Free Beneath London by James P. Blaylock Page B

remove the head of a condemned murderer, divide the body into pieces, and bury the pieces near running water, so that the stream will bear away fragments of the spirit. According to popular thought, the body must be separated into parts in order to confound the ghost, just as the several paths that merge at a crossroads confounds it, disallowing it from returning home. The law takes a dim view of the practice, but the law takes a dim view of many notions that innocent, well-meaning people are entirely dedicated to, although they mightn’t speak of it.”
    “Just so,” Mother Laswell said. “The law has an understanding of the world that has little to do with things of the spirit. I recall you telling me that you saw strange things yourself when the Cathedral was besieged, Alice – things that were beyond your ken?”
    “Yes,” Alice said. “You’re perfectly correct. I find once again that I’ve led a moderately sheltered life in some ways.”
    “Be happy that you were allowed to. I wish to heaven that I had. As I said, however, I contrived to have the head removed. I myself did not take an active part, although I watched through a pair of opera glasses from a high window in the Chequers Inn, where I had put up during my husband’s trial, being in fear of staying at home alone. I saw little beyond moving shadows, for it was a fortunately dark night, but my conspirators worked swiftly. The gravediggers were the two men who had buried the body that very morning. Mr. Sarney, the butcher, who owed me a debt, cut through the neck of the corpse to take the head. Sarney died not long after, and the two gravediggers kept mum, being culpable themselves and well paid for their work. One of them passed away long years ago, but the other was alive until a week past.
    “He became sexton in his time at St. Peter and Paul’s, and I came to know him quite well. He was ninety years of age, old Mr. Peattie, and it was thought that he passed away in his sleep, but I have my doubts. There was one other person who stood by me, and that was Sarah Wright. It was she who boxed up the head of Maurice De Salles and buried it as a favor to me, laying counterfeit coins on the eyes and stuffing the lead box with mistletoe and dipping it in layers of wax. I have no idea where it lies, or, God help us, where it lay, if indeed she buried it beneath the floorboards of her own cottage, which I very much doubt that she would have. We never spoke of it after, lest we call up spirits.”
    Mother Laswell paused. She pursed her lips and shook her head, as if to rid her mind of the recollection. “Sarah Wright was murdered,” she said, “because someone wanted something of her. She was quite penniless. She had nothing to give them aside from knowledge. When you speak to Dr. Pullman, Professor, you would do me a favor to say nothing of what I’ve revealed to you just now, although you could mention my name innocently enough. I don’t ask you to lie, but I must know if the head of Maurice de Salles was recovered from the cottage.”
    “I have nothing against an honorable lie, Mother, or a convenient fiction.”
    “Nor have I,” Alice said. “We’re entirely with you, and we’ll do anything that can be done for Clara.”
    Langdon poured the rest of his tea down his throat and looked at his pocket watch. Alice knew that he was counting the minutes, waiting for Hasbro’s arrival. Dr. Pullman and the Constable had passed by on the road some time ago, the body lying in the back of the wagon, covered in a shroud, and Langdon had spoken to them briefly, agreeing to pay a visit to Dr. Pullman’s residence at the very first opportunity.
    Now three ragamuffin children, two girls and a small boy, orphans taken in by Mother Laswell, walked into the room along with Clara Wright, the two girls holding Clara’s hands. Clara was quite pretty despite the sad look on her face. She wore smoked spectacles and a pair of thin stockings, but no shoes. Alice had