The Angel of Highgate

7 RISEN FROM THE GRAVE

The Night Hawk is one of the largest species of moth, with a wingspan measuring as much as 6 inches.

Algernon pondered the illustration. The moth was dark brown in color. Fuzzy antler-like antenna protruded from its forehead. The eyes were gleaming black domes set on either side of the head that seemed to stare out of the page, fixing the viewer with its uncanny gaze.

A loud metallic clang. He looked up from his book. Two young nurses were passing out bedpans and one had just tumbled from the wheeled cart as they pushed it along the ward. He was in the Whittington hospital. When Thraxton had been brought in, no one had known for certain who he was, and so he had been placed in a general ward, along with the common folk and their mundane ailments.

Algernon sat in a straight-backed chair next to the head of the bed, reading a book on moths and butterflies as he kept vigil over his friend. It had been three days by this time, but to the concern of all, Thraxton showed no signs of awakening. He looked down at his friend. Thraxton’s face was almost as white as the bed sheet tucked under his chin — apart from the mark that Snudge’s cosh had left, a livid red welt that ran from cheekbone to temple, and around which spilled waves of glossy black hair.

It was not the first time Algernon had kept vigil at his friend’s bedside. They met as first-year boys at public school. In keeping with a proud school tradition, the younger boys were relentlessly bullied by the older boys, as they themselves had been bullied in their time.

This was just such an occasion.

Algernon had been standing with his classmates in the quadrangle awaiting the school bell when the most notorious bully in school, Tom Bagby, or “Baggers” as he was known, sauntered over dragging behind his usual pack of toadies. Bagby had flashed a cruel smile at Algernon and then, without warning or provocation, drove a vicious punch straight into his face. The blow floored Algernon, and then Bagby leapt on top, pinning the younger boy’s arms as he rained punches on his face and chest. Algernon’s first-year friends, intent only on self-preservation, instantly bolted for cover. As the bully-boy pummeled his helpless victim, Bagby’s cronies cheered and shouted, “Go on! Bash him, Baggers!”

Suddenly a blur of fury and flying fists crashed into Bagby and knocked him tumbling. To the shock of everyone, the figure that scrambled to his feet, small hands balled into trembling fists, was the new first-year boy, who was shorter even than Algernon. Bagby snarled and lunged at the new boy and the fight began. The younger boy fought like a maelstrom, but it was a vastly unfair competition. Bagby was a fifth-year boy, head and shoulders taller, and he was the school boxing champion. He knocked the younger boy down once and then again and then a third time. Still, the new boy dragged himself to his feet each time. A fourth. A fifth. A sixth. A seventh. But despite the fact that his nose dripped blood and both lips were split, the younger boy refused to stay down. As the beating continued, even Bagby’s thuggish friends grew frightened and called for him to stop. Throughout, the younger boy never cried, although Bagby himself was on the verge of tears, for an opponent who refused to give up terrified him. And so the beating continued until a final uppercut knocked the smaller boy to the ground and sprawled him senseless. Then a school master, black robes flapping like the wings of an agitated crow, burst through the melee to stop the fight — as always, too late. The milling mob of boys instantly dilated around the small prone form as the bullies scattered and fled.

The unconscious boy was carried to the school infirmary where Algernon was permitted to keep watch at his rescuer’s bedside. After several hours, the new boy finally cracked open his bruised and swollen eyes, squinted up at Algernon and spoke in a croaky voice: “My name’s Geoffrey.”

“Mine’s Algernon.”

“Did I thrash him?”

Algernon told him that he had indeed triumphed and that he was the talk of the school.

It was the beginning of a life-long friendship.

Algernon smiled, thinking about that time, then drew his gaze back to the book he was reading.

The Hawk Moth is a native of England and Europe, although varieties of the species may be found…

“I saw her, Algy. She was an angel with wings.”

Algernon startled at the sound of Thraxton’s voice.

“Geoffrey! You’re awake!”

Thraxton’s eyes slitted open.

“How long…” His mouth was dry as sand and he could barely speak. “How long…?”

Algernon leapt to his feet and leaned over his old friend.

“Three days.”

“Three days?” Thraxton put a hand to the side of his head and moaned.

“You are fortunate to be alive! You’ve got a lump the size of a goose egg on your head. Do you remember anything?”

Thraxton opened his eyes a little wider, straining to focus on his friend’s face.

“I remember the angel: the violet eyes… alabaster skin… long, dark hair. The touch of her hand, cool, like marble made flesh.”

“Angel?” Algernon sighed. “You’re rambling, Geoffrey. The sexton and I found you lying in a grave. You’d been coshed by Resurrection Men out body-snatching. No doubt to satisfy the insatiable demand of our respected medical colleges. It’s a wonder you are not being dissected by a class of student surgeons right now!”

Thraxton struggled to raise himself in the bed.

“What are you doing? Lie still!”

“Doing? I’m trying to sit up. Help me!”

Against his better judgment, Algernon dragged his friend upright. “Perhaps I should call for the nurse,” he said, looking around for the matron.

Thraxton grabbed his friend’s sleeve to prevent him from leaving. “I was dead, Algy. An angel’s touch brought me back from the abyss of death.”

“There was no angel, Geoffrey. It’s just part of your delirium. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

“No! I saw her,” Thraxton insisted. “She was an angel. A dark angel in the night.”

“You’re rambling. I’ll fetch the nurse.”

“Never mind the nurse,” Thraxton said, throwing back the bedclothes and tottering out of bed. “Call us a carriage.” As he gained his feet, he staggered and would have fallen had he not grabbed the brass bedstead for support.

“Geoffrey, this time I will not allow you to have your way. Get back in that bed. There is no way you are leaving this hospital. Do you understand? I absolutely forbid it!”

“This is madness! Sheer madness!” Algernon complained. “If anything happens, I suppose I shall be to blame.”

He and Thraxton were seated in a hansom cab that plodded up Swain’s Lane toward the front gates of the London cemetery at Highgate.

“Do stop wittering, Algy,” Thraxton said, a hand held over his eyes to shield them from the light. “I’ve got a beastly headache and your constant blathering is only making it worse.”

Ten minutes later they passed through the iron gates of Highgate Cemetery and proceeded on foot. By now it was late afternoon, dense black cloud shrouded the sky, and the two men shambled through the disintegrating twilight. Thraxton was still unsteady on his feet, and had to lean on Algernon’s shoulder for support. They made their way along the winding paths until they arrived at the grave that Thraxton had fallen into. In the days that had passed since the incident with Fowler’s men, the London Cemetery Company had hastily filled in the grave and placed an iron mortgate atop it to deter any further attempts by Resurrection Men.

“This is it,” Thraxton said, “the spot where I had my tussle with the three ruffians.” He removed his hand from Algernon’s shoulder and shuffled to the neighboring grave, gazing up at the stone angel perched atop its pedestal. “This is her. The angel,” Thraxton said, his voice falling into a reverent whisper.

The stone angel stared down at them, head slightly tilted, the blind stone eyes stunned with loss.

“She came alive, Algy. I saw her step down and kneel over me. She was a spirit made real.”

Algernon looked away, trying to conceal his open skepticism. His eyes were drawn to a crumpled black shape in the grass and he stooped to pick it up. It was wet with dew, but as he unfolded the wadded ball, he instantly recognized what it was. He cleared his throat to snatch his friend’s attention.

“What?” Thraxton asked.

“A glove. A woman’s glove. Proof, I would say, that your angel was no visitor from the spirit world.” He found a label inside the glove and examined it. “Unless those who have passed over to the other side are now having their gloves made by T. Sayers of Oxford Street, London.”

At the news, doubt clouded Thraxton’s face. Then a faint gray wisp of smoke swirled about them. Sniffing a familiar scent, Thraxton looked up.

A white-haired gentleman in a battered cap stood close by, observing them. A lit lantern dangled loosely from his fingertips. Cradled in the crook of his other arm was a firearm with the heft and girth of a small naval cannon. The elderly man drew the lit pipe from between his lips and nodded to them with a good-natured grin.

“Ah,” Algernon said, recognizing the man. “Now, Geoffrey, here is the true angel you owe your life to.”