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. There was some scandal, and he had to shut it down.’
‘Scandal?’ I said. ‘What kind of scandal?’
‘It’s not clear. Apparently he gained a reputation for certain unwholesome activities. There were whispers of witchcraft, of dabbling in forbidden arts. Even talk of grave-robbing. The police were involved, but nothing was ever proved. Bickerstaff was able to go on working at this private sanatorium. He lived in a house in the hospital grounds – until one winter’s night, late in 1877.’
Joplin smoothed the paper out with his small white hands, and consulted it a moment.
‘It seems that Bickerstaff had certain associates,’ he went on; ‘like-minded men and women who gathered at his house at night. It was rumoured that they dressed in hooded robes, lit candles and performed . . . Well, we do not know what they were up to. On such occasions, the doctor’s servants were ordered to leave the house, which they were only too pleased to do. Bickerstaff apparently had a ferocious temper, and no one dared cross him. Well, on 13 December 1877, just such a meeting took place; the servants were dismissed, with pay, and told to return two days later. As they departed, the carriages of Bickerstaff’s guests were seen arriving.’
‘Two days off work?’ Lockwood said. ‘That’s a long time.’
‘Yes, the meeting was intended to last the full weekend.’ Joplin looked down at the paper. ‘But something happened. According to the Gazette, the following night some of the attendants at the sanatorium passed the house. It was quiet and dark. They assumed Bickerstaff must have gone away. Then one of them noticed movement in an upstairs window: the net curtains were twitching; there were all sorts of little shudders and ripples, as if someone – or something – were feebly tugging at them from below.’
‘Ooh,’ I breathed. ‘We’re not going to like this, are we?’
‘No, girlie, you’re not.’ Mr Saunders had been munching another slice of cake, but he spoke up now. ‘Well,’ he added, ‘depends on your state of mind. Albert here loves it. He’s fascinated by this old stuff.’ He brushed crumbs off his lap and onto the carpet.
‘Go on, Mr Joplin,’ Lockwood said.
‘Some of the attendants,’ Joplin said, ‘were all for breaking into the house there and then; others – recalling the stories surrounding Dr Bickerstaff – were all for minding their own business. And while they were standing outside, arguing about it, they noticed that the movement in the curtains had redoubled, and suddenly they saw long dark shapes running along the windowsill on the inside.’
‘Long dark shapes?’ I said. ‘What were they?’
‘They were rats,’ Mr Joplin said. He took a sip of tea. ‘And now they saw that it was the rats that were making the curtains move. There were lots of them, darting back and forth along the sill, and hanging off the curtains, and jumping down into the dark, and they reasoned that the pack of them must be in that room for some particular reason, which you can maybe guess. So they put together a group of the bravest men and gave them candles, and these men broke into the house and went upstairs. And while they were still on the stairs, they began to hear terrible wet rustling noises from up ahead, and ripping sounds, and also the click of teeth. Well, perhaps you can picture what they found.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose and shuddered. ‘I don’t want to give the details. Suffice it to say that what they saw would have stayed with them for the rest of their days. Dr Bickerstaff, or what was left of him, lay on the floor of his study. There were fragments of robe, but little else. The rats had eaten him.’
There was a silence. Mr Saunders gave a short sniff and wiped a finger under his nose. ‘So that’s how Dr Bickerstaff ended up,’ he said. ‘As a pile of bloody bones and sinew. Nasty. That last slice of Swiss roll, now – anyone want it?’
George and I spoke together. ‘No, no, please – be our guest.’
‘Oo, it’s a gooey one.’ Saunders took a bite.
‘As you can imagine,’ Joplin said, ‘the authorities were very anxious to speak to the doctor’s associates. But they could not be found. And that really was the end of Edmund Bickerstaff’s story. Despite the horrible circumstances of his death, despite the rumours that hung about him, he wasn’t long remembered. Green Gates Sanatorium burned down in the early twentieth century, and his name faded into obscurity. Even the fate of his bones was lost.’
‘Well,’ Lockwood said, ‘we know where they are now. And you want us to make them safe.’
Mr Saunders nodded; he finished eating, and wiped his fingers on his trouser-leg.
‘It’s all very strange,’ I said. ‘How come no one knew where he’d been buried? Why wasn’t it in the records?’
George nodded. ‘And what exactly killed him? Was it the rats, or something else? There are so many loose ends here. This article is clearly just the tip of the iceberg. It’s crying out for further research.’