Chapter Text
You sleep by the road,
Cursing the rain
As the moon keeps
Searching for pain.
(Raking dust - Epic Rain)
From the early morning rain was pouring down on London, mixing with dirt that clinged to the cobblestone, filling the Themes with fresh wastes. Carriage swayed slightly, lulling you to sleep. Rhythmic clatter of hooves that was coming somewhere from below the wooden floor added to the serene picture. And even though the sun hid behind the thick veil of clouds, your daily tasks were far from over.
Leaning back on the soft cushions, tucking some of them under your side, you pressed your cheek to the cold window glass, looking outside indifferently. Fever that was following you for a few days now was sending goosebumps down your spine, making you curl further in your woolen coat, shivering. Human mass, normally running through the veins of the city, now dissipated, disappeared in the nooks and corners, seeking a dry place to wait out the storm. Signboards of shops and bakeries, usually so bright and different, slowly passed by, their colors faded and their surface swollen with humidity like a drowned corpse. Your eyelids felt heavy, your aching head falling on your chest as you fruitlessly fought with drowsiness.
In such cold and stormy day the only thing you wanted is to freeze, not move a muscle.
Let the warmth inside you to went out.
Sleep.
But once you closed your eyes, getting comfortable on the velvet-upholstered seat, the carriage suddenly jerked, jumped on some bump, and came to a halt. By inertia, you leaned forward with annoyed hiss, almost hitting the wall with your head. Tears welled up in your eyes when the sharp pain struck your left hand, going from the wrist up to your elbow, as if a white-hot needle pierced your skin and stayed there.
- Have you fallen asleep?! Careful! – you shout to a coachman, cradling the wounded limb and hoping to calm down the stinging sensation. Any other day you won’t move an eyebrow at such a little inconvenience. A bump, huh, not a problem. But the fresh, itching wound was reminding about itself.
- Sorry, Mistress, - the coachman groaned, shifting on this seat. Wood below him made a pity creak. Carriage jerked again before moving forward and a whistle of the whip cut the air, - Move away, god damn you! Away from the horses, I said!
Rubbing a small of his back where the whip hit and sparing a frightened look to the coachman, a little boy run down the street. Small slouched figure, covered with soot from head to toe, he looked more like some street dog. Clutching a big dirty brush to his chest, he rounded the corner, giving one last glance in your direction. New wave of goosebumps raced on your back, making the hair on the back of your head stand: on the anthracite black face two cold blue eyes were shining like polished coins.
Luck.
That’s what you was cut short on recently. But, of course doctor Lloid was very clever, educated man with a century long practice. But his hands were shaking now and his eyes went teary, purblind. The old man was getting weaker each day, not participating in operations anymore, preferring to visit homes of anxious ladies and their snotty infants. And when you appeared on his doorstep in the dead of night, straight from one of the nastiest corners of London, with hand cut open, he could swear his old skill deserted him. Delirious with pain and pale from the blood loss, you were tied to the chair with towels and held in place like a child while Dr. Piter was slowly stitching you up. Feeble light of the burning candle that old maid was holding above you, smell of wax dripping on your new dress, the low whir of thread bringing the edges of the cut together, doctor’s cursing and laments of servants – it all blurred in a cacophony, an troubled dream.
And when you woke up next morning with cracked dry lips and hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, you found a rough suture going from your palm up to the inner side of your elbow. And everything could have been fine but the stubborn thing didn’t even start to seal.
- I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, - you said to the coachman as you exited the carriage, stretching out numb limbs.
Above your head a signboard hang, swaying on the wind with annoying creak, occasionally dropping flakes of old purple paint – ‘Undertaker’.
- Go to the grocery market and buy some beaf and spices, - you said after a brief pause, handing a pouch to the man who readily took it from your hands and quickly went away, repeating the list of the items under his nose.
Truth to be told, often times those visits to the funeral parlor stretched longer than you probably liked. For a moment observing the retreating figure that jumped over the puddles clumsily, you sighed. Rubbing the bridge of your nose and shaking away the remnants of sleep, you begrudgingly walked to the door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Listening closely to be sure your arrive won’t bother some weeping widow or, more likely, some certain nosey earl, you pushed the heavy door and stepped inside.
The place met you with gravely silence, only cut with rare creaks of the candles. The old door screeched-chuckled and closed behind you, shutting you away from the rest of the living world. On the edge of your consciousness you could still hear the rain hitting the roof as you stood here, ears trained to catch any rustle. Nothing.
- Undertaker? – you called uncertainly, immediately scolding yourself for the treacherous tremor in your voice. Your brief pause was as natural as every living’s awe before death. Pulling yourself together, you added in a more irritated tone – Where are you? I have no wish to get stuck in London during the storm.
With a roll of your eyes, you moved forward, carefully stepping between rows of coffins. Just from the number of them you could already say that eccentric director didn’t waste time. Did it mean that all the old ones were bought? Or it meant there will be more deaths in the close future, taking in accordance the nasty weather and latest disease outbreak? Second thought made your shoulder blades twitch as uneasiness rolled up your spine, gripping your heaving chest. You lowered your gaze, suddenly meeting your own reflection in the polished surface of the coffin lid. Small, pale, almost ghostly face looked up at you in confusion. The wound ached again, as if confirming your hunches – you as well can join the ‘customers’. Pushing the unnerving thoughts to the periphery of the mind, you went further, putting a usual courage, strict face.
Step – coffin.
Step – coffin.
Step – barely recognized movement of the air – coffin.
Six on the left and six on the right.
Reaching the end of the room, you stopped before the working table, arms crossed in indignation. Ink stains were visible on the scratched tabletop, crescents of tea glasses shimmered dimly closer to the corner under the orange candle light. Carefully propping your palms on the table, you bent over, looking under it.
Nothing.
Cursing beneath your breath and pulling away your hands from the sticky surface, you turned on heels, once again peering the empty room. In deliberate slowness you moved toward the exit, accepting defeat.
A hollow chuckle.
- And here you are! – you exclaimed in frustration, turning on your heels and moving aside the lid of the casket – and jumped when the wooden monolith slipped out of your hand and hit the floor with a loud thud. The person inside sat up straight, froze for a moment and then burst in hysterical laugh.
- Ah, detective! – Undertaker chirped, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye, his shoulders shaking with occasional chuckles. – Her Highness Queen’s hound honored me with her visit! At such weather! How sweet of you. Ah, but I dozed off…
Content with his little trick, the mortician stretched and yawned, basking in the warmth of his peculiar bed. Heavy smell of withered flowers and something sickeningly sweet washed over you, making you step back, grimacing. Sending you a cheshire smile, Undertaker lazily stood up from his hiding place, silently slipping his feet on the floor and brushing away non-existing dust from his robe.
- I see, the rain spoiled your mood a bit, detective, - he noted, leaning improperly close to your face. Pale hand showed up from under the baggy black sleeve, its slender fingers run over the collar of your coat, collecting waterdrops, and stopped a millimeter away from your neck, - How do you like setting a small tea party for two?
- I came here on business, - you cut his speech, - A man was found on-!
Before you could finish the sentence, Undertaker’s index finger pressed to your lips, momentarily silencing you.
- Oh-ho-ho, - he shook his head disapprovingly, - The poor man found on the pier, God rest his soul, won’t go anywhere now. But you, dear detective, have all the chances if you keep waltzing around the city soaked wet. No objections!
He turned around and headed toward the table, fishing out a teapot from the desk drawer, along with a couple of vials with something dark and thick smeared on the bottom. Sensing your gaze burning holes in his back, Undertaker glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the casket nearby – a silent invitation to sit. You let out a heavy sigh and pulled a white flag, carefully sitting down on the edge of the casket made of red wood, hoping there was no one inside.
The dusty air slowly filled up with aroma of the freshly brewed tea, fighting off all the disturbing smells that have already sat on the back of your throat. Fussing over the table, Undertaker finally handed you a measuring cup filled to the brim with maroon liquid. Cracked sides and dust hinted at the fact that it was used before and most likely not for the tea. Shooing away your prejudices and not wanting to offend the odd persona, you made a sip.
Whatever he put in the pot, tea came out surprisingly good. Classic 'Earl Grey' with notes of apple and vanilla assured you that sending away the coachman was, in fact, a pretty good idea. Too focused on the taste, you didn’t notice the lingering smile on Undertaker’s lips as he observed you. How your lips closed around the rim of the glass, how your eyelashes fluttered from the warmth seeping into your cold bones, a sigh of contempt escaping your chest.
And how your left hand, previously resting on your lap, twitched.
- Something tells me you haven’t embroidered in a while, detective, - the man spoke with unusual care in his voice. And holding your confused gaze, answered, - Still hurts, doesn’t it?
You almost choke on your tea when Undertaker left his cup on the table, scooting closer to you. His hand raised above the wounded forearm and stopped a breath away from the contact.
- I’m not a doctor, yes, but I know a couple of things about making a suture, - he jested, giving you a playful smirk.
Any curses that you were ready to say were swept when long and deft fingers curled around your wrist, carefully rolling the sleeve up, and then moved to the small buttons. Expertise that he shown while unfastening the clasp on your dress planted a couple of questions in your head. Ones that you probably won’t voice. Undertaker glanced at you from behind the veil of grey strands of hair and chuckled at his own thoughts. Or he read yours?
When the tight sleeve and bandage with caked blood were removed, a gruesome picture presented itself: deep cut laid on the swollen skin. Its edges were swollen and red, barely kept together by the silk thread that became yellow with ichor and dug in the skin.
Even I stitch up my guests better, Undertaker thought to himself. And you could swear that for a brief moment he became serious. Carefully feeling the wound and ignoring your pained twitches and huffs, his other hand touched your forehead – cool touch bringing a bit of comfort.
- And how long you’ve had the temperature? – he asked suddenly. Anxiety flowed down your veins, making you nauseous.
- Two or three days, - you answered, feeling how cold sweat started to cover your back. And, biting the inner side of your cheek, you asked in turn, - Can it be cured?
Undertaker nodded, showing you a lopsided grin, and carefully squeezed your hand, eliciting a sharp inhale from you.
- Dirt got in there, - he explained, looking down on the gore of your hand with a thoughtful tilt of his head. The same gesture you’ve seen in anatomic theatre when few doctors circled around the patient, preparing instruments for amputation. The comparison wasn’t pleasant, - New stitch cannot be done on this, even old ones have to be taken off…
Next half of an hour you spent on the very same sticky and dusty table, gripping its edge with your healthy hand while Undertaker methodically cleaned the wound. Tourniquet, tightly secured around your shoulder, eased the pain slightly, but not the thought of your pitiful state. After all, searching for help from him, showing your weakness – it all didn’t sit well in you. The funeral director, oblivious to your inner turmoil, worked silently, glancing at your face from time to time just to be sure you didn’t pass out.
- You asked about the man from the pier, right? – he inquired nonchalantly, catching your attention, - He was found in the water with a rope around his neck, huh?
- In Scotland-Yard they think it was a suicide, - you mumbled, hypnotizing the web-covered ceiling with your gaze. Undertaker only chuckled.
- However, during the preparations for the funeral, I discovered some very interesting details that can help a talented detective to solve this case, - he said conspiratorially, a usual smile curving his lips, - No payment is needed. Just come to my place tomorrow, I’ll check your wound once more.