constable on duty” and he asks us to notify the divisions. Wouldn’t think it, would you, sir? Big fellow like that. Hard to miss him, I would have thought.’
‘Yes, yes. In any case, have you arranged it?’
‘Telegraphed all the particulars to the divisions, and put a note in next week’s Bulletin,’ replies Bartleby.
‘Good. Well, we can keep an eye out for him. Poor Hanson. What does Mr. Pellegrin have to say for himself?’
Bartleby retrieves the telegram. ‘Ah yes, well, turns out he found the undertaker that made the coffin, like you asked – Siddons & Sons, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street.’
‘Siddons? Ah yes, I know the name.’
‘You think they might have a record?’
‘Well, I do not suppose they buried that many J.S. Mundays in Abney Park in 1848, do you, Sergeant? At the very least we might inquire.’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Well then,’ says Webb, looking back down at his papers, ‘what are you waiting for?’
‘I’ll be off, sir,’ says Bartleby.
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.