After breakfast, Sam left his uncle upstairs and went down into the shop to get on with his chores, which today involved polishing the paraphernalia that filled the glass-fronted cabinet. As Mr Constable always said, the display items needed to look their best if they were to reflect the care and attention that the customers of Constable and Toop could expect. Sam had removed the selection of lid ornaments, inscription plates and coffin handles and placed them on a red cloth on the desk when he sensed a presence behind him.
‘Sam Toop,’ said a boy’s voice. ‘Now if you ain’t a tricky one to track down.’
‘I won’t help you, so you might as well leave,’ said Sam, keeping his back to him.
‘That ain’t very nice after we got on so well at the church and all.’
Sam turned to find the ghost of the boy he had met in Shadwell. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘The name’s Tanner.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Sam irritably.
‘I searched all over for this place, you know, asking everywhere I went. Most ghosts tend to know at least one undertaker. You never forget the man who profited from your death. But it took a lot of asking and a lot of ghosts before I hit upon a fella who’d been put into the ground in one of those lovely death boats your old man is making back there.’ Tanner pointed to the workshop door, behind which Mr Toop could be heard sawing a piece of wood.
‘Why did you want to find me? I thought you had no need of a Talker.’
‘Things have changed.’
‘So have I. I don’t help ghosts any more.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ The floorboards above them creaked. Jack was on the move. Sam lowered his voice. ‘So you can find another Talker,’ he said. ‘I’m not helping you. I’ve had it with helping ghosts.’
‘This ain’t your normal sort of help.’
‘None of them are normal,’ snapped Sam. ‘They all think they’re different. But they’re all the same. Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands. Tell them I love them, tell them where the money is hidden, tell them not to pawn that old trinket. I’ve had enough of it.’
Tanner slipped behind the desk and expertly picked up a pen between his forefinger and thumb.
‘Stop that,’ said Sam.
Tanner dipped it in the ink pot. ‘I was only going to write you a note asking for your help.’ A drop of ink splashed down onto the desk.
‘You can’t make me help you like this,’ said Sam. ‘You’re like the rest of them, trying to spook me into doing what you want. I won’t.’
‘All I ask is that you hear me out,’ said Tanner. ‘This isn’t one of your selfish ghost problems. This is important. Now, you going to help me or what?’
‘Put the pen down,’ said Sam. ‘All right. I’ll hear you out. Only not here.’
‘Where then?’
‘The top of One Tree Hill in an hour.’
The boy smiled. ‘See you there, Sam Toop.’
One Tree Hill was a place Sam went when he wanted to get away from everyone. When he was younger he would go there after being teased by his classmates. He went there when the ghosts got too much for him or when he needed to escape the shop and the morbid profession into which he had been born. Mr Constable always said that theirs was a noble trade, helping to mark the passing of unique and precious lives, but Sam sometimes wondered if they were not more like vultures, preying on grief and extracting money from the vulnerable. Sam had heard enough ghosts grumbling about their own funerals to know that the dead were never satisfied. They cost money that could be better spent on food, schooling and medicine. Bodies could be thrown into a hole with no ceremony, or burnt in a crematorium for half the expense and who would be the worse for it?
Grieving relatives tried to find comfort in the idea of an afterlife, but Sam, who had witnessed it for himself, saw no comfort in what he had seen. Every day he saw the restless spirits pacing the same streets they walked in life, leaving no footprints, making no sound. The dead he saw had found no enlightenment. No nirvana. No joy.
At the top of the hill Sam could see London’s hazy skyline, the great dome of St Paul’s, the countless rooftops of London’s cramped population and the factories of Borough churning out the black smoke of industry.
‘Lovely view from up here,’ said Tanner, materialising next to him.
‘Just tell me what you want,’ said Sam.
‘You remember that church where we met?’
‘Of course.’ How could Sam forget the strange black substance that had rendered him unconscious?
‘You were in there before I entered, which means you were there when Lil’ Mags went in.’
‘Your dog?’ said Sam.
‘Yeah, my dog. You must have seen what the church was like before, then.’
‘I don’t know what I saw that night.’
‘It’s called the Black Rot. We have to stop it spreading. Houses are losing their Residents. That’s when it sets in. I need someone who can persuade ghosts to replace them.’
‘I’ve had it with all of you,’ snapped Sam, unable to hide his anger. Jack was right; ghosts were selfish. Mr Sternwell’s deception over the will had been the last straw but Sam could think of countless examples of similar behaviour. ‘I’m through with helping ghosts.’
‘I’m not talking about helping ghosts. I’m talking about saving London.’
‘I don’t care about London either,’ replied Sam. ‘It can all go to hell.’
‘The way things are going it’s more likely to be the other way round,’ said Tanner wryly.
‘It’s not my problem.’
Tanner stared angrily at Sam. ‘The dead ain’t no one’s problem,’ he said. ‘Just like the poor. Let them ruin themselves with drink. Let their children die like rats. The whole lot of them may as well rot away in their own filth.’
‘I’m talking about the dead, not the poor.’
‘The poor sit in the dead’s waiting room,’ stated Tanner.
‘I can’t help you,’ said Sam. ‘No one can help you.’
He turned and walked down the hill.
Tanner shouted after him, but Sam didn’t turn again. Tanner felt furious. He was frustrated that he had wasted all that time searching for a Talker who refused to help. He channelled his emotions into the tips of his fingers and picked up a pebble. For a moment he considered throwing it at Sam but instead he turned and lobbed it into the trees.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear,’ said a voice.
Tanner turned. A man stood behind him, with bloodshot eyes and leathery skin. He was a living man and yet he was looking directly at him.
‘My nephew wouldn’t ’elp you, would ’e?’ he said.
‘Your nephew?’
‘I’m Jack Toop. Pleased to meet you.’ The man leaned forward, bringing his face close to Tanner’s. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your request. Shame he wouldn’t ’elp you out.’
Tanner had met his type before. The way he rubbed his hands together, the way he hunched his shoulders as though in constant readiness to duck out of sight. Men like him could be thieves or killers but they were never good news. Never. In life, Tanner had feared them. In death, they posed no threat to him.
‘I’ve got a proposal for you, boy,’ said the man. ‘A proposal to help you out of your little predicament.’
‘You mean you’ll help me get ghosts into the houses?’
‘Oh yeah, I’ll get ghosts into ’ouses. Nothing could be easier. But you got to help me out in return. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Help you out with what?’
‘I need some spyin’ done. It’ll take hardly any time. How abouts we make a deal; for every ghost I get inside one of your ’ouses, you do me a little bit of spyin’. How about that?’
‘You really think you can convince them to go in?’ asked Tanner.
Jack laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll drag them in kickin’ and screamin’ if necessary.’
‘All right,’ said Tanner. ‘We got a deal.’
Jack grinned. ‘I’d shake your ’and if I could. Now, give us an ’ouse and, as an act of good will, I’ll do the first one for free.’
Tanner picked an address from the list at random and read it out loud. ‘Aysgarth House, Three Kings Court, Fleet Street.’
‘No problem. I’ll get you a ghost inside before mornin’,’ said Jack.