Read by Silas Hawkins (fifth story in podcast, here)
Grave robbing, I’ll confess to. Murder and battery, I will not. I’m no killer, and there is no law on the books that condemns a man to the gallows for assaulting someone who is already dead.
I could say I did what I did for science, but I won’t insult you. I did what I did out of greed. Your Honour, you’re no stranger to me; you know that I came from a good family, and that I disgraced them through vice and gambling. You may be tempted to view this as further evidence of my character, but I would implore you to have some pity. I believed at the time that this was a victimless crime. We all know the city of Kingston has no shortage of corpses whom none would miss, buried shallowly, all wanting for some productive purpose.
We upturned four graves. I maintained my composure for the first three, regarding the bodies as nothing but discarded medical waste. The illusion was dispelled when I found I knew the final corpse: Allan Lafrenière, a Frenchman who was once engaged to my wife. I did not have a friendly history with the man, though I didn’t rejoice in his death. Feeling queasy, I asked Mort to lift him into the carriage himself.
The sky was blue-black by the time we finished loading the cadavers, but we had made good time; I expressed to Mortimer that we might make our delivery and be back in time for a drink before the pubs closed. Our customer was a medical student at Queen’s University. You may ask his name, though I won’t give it; other than financing us, he had no part in this and does not deserve to be caught up in it now. In any case, we never reached him.
A block from the cemetery, Mortimer realized his wristwatch was gone. He was in a state - the watch was a family heirloom, and past and future generations would be bereft at its loss. Moreover, his father would recognize it if he found it on the grounds, and our night enterprise would be shut down - not that either of us had any desire to stay in this business, your Honour.
I agreed to help him search, securing my horse before heading back to the cemetery. The streets were clear, and we had no reason to believe anyone would disturb the carriage and uncover our grim cargo.
After nearly an hour of frantic searching, Mort concluded the watch must have fallen off and been buried in one of the re-filled graves. His solution was to dig them back up and sift through the dirt. After we failed to come to an agreement about a reduced rate for not finishing the job, I turned my back and exited the graveyard gates. When I returned to the carriage, it was empty.
I won’t bore you with an account of every street I rushed up and down, every door I knocked on asking frightful questions. Suffice to say, after a fruitless search I became so disheartened that I found myself drawn, as if by a siren’s call, to the nearest bar.
When I stepped into the Royal Tavern on Princess Street, the bartender looked at me with contempt.
“Come to pay yer tab, eh?” he asked, washing out a mug. I asked the man what he meant - I was not unknown at The Royal, but I hadn’t drunk there in some time, and was sure I’d never skipped out on a bill. He told me that a motley gang of four reprobates had staggered in an hour before, drunk like sailors, and told him to put it on my tab. “Stank up the place,” he added.
I assured him that I would never consent to such a thing, which led the honourable barkeep to threaten grievous injury to my person, giving me no choice but to transfer the contents of my wallet into his sticky palm. I then asked him – sarcastically – if he knew what fine establishment the delinquents had decided to patronize next.
“They said they were going to The Queen’s Inn,” he told me.
I was out the door in a flash, all but forgetting my horse and carriage as I scurried across the cobbles, flinching from the judgemental glare of the cathedral. I had no idea who the gang could be, but I suspected they had something to do with the disappearance of the corpses, and feared this was some elaborate scheme to blackmail me.
The Queen’s Inn was a ten-minute walk, but I made it in less. They were gone by the time I arrived, but the staff (who were off-put, as the men had stiffed them) directed me to the next location in their pub crawl: The Kingston Brewing Company. I fled before I could be seconded as a dishwasher.
I entered the Brew Co. to find three of the corpses sitting at the bar. These men moved and spoke, but they were not alive, your Honour. Inadvertent burials of the living do happen, as you know – I believe you heard one such case just last spring, where a man pounded on his coffin lid so loudly that he was dug back up, only to accuse his wife, doctor, and the gravedigger of attempted murder. But even if these three men had been alive when they were declared dead, the embalming process would have killed them, not to mention the hours spent below ground. I can only conclude that our immoral act of removing them from their resting places had restored to them an unnatural semblance of life.
They cheered as I walked in, raising their glasses. Evidently they expected me to pay for this round as well. They were a foul crew, your Honour. Although they were only in the early stages of decay, their movements were jerky and abrupt; each lift of a mug sent beer flying over the sides. The liquid that passed through their sewn-shut and ripped-apart-again lips dribbled down their shirts. In their funeral attire, all three were wildly overdressed.
The proprietor’s two burly sons descended upon the dead men. Evidently, their scheme to drink and dash had been sniffed out, and the owners here didn’t believe a benevolent angel investor was on the way to settle up. The eldest and largest of the brothers grabbed one of the corpses by the shoulder, then drew back in revulsion. The corpse then lifted his mug and swung it towards his assailant’s face.
You’ve heard about the barfight that ensued. I won’t re-live it. The salient fact is that the corpse who incited the brawl was knocked out cold, and I took advantage of the chaos to drag it out of the bar and back to the cemetery. I found Mortimer there, still diligently digging, and left our friend with him to be reinterred.
I did not risk re-entering the Brew Company, but a quick walk-by indicated that the fighting was over and the troublemakers had left. I guessed they had gone to The Prince George Hotel, the next pub along the route.
As you know, several witnesses testified that they saw me along the bar of The Prince George drinking with two sickly men. I’m glad to have the opportunity to explain myself. You see, your Honour, I joined the corpses to convince them to return to their graves. Once it became apparent that the dead men would not willingly return to the underworld, I decided that my only option was to get them drunk to the point of compliance. They were far enough along on that front already, and I figured after a few more rounds they would be suggestible enough to follow me back to the cemetery and pass out in their coffins.
If I may, your Honour, I resent the implication that I was out gallivanting with the rogues who had started the melee at The Brew Company, and who would go on to bite several pedestrians in a mad rampage.
They behaved abominably at the Prince George, slapping the waitresses and challenging the men to fistfights. Under the circumstances, you can’t begrudge me for indulging in two or three drinks, just to calm my nerves. So unhappy was I to be there, I found myself blurting out, to no one in particular, “At least that bastard Lafrenière isn’t here.” It was then that my blood ran cold. Where was the fourth cadaver?
“Awyah,” slurred the corpse to my left. “’E said ‘e had some score’ta settle.”
It was my turn to leave without paying.
This is where eyewitness accounts devolve into speculation. You’ve heard from many well-meaning, respectable people who saw me behaving erratically. As I have mentioned, I was seen asking after a gang of three drunks who claimed to know me, and later observed drinking with them at the Prince George. And though I maintain my motives were more rational than they may have appeared, all this indeed happened. I did curse the memory of Lafrenière, and storm out of the Prince George soon after. But for an entirely different reason than observers assumed.
Allow me to skip ahead, so I may contrast rumour with truth.
I was found, an hour later, in the bedroom of my fiancé Alice Asper. Her window was smashed. Lafrenière was at my feet, unconscious, and my hands were bloody. Alice was dead – strangled.
From their survey of witnesses, the police inferred the following: after a night of heavy drinking, I’d stormed into my fiancé’s home and found her in bed with her ex-lover. Perhaps it was one of my drinking companions who had seen them together, hence my cursing the Frenchman and leaving the bar. In this version of events, I killed Alice in a fit of passion and beat Lafrenière within an inch of his life.
But this was not so.
It’s true that I found them together – but this was no lover’s reunion. Alice was white with fright, his hands around her throat as he shoved her violently against the wall. By the time I climbed through the broken window, the light had left her eyes. All I could do was put the murderer down.
Grabbing the candlestick off Alice’s nightstand, I swung for the back of his head. He released Alice and I hit him again before he could turn. This one stunned him, and the third blow knocked him down. Fearing he would rise again, I continued beating him until he was certainly unconscious – and, I hoped, dead for good.
Unfortunately, Lafrenière survived – if that’s the proper word for it – to enter his vile lies into the record.
But your Honour, his very appearance confirms my word over his! If you would only look – his skin is grey, and he can barely move with the seizing of his joints! These aren’t the effects of a beating. My word, he’s positively rotting! Can’t you smell him?
I’m sorry, your Honour. I will compose myself. I realize I’m putting you in a difficult position, asking you to believe a man is dead when he’s sitting upright in this very courtroom.
But please, in the name of all that is holy, check his left wrist. He’ll have no pulse, and he’s wearing Mort’s watch!
(c) Madison McSweeney, 2022
Madison McSweeney writes horror and dark fantasy from Ottawa, Ontario. She is the author of The Doom That Came to Mellonville (Filthy Loot), The Forest Dreams with Teeth (Demain Publishing), & poetry collection Fringewood (Alien Buddha). She tweets at @MMcSw13 and blogs at madisonmcsweeney.com
Silas Hawkins continues the family voiceover tradition (he is the son of Peter 'Dalek' Hawkins & Rosemary 'Emergency Ward 10' Miller). Favourite voice credits include Summerton Mill and Latin Music USA. Silas recently reprised his roles in Francis Beckett’s Clement Attlee at the Epstein Theatre, Liverpool. Website: www.silashawkins.com
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