A Gathering of Ghosts Read online

  A Gathering of Ghosts

  By David Haynes

  Copyright © David Haynes 2014. All Rights Reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced without written consent from the author

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  For Sarah and George

  The Silent Bell

  The Stonegate Manor Collection

  The Haunting of Reverend Carson

  The Last Waltz

  The Speaking Tube

  The Ghost Train

  The Silent Bell

  Present day

  St. Mary’s Church

  London

  “If we have to walk around another bloody graveyard, I’ll scream!”

  Michael Hughes had been a teacher long enough to know his choice of location for the history field trip was a mistake. Graveyards were about as far away from interesting to the students as possible. Yet something inside him enjoyed their boredom. It served them right for being pains in the arse.

  “Sir?” asked one of the more able students.

  “Yes, Emma?”

  “Look up there.” She pointed into the branches of a chestnut tree beside a grave. “Why has this one got a bell hanging over it? None of the others have.”

  Michael walked over and touched the headstone. The inscription was a victim of the passage of time and lichen blooms obscured what little writing was still visible. It had been a long time since anyone had laid flowers here. “Ah yes,” he started and turned to the others. “The Silent Bell.”

  “What?” one of the other kids asked.

  “The Silent Bell.” He pointed up at the bell. “Look, no clapper. See? Who wants to know how it came to be here?”

  *

  Willington Hall

  Surrey

  1820

  “I am utterly convinced she was buried alive. Convinced, I tell you!” Lady Sarah Asquith’s voice was tinged with grief.

  Her husband, Lord Henry Asquith, took her arm and led her to the chaise by the window. “Is it not possible, Doctor, that you were premature in your declaration? After all, she had been quite well only two days before her death.”

  I shook my head. I had seen many deaths in my time and the death of an aristocrat was no different from any other. Their refusal to accept the loss of a loved one was no different from the reaction of those from even the poorest class. “Quite impossible I am afraid, sir. Her heart had failed and from that there can be no hope of recovery.”

  “But Doctor, I have read of these occasions before,” Lord Asquith started. “Only last week I read in The Times that an exhumation had been conducted at St. Oswald’s. Furthermore, the body was found to bear all the signs of a violent struggle. A struggle against the confines a coffin provides. By all accounts, the skin on her fingers had been scraped clean away and her legs were drawn up to her chest as if she were trying to force open the lid.”

  “Oh Henry!” Lady Asquith wailed. “She is alive. I know for sure!”

  The newspapers had perpetrated these stories for many months now. I gave then scant regard for they only served to give credence to the sensation seekers in our society.

  “Please,” I started, “do not pay attention to those stories, Lord Asquith. They are merely falsehoods designed to thrill and titillate. That is all, nothing more.”

  Lord Asquith walked toward me and placed his arm on my shoulder. “I shall show you out, Doctor.”

  As we reached the great hall, he took me by the arm. His face bore the signs of a weary malaise. “Lady Asquith has become quite ill over this matter. I fear she will not last the year unless something is done swiftly.”

  “And how may I be of assistance? I have given her a tincture for the headaches.”

  “I would ask you to make arrangements for the exhumation of our niece.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but Lord Asquith raised his hand to silence me. “I know what you will say, Doctor. You will declare it is a waste of time and effort, and we will find nothing save for a rotting corpse. But, it will assuage her fears and we can resume our once peaceful and happy life. I ask you as my friend and family physician to complete this small yet important request.”

  I nodded and lowered my head. Asquith was a kindly man but it was his position, and therefore connections, in society which I valued above all.

  “I should be delighted to make the arrangements, sir.”

  The carriage rattled along the track away from Willington Hall. I was delighted to be away from the place. Its sombre façade was matched only by the grave nature of those within. Dark clouds gathered above and they were matched by the darkness of my mood. Never before had I been asked to conduct an exhumation. Never before had my expertise been questioned and if it weren’t for those damned newspapers, I was quite sure such a request would never have been made.

  The necessary arrangements were made, and late in the afternoon on the following Wednesday I met with Lord and Lady Asquith at the church of St. Peter, their local parish. It was a dismal day and already the afternoon light was fading away to a grim dusk.

  The gravediggers worked swiftly to uncover what they had only last week hidden. When they had completed their task, they attached the ropes, and hauled poor Emily’s coffin from the earth.

  The Asquiths had been guardians of Emily since her own parents had perished and both wore mourning attire as was only proper. Lady Asquith’s face was barely visible beneath her weeping veil.

  “I must warn you, Lady Asquith. Even though she has been interred only a week, she will appear changed. Her body will…”

  “Yes, yes, Doctor. Please just open the coffin and we shall leave.” Lord Asquith held a handkerchief to his nose even though there was no hint of the morbid aroma.

  “Very well.” I signalled for the digger to open the coffin.

  I stepped back to show respect for their final farewell and lowered my head.

  A terrible scream erupted from Lady Asquith followed by a roar from her husband.

  “I shall see you in Pentonville for this, Gough!” He turned to the gravedigger and roared again, “Replace the lid, you cretin!”

  I stepped forward. “What is it?” But already the strength in my legs was leaking away. I peered into the coffin and gasped. The white silken lining was in tatters and Emily’s fingers were scraped to the bone. Even her toes were twisted and bloody where she had tried in vain to push open the lid. Her mouth was a frozen scream of terror.

  I fell to my knees and felt the cold earth weep through my breeches. “It cannot be. She was dead. I tell you, she was dead. There was no pulse.”

  I looked up at Lord Asquith. His face was flushed with venomous fury. He raised his arm and brought the brass end of his cane down on my temple.

  I should rather have been rendered unconscious but the force of his blow merely knocked me into the coffin beside the cold, dead body of their niece. I wept into the soft white cotton of her gown.

  *

  Were it not for my previous good standing and connections of my own, I would have surely found myself confined in a cold cell at Pentonville. As it stood, Lord Asquith saw fit to remove my facility to practise medicine. That is, my patrons were convinced to seek an alternative physician to cure their ills.

  I was destitute, yet I bore Lord Asquith no malice, for he had done only what any man in his position would. He had sought revenge on the man who had condemned his niece to death.

  I wandered daily through the festering streets of London. The stench of death was ripe in the air and it followed me with every step. I sought comfort in the arms of the dollymops and bliss in the willowy landscape of gin. I was utterly lost and consume
d with guilt for what I had done. How many men and women had I entombed when they were merely sleeping? As surely as sinking the edge of my blade beneath the flesh of her throat, I had murdered Emily, and in doing so condemned myself to a slow and inexorable end.

  One afternoon as I sat in the gloom of a gin shop, I contemplated my future, or lack of one. I had drunk the last of my wealth and now, with not even a roof above my head, I was at the bottom of the rotting detritus of London. It would be no loss if my body were to fall, bloated and drunken, into the stinking mud at Putney. I would not be missed.

  I swallowed the final glass of foul-tasting gin and closed my eyes. My decision was made and there could be no turning back. Once more, tears flowed down my dirty cheeks and fell into the empty glass before me.

  The ring of a bell sent a sweet ripple through my dismal reverie, as a drinker entered the shop. Again and again it sounded, alerting the proprietor to their presence. Alerting him that life goes on.

  Life goes on.

  I opened my eyes immediately. Life goes on. At once my drunken despair was like a distant whisper. I had an idea, a chance to make reparation to those I had wronged. It was but a notion; a flickering flame in the breeze. Yet it was there and it was strong. I had not the skill to make it reality, but there was a man who did and I knew just where to find him.

  In my time as physician to the gentry, I had acquired a great many contacts with whom various exchanges had been made. One such venture was that of William Monroe and Sons. Monroe was a cabinetmaker by trade, yet when his business slumped he turned his attentions elsewhere. He became a maker of coffins, and eventually, a funeral director.

  For a generous annuity from Monroe, I was obliged to recommend his services to the family of those unfortunate souls I had been unable to cure. It was a morbid collaboration, I agree, yet the benefits of our association were of generous proportions and made Monroe quite wealthy. It was to his establishment that I felt compelled to travel.

  Having lost my fortune, I was forced to endure the journey on foot. It was not a pleasant walk for the summer had been hot and the stench of the bursting graveyards left a vile miasma writhing about the city. My clothes were threadbare, my face unshaven and the odour of gin was strong on my breath yet I cared not, for I had triumph on my mind.

  Eventually I found myself outside the sombre façade of William Monroe and Sons. It was not possible to see past the stone-carved angels or the simple monuments adorned with biblical inscriptions, which lay on display in the window. Behind them, a heavy black curtain was drawn to conceal what lay inside.

  I had no need to step inside though, for my business was in the workshop at the rear. The sound of labour could be heard as I passed beneath the carriage archway. I had heard that welcome sound on my many visits to see Monroe and collect my tribute. Despite the somewhat morbid character of his profession, he had always been a jolly fellow and I was very fond of him. I had even tended his wife when she became ill and inevitably passed.

  “Monroe!” I called into the ramshackle workshop. The smell of freshly milled wood was fragrant in the air. He was stooped over his work yet his hulking, strong shoulders were unmistakeable.

  “Monroe,” I called again and tapped his shoulder.

  He turned quickly clutching a bright metal blade. I gasped, for it was not Monroe before me. The man looked me up and down and for once I was embarrassed at the condition of my attire.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Although it was clear he was not the Monroe I had known, there was a strong resemblance, albeit a youthful one.

  “I have come to see Monroe. Alec Monroe?”

  “Gone,” he replied.

  “Gone?” I asked. “May I ask where?”

  “Who are you to ask me these questions? You look to have rolled in from the gutter,” he replied.

  I reached out my hand. “I am Dr Gough.”

  Something sparked in his eyes at that moment. I could not say what it was or what it revealed, but it was a sign of recognition.

  “He’s dead. My father is dead. He spoke of you and the agreements you shared.”

  “I am sorry to hear of your loss. I tended your mother when she passed. You were but a child then.”

  He did not dwell on his loss but spoke plainly of my circumstance. “I heard you were struck off, as it were. Buried one of the living is what I heard.”

  He must have seen me flinch for he changed the subject again. “What can I do for you, anyway?”

  “I came to seek your father’s assistance in creating something which will prevent an unfortunate event, such as the one you refer, from happening again. Would you be interested in such an opportunity?”

  “Depends on what you had in mind?”

  Thomas Monroe possessed the same good sense as his father when it came to recognising a chance to accumulate wealth. For the first time in many weeks I took a drink, which did not threaten to burn its way back out of my gut. Oh, what pleasure can be found in a simple cup of ale! Monroe and I discussed the idea at length and devised a plan to bring it to life. He seemed genuinely enthused by the notion and offered to accommodate me in the apartments above the shop. Having been a doctor, the idea of sleeping above corpses did not deter me from accepting his most generous offer. It was, after all, a far better option than an eternity spent in the deep dark mud beneath Putney Bridge.

  Within days, Monroe had fashioned a crude model of what would eventually become a necessity for the wealthy. I was convinced it would raise me from the gutter and deliver me back to my rightful place amongst the golden goblets of the aristocracy.

  “We must see if it works!” I said, anxious to start rebuilding my tattered life.

  “Then you must take your place inside one of these.” Monroe indicated the unfinished coffins in his workshop.

  I was not eager to lie down inside, but I knew I must for it would indicate the soundness of our design. The coffin was but a crude wooden box without the elaborate furnishings a finished model would possess. Yet it was with some trepidation that I attached the length of rope to my wrist and stepped inside. A hole had been drilled in the side of the coffin to allow the rope to pass through. One end was attached to my wrist, the other to an old bell Monroe had found.

  The bell rang clearly as I pulled the rope. Never again would someone prematurely interred be unable to raise the alarm. It would surely make us wealthy men.

  I stepped out again, glad to free of the deathly confines.

  “That’s all very well,” began Monroe, “but when you’re six feet under, the rope’s got to pass through the earth. I’ll make something for the rope to pass through, so it can reach the surface. It’ll need testing again though.”

  “Very good. We can try it again tomorrow?”

  Monroe rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to do a proper test.”

  “How can we do that?” I asked.

  “Over at St. Mary’s. I’ll have it done for tomorrow night.”

  I did not sleep well that night for I knew what Monroe had in his mind; that I should step inside the coffin and be lowered into the earth. I tossed and turned in anguish for I did not wish to suffer the same fate as those I had condemned. It did not matter that my burial was but for a fleeting moment. There must be some other way for the validity of our invention to be tested, yet I could not raise an idea. I heard the distant sound of the church bells sounding out the hours until dawn and when at last it was time to rise, I felt weary and depressed.

  “Must we conduct the test in this manner?” I asked.

  “Can you think of another way?” Monroe replied.

  I shook my head. I could not. “And why must we do it in the dead of night? I am quite sure we would be given a dispensation by the priest.”

  “I do not intend to dig a hole. We must use one which has been left fresh and ready. One dug today for a burial tomorrow. I do not think we would be given permission for that. Do you?”

  I shook my head again and Monroe mus
t have observed my wretched countenance, for he added, “Besides, you will only be down there for a few moments and I shall haul you back up.”

  “Very well. One ring on the bell will suffice.”

  Monroe was as good as his word and by the evening he had finished the design. I had barely touched a drop of alcohol since I had arrived at Monroe’s, but I allowed myself to toast our creation.

  He had crafted the invention onto an existing coffin. It was a work of supreme craftsmanship. The coffin was solid oak and the handles were of magnificent and ornate brass. Inside was the most exquisite black silken trimming; it was fit for a monarch.