The Angel of Highgate

13 AN ENCOUNTER AT THE NECROPOLIS

The whole of the next day Thraxton was in a peevish and irritable mood. The previous evening’s séance had been filled with revelations, all of which left him baffled and perplexed. Constance Pennethorne’s invitation to the event had seemed to be an open encouragement to his affection. But, once there, her rather familiar behavior with Algernon had sent a very contrary message.

So, too, the message delivered by the medium had both intrigued and unnerved him. The possible proof of life after death stirred a host of vague hopes and longings in the depths of Thraxton’s being. But then there was the ominous image of the tomb. What was he to make of that? Over breakfast and then lunch, his mind spawned one interpretation after another, each darker than the one before it.

By mid-afternoon the tumult of thoughts racing through his brain had given him a headache. To relieve the pain he took a little laudanum, and then a little more. But as always, laudanum brought out in Thraxton the intense melancholia that always lurked just beneath the surface. During these attacks, Thraxton knew of only one way to abate them, which was to surrender and immerse himself in the feeling. To this end he instructed Harold to ready his brougham. An hour later Thraxton found himself once more in Highgate Cemetery sitting in his favorite spot, atop the ever stoic and uncomplaining Emily Fitzsimmons.

He wracked his throbbing brain for a way of turning Constance Pennethorne’s affections back in his direction. Obviously, his reputation was a black mark against him. Even his wealth and title seemed to leave her unimpressed. What quality did he possess that Algernon lacked? He sat tapping his pen against the blank notepad until the answer sprang into his mind. He was a poet. All women found poets irresistible. He would write a poem about Constance. Ergo, she would melt. He would conquer.

Thraxton quickly scribbled a title at the top of the page: “Sweet Constancy.” Now he had his theme, he had but to conjure inspiration. He stared into lengthening afternoon shadows while words and phrases tumbled in his mind. Suddenly he became aware of sobbing. He turned his head slightly, listening. Yes, it was sobbing, and a man’s sobbing at that.

Thraxton left his notepad in the care of Mrs. Fitzsimmons and followed the elegiac sound to its source. Up ahead, a small funeral party had gathered around an open grave into which a coffin was being lowered. The sexton lingered in the shade of an ancient oak, observing from a discreet distance as he puffed at a long-stemmed clay pipe. Partly to share the moment with someone, and partly to share the aroma of tobacco smoke, Thraxton walked over to join him and the two watched the service in silence.

The source of the sobbing was indeed a man. He was of the same approximate age as Thraxton. His dress distinguished him also as a gentleman, though the grave he wept over was in an area of plots affordable to those of the middle classes. The man was being supported by a male friend and a woman. The unrestrained show of emotion on the man’s face, and his obvious heartbreak was enough to touch the soul of any man or woman, profound as it was.

“Bloomin’ shame, that is,” remarked the sexton, turning his head slightly to acknowledge Thraxton’s presence.

“His mother?”

“His wife. Not even thirty years of age. And quite the beauty, I understand.”

Seeing a man so close in age, status, and even appearance to himself, it was impossible not to feel pangs of sympathy.

“How terribly, terribly sad.”

“Aye,” the sexton agreed. “We’re all mortal flesh, but when they goes so young it’s hard to fathom why. I suppose only Gawd hisself knows.”

In a show of sadness, the sexton tugged the handkerchief that dangled from the breast pocket of his wool overcoat and blew his nose with a loud, honking sound. He opened the handkerchief to examine its contents, then folded it and vigorously wiped his large nose before tucking the handkerchief back into his breast pocket. With that the sexton shrugged and wandered off to complete his rounds.

The mourners filed past as each tossed a handful of earth into the grave, and then the grief-stricken man was led away by his friends. The mourners hadn’t got farther than twenty feet away before the gravediggers, who had been leaning on their shovels through the service, rushed forward and began hurling spadefuls of loose dirt into the grave with an urgency that spoke more of men impatient to get to their dinners than the kind of respect that should be shown to the deceased. Thraxton lingered a moment longer and then turned away. As he walked back toward Emily Fitzsimmons and the interrupted poem, he could hear the drumming of dirt clods bouncing off the coffin lid.

Another hour passed with Thraxton still penning his ode to Constance Pennethorne. Dusk was falling with the surreal haste only autumn can manifest, and in the failing light Thraxton could barely make out his own writing as his pen skipped across the page. He heard approaching footsteps and looked up. A figure in a halo of yellow light moved toward him like an apparition. It was the sexton, carrying a lantern.

“I’m sorry, Lord Thraxton, but we close the gates in five minutes.”

“Another half hour? The muse is particularly loquacious today. I should hate to silence her just now.”

The sexton scratched his stubbly chin, a doubting look on his face. “I’m sorry, milord, but rules is rules.”

Thraxton reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold half-sovereign, and tossed it to the sexton who caught it deftly. From the heft of the coin alone, the sexton could guess at its denomination and became suddenly tractable.

“But seein’ as you are a gentleman,” he continued, “and a lord, I don’t see as how any harm can come of it.”

“Thank you, my man,” Thraxton said.

“I’ll fetch you a lantern, shall I, sir?”

“That would be most commodious.”

The sexton touched the brim of his cap and silently dragged the halo of light away with him, leaving the deepening gloom to descend upon Thraxton. He looked down at his notebook, but it was so dark now he could barely make out its shape on the gravestone beneath him. Thraxton recapped his fountain pen and set it alongside the notebook then folded his arms to wait for the return of the sexton. After a few moments it suddenly struck him just how far away the sexton’s little hut was. He would have a long wait in the darkness.

Thraxton lay on the gravestone, hands folded on his chest in a mock posture of repose. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the cemetery: the keening call of a nighthawk, the thrum of bat wings flitting overhead, the fallen leaves rustled by the wind. His eyes snapped open. There was no wind. It was a deathly calm night. Thraxton got up from the gravestone, fumbling in the darkness for his walking stick. His fingers closed upon it and he crept slowly toward the crackle of leaves being trodden underfoot.

On such a moonless night the pathways were like currents of lighter shadow flowing through a greater river of darkness. Breath held, ears pricked, eyes wide, Thraxton seemed to sense movement ahead and followed, moving as stealthily as possible. His mind pitched back to that fateful night of his tussle with the thugs and the angel with the violet eyes who had caressed his cheek. Was this the wraith he had pursued?

But there was barely light to see the way. After five minutes of aimless stumbling, he gave up, turned around, and sauntered back toward the waiting Emily Fitzsimmons and the book and pen he had abandoned. But when he reached the massive pharaonic arch that led to the Egyptian Avenue, his scalp prickled with recognition.

It was here that I first saw the specter, he thought. It seemed to sink into the ground, as if trying to re-enter its grave.

Highgate Cemetery reflected the rigorous stratification latent in every aspect of English society. The mausoleums of the Lebanon Circle were occupied by the deceased wealthy. But the plots on either side of the path were amongst the cheapest plots in the cemetery. Not coincidentally the gardeners rarely visited the place, so that many of the graves were strangled in ivy.

Thraxton stepped from the path, eyes scanning the graves. A flash of brightness caught his eye. One headstone had a carved stone vase at its base. Placed in the vase was a long-stemmed flower with an elaborate white bloom. At first he threw it a cursory glance, but something about it drew his eyes back. He looked again, this time with a more discriminating gaze.

“This is the grave,” Thraxton said aloud, stooping to pluck the flower from its vase. He turned the bloom over in his hand. It was fresh, and perfumed the air with a hot house scent quite foreign to an English fall.

A remarkable flower, he thought. I have never seen its like. He tapped the bloom against his lips and smiled. But I know just the chap who can identify it.