and tried to drag him into it! Horrid grey woman, apparently, with her throat hanging open and eyes staring out of their sockets. Poor little chap let out a squeal like a dying rabbit. He was ghost-touched, of course. Agents got to him and gave him boosters, so I believe he may recover . . .’ Mr Joplin’s voice ebbed away; he smiled sadly. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that’s what I do.’
‘Excuse me,’ George said, ‘but are you the same Albert Joplin who wrote the chapter on medieval burials in Pooter’s
History of London’s Graveyards
?’
The little man blinked. His eyes brightened. ‘Why . . . yes. Yes, I am!’
‘Good article, that,’ George said. ‘A real page-turner.’
‘How extraordinary that you should have read it!’
‘I thought your speculation about the tethering of the soul was very interesting.’
‘Did you? Well, it’s
such
a fascinating theory. It seems to me—’
I stifled a yawn; I was beginning to wish I’d brought my pillow. But Lockwood was impatient too. He held up a hand. ‘It seems to
me
we should hear why you need our help. Mr Saunders, if you could please get to the point . . .’
‘Quite right, Mr Lockwood!’ The excavator cleared his throat, adjusted the hat upon his knee. ‘You’re a man of business, like myself. Good. Well, the last few nights we’ve been surveying the south-east area of the cemetery. Kensal Green’s an important burial ground. Established in 1833. Covers seventy acres of prestige land.’
‘Got many fine tombs and mausoleums,’ Joplin added. ‘
Lovely
Portland stone.’
‘Aren’t there catacombs there too?’ George asked.
Saunders nodded. ‘Indeed. There’s a chapel in the centre, with catacombs beneath. They’ve been closed off now – it’s too dangerous, with all those exposed coffins. But up top, the burial plots are laid out around gently curving avenues between Harrow Road and the Grand Union Canal. Mid-Victorian burials, common folk mostly. The avenues are shaded by rows of old lime trees. It’s all peaceful enough, and relatively few Visitors have been reported, even in the last few years.’
Mr Joplin had been rifling through the papers in his arms, pulling out sheets and stuffing them back again. ‘If I could just— Ah, here are the plans of the south-east corner!’ He drew out a map showing two or three looping paths, with tiny numbered boxes marking the grave-plots in between. Stapled to this was a grid filled with spidery handwriting – a list of names. ‘I’ve been checking the recorded burials in this zone,’ he said, ‘and found nothing for anyone to fear . . . Or so I thought.’
‘Well,’ Saunders said, ‘as I say, my teams have been walking the avenues, hunting for psychic disturbances. All went smoothly until last night, when they were exploring the plots just east of this aisle here.’ He jabbed at the map with a dirty finger.
Lockwood had been tapping his own fingers impatiently on his knee. ‘Yes,
and
. . .’
‘And we found an unexpected headstone in the grass.’
There was a silence. ‘How d’you mean, “unexpected”?’ I asked.
Mr Joplin flourished the handwritten grid. ‘It’s a burial that’s not recorded in the official lists,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t be there.’
‘One of our Sensitives found it,’ Saunders said. His face had grown suddenly serious. ‘She immediately became ill and couldn’t continue with her work. Two other psychics investigated the headstone. They each complained of dizziness, of piercing headaches. One said that she sensed something watching her, something so wicked that she could hardly move. None of them wanted to go within ten feet of that little stone.’ He sniffed. ‘Course, it’s hard to know just how seriously to take all that.
You
know what psychics are like.’
‘Indeed,’ Lockwood said drily. ‘Being one myself.’
‘Now
me
,’ Saunders went on, ‘I haven’t a psychic bone in my body. And I’ve got my
‘Excuse me,’ George said, ‘but are you the same Albert Joplin who wrote the chapter on medieval burials in Pooter’s
History of London’s Graveyards
?’
The little man blinked. His eyes brightened. ‘Why . . . yes. Yes, I am!’
‘Good article, that,’ George said. ‘A real page-turner.’
‘How extraordinary that you should have read it!’
‘I thought your speculation about the tethering of the soul was very interesting.’
‘Did you? Well, it’s
such
a fascinating theory. It seems to me—’
I stifled a yawn; I was beginning to wish I’d brought my pillow. But Lockwood was impatient too. He held up a hand. ‘It seems to
me
we should hear why you need our help. Mr Saunders, if you could please get to the point . . .’
‘Quite right, Mr Lockwood!’ The excavator cleared his throat, adjusted the hat upon his knee. ‘You’re a man of business, like myself. Good. Well, the last few nights we’ve been surveying the south-east area of the cemetery. Kensal Green’s an important burial ground. Established in 1833. Covers seventy acres of prestige land.’
‘Got many fine tombs and mausoleums,’ Joplin added. ‘
Lovely
Portland stone.’
‘Aren’t there catacombs there too?’ George asked.
Saunders nodded. ‘Indeed. There’s a chapel in the centre, with catacombs beneath. They’ve been closed off now – it’s too dangerous, with all those exposed coffins. But up top, the burial plots are laid out around gently curving avenues between Harrow Road and the Grand Union Canal. Mid-Victorian burials, common folk mostly. The avenues are shaded by rows of old lime trees. It’s all peaceful enough, and relatively few Visitors have been reported, even in the last few years.’
Mr Joplin had been rifling through the papers in his arms, pulling out sheets and stuffing them back again. ‘If I could just— Ah, here are the plans of the south-east corner!’ He drew out a map showing two or three looping paths, with tiny numbered boxes marking the grave-plots in between. Stapled to this was a grid filled with spidery handwriting – a list of names. ‘I’ve been checking the recorded burials in this zone,’ he said, ‘and found nothing for anyone to fear . . . Or so I thought.’
‘Well,’ Saunders said, ‘as I say, my teams have been walking the avenues, hunting for psychic disturbances. All went smoothly until last night, when they were exploring the plots just east of this aisle here.’ He jabbed at the map with a dirty finger.
Lockwood had been tapping his own fingers impatiently on his knee. ‘Yes,
and
. . .’
‘And we found an unexpected headstone in the grass.’
There was a silence. ‘How d’you mean, “unexpected”?’ I asked.
Mr Joplin flourished the handwritten grid. ‘It’s a burial that’s not recorded in the official lists,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t be there.’
‘One of our Sensitives found it,’ Saunders said. His face had grown suddenly serious. ‘She immediately became ill and couldn’t continue with her work. Two other psychics investigated the headstone. They each complained of dizziness, of piercing headaches. One said that she sensed something watching her, something so wicked that she could hardly move. None of them wanted to go within ten feet of that little stone.’ He sniffed. ‘Course, it’s hard to know just how seriously to take all that.
You
know what psychics are like.’
‘Indeed,’ Lockwood said drily. ‘Being one myself.’
‘Now
me
,’ Saunders went on, ‘I haven’t a psychic bone in my body. And I’ve got my
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