Unearthed

Prologue

“Do you want the good news, or the bad?”

“The good”

“They know who did it”

“And the bad?”

“They know it was you”.

Before

Taylor’s Funeral Parlour, Sussex, England, 1898.

It was Albie Thompson’s first day. ‘Apprentice gravedigger wanted, start Monday week’. He recalled the handwritten advert scrawled onto headed paper, coarsely pinned to the village noticeboard.

Having barely scraped through his school years, Albie was in want of hands-on work. A kind-hearted boy, he had been slow with his studies, but clever with his hands. The untimely death of his father had left him dutifully bound to provide for his mother and he was determined to build a good life for them both.

Now here he stood, a dusty-haired boy of fifteen, ready to embark on a new trade. His working day was to begin in his home village of Thistledown. A quiet place, but one which provided all the necessary conveniences: a store, a public house, a church and an undertakers. Today, Albie found himself at the latter.

The back entrance to the funeral parlour was a cobbled yard, where the carriage was prepared and the horses rested. Albie knocked at the peeling door, scraping his hair hurriedly into something mildly presentable.

“Albert?” A gruff man’s voice came from behind.

Albie spun round, “Yes- Albie, Sir. I’m the new grave digger, Sir”

“We’ll see”, the stooped older man mumbled.

The man was Howard Cook, a loyal grave digger for the Taylor’s firm. He carried a cherry pipe between his lips and a greater age upon his face.

He muttered something about ‘inappropriate boots’, before slumping off to one of the shed doors. Albie fumbled, eager to be useful, but aware he was already clearly a nuisance.

As Howard emerged with a pair of crumpled boots, clotted with mud, a petite girl appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Suddenly, Howard was a new man, standing almost straight, his weathered face creasing into an unfamiliar smile.

“Good morning Mr Cook” she radiated. Howard removed his cap and dipped his head. As the girl fluttered passed Albie, he admired her full lips and apple-like cheeks. She peeped up at him through dark lashes, shooting him a smile.

“Ada” Howard retorted to Albie’s reddening face. Albie sent him a falsely questioning look.

“Ada. The cleaner. Far too pretty to be the orphan she is” he trailed off. The girl had vanished as hastily as she had appeared, taking with her Howard’s brief lightness and joy.

Ada did not like to speak of her past at the orphanage. Now nineteen, she had grown used to turning heads in the village, and this was something she determined to use to her advantage.

Swiftly after, a tall and somewhat handsome woman entered the courtyard. She wore a smart black cotton gown and hat.

“Miss Taylor” Howard doffed his cap, though didn’t smile.

Miss Taylor was spoken of fondly around the village. Perhaps thirty years of age, Charlotte Taylor had recently inherited the business from her late father. A woman in the funeral trade was rare in any circumstance, but leading at the helm, well that was startling on all accounts. As she passed them by, she did not speak, but greeted them both with polite, seemingly genuine warmth.

Howard began impatiently handing Albie various well-worn tools. They loaded them into a wooden barrow, before trundling out the yard, in pursuit of the church.

As they made their way through the village, Howard dodged the eclectic efforts of a paperboy as he attempted to fling notices into villagers’ hands. Albie’s curiosity found him holding a limp piece of paper, printed with the words: ‘Seized goods missing from police house, ten pound reward for information’.

Ten pounds. Just image what he could do with that.

The paperboy mouthed in Albie’s direction, “They’re looking for the poppy thief, he’s trading at night they say!”

“Poppy thief?” Albie puzzled. But Howard was already steaming ahead.

“What was all that about?” Albie questioned, shuffling to catch up. Howard grunted something incoherent and Albie persevered, “What do they mean a poppy thief?” He envisioned the red petals his mother used to gather flippantly.

“Poppy, sugar, hops. Stuff they give littleuns to help ‘em sleep. Help ease the pain, the blue days, y’know”, Howard mumbled. But Albie remained puzzled. Howard sighed unsympathetically then tilted his head discreetly towards Albie, “Opium”, he mouthed.

They entered the church beneath the timber lychgate, greeted by the imposing presence of tombstones embellished with lichen and ivy. And so began Albie’s first day of back-ache and blistered hands.

As the weeks passed, Howard taught Albie the basics of his craft, and with each passing day, Albie greater appreciated Howard’s eternal stoop. Their fondness for one another grew and Albie felt Howard was no longer just tolerating his company. But every day, the highlight for both Albie and Howard, was of course to see Ada.

Each morning they were yet again pounced on by the paperboy as he stirred up the village. Gossip flooded the streets, fuelling conspiracies and rumours. Many were now actively hunting for the stolen opium, some in hope of the reward, others in pursuit of the substance for their own misdeeds.

Autumn soon made way for winter and Albie was enjoying his newly familiar routine. His strength was growing, as was his affection for Ada. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that a strangeness hung in the air of Thistledown. Perhaps it was the imminent approach of a cold winter, or perhaps it was something more sinister.

Sunken Lips

The day was biting. A hoarfrost gripped at the ground and a choking mist blanketed the village. Albie arrived as usual on time at the courtyard, stroking the black noses of who he now knew to be Damson and Rowan.

It was rare for him to arrive before Howard, he half expected to find him busying about in one of the sheds. He listened for the dull thud of the grandfather clock through the walls. Seven. Perhaps Howard had simply had too much ale after Sunday service. He gathered up his tools and hoisted up the barrow, but as he made for the gate, a figure thudded round into the courtyard.

Albie was taken aback. Howard stood before him, more haggard than he had ever encountered. Weariness seemed to seep from his bones.

“Are you- is everything, alright?” Albie offered. But Howard just grumbled and took charge of the barrow.

That morning, Howard was shiftier and more peculiar than usual. Even the paperboy knew better than to approach him. They reached the churchyard and Howard pulled out his crumpled hand-drawn map of the grave plots. Albie knew today they were to prepare the plot by the yew tree on the south side. He confidently sauntered that way, until Howard called out meekly from behind, “Not today. Change of plan. Round here.”

Albie had no reason to regard this as strange, sometimes changes had to be made, he supposed. And so, they went about their work, Howard somewhere else in his mind.

As daylight melted into the horizon, Howard packed up hastily and made for home. Albie headed back to return his tools. He dawdled in the courtyard, cleaning spades, sweeping the shed and seeking any excuse to linger longer, in hope of seeing Ada. But time ticked on and it seemed perhaps Ada had already left. A chill crept through the air and Albie knew that soon he would miss his chance for a home-cooked meal.

Albie never much liked walking through the graveyard at night. Howard had once surprised him by poetically remarking how peaceful it could be, but Albie only found it to raise the hairs on his arms.

As he approached the lychgate, he kept his eyes focussed on the oil lantern swinging at the other side of the churchyard. He proceeded to the path, ambling along steadily, when suddenly, a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned his head. The shadow of a hooded figure. It knelt down beside the yew tree on the south side. Albie froze. He wondered if the figure could see him too. Both were black silhouettes, foolish without lanterns on a moonless night. Albie silently crouched down behind the nearest gravestone. Peeping out from behind the cold rock, he watched intently, suspended in fear and curiosity.

The figure appeared undisturbed, busy and focussed. He pondered how agile it seemed to move in the dark, far from clumsy or cautious, as he himself was. As Albie relaxed into his role as the observer, he let his breath ease. But with that, the dark figure raised its head, flashing black eyes in his direction. It then rose up and darted off into the darkness.

Albie breathed heavy through his teeth. Questions he was desperate to answer hurtled through his mind.

He tentatively crept over the mossy mounds, uneasy as he picked his way through the graveyard. Nervously, he felt for the yew tree, but was confused to find that instead, a layer of broken turf carpeted the ground, poorly disguising the disturbed soil.

Someone had been digging, and something had been buried.

A flash of fear rose up in his throat. But he stood silent and gathered his thoughts. Then piece by piece, it began to make sense. .. the stolen opium.

Albie was exhilarated, engulfed with the potential that he may have found the lost goods. He would receive the reward and the village would be so grateful, especially Ada. He began clawing at the earth like a dog, scraping away soil, digging deeper and deeper. Anticipation fuelled him as the night grew later, his mind filling with fantasies about what he would do with the money, visualising the velvet cloak he would buy for Ada.

He dug relentlessly, sweat steaming off him into the cold night air as his fingernails filled with mud. Finally, he reached a solid surface. A box, as long and wide as he himself was, buried barely four feet down. He sat back against the damp earth, catching his breath.

Albie delved into his pocket for his knife. He forced the tip beneath the groove of the lid, wedging in the blade. Then with all his might he began to lever around the edge of the box, until finally CRRRRACK! The lid sprung open.

But what was revealed was far worse than anything Albie could ever have imagined. A most horrendous stench reeked out of the box. Albie clasped his mouth as he wretched. He stared into the box. Into the coffin.

Dull fair skin, dried blonde hair, sunken lips.

Ada.

Shock flooded his veins, he grasped at the ground behind him, struggling to his feet. He ran and he ran, leaving behind him the mess of dug out soil and the exposed, lifeless body of Ada.

Above Ground at Morning Light

Albie was unsure if he had slept. After his discovery he had manically ran to the police house, but only the dog had responded. Constable Cooper was no doubt slumbering deep from the drink. Albie made his way back home, only to toss and turn for the remainder of the night.

He rose early and rushed straight to the funeral parlour, taking the long route through the fields, in fear of what would remain in the churchyard. His only plan was to inform Miss Taylor, surely she would know what to do.

It was still dark when Albie arrived in the courtyard, though he could glimpse a quiver of candlelight through the windowpanes. He knocked the backdoor, it was clearly unlocked but no answer came. He cautiously made his entry.

The interior was far grander than he’d expected, small and concise but with ornate detailing. A corridor stretched out ahead, lined with flickering lanterns. He followed the dim sound of the voices until he came to a door, the word ‘Private’ engraved across it.

He paused for a moment, then pushed open the door. Inside, stood various smartly dressed men, plus Miss Taylor and Howard. They all gathered around a lumpy white sheet. In turn they glanced up at him, faces a mix of melancholy and composed respect.

Someone placed a hand on Albie’s shoulder. He shuddered and turned, to find a tall policeman, painted with a cold, solemn expression. “You ought not to be here, son” the constable warned.

Miss Taylor offered more sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Albert, but there’s been an accident. Ada. She was found this morning. A man from the next village had been out with his dog, he insisted the spaniel never leaves his side, but this morning the dog had got onto a scent, when he approached it, he found Ada.” She whimpered lightly.

Miss Taylor, Howard and Albie were guided out into the hall, whilst the coroner, policemen and the doctor remained with Ada’s body.

Back in the mortuary, the poor girl lay, too delicate on the cold stone slab. The doctor sighed as he pulled on white gloves, whilst Ada lay like marble, in her white linen gown. Her hem was embroidered with little pink birds, and the doctor pondered the unexpected finery of the dress. It was only then that he noticed the small pocket stitched into the folds of the skirt. But tucked discreetly inside, was a note.

He warily removed the paper, unfolding it delicately under the eyes of the men that surrounded him. Reading the words, his jaw parted. He placed the note down on the table for all to see.

“Sorry, my love. H.”

Of Tea Parties and Of Dresses

The constable stepped into the hall.

“Do you want the good news, or the bad?” he asked arrogantly.

“The good” Howard raised his head.

“They know who did it” the constable replied smugly.

“And the bad?” Howard grumbled.

“They know it was you”.

Albie didn’t realise a man’s face could drop any further, but somehow, Howard’s did, he looked as though he may simply shrink into the floor. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Until then, he crumpled. Tears flooded his face. Deep sobs echoed around the small walls. The constable was taken aback, “We will discuss this down the road”, he remarked awkwardly.

Howard stared at him with hollow eyes.“It was all an accident.”

There was a moment of silence that seemed to drag on for eternity, but then Howard spoke again, and this time he poured.

“You see, Miss Ada, she was involved with some bad people. She had been sold promises. Promises of a new life. Of tea parties and of dresses. All she had to do was look after something that wasn’t hers. It wasn’t hers, you see. She came to me for help. Wanted me to keep it in the cottage. But I didn’t trust it. She told me she loved me, begged for help in return for her love. But I told her I couldn’t do what she asked. She started to shout and beat, she became a different person, so I told her to leave. But as she went for the door, her slipper caught the step. And then she, she-” Howard broke off. But the constable did not cease, “Go on, Mr Cook”.

“You see, her slipper caught, and she fell back and hit her head. I thought she was playing the fool, but she was still as stone. And soon, she was cold.” Howard took a breath.

“But why did you not go for help?” Albie blurted, grief mutating into desperation.

“It was too late, she was gone. No family, no money, I knew she would only get a pauper’s grave. Our Ada deserved better. There was a plot reserved for old Mrs Briggs. I wrapped her up in the softest cloth I had and carried her to the church. I put together what I could as a coffin, elm boards from the yard, then lay her to rest in hallowed ground, where she would be at peace. Our sweet Ada.” Howard exhaled with palpable relief.

“But why was her coffin above ground at morning light?” intercepted Miss Taylor. Howard shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and proceeded once more to sob hefty, cumbersome tears. The constable lent back and began frantically scrawling notes.

With a sudden clang, the mortuary door flew back. The doctor stood in the doorway, his face a wreck of alarm.

“Sir, I think you better take a look at this”.

The constable rushed through the door, Miss Taylor and Albie rose to their feet and peered through the open doorway.

Ada remained on the slab, though through the front of her dress was now revealed a crude slice across her stomach, coarse stitches at the edges. Albie threw his hands to his mouth. Miss Taylor stepped backwards.

“We found this, Sir, stitched beneath the flesh” the doctor lifted a tin box. It was rusted, printed in bold text with the word ‘SUGAR’. He opened the lid, revealing a crushed amber substance, like granules of rosin. The men exchanged knowing looks.

The constable turned back towards Howard, “Howard Cook, you’re going to need to come with me”. Leaving him no time to argue, the constable heaved him up by the shoulder and marched him towards the door. The mortuary door swung closed and Albie stood alone in the hall. “Think its time for you to leave, kid” the constable ordered, before heading out the building, Howard under his grip.

Albie stood silent and motionless for a moment, attempting to process what had happened. He felt outside of his body, not fully here nor there. He thought Howard to be many things, but he had never imagined him to be a liar.

Albie made his way for the back door, passing by the wooden staff lockers as he did. Each cupboard door had a neatly engraved plaque with a name cut into it. On the last door the letters ‘ADA’ were inscribed. Albie paused and looked about him, still alone. Pulling out his knife he scored the locker edge, quietly prizing it open, despising the memory that arose in him. With the locker open before him, Albie planned to help himself to a memento of Ada. She would have wanted him to, he told himself.

He leafed through the mess of brushes, tins of polish, hair pins and ribbons. Eventually settling on a navy velvet ribbon, a silvery hair still entwined within it. As he tried to close the locker door, something jammed in the hinge. It was an envelope.

The envelope was made of stiff, expensive paper, with a burgundy wax seal split open on the back. Albie peered around, still alone. He slipped his hand into the envelope and pulled out the hand-written letter.

“My Dearest Ada,

This is it, the last step. All you must do is keep our sugar safe for a few more nights, then when the money comes in, we will be free. If you must be apart from it, keep it with someone you trust.

With love, Your Charlotte”

Signed and printed, Miss Charlotte Taylor.

Albie could not believe what he was reading. His body seemed to work ahead of his mind, and he tripped as he raced for the door. No wonder Miss Taylor had fled, it was like a jigsaw puzzle forming in front of him. Albie clattered out the door, clasping the letter in hand, racing as fast as his legs would allow.

The constable had not long arrived with Howard when Albie panted into the police house. Wheezing to the point he nearly frothed at the mouth, Albie demanded to see the constable.

“What on earth is going on?” the constable emerged, a heavy frown set across his forehead. Albie said nothing, catching his breath as he handed over the letter. The constable scoured it intently.

This would change everything.

Sacrifice

Ada was an intelligent and fiercely ambitious girl, who felt she had been unfairly dealt the role of orphan. Determined to forge herself a brighter future, she had no shame in sacrificing various morals.

When Ada began work for the Taylors at thirteen, she had instantly bonded with the owner’s daughter, Charlotte Taylor. Like an older sister, Ada looked up to her as an idol of who she could become. Though of course this could never be true, for Charlotte Taylor was heir to a fortune that Ada could never conceive.

Despite this, their mutual adoration for one another brought them close and soon their friendship had blossomed into something deeper.

Until one day, an offer of boundless fortune had come to Ada, on the lips of Miss Taylor. In turn for a taste of the opium and a promised future, she had leant herself as a mule in Miss Taylor’s terrible dealings.

That auspicious afternoon, Miss Taylor and Ada had contrived a plan. “That old Howard Cook, see how he dotes on you? Seduce him. You can store the next batch in his cottage”. Ada had happily agreed and made her way to Howard’s cottage that evening. Both Ada and Howard, unknowingly pawns in another's twisted games.

Miss Taylor had waited outside, hiding beneath a black cloak, listening to their every exchange. She had watched at the window, at Howard’s fraught and futile attempt to resuscitate Ada. The scene wrenched at her heart, helplessly watching her oldest friend and first romance depart this world before her. But she knew to reveal herself now, would be to sacrifice everything. Although her plan was rapidly distorting, Ada could still be of help to Miss Taylor.

She silently observed Howard’s desperate efforts to piece together something vaguely resembling a coffin, watching as to where he had buried the box. When the grieving man finally departed, Miss Taylor had returned, to gruesomely deposit her stolen goods.

Howard had been aware of a presence watching him that night, though in his mind it had been Ada’s ghost, following him devotedly.

The days that followed the incident were a painful wait. But finally, Albie was summoned back to the police house.

“Albert Hughes. Your prying eyes, fast legs and God-granted luck has helped us conclude our investigation. Mr Howard Cook was indeed telling the truth, young Ada had indeed died from an injury to the back of the head.” The constable looked up at Albie and Albie felt he had expected him to look pleased.

“…You may also be content to hear, that Charlotte Taylor has been found and will be detained indefinitely.”

Albie nodded weakly. The constable continued, “In thanks, we would like to reward you with thirty English pounds”. Albie was shocked. He should have been overwhelmingly grateful, but found instead he would have rather excluded his part entirely from the dark events that took place that winter.

The constable, momentarily understanding, spoke more softly, “It is sad, lad. But with clarity, comes healing”.

Albie continued to work at the churchyard until his own bones were weary and worn. Dear old Howard Cook eventually found contentment too. Though truthfully, it had been beside him all along. It was carried in the kindness and companionship of one young apprentice, that of a Mr Albert Hughes.

You may wonder how I know all this. Well, it is because …my name is Ada.