MR JANUS THACKERY was, as befitted his profession, a mournful man and one might have thought that Dolores had been his daughter from the tragic way that he spoke of her. His right shoulder was lower than his left and I wondered if that came from a lifetime of carrying lead-lined coffins, and if Undertaker’s Stoop were a recognised medical condition. If not the journals might name it after me.
‘Are you a relative?’ he enquired tremulously, his bulbous whiskers quivering in lieu of the jowls he lacked.
‘Her sister,’ I said confidently.
‘Oh,’ he said, and it was then that I recalled Martha telling me her friend had been an only child.
I could say that I meant she was like a sister, I mused.
Highly convincing, Ruby sarcasmed.
‘May I confide in you?’ I asked and he leaned his lean face towards me.
‘But of course,’ he assured me, dipping his head so low as to give me a glimpse of a scalp stained in a vain – in vain – attempt to disguise his balding crinkled pate. ‘For I have undertaken the Undertaker’s Oath and neither the rack nor the thumbscrew would induce me to break a confidence.’
‘Good,’ I said, fairly well satisfied, but he had not finished.
‘Why Countess Canelo herself entrusted me with the knowledge that her children were not sired by the count.’
‘Oh,’ I said, a little less well satisfied.
‘And I will take the secret of Bishop Foster’s gonorrhoea to my own magnificent tomb,’ he vowed, which was good enough for me.
‘Dr Poynder denies my existence,’ I improvised, ‘because…’
He is your lover, Ruby prompted.
‘I discovered that he is an imposter,’ I explained, highly gratified to observe the man’s avid interest in my fiction. ‘The weal Dr Poynder’s body lies in five ditches awound Wutland,’ I concluded with no idea as to why I had W’d my Rs.
‘Rutland?’ the undertaker checked in shock, for few worse fates could befall a corpse than to be disposed of in that county, and I found myself torn between relief at his gullibility and chagrin that he had not recognised the plot of The Disappearance of David Divine.
‘Wutland,’ I confirmed, having been committed to that pronunciation.
‘Have you told the police?’ he gasped, forgetting to be lugubrious.
‘I cannot for they are all in The Guild.’
‘The Guild?’
In for a penny, I told myself and glanced over my shoulder.
‘A nefarious, secret and murderous organisation.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ he gasped again. ‘They sound awful. Do you happen to know if they are looking for new members?’
‘They are looking for new victims,’ I told him and I saw him hesitate. Did he really want to associate with an enemy of that terrible Guild? ‘To keep their brother undertakers in business,’ I put in quickly and he smirked.
‘I knew there was something wrong with the man,’ he asserted. ‘He was far too pleasant to be a doctor.’
Just get on with it, Ruby nagged.
I snuffled.
‘I loved my sister,’ I said and he reverted to his melancholy manner.
‘Indeed.’ He wrung his hands, much too Uriah Heepishly to be convincing but, as Romulus once told me, insincerity only works if you smother people in it.
‘And, since I cannot attend her funeral…’
‘The best that money can buy. In fact…’ he broke in, appraising me in what I hoped was a professional manner. ‘I could possibly let you have a little discount since your final home would require less material than usual.’
‘Why is that?’ I asked innocently and watched him flounder for a full three seconds before I quavered, ‘My only wish is to bid my darling Dolores farewell.’
I tried but could not manage to make my lip tremble and Thackery touched his cheek. Did he think that I was blowing him a kiss? If so, it had failed to melt his sepulchral heart.
‘I am not sure the putative husband of the deceased would approve.’
‘And to make a substantial contribution towards a wreath.’ I baited my hook.
‘How substantial?’ he sniffed at my lure.
‘Would five guineas be sufficient?’ I asked, calculating that I could buy the contents of Mrs Pilkington, the florist’s, window for less than that.
‘Ten would provide a truly magnificent tribute,’ he wheedled.
‘Ten it is,’ I bargained.
Have you lost your mind? Ruby scolded me. If he knows you are not attending the funeral, he will not provide so much as a daisy chain.
There is method in my madness, I asserted.
There is madness in your madness, she counter-asserted.
‘Come this way, madam,’ Thackery ushered me, struggling to hide a smirk behind his mask of tragedy and almost skipping as he led me down a corridor lined by genuine plaster of Paris marble statues of mourning Greek women.
The coffin lay on a table which was draped with black crepe, as were the walls and the unlit chandelier, only the flicker of an equally genuine ancient Greek oil lamp in each corner illuminated the black curtained room.
‘I would like a moment alone with her,’ I said, hoping the catch in my voice was not too theatrical but in the land of hams, the hammiest ham is queen, I told myself, ignoring Ruby’s tuts.
‘But of course, madam,’ Thackery murmured and withdrew backwards, hardly grunting as he caught his hip on a side table decorated with wax lilies.
The coffin was rather a splendid construction – oak carved with fat-cheeked, trumpet-blowing cherubs on the sides and – just in case anybody forgot its true purpose – a skull and crossbones on the lid.
Rather piratical, Ruby commented, though the word I would have chosen was gruesome. The body would decay soon enough without any pictorial encouragement. But a tad more decorative than the steel box to which you have condemned me and I have yet to detect any progress in my escape plans.
I have more immediate concerns, I told her impatiently, blocking my mental ears to her indignation.
‘Botheration.’ The lid of the casket had been firmly screwed down.
This was not a complete surprise, but it was a completely unwelcome one.
At least it is not padlocked, Ruby commented.
Gerrund had called on Snail’s hardware store that very morning, having first visited the parlour, ostensibly to choose a suitable casket – for Agnust he had joked to her chagrin – but really to find what type of screws were most commonly used.
Many undertakers contented themselves with ornamental thumbscrews at every corner – not the instruments of torture to which nice Mr Thackery had alluded but ones with large, flanged heads for ease of use. Thackery, however, had used square, slotted brass screws in such profligate quantities that his charges might have difficulty being resurrected in time for judgement day.
It occurred to me that I had never actually handled a screwdriver before. Why would I? I was not a craftsman, and if I wanted something made or repaired I employed a man to do it for me. I took the tool out of my bag, mortified to see that it had torn the cotton lining, and set to work.
Was always this difficult or did the man who had fixed the lid down have the grip of Hercules? Either way I managed to extract the screw and put it carefully on the table behind me. Even I had worked out that it – the screw not the table – might roll away.
Only fifteen to go, Ruby encouraged me but failed to do so.
‘Oh good,’ I said aloud, glad that Friendless was not there to question me.
Two more screws and my wrist started complaining. It was not designed for that kind of work I was told and, if I forced it to continue with its labours, it would be obliged to commence aching. I did and it did. Perhaps I was getting the hang of it, but some of the other screws rose quite readily from the lid for removal.
Soft footsteps approached.
Howl, Ruby advised, but I had beaten her to it.
‘Ohhhhhhh,’ I wailed. ‘Ohohoh oh oh.’
There was a rustling.
‘Ohhhhhhh.’
The footsteps began again but faded. Undertakers must be used to dealing with weeping relatives. In fact most of them carry black silk handkerchiefs to offer the bereaved and add to their final account. The average man, however, would rather be confronted by a spear-waving savage who was unable to see the advantages of having his home stolen and his family enslaved, than a caterwauling female.
‘Ohohoh-oh.’
You can stop now, Ruby said irritably, having little patience with even feigned weaknesses in her own sex.
I went back to work, my wrist having been distracted, forgetting to grouse at the action. There was not much to being a craftsman after all, I considered with great satisfaction as I put my screwdriver down though, possibly, there were other skills involved in the construction of funeral furniture. I had seen carpenters using saws but they seemed simple enough to operate.
Do not even think of it, my right shoulder cautioned.
I slid the lid, or at least I tried to, only to find that it would not move. There must be a lip on the rim so I would have to lift it. It was heavier than I had expected. I adjusted my grip and heaved. Even if it were lead-lined, surely it could not be that heavy.
I’ll wager you wish you had given more attention to your arithmetic classes, Ruby jibed and it took a moment to realise what she meant. There were fifteen screws on the cloth and I had not dropped any. I had missed one at the corner and extracted it with the practised ease of an experienced screwdriverist.
‘Right.’ I pushed on the head of the lid, fully aware that shifting it would take a great deal of force. Fully unaware that shifting it would take a great deal of force the lid shot sideways. It lay askew at about sixty degrees, I calculated, despite my poor performance in geometry. This was ridiculous. I had not even pushed in that direction. I went around to the top overhang, hardly brushing against the bottom overhang, but the lid leapt as if I had prodded it with a white-hot poker.
‘Stop!’ I commanded but lids, like most men, never listen and it positively flew to the edge of the coffin, hovering tantalisingly. ‘Come back!’ I implored, but it fell before I had a chance to add, ‘please.’
The floor was richly covered but even the thick pile could not muffle the sound of the impact. At least it had cushioned the fall, I consoled myself, hurrying round to the unconsoling sight of a crossbone lying detached from its fellow on the carpet.
Butterfingers, Ruby jeered as I heard a distant grunt of surprise and the approach of no-longer-soft footfalls.