silver charm here too, to keep me safe.’ He patted the hatpin on his trilby. ‘So what do I do? I nip over to the stone, bend down, have a look. And when I scrape the moss and lichen off, I find two words cut deep into the granite.’ His voice had dropped to a throaty whisper. ‘Two words.’
Lockwood waited. ‘Well, what were they?’
Mr Saunders moistened his narrow lips. He swallowed audibly; he seemed reluctant to speak. ‘A name,’ he whispered. ‘But not just
any
name.’ He hunched forwards on the sofa, his long bony legs jutting precariously over the teacups. Lockwood, George and I leaned in close. A curious atmosphere of dread had invaded the room. Mr Joplin, all of a flutter, lost control of his papers again and dropped several on the carpet. Outside the windows a cloud seemed to have passed over the sun; the light was drab and cold.
The excavator took a deep breath. His whisper rose to a sudden terrible crescendo. ‘Does
Edmund Bickerstaff
mean anything to you?’ The words echoed around us, bouncing off the ghost-goads and spirit-charms that lined the walls. We sat there. The echoes faded.
‘In all honesty, no,’ Lockwood said.
Mr Saunders sat back on the sofa. ‘No – to be fair, I’d never heard of him either. But Joplin here, whose speciality it is to poke his nose down odd and unsavoury byways of the past,
he’d
heard the name. Hadn’t you, eh?’ He nudged the small man. ‘And it makes him nervous.’
Mr Joplin laughed weakly, made a great business of re-adjusting the mess of papers on his lap. ‘Well, I wouldn’t
quite
say that, Mr Saunders. I’m
cautious
, Mr Lockwood. Cautious, is all. And I know enough about Dr Edmund Bickerstaff to recommend we get agency help before disinterring this mystery burial.’
‘You intend to dig it up, then?’ Lockwood said.
‘There are
strong
psychic phenomena associated with the site,’ Saunders said. ‘It
must
be made safe as soon as possible. Preferably tonight.’
‘Excuse me,’ I said. Something had been bothering me. ‘If you know it’s dangerous, why not excavate it during the day, like you do the others? Why do you need to bring us in?’
‘New DEPRAC guidelines. We have a legal obligation to bring in agents for all graves that may contain a Type Two Visitor, and since the government funds this extra cost, these agents must carry out their work at night, so they can confirm our claims.’
‘Yes, but who is this Bickerstaff?’ George asked. ‘What’s so frightening about him?’
For answer, Joplin rummaged among his papers again. He brought out a yellowed A4 sheet, unfolded it and turned it towards us. It was an enlarged photocopy of part of a nineteenth-century newspaper, all narrow columns and closely printed text. In the centre was a rather smudged engraving of a thickset man with upright collar, heavy sideburns and a large bottlebrush moustache. Aside from a slightly brutish quality about the mouth, it could have been any typical mid-Victorian gentleman. Underneath were the words:
HAMPSTEAD HORROR
TERRIBLE DISCOVERY AT SANATORIUM
‘
That’s
Edmund Bickerstaff,’ Joplin said. ‘And as you’ll discover from this article in the
Hampstead Gazette
, dated 1877, he’s been dead and gone a long time. Now, it seems, he’s reappeared.’
‘Please tell us all.’ Up until now Lockwood’s body language had been one of polite lack of interest. I could tell he was repelled by Saunders and bored by Joplin. Now, suddenly, his posture had changed. ‘Take some more tea, Mr Joplin? Try a piece of Swiss roll, Mr Saunders? Home-made, they are. Lucy made them.’
‘Thank you, I will.’ Mr Joplin nibbled a slice. ‘I’m afraid many details about Dr Bickerstaff are sketchy. I have not had time to research him. But it seems he was a medical practitioner, treating nervous disorders at Green Gates Sanatorium on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Previously he’d been an ordinary family doctor, but his practice went to the bad.
Lockwood waited. ‘Well, what were they?’
Mr Saunders moistened his narrow lips. He swallowed audibly; he seemed reluctant to speak. ‘A name,’ he whispered. ‘But not just
any
name.’ He hunched forwards on the sofa, his long bony legs jutting precariously over the teacups. Lockwood, George and I leaned in close. A curious atmosphere of dread had invaded the room. Mr Joplin, all of a flutter, lost control of his papers again and dropped several on the carpet. Outside the windows a cloud seemed to have passed over the sun; the light was drab and cold.
The excavator took a deep breath. His whisper rose to a sudden terrible crescendo. ‘Does
Edmund Bickerstaff
mean anything to you?’ The words echoed around us, bouncing off the ghost-goads and spirit-charms that lined the walls. We sat there. The echoes faded.
‘In all honesty, no,’ Lockwood said.
Mr Saunders sat back on the sofa. ‘No – to be fair, I’d never heard of him either. But Joplin here, whose speciality it is to poke his nose down odd and unsavoury byways of the past,
he’d
heard the name. Hadn’t you, eh?’ He nudged the small man. ‘And it makes him nervous.’
Mr Joplin laughed weakly, made a great business of re-adjusting the mess of papers on his lap. ‘Well, I wouldn’t
quite
say that, Mr Saunders. I’m
cautious
, Mr Lockwood. Cautious, is all. And I know enough about Dr Edmund Bickerstaff to recommend we get agency help before disinterring this mystery burial.’
‘You intend to dig it up, then?’ Lockwood said.
‘There are
strong
psychic phenomena associated with the site,’ Saunders said. ‘It
must
be made safe as soon as possible. Preferably tonight.’
‘Excuse me,’ I said. Something had been bothering me. ‘If you know it’s dangerous, why not excavate it during the day, like you do the others? Why do you need to bring us in?’
‘New DEPRAC guidelines. We have a legal obligation to bring in agents for all graves that may contain a Type Two Visitor, and since the government funds this extra cost, these agents must carry out their work at night, so they can confirm our claims.’
‘Yes, but who is this Bickerstaff?’ George asked. ‘What’s so frightening about him?’
For answer, Joplin rummaged among his papers again. He brought out a yellowed A4 sheet, unfolded it and turned it towards us. It was an enlarged photocopy of part of a nineteenth-century newspaper, all narrow columns and closely printed text. In the centre was a rather smudged engraving of a thickset man with upright collar, heavy sideburns and a large bottlebrush moustache. Aside from a slightly brutish quality about the mouth, it could have been any typical mid-Victorian gentleman. Underneath were the words:
HAMPSTEAD HORROR
TERRIBLE DISCOVERY AT SANATORIUM
‘
That’s
Edmund Bickerstaff,’ Joplin said. ‘And as you’ll discover from this article in the
Hampstead Gazette
, dated 1877, he’s been dead and gone a long time. Now, it seems, he’s reappeared.’
‘Please tell us all.’ Up until now Lockwood’s body language had been one of polite lack of interest. I could tell he was repelled by Saunders and bored by Joplin. Now, suddenly, his posture had changed. ‘Take some more tea, Mr Joplin? Try a piece of Swiss roll, Mr Saunders? Home-made, they are. Lucy made them.’
‘Thank you, I will.’ Mr Joplin nibbled a slice. ‘I’m afraid many details about Dr Bickerstaff are sketchy. I have not had time to research him. But it seems he was a medical practitioner, treating nervous disorders at Green Gates Sanatorium on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Previously he’d been an ordinary family doctor, but his practice went to the bad.
Similar Books
