The Turnkey of Highgate Cemetery Read online

  “It was awful. A horrible feeling. An evil feeling.” She remembered clearly the expression on the German officer’s face — that piercing glare of hatred. How he had said her name. It matched the male voice inside the skull perfectly. “There was something else, too. It was almost as if there were an argument going on inside it.”

  “Wait. Do you mean two distinct voices?”

  “Yes,” Flossie said.

  “They were arguing?” Violet asked.

  “Definitely,” Flossie said. “It was him, speaking in German, and someone else — a young person, though I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The younger voice was muted compared to the other voice. It might not have even been speaking German. I couldn’t tell.”

  “Can you remember anything that either of the voices said? I had a German tutor for many years. My German’s quite good.”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Oh, dear. This isn’t good at all. There could be another soul in there as well. Perhaps from Mayan times.”

  Flossie mulled over the situation. “And do you think it’s the skull that’s giving him the ability to travel?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s possible, I suppose. It’s a very powerful object, and not much is known about these skulls. Anything is possible, really.”

  “What about being able to pass information to the living? Could he do that?”

  It was the lack of Violet’s immediate answer that made Flossie realize once and for all that this was the man’s aim. He was here to spy, and he was either trying to find a way to pass that information to the living via the crystal skull, or he’d already found one.

  The group was silent.

  “I suppose what we need to do now is find out several things,” Flossie said. “For a start, why was he talking about Kensal Green and Highgate? Can he already pass messages to the living? And something else — I was told he’s part of a thing called the Ahnenerbe, which is apparently something to do with a legacy. We need to find out more about that, too. That’s really why I wanted to gather you all here — to see if you could ask your interred about the word.”

  “And my Chelsea Pensioners?” The Turnkey of Brompton spoke up, adjusting his glasses.

  “If it’s all right with you and the men, I think it would be good to keep them posted throughout the city, keeping a watchful eye.”

  “Of course.”

  “So”— Flossie’s attention moved back to the group —“when you all return to your cemeteries, could you ask your interred about the Ahnenerbe? You might even find some sort of connection to Highgate or Kensal Green. In the meantime, I’ll continue to hunt down information as well.”

  One by one, the Turnkeys departed for their cemeteries until only Ada was left.

  “When you brought up Violet’s past, I thought Hugo Howsham might eat you alive,” Ada said.

  Flossie gave a weak laugh.

  “I’ll come in with you for a quick visit, then I’d best be getting back.” Ada gestured toward the gates of Flossie’s cemetery.

  Grateful for the offer of some company, Flossie walked toward the smaller dusky set of gates for the dead, set apart from the solid black iron gates for the living. She opened them with her key, then locked them again once she and Ada had passed through. Then she closed her eyes and did something that she had never done before and hoped she would never need to do again — as gently as possible, she stirred all of her dead and asked them if they knew anything about the Ahnenerbe.

  She received a slew of whispers in return, which curled and twirled around her, filling her mind. Some spoke of the word legacy — of inheritance — just as she’d been told previously, but no one could tell her anything more than this.

  “Nothing?” Ada asked when Flossie opened her eyes once more.

  “I’m afraid not,” Flossie replied. “Come on, let’s go see Hazel.” She walked the short distance over to her cottage, where there was, thankfully, no queue. She let Ada inside and closed the door swiftly behind them.

  “Nobody waiting to see you. What a shame. I was so hoping to see Mrs. Gough today,” Ada teased, sitting down in one of the armchairs. She’d met Mrs. Gough several times in the past.

  Flossie shot her friend a withering look as she fell into the matching chair. “Hazel?” she called out.

  Just as Hazel appeared on the threadbare rug, a knock came upon the door, which Hazel opened with a flick of her tail.

  “Amelia! Come in!” Flossie said, already knowing who was on the other side.

  Amelia entered the room hesitantly.

  “Amelia, this is my friend Ada, the Turnkey of Tower Hamlets Cemetery,” Flossie said. “Ada, this is Amelia, one of my interred.”

  “Ah, the doll again,” Ada said, spotting it in Amelia’s arms.

  “Is everything all right?” Flossie asked, approaching her small friend. “Why aren’t you at rest?”

  “Well”— Amelia’s voice sounded concerned — “I don’t know what you were asking about just before, but you seemed upset. I thought you might need Marguerite back.” She held the doll out toward Flossie.

  “Oh, Amelia.” Flossie took the doll and stroked its springy curls. “I think that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.” To pull herself away from rest — Flossie was humbled that Amelia would do that for her. It never ceased to amaze her that she had made a new sort of family in death. Hazel, Ada, Violet, Amelia — they all cared for one another.

  She took some time straightening Marguerite’s clothes and smoothing an errant hair before passing the doll back to Amelia once more. “Marguerite is yours for all eternity, Amelia. You’ve made me feel so much better. Thank you.” She bent down to give Amelia a hug, which the girl disappeared from halfway through, filling Flossie with a feeling of content as Amelia slipped back into her dreamlike state.

  Unfortunately this feeling was cut short by the air-raid siren starting up again.

  “I do hope it will all end soon, Mistress Turnkey,” Hazel said.

  Flossie’s eyes met her Advisor’s. “Yes, but how will it end?” Her thoughts moved to the German officer. Where was he now? Reporting to his superiors with those coordinates he’d been reading out? She had to keep hunting for new information. Anything that would give her a clue as to how she might defeat him. She tapped her key against her leg, thinking.

  “I’m going to go back to talk to the girl again. The one in the Invalids’ Cemetery. She knows more than she’s told me. I’m sure of it. Lots more.”

  Flossie’s eyes flickered open to see the Invalids’ Cemetery covered in a thick blanket of untouched snow, reminding her that it was far colder in Berlin than in London. She stood quite still and took in the silent scene. The tall trees she had seen on her last visit now protectively bent their branches, weighed down by snow, over the interred, and the headstones appeared as if a sifter had been passed gently over them, leaving soft piles of powdered sugar atop them.

  The girl in the white dress peered out at Flossie from behind a tree, her braids, with their bows, falling down at an angle to one side. Flossie could see that she was worried; her eyes darted around, ever watchful. Flossie would have to be careful not to frighten her off again.

  “Hello,” Flossie said, not too loudly in case her voice might attract the attention of the German officer. “I’ve come to talk to you.”

  The girl didn’t reply.

  “I’ve come to talk to you about what you said the last time I was here. About how this man needs to be stopped.”

  Still nothing. At least her eyes were focused directly on Flossie now.

  Flossie waited, and eventually the girl came out from behind the tree. After some time, she took a step closer to the gates. Then another.

  Flossie chose her words carefully. “I know about the skull. I know his soul is inside it,” she said quietly, hoping Violet was right and that her guess would pay off.

  The girl’s hand moved to her mouth in shock.

  Scared that the girl was
about to run, Flossie spoke quickly. “Please, don’t go. You told me yourself that he needs to be stopped. You said he’s planning terrible things. Awful things.”

  There was a pause in which neither of the girls moved a muscle.

  Flossie could see that the girl was waging her own war behind her eyes. She seemed to want Flossie’s help but was scared. Flossie wondered what this man was doing to the interred of this cemetery. Why was this girl so afraid of him?

  “I want to help you,” Flossie tried again. “But I can’t unless you tell me more. What’s he doing? Why is he in London? Can he pass messages to the living?”

  The girl took a step backward.

  “No, stop!” Flossie cried out, her hands tight around the iron bars of the cemetery gates now, not caring if she alerted the Turnkey to her presence. “I can’t help you if you run.”

  The girl paused again on hearing this truth.

  “Just one thing,” Flossie pleaded. “Tell me one thing.” She was desperate now. “His name. Tell me his name and I’ll do the rest. I promise you.”

  In the long silence that followed, the girl’s mouth opened and closed several times until she seemed to find the courage within herself to say the words she wanted to say.

  “Viktor Brun,” she said, her hands clenched in fists in front of her chest. “His name is Viktor Brun.”

  Viktor Brun.

  Flossie shook her head, thinking her ears were ringing. That she’d simply misheard.

  It couldn’t be.

  But even as she denied it, she knew it could.

  That it could easily be him.

  His age. His position. The way he’d spoken her name with such disgust . . .

  Viktor Brun.

  It took a few moments for all of this to sink in properly. And then, when it had, it wasn’t the girl behind the cemetery gates who spun on her heel and ran.

  This time, it was Flossie.

  Flossie bolted down the tree-lined street, dodging piles of snow as she went. She needed to get away. From the girl. From that name.

  That awful name.

  It wasn’t until she had run quite some way that she realized what she was doing and closed her eyes.

  When she reopened them, it was the interior of a large, wood-paneled room that she saw.

  She was in the Newspaper Reading Room within the British Museum. The living stood around at long desks reading newspapers propped up in front of them on wooden stands. The room had a high ceiling, and the walls were lined with books, complete with a high walkway that gave access to even more books.

  Just standing in its quiet, soothing presence helped to calm her.

  Flossie had visited this place many times before in both life and death, searching for articles concerning her father. Today, in the bowels of the building, it took her some time to find the volumes of bound newspapers she required. She needed to pull a copy of each one into the twilight, as well as a little cart to stack them all upon, and by the time she was done, she felt quite drained. She gathered up her strength to take the cart back to the Reading Room and to settle herself down at one of the long desks. She then started flicking through the volumes one by one.

  She read the newer volumes first, because she knew all about Viktor Brun’s background. Her mother had told her about him. Many times.

  Because it was Viktor Brun who had stolen everything from her family.

  It was Viktor Brun who had killed her father.

  The two men had met at university, in England of all places, and had immediately butted heads. They had competed on all fronts — to be top of their classes, to run the fastest, to captain the rowing team, to ask out the loveliest girl. Eventually Viktor Brun had returned to Germany, but the competition hadn’t ended there. Instead, they joined their countries’ respective navies and then competed in a far more dangerous activity — war.

  One of them was always going to win the ultimate game.

  Unfortunately for Flossie’s family, it had been Viktor Brun.

  In 1916, the HMS Royal Sovereign had been Britain’s newest, most expensive Revenge-class ship. It wasn’t quite ready for service when the other ships in the fleet set sail for the North Sea after some important German radio messages had been decoded. The rear admiral of the Royal Sovereign had had reservations about the crew’s readiness for battle. He had been right. Thirteen hundred men went down with the ship.

  That rear admiral had been Flossie’s father, and to this day he lay deep down in the dark, murky bottom of the North Sea.

  It was Viktor Brun who had put him there, in that watery grave.

  It was Viktor Brun who had plunged shell after shell into the thin upper armor of her father’s ship, tearing it apart and sinking it immediately.

  Yes, all this information she knew well. It was what Viktor Brun had been up to in the past few years that she wanted to find out. Her eyes skimming the pages before her, she learned he had joined the Nazis’ feared SS elite unit in 1925. There they began to call him the Man with No Heart because he was merciless — undoubtedly why he became such a great favorite of Hitler’s and one of his most trusted advisors. It seemed he had proved himself to the very end — throwing himself in front of a grenade that was meant to kill Hitler. Hitler had survived the attack on the grounds of the Berghof, his headquarters, but Viktor Brun hadn’t. It had taken him a week to die.

  A week that would have given him time to arrange for his soul to be captured within a crystal skull. However that worked.

  Flossie closed the volume of newspapers before her and sat quite still, thinking about what she had read.

  Viktor Brun, the Man with No Heart. The man with the crystal skull. The man who had taken her father away from her.

  No wonder the girl at the cemetery was scared of him.

  Flossie’s head sank into her left hand, her key pressing into her forehead.

  It made so much more sense now. Viktor Brun was the kind of man who would do anything for his country, and here he was, attempting to win this war even though he was now dead.

  What scared Flossie to her very core was that if anyone could find a way to do what had never been done before — bridging the worlds of the living and dead — it would be Viktor Brun. Sure enough, he’d find a way to pass all that information he’d been gathering to the living.

  That was, if he hadn’t done so already.

  It also made sense as to why he’d mentioned her cemetery — perhaps that had been part of his working out who she was?

  The only thing Flossie didn’t understand was why he’d mentioned Hugo Howsham’s cemetery as well — Kensal Green.

  Over and over she repeated his name to herself. Viktor Brun, Viktor Brun, Viktor Brun. How many times had she wondered what she would say to him if she saw him? What she would do?

  Flossie’s key came to life and she jumped. Someone was at the gates to her cemetery.

  She was there in an instant.

  “I’ve got news!” Ada said even before Flossie had opened her eyes again. “Apparently there’s a man at West Norwood who knows what this Ahnenerbe is about. Come on, we’ve got to go and hear what he has to say.”

  Flossie loved visiting West Norwood — it was vast and very Gothic in appearance. She always half expected a cape-wearing vampire or two to pop out from behind one of its extravagant monuments.

  When she arrived, Alice and Matilda were waiting impatiently behind the heavy iron gates, their iron key jangling on its ring as they clasped it between their hands. The ornate arched entranceway to the cemetery framed the pair in their matching white hair and shrouds. At their feet stood a large ginger tomcat with orange eyes. He was of the twilight, but quite colorful all the same. This was Old Tom, the cemetery’s Advisor. He had been Alice and Matilda’s beloved companion in life, and they had used his form so he might also be with them in the afterlife. Flossie saw that there was someone else with them, too. A man. A man she had never seen before.

  Flossie and Ada ran to the gates, which Al
ice and Matilda were already unlocking.

  “Hello, Alice, Matilda, Old Tom.” Flossie bent down to scratch Old Tom behind the ears (he loved this).

  When the sisters had locked the gates behind them once more, they got down to business.

  “Now, this here is Felix Manz,” Alice said, gesturing with her free hand toward the man. He was tall and lanky and, Flossie guessed, not long dead. His clothes were quite modern.

  “Apparently he knows something about this Ahnenerbe word,” Matilda added.

  “A little,” the man said.

  He had an accent, Flossie noted — German, or Austrian maybe. She also saw that he was beginning to seem more and more unsure of himself.

  “What do you know about it?” Flossie asked as Old Tom dropped to the ground, demanding a stomach rub.

  “I . . . the problem is . . .” The man halted. “Well, it’s about my son. I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Not really. I won’t be putting him in any trouble, will I?”

  “Your son is still alive?” Flossie asked.

  “Yes. He’s an archaeologist.”

  “It’s a high-ranking German officer we’re interested in. Not your son.”

  The man visibly relaxed. “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Tell us everything you know,” Flossie said.

  The man began by telling them he was Austrian, and that he and his family had been living in England for quite a number of years. His son, however, had returned to Austria after his schooling and had then studied at a university in Berlin.

  “He published a lot of papers — became quite well known,” he said proudly. Then his expression darkened. “And then, well, he was approached. He was offered men and money to go and search for things. Or one thing.”

  “Wait.” Flossie held up her keyed hand. “Are you saying he was approached by the Nazis?”

  The man hesitated. “Yes. They had expeditions out searching for all kinds of things. The Ark of the Covenant, Atlantis.” His eyes scanned his surroundings worriedly. “It wasn’t just this, though. There were other things the Ahnenerbe were interested in.”