Constable & Toop (29 page)

‘You're a bully,' said Clara. ‘These ghosts deserve our sympathy, our pity, our charity. They did not choose to be as they are. Look at Mr Kerby in his silly yellow stockings. Imagine being stuck in those stockings for the rest of eternity.'

The audience tittered and many of them turned to get a better view of this new heckler.

‘You came here for an exorcism and that is what you'll get,' yelled Reverend Fallowfield.

‘That's true,' said a voice from the stalls.

‘Yeah, let him get on with it,' said another.

‘No, this girl is right,' said Edward Gliddon. ‘This ghost has been a part of this theatre for many years. Who are we to destroy it? And for what? The sake of one night's entertainment?'

‘I paid good money for this,' said the other man on stage.

‘Perhaps you should have saved your money for some real art,' replied Mr Gliddon. ‘You ignoramus.'

‘Right, that's it.'

The heckler landed a punch on the side of the actor's face, sending him staggering back into Reverend Fallowfield. Knocked off his feet, Reverend Fallowfield was unable to retain his hold on the ghost. The Man in Grey vanished. The audience were, in equal measures, angered and amused by this new development and it wasn't long before the fight on the stage had spread into the auditorium itself, the ripples of violence working their way through the stalls as more and more joined in the brawl. The last Clara saw of Reverend Fallowfield, before her father suggested they get out, was as he crawled towards the wings on all fours.

The Bureau was a remarkable feat of phantasmagorical engineering, one of the best examples of which was the eighteen-hole golf course on the sixty-third floor. General Colt had never played the game in life, considering it to be a colossal waste of time. In death, however, he had found himself with an endless supply of time and so he had taken up the hobby with gusto. To his surprise he took to it at once and, these days, played as often as he could.

He was in the middle of a game with Mr Wandle of Licensing and had just missed the eleventh hole after slicing his ball into the rough. General Colt was searching for it when he heard a voice whisper, ‘General . . . General.'

‘Who's that?' he demanded.

A cloud of Ether Dust settled into the shape of a ghost and Laspewood materialised in front of him.

‘My God, Clapwood, what are you doing here? I told you we can't be seen together.'

‘Lapsewood, sir. We need to talk.'

‘Penhaligan has rushed through an emergency warrant for your arrest. You were supposed to go unnoticed.'

‘I had no choice. My investigation led me to him.'

‘To Penhaligan?' barked General Colt.

‘It's probably best to keep your voice down,' whispered Lapsewood.

‘I already spoke to Penhaligan,' continued General Colt. ‘He's tabling a motion or some such bureaucratic clap trap that's going to take years to get anywhere. That's why I came to you in the first place. I put a lot at stake, slipping you that key.'

‘I understand that, sir. What I'm saying is that Penhaligan doesn't want to stop it. He's responsible for the Black Rot. He created the problem.'

‘Created it?'

‘Yes, he's trying to get rid of Rogue ghosts.'

General Colt looked disbelievingly at Lapsewood. ‘Have you been at the spirit ale?'

‘No, sir. I swear it's true. He gave a copy of the London Tenancy List to an exorcist by the name of Fallowfield. He means him to exorcise every last Resident in London.'

‘I can't see how that would get rid of Rogue ghosts.'

‘It wouldn't. Not in itself, but there's something else. It's a demon from the Void in the body of a spirit hound. It is prowling the streets as we speak, devouring anything that comes in its way.'

Through the trees, General Colt could see Mr Wandle, waiting patiently on the green. He ducked down and grabbed Lapsewood by the lapels, dragging him down with him.

‘Listen, Lambswool, this is serious.'

‘That's what I've been saying, sir. What should we do?'

‘It's a tricky one, I'll give you that. Are you sure about all this?'

‘Penhaligan confessed the whole thing to me.'

‘And yet if it came to trial it would be the word of a respected member of upper management against that of an escaped convict with a history of consorting with Rogue elements.'

‘You could testify on my behalf,' suggested Lapsewood.

‘Damn it, Larchwood, it's not that easy,' replied General Colt. ‘If I put my own neck on the line and we ended up both going down then there would be no one left to do the right thing.'

‘I suppose,' admitted Lapsewood doubtfully. ‘But I was only a convict because you sent me to the Vault.'

‘Yes, I guess that was a little rash of me in hindsight, but right now we have to deal with the current situation.'

‘What are you saying, sir?'

‘You have to do this on your own.'

‘On my own?' said Lapsewood. ‘Back at the Vault you said we'd shake up this stuffy old place.'

‘And so we will. I'm going to be there right behind you when you come back with proof of Penhaligan's involvement.'

‘What kind of proof?'

‘Something that will stick. Then we can take that conceited colonel down a notch of two. They'd probably give me a promotion for something like this.'

‘You, sir?'

‘I mean we. Get me proof, then we'll show them all. You and me, Lapsewood. You and me.'

It was the first time General Colt had got his name right.

‘But, sir,' said Lapsewood. ‘Surely the most important thing is to stop the exorcist and prevent the hell hound from swallowing any more souls?'

‘Of course. Do that too. Hey look, my ball.' General Colt picked up a golf ball from the undergrowth.

‘But, can't you help?' asked Lapsewood.

General Colt pulled off his large hat and scratched the bullet wound in the centre of his head. ‘There are some things a man must do on his own. This is one of them. Now, you'd better be off before Mr Wandle spots you. I'd better get back to my game. I really think I can claw it back and beat the old goat this time.'

‘But, sir—' protested Lapsewood.

‘Good luck, Laxwood, let me know how you get on.'

General Colt turned and walked away, tossing and catching his golf ball, whistling to himself.

When Sam requested the morning off to go and visit Clara, Mr Constable suggested they take the train up together as he had no appointments and had been meaning to visit a supplier of coffin handles in Bloomsbury. Sam didn't mind travelling with Mr Constable, but he was relieved that he didn't ask him the reason for his trip. He wasn't ready to tell anyone about Clara. Not even him.

Mr Constable and Sam found a train carriage to themselves. Sam had barely spoken to his father since their revelatory conversation about his mother so he was expecting one of Mr Constable's well-intentioned conversations about the importance of family. Sure enough, as the train pulled away, Mr Constable said, ‘You've learnt a lot about your family these past few weeks. More perhaps than in those years which preceded them.'

‘I've learnt that my father stole as a child and, as an adult, was responsible for the murder of an innocent man,' replied Sam.

‘Difficult things to learn at any age,' said Mr Constable. ‘Your father has had to overcome a great many obstacles in his life, but he remains the most loyal, good-hearted man I have ever had the pleasure to meet.'

‘You have always taught me it is our actions that define us,' said Sam.

‘When you reach our age and look back on your life, I guarantee you will feel ashamed of a great many things: transgressions you have made, people you have hurt, cruelties you have spoken. Even in my dull life, there are things I would rather not dwell on.'

‘But murder,' said Sam.

The word hung between them as the train rattled onwards. ‘Have you always known about this business with my mother's father?' asked Sam.

‘Yes,' said Mr Constable, maintaining eye contact. ‘I suppose that makes me a liar too.'

‘It was for my father to tell me. I imagine he asked you to keep it from me.'

‘He didn't have to,' replied Mr Constable. ‘He wanted to protect you.'

‘From the truth?'

‘From the pain.'

Sam had never experienced a conversation so stilted with Mr Constable. When the train pulled in at the next station a smartly attired gentleman looked at the carriage but, thankfully, thought better of it and chose another one.

Mr Constable sighed. ‘Your mother took her father's death hard. That his death unlocked the door to her own happiness was no consolation. Your father had to live with that guilt.'

‘So you agree that he was guilty?'

‘No,' stated Mr Constable. ‘It was worse than that. He felt guilty when he was not. At the time he had no idea what his brother had become. They argued shortly after and Jack left. He would not return until the day you saw him. But he left in his wake the consequences of his actions, and your father took on his guilt, with a conscience that Jack never possessed. Guilt is a terrible thing. It corrodes from within. It is something your father always wanted to protect you from.'

‘What have I to feel guilty about?'

Mr Constable fell silent.

‘I don't want any more secrets,' said Sam.

‘Even those which protect you?'

‘Even those.'

‘Your mother didn't die of a fever. She died giving birth to you, Sam,' said Mr Constable. ‘Your father kept this from you for fear that you would blame yourself for her death.'

Sam tried to let the words sink in, but they merely splashed around the edges of his mind, like water on stone. His mother had died bringing him into the world. How many more lies had his father told him?

Sam's voice quivered as he asked, ‘Did he blame me?'

‘Never,' said Mr Constable, without a moment's hesitation.

The train trundled past a raised hedgerow. Dappled sunlight shone through, flickering on Sam's face. He shut his eyes until a factory wall blocked it out.

‘That's why I can see Them,' he said. ‘That's why I can see ghosts. Death must touch you. Jack got it from murdering, I from my mother's death.'

There passed another moment of uncomfortable silence except for the rattling of the carriage.

‘What was she like?' asked Sam.

‘A fine woman,' said Mr Constable. ‘There was never a more troubled beginning to a love affair, but they loved each other more fervently than any couple I've ever known. The gossips talked as gossips will. First the courting of a widow, then the timely death of her dissenting father. Your parents were unable to reveal their love to the world. Their wedding was an understated affair. She was a troubled woman. But she eventually found happiness. The month before she died she told me she was the happiest she had ever been. Do you know why?'

Sam shook his head.

‘You, Sam. She was pregnant with you. She was so looking forward to meeting you and to spending every hour with you. You made her happy, Sam.'

The train made another stop where a woman climbed onboard with her two young children in tow. To the mother's embarrassment the children were so excited about the train journey that they barely stopped chattering. Mr Constable, however, was his usual charming self and engaged the youngest boy in an amusing conversation regarding the workings of a steam train, a subject about which the boy turned out to be a great authority. Sam, for his part, was grateful for the distraction.

He knew now he could see death because of his birth. Every dead soul he saw with his right eye was a reminder of the woman who had died so that he could live.

Lapsewood felt like a new ghost. Arriving in London, he didn't materialise in a dark back alley this time. Instead he chose the middle of the busy thoroughfare of the Strand. Even the tram that trundled straight through him, giving him a distasteful view of the contents of its passengers' shoes, didn't put him off. It would take more than a face full of bunions to upset this new Lapsewood. All his life, and his subsequent death, he had watched the world from the sidelines, too fearful to do anything other than that which was expected of him. Now, he was dealing with things himself. He had been devasted when Colonel Penhaligan had taken away his job, but he could no longer imagine returning to his desk job with its endless paperwork. General Colt had asked Lapsewood to do the job alone because he was too cowardly to endanger his own position, but that didn't matter to Lapsewood. For once in his life he was going to do the right thing rather than the easy one. He would find Tanner, stop the exorcist and vanquish the hell hound back to the Void. The only problem was that he had absolutely no idea where to start.

On the pavement outside Charing Cross Station where the taxicabs gathered, a man waved the latest edition of the
Evening Standard
in the air.

‘Standarstandarstandar,' he shouted, ‘Kitchen Killer kills again.'

Lapsewood glanced at the headline. If the living really knew what death was like, would they be more careful with their lives? he wondered.

‘Five murdered,' cried the newspaper seller. ‘Confused coppers can't cope.'

A uniformed policeman with his hands behind his back stopped beside the man and coughed. ‘Ah-hem.'

The newspaper seller tipped his cap to the officer and shouted, ‘The city's finest constabulary close to cracking the case. Standarstandarstandard.'

The policeman nodded approvingly and moved on.