buy coals for his fire and would soon purchase new
vestments to wear while the others were being laundered. The little
bell jangled as he flung open his door, stomach clenched in
trepidation. He was not an overly imaginative man, more of a
pragmatist than a fantasist, that is not to say he did not delight
in creative fiction – how could he not! - but he did not spend his
time in wild daydream, nevertheless, he had read enough books to
prompt his pedestrian imagination into conjuring a vision of a dead
body in the runnel, perhaps stabbed or strangled, perhaps another
author, and for a brief moment he had entertained the wild notion
that this time it might be Conan le Coq.
But no amount
of imagination could have prepared him for what came next. He
rushed forth and slammed smack-bang into a dead body dangling from
a meat hook. He gave out a shocked gasp when he realized that the
meat hook was the one outside his own shop and that the body was
that of a young boy. At first he thought it might be Patch and his
heart froze and something inside him died, but when he recovered
his wits he saw that the corpse was layered in filthy rags. Patch
was poor but he could afford a woollen scarf, a cloth cap and
leather boots with laces. This penniless lad was scarfless, capless
and bootless, the poorest of the poor, an orphan without a home and
without hope.
A surge of
anger rose up in Mr Corbie though he was normally an even-tempered
man, a pacifist and a coward at heart, accustomed to Life’s
vicissitudes and grudgingly ceding to its unfairnesses. But this
was cruel. Heartless. Evil. Wicked. Wrong. Tears filled his eyes
and he blinked them back but they welled up of their own accord and
spilled down his bloodless cheeks, finding crevices in his crêpey
skin before trailing wetly between grey bristles.
Mrs Bagshott,
the char, continued to wail hysterically and it was the snooded
spinster, Miss Titmarsh, who arrived upon the scene next and took
the hysteric by the arm and led her into her teashop. A warm scone
and a cup of hot tea would soon see the old char right. A curious
crowd began to gather, shivering with cold and fright, wringing
their hands and shaking their heads, moaning about the sinful state
of the world at the close of the nineteenth century, muttering
about evil omens and the end of goodness and righteousness.
Mr Hiboux
joined his friend, Mr Corbie, and together they were about to lift
the dead boy down when Dr Watson appeared at the door of the
inn.
“Leave the
body,” he commanded brusquely. “Don’t touch it!”
“We cannot
just leave it,” protested Mr Corbie, staring at the puddle of blood
that had formed an ugly, viscous, red pond on his doorstep, which
he had unknowingly stepped into. “It is not right to just leave the
poor lad dangling like that.”
The curious
crowd ventured closer, morbidly attracted to the ghastly sight,
despite their fears and trepidations and superstitions regarding
death, or perhaps because of them, for it is a sad fact of human
nature that men and women are drawn to gruesome scenes of depravity
and violence, hence the popularity of public hangings and the
lucrative trade in souvenirs from horrible murders.
“It looks like
that drawing in Ghosthunter! ” someone whispered.
“The Hanging
Ghost-Boy! I read it only last week!”
“Yes!” agreed
a third. “I never thought I would see such a thing for real!”
“Especially
not in the Shambles!” added a fourth with relish.
“Well, it is a
slaughterhouse!”
“Bite your
tongue!”
“Shut-up you
old fool!”
The crowd was
growing jittery; tempers were beginning to flare. Mothers ushered
their littlies inside, shielding sleepy eyes lest the sight induce
nightmares and invite ill omens. Dogs growled low in their throats,
some barked out of fear - others went to sniff the blood.
Frustrated at
her state of undress, the Countess pushed open her bedroom window
and poked her head out. Slumberous brunette tresses tumbled
vestments to wear while the others were being laundered. The little
bell jangled as he flung open his door, stomach clenched in
trepidation. He was not an overly imaginative man, more of a
pragmatist than a fantasist, that is not to say he did not delight
in creative fiction – how could he not! - but he did not spend his
time in wild daydream, nevertheless, he had read enough books to
prompt his pedestrian imagination into conjuring a vision of a dead
body in the runnel, perhaps stabbed or strangled, perhaps another
author, and for a brief moment he had entertained the wild notion
that this time it might be Conan le Coq.
But no amount
of imagination could have prepared him for what came next. He
rushed forth and slammed smack-bang into a dead body dangling from
a meat hook. He gave out a shocked gasp when he realized that the
meat hook was the one outside his own shop and that the body was
that of a young boy. At first he thought it might be Patch and his
heart froze and something inside him died, but when he recovered
his wits he saw that the corpse was layered in filthy rags. Patch
was poor but he could afford a woollen scarf, a cloth cap and
leather boots with laces. This penniless lad was scarfless, capless
and bootless, the poorest of the poor, an orphan without a home and
without hope.
A surge of
anger rose up in Mr Corbie though he was normally an even-tempered
man, a pacifist and a coward at heart, accustomed to Life’s
vicissitudes and grudgingly ceding to its unfairnesses. But this
was cruel. Heartless. Evil. Wicked. Wrong. Tears filled his eyes
and he blinked them back but they welled up of their own accord and
spilled down his bloodless cheeks, finding crevices in his crêpey
skin before trailing wetly between grey bristles.
Mrs Bagshott,
the char, continued to wail hysterically and it was the snooded
spinster, Miss Titmarsh, who arrived upon the scene next and took
the hysteric by the arm and led her into her teashop. A warm scone
and a cup of hot tea would soon see the old char right. A curious
crowd began to gather, shivering with cold and fright, wringing
their hands and shaking their heads, moaning about the sinful state
of the world at the close of the nineteenth century, muttering
about evil omens and the end of goodness and righteousness.
Mr Hiboux
joined his friend, Mr Corbie, and together they were about to lift
the dead boy down when Dr Watson appeared at the door of the
inn.
“Leave the
body,” he commanded brusquely. “Don’t touch it!”
“We cannot
just leave it,” protested Mr Corbie, staring at the puddle of blood
that had formed an ugly, viscous, red pond on his doorstep, which
he had unknowingly stepped into. “It is not right to just leave the
poor lad dangling like that.”
The curious
crowd ventured closer, morbidly attracted to the ghastly sight,
despite their fears and trepidations and superstitions regarding
death, or perhaps because of them, for it is a sad fact of human
nature that men and women are drawn to gruesome scenes of depravity
and violence, hence the popularity of public hangings and the
lucrative trade in souvenirs from horrible murders.
“It looks like
that drawing in Ghosthunter! ” someone whispered.
“The Hanging
Ghost-Boy! I read it only last week!”
“Yes!” agreed
a third. “I never thought I would see such a thing for real!”
“Especially
not in the Shambles!” added a fourth with relish.
“Well, it is a
slaughterhouse!”
“Bite your
tongue!”
“Shut-up you
old fool!”
The crowd was
growing jittery; tempers were beginning to flare. Mothers ushered
their littlies inside, shielding sleepy eyes lest the sight induce
nightmares and invite ill omens. Dogs growled low in their throats,
some barked out of fear - others went to sniff the blood.
Frustrated at
her state of undress, the Countess pushed open her bedroom window
and poked her head out. Slumberous brunette tresses tumbled
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