The Reaping Shadow

Tuesday, 10th January 1860

 

Chapter 1

​

  I thought leaving home at fourteen was much too young. My parents didn’t agree. They were elated at the prospect of me setting off for London. They said how proud they were of me. They told me to stop complaining and be grateful for such an opportunity (they were quick to remind me that it was an opportunity that boys from my background rarely got). They even told me that fourteen wasn’t that young to leave home. Afterall, my grandfather Phillip joined the royal navy as a cabin boy at the age of eight.

​

  I had plenty of reasons why I thought it was a bad idea. I didn’t want to leave my friends and family behind. Having only known the small market town of Churchdale, with its handful of shops and a weekly market, how was I going to cope in a city the size of London? But what it truly came down to was that no matter how much I wanted to be treated like an adult I knew I wasn’t one. I didn’t want such responsibility. I wasn’t ready for it. Besides it had been 1797 when Grandfather Philip joined the navy - times had moved on.

​

  My parents ignored every one of my objections. Of course, my mother cried, said she would miss me, made me promise to write regularly, and then without a second thought packed me on the train to London. I watched them from the carriage window as the train pulled out of the station. They stood on the platform waving goodbye. Before the train had even cleared the station they turned and headed home, forgetting me in an instance.

​

  Perhaps I had been in denial. Over the previous week it had felt like we had been making plans for somebody else. But as I watched my parents turn their backs the realisation that I was really heading out into the world on my own hit me like a bucket of cold water.

In a mild state of shock, I remained staring out the window, paying little heed to the passing countryside. I had never been on a train before and here I was heading to London, the greatest city on Earth. There I would have to make my way across the city to my destination. All of this I had to do alone.

​

  I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I needed to embrace the moment. I told myself I was embarking on an exciting adventure, like a hero from one of the stories I loved, Jason heading out in search of the Golden Fleece, or D’Artagnan setting off to join the musketeers. Like them I was heading into the unknown. I had no idea what awaited me in London. All I knew was that I was to be an apprentice to a Professor Ashcroft. A man I had never met. A man I knew nothing about. I did not even know what field the Professor specialised in.

​

  My trip to Professor Ashcroft’s house turned out to be a disappointment. It certainly was no grand odyssey. Arriving at Bishopsgate station, I hired a taxi; a hansom cab pulled by a black horse with white socks. After paying my fare and passing the driver the address we set off down the busy streets. I have never seen so many people. They crowded the pavements, spilled out on to the roads choked with carriages, traps and carts. Everyone seemed to be in a great hurry rushing from one spot to the next. Towering buildings stretched up into the thick grey clouds of chimney smoke above. I tried to absorb all the sights and sounds but overwhelmed it became a chaotic blur.

​

  It was reaching the Professor’s house when all the anxiety I had been suppressing bubbled up. The fear of the unknown that awaited me. The fear that I was much too young; I was not smart enough; I was not capable enough to be the Professor’s apprentice. Weighting heavily of all was the thought of returning home a failure. My parents were so proud of me. I could not disappoint them. The driver had to tell me a second time to get out of his cab. With a feeling of sickness in my stomach I grabbed my kitbag and climbed down onto the pavement.

​

   I watched the hansom cab trundle away taking with it any chance I had of changing my mind. The sound of hooves and the clacking of wheels on cobblestones grew fainter as the cab reached the busy junction at the end of the road. I had the wild fear driven urge to run after it yelling at the top of my lungs for the driver to wait for me. The cab turned the corner and was gone.

I turned to the large four-story house behind me. Built from dark brick and possessing an extravagant white façade it was just one of the many grand houses in this wealthy London borough.  The intimidating building only intensified my nerves. It was a long way from the small thatch cottage I had called home.

​

  I took the letter of introduction from my coat pocket. In the late afternoon light, Lord Ashcroft’s crimson seal looked like a blob of spilt blood. The letter had begun the day without a crease, but my frequent checks that it remained in my possession had left the paper crumpled and wrinkled. I pressed the letter between my palms trying to smooth out the worst of the creases. Still tatty, but marginally better, it looked less like I had wrestled the letter from a bear more likely I had fought a disgruntled badger for it instead.

I was procrastinating. Delaying the inevitable. The longer I took the harder it would be. Taking a deep breath, I climbed the steps and banged the lion shaped doorknocker against the metal plate with a loud thud.

 

​

Chapter 2

 

  A short woman, in her mid-forties opened the door. She eyed me suspiciously, no doubt wondering what I was selling.

​

  “What do you want, lad?” she asked

​

  “I’ve come to see Professor Ashcroft,” I said passing the letter towards her.

​

  She angled the candle in her hand to illuminate the crumpled paper. “You had better save it for the Professor. For all I know that could be a royal summons. Come out of the cold while you wait for him.”

​

  With my kitbag over my shoulder, I followed her into a dimly lit parlour. The curtains drawn to keep the winter chill out and the hearth was empty. The woman opened the curtains letting what little was left of the afternoon’s grey light into the room.

​

  “Wait here while I get the Professor.” She paused in the doorway as if struck by an afterthought. “And don’t touch a thing. I will know if anything is out of place.”

​

  To fight the temptation, I explored the room with my hands clasped firmly behind my back. Two armchairs and a sofa were positioned in front of the hearth. The red upholstery was immaculate and with no indentations in the cushions it appeared as if the seats were rarely used. On top of a dark wooden bureau a pair of glasses sat beside a whisky decanter. Family portraits and paintings of landscapes decorated the walls. I paused in front of the gold framed mirror above the mantlepiece.

​

  A small boy of fourteen with a messy mop of dirty blond hair looked back at me. Several strands stuck up like an antenna. I regretted refusing to let my mum cut my hair before I had left. She had insisted on the importance of making a good first impression. I had refused in a childish way of trying to maintain some feeling of control. I pressed my hand against my unruly hair trying to smooth it down. I took my hand away. The hair just sprang straight back up when I took my hand away. My skin was paler than normal. My eyes wide. I looked just as nervous as I felt.

​

  The door opened and Professor Ashcroft stepped into the room. Tall and thin he had a small stoop to his back as if he had spent a lifetime hunched over a desk. His thinning brown hair showed no sign of grey. He sported a fashionable rim beard with his sideburns connected by a thin strip of hair at the bottom of his chin. The narrow beard made his face look as if it was framed like a picture. Professor Ashcroft barely looked at me. His eyes were drawn to my kitbag.

​

  “About time,” the Professor said eagerly stepping forward. “I presume my specimen is in your bag?”

​

  “Specimen?” I said puzzled.

​

  “The one I have been waiting for all day.” The Professor’s eyes narrowed. “You do have my specimen?”

​

  “No, sir, but I do have this,” I said. I held out the crumpled letter.

​

  Frowning he took the letter. He turned the wax seal up to the light and groaned. “The family seal. I wonder which one of my brothers is interfering now.”

​

  He ran a bony finger along the fold breaking the wax. He unfolded the letter and began to read. As he progressed down the page his brow furrowed and by the time he had finished, it looked as if somebody had dragged a plough across his forehead.

 

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

 

  “No, sir.”

 

  The Professor crossed the room to the decanter. He poured himself a large measure of the spirit. “I would have not put it past Reginald to play this sort of joke. His humour is usually devised from my expense. How old are you?”

 

  “Fourteen but will be fifteen, in August sir.”

 

  “Not even old enough to shave. I suppose your liter...” He paused as if he assumed I would not understand the meaning of literate.

 

  “You can read and write?”

 

  “Yes, sir, I was top of my class.”

 

  “That counts for very little,” he commented. “Do you know the contents of my brother’s letter?”

 

  “No, sir.”

 

  “Let’s see how good your reading is.” He thrust the letter at me. I cautiously took it. “Read it out. Nice and clear.”

 

  I held the letter up to the light from the window. I cleared my throat and with my best elocution read.

 

  “Dear Arthur.

 

  I have taken some consideration to your request for further funds to finance your research. I appreciate that you feel it is necessary to have an assistant. However, I must question whether it is necessary for you to employ somebody with a university education. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to recruit a suitable assistant for you.

 

  The young man delivering this letter is an apprentice clerk at the family mill. I have good reason to believe the young man is a bright, capable, fellow. I have it on good authority that not only is the young man a bright, capable, fellow he is also a quick learner and academically gifted. I fully believe he will make an excellent assistant. I will be increasing your allowance to cater for his modest wage and cost of living. Of course, if you would rather turn your attentions to one of the family businesses, or return your efforts to beneficial research, I would be happy to review your allowance. Reginald.”

 

  I lowered the letter. The Professor was pouring a second measure from the decanter.

 

  “I am sure he thinks that he is our father,” he grumbled. “Return my efforts to beneficial research. What does he think I am doing?”  he snorted. He studied me like a lab specimen over the rim of his glass. “You understood the letter?”

 

  “Yes, sir.”

 

  “You understand that my brother has made a mockery of my request? That in restricting the necessary funding required to employ an educated man he is hampering my research?”

 

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered. I was not happy with the situation either. One afternoon last week, my manager Mr Simmins, had summoned me to his office. I had assumed I was in trouble, even though I had no idea what I had done. Perhaps I had mislaid some paperwork. It turned out to be worse than I feared. Mr Simmins explained that Lord Ashcroft the millowner had sent an associate to the mill to source an apprentice for his brother in London. Beaming Mr Simmins explained he had put my name forward. He said all my hard work, natural intelligence and thirst for learning had paid off. That I should be honoured that he thought of me. I didn’t think being shipped off to London was much of a reward. But like my parents Mr Simmins thought it was great opportunity for me. One that I could not turn down. That is how with no one considering my wishes I had ended up stood in front of the Professor.

 

  The Professor seemed oblivious to my concerns.  “I do not suppose there is much point in writing to Reginald and explaining the utter folly of this situation. He can be as stubborn as a mule. It appears that until you prove yourself inept in your duties, I am just going to have to make the best out of you I can,” the Professor said. He opened the door and hollowed out into the corridor. “Ethel.”

 

  The housekeeper hurried into the room. The Professor pointed at me. “This is... I did not catch your name.”

 

  “Nicholas Briggs, sir. But my friends call me, Nick.”

 

  “Nicholas it is then. Nicholas, I would like you to meet Mrs Cooper. She maintains this house.” He turned to Mrs Cooper. “Nicholas is to be my assistant and as unlikely at it seems will aid me in my research. In the second draw of the desk in my study you will find a journal.”

 

  With Mrs Cooper dismissed, the Professor turned back to me

  “You are academically gifted? A bit of prodigy perhaps?”

 

  “No, sir. I wouldn’t say that.”

 

  “There is no need to be so modest. My brother claims to think highly of you. However, he is known to exaggerate. Tell me what you know about science?”

 

 “Only what they teach in school. But that was some time ago.”

 

 “How long ago?”

 

  “Three years, sir. I left school at eleven, but I learnt my three R’s.”

 

  The Professor looked far from impressed.

 

  “I was top of my class,” I hastily added.

 

  “What have you been doing since leaving school?”

 

  “I have been working as an apprentice clerk.”

 

  “Hardly suitable for my needs. I ask for the funds for an educated man, and he sends me a boy.” The Professor let out a heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his thinning hair as he composed himself. “You have a lot to learn. We will have to take steps to further your knowledge. I for one do not have the time to teach you; therefore, you will be responsible for your own education. I will provide you with the necessary books to read. It will be up to you to do the rest. We will soon see if you are up to the job.”

​

​

Chapter 3

​

  Mrs Cooper returned and handed the Professor a book bound in red leather. After a quick check that it was the correct book, he passed it to me.

 

  “This is for you. Part of your job as my assistant is to keep detailed notes. I expect you to keep an accurate account of your experiences in this journal. You will begin tonight.”

 

  “What shall I write, sir?”

 

  “Start with everything that has happened since you arrived at this house. Remember leave no detail out. Only with hindsight do we realise how important even the smallest piece of evidence or the most insignificant observation can turn out to be. Now I must be…”

 

  The brass knocker on the front door banged against the metal plate. Mrs Cooper instinctively stepped forward. The Professor held up his hand.

 

  “There is no need, Ethel. Nicholas can get it. Time for him to start earning his keep.”

 

  Eager to prove my worth, I hurried to the front door. I opened it to find a uniformed boy of about ten holding a large package wrapped in brown paper on the step.

 

  “Got a parcel for a Professor Ashcroft,” the boy said passing the parcel into my hands. The boy produced a form and a pencil from the inside of his jacket. “Sign here.”

 

  I scribbled my signature. Without looking at it, the boy folded up the form, gave a curt nod, and hurried off. I closed the door with my foot and carried the parcel to the parlour.  The Professor was in conversation with Mrs Cooper about clearing out one of the attic rooms.

 

  “Parcel for you, sir.”

​

  The Professor looked at the package and his eyes lit up.

 

  “My specimen at last,” he said taking the parcel.  He scrutinised the packaging as he crossed the room. As he stepped through the door, he called over his shoulder. “Nicholas, with me.”

 

  I looked at Mrs Cooper. She nodded her head at the door. Leaving my kit bag behind I hurried after the Professor. I caught up with him at the top of the stairs on the second floor.

 

  “This floor is dedicated to my research,” explained the Professor. “Third floor are my rooms.  Ethel will clear out a room for you on the fourth floor.” The Professor nodded with his head to the door on the left. “There is a black journal on the desk. I will need it.”

 

  I opened the door to reveal a study dominated by bookcases. Half the texts were in English the rest were in Latin, Germen, and French. There was a lone chair beside the fireplace. A fire crackled behind the fireguard. In the middle of the room was a large desk. The desk itself was immaculate, not a single sheet of paper littered its surface, just a lone black book, a bottle of ink, and a pen. It could have been the study of any scientist, philosopher, or even a well-read accountant.

 

  If the study was bland, the room on the other side of the hallway exceeded my expectations. It was a marvel of curiosities. In a glass cabinet by the door were surgical equipment that looked more at home in a butcher’s shop than in a residential property. There was a counter housing rows of glass vials organised in neat, regimented lines. Lining the walls were shelves full of  jars containing liquids and powders like those found at a apothecary. A large oak cabinet beside the window caught my attention. Inside were glass jars of pickled animals from sinewy worms to small birds and mammals.

 

  The Professor leant over a metal desk in the middle of the room. Using a magnifying glass, he carefully examined the unopened brown paper package. He seemed to have forgotten about me. Making the most of the opportunity I examined the curiosities on display. Mounted on a wall above the fireplace was a mask with long strands of knotted hemp hair. A savage evil grin carved upon the mask’s face made my skin creep.

 

  “Where is the mask from?” I asked.

 

  “Pardon?” the Professor said without looking up. With a scalpel he delicately sliced away the brown paper to reveal a box.

 

  “Where is the mask from?”

 

  “Southern Africa.”

 

  “It looks demonic.”

 

  “That is the point. The fellow I got it from believed it to be cursed. A load of nonsense. It is nothing but a lump of wood. Now pay attention. I want you to take notes.”

 

  “Yes, sir.”

 

  Poised and ready to begin writing, I watched as the Professor lifted a filthy bundle of linen out of the box. The Professor delicately unwrapped the cloth revealing a small, mummified dog, its head tucked beneath its front legs. Black leathery cloth stuck to the dog’s blond furred back. The dog’s front legs were considerably longer than the hind legs. Something seemed to be wrong with the creature’s paws. The shrivelled feet resembled hands. Curious I leant forward. The Professor carefully parted the front legs away from the animal’s head.

 

  I jerked back from the table.

 

  The head appeared almost human. It had glassy eyes and a shrivelled upturned nose. The flesh had dried pulling the skin tight across the creature’s face revealing the teeth in a morbid grin. But my shock did not end there. The Professor unfurled the leathery cloth stuck to the creature’s back. Except it was not cloth, but large leathery wings.

 

  “Is that a…” The words caught in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “A dem… a demon?”

 

  “Do not be absurd,” the Professor rebuked without looking up. “There are no such things as demons.”

 

  “Then what is it?”

 

  “A hoax,” the Professor said confidently as he carefully examined the wings.

 

  “It looks like the pictures of demons they show in Sunday school.”

 

  “I repeat there are no such things as demons. This is a crude amalgamation of two different animals. The majority of the creature is a primate. I would have to seek conformation from an expert to be certain, but I believe it is a species of gibbon. As for the wings they are certainly from the Chiroptera Order. Several species of fruit bat grow to the wingspan that we have here. Somebody has sown the wings on to the gibbon’s back and then in a poor attempt to hide the evidence have left it out in the sun to dry, hence the desiccated condition. A dissection will confirm this. We will not find any muscular or skeletal attachment between the wings and the rest of the body.”

 

  “Where has it come from?”

 

  “The Far East. The package is from an associate who resides in the region. The superstitious fool obtained two of these supposed demons from one of the locals. No doubt he paid a great deal of money for it.”

 

  “But why has he sent it to you?”

 

  “I thought that was obvious.”

 

  I looked back blankly. From the pickled animals, the supposedly cursed mask, to the mummified gibbon-bat creature, I found nothing made sense.

 

  “He thought it might be of interest,” the Professor explained.  For the first time he looked up from his specimen. “I have made it my life’s work to explore the strange, the unusual, and the supposedly supernatural.”

 

  “The supernatural? You mean ghosts and things?”

 

  “There are no such things as ghosts. I assure you of that. The supernatural has no place in today’s modern world, apart from in the imagination of authors, of course. Yet still this nonsense lingers on. As a man of science, I have made it my duty to prove that the things that go bump in the night can be explained by rational scientific methods. That ghostly apparitions have an explanation that is of this world and not from a spiritual realm. That monsters, curses, and magical beings are the creations of the fraudulent for financial and egotistical game. And you Nicholas, if you are capable, will aid me in discrediting the figments and fancies of the supernatural for the nonsense that they are.”

​

​

Monday, 16th January 1860

Chapter 4

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   “The Professor wants you in his study,” Mrs Cooper announced, poking her head through the doorway.

 

  I looked up from my books to thank her, but she was already gone. Running such a large house on her own, Mrs Cooper didn’t seem to stop. She was always bustling from one corner of the house to the next. I stacked the books into a neat pile and tidied away the bottle of ink and pen that I had been using to take notes. I knew for Mrs Cooper’s sake I should take it all back up to my room, but after a week in Professor Ashcroft’s service I had learnt that the Professor expected me to come immediately once summoned.

Today had begun with the usual itinerary of collecting the morning newspapers and running errands. After posting the mail, buying some more bottles of ink, and collecting some yellow powder from the chemist, I had returned to the house to find the Professor still in bed. His late start to the day was not unusual. In the evenings the Professor frequented a club where learned men gathered to discuss the latest ideas late into the night. He rarely tended to rise much before midday.

 

  Glad to escape the books I hurried up to the second floor. The Professor believed I needed to further my education. He had provided a large pile of books covering a wide range of subjects, from biology to mythology, from anatomy to physics, and chemistry to theology. There was no order the Professor wanted me to read them in. He had told me to study whatever I was drawn to first.

 

  Inside the Professor’s study the curtains were drawn. The only light came from the fire in the hearth and a set of candles on the desk. The Professor sat behind the flickering flames, his elbows on the table, his hands pressed together in front of his mouth. I glanced at the curtains wondering if I should open them and let some daylight into the room.

 

  The Professor guessed my thoughts. “Leave them. The curtains are closed to add to the effect. Now what have you been working on this morning?”

 

  “I’ve been reading Origin of the Species by Darwin.”

 

  “Do you accept his controversial theory of evolution by natural selection?”

 

  “I guess.”

 

  The Professor frowned. He expected more.

 

  I racked my brain recalling what I had spent the morning reading. “It is sort of like how man has bred dogs to create new breeds. Its just nature has done it instead.”

​

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. “After you have finished reading Darwin, I want you to read Natural Religion by William Paley. Then write an essay comparing each man’s argument, before forming your own conclusion to which offers the most plausible argument for the diversity of life. But first take a seat.”

 

  I lowered myself into the chair opposite.

 

  “Tell me, Nicholas, do you know what a medium does?”

 

  “It sits somewhere in the middle?”

 

  My attempt at humour was met with a frosty frown.

 

  “There is nothing funny in my research. I suggest you refrain from making further poor attempts at wit. A medium is a spiritual intermediary that allows supposed communication between the living and the dead. If you were to attend a séance, the medium would attempt to communicate with the afterlife, perhaps even speak to a dead relative of one of the attendees. Spread by Spiritualism such beliefs are growing in popularity throughout the world. Now one of the most popular ways to communicate with the afterlife is through table turning.”

 

  “Table turning?”

 

  “A group of people sit around a table and rest their fingertips on its surface. They sing a few hymns and then summon the spirits to communicate with them. After a while, the table will begin to creak and groan before suddenly appearing to move on its own. The table will become erratic, tipping, and moving as if the spirits are competing in a tug of war. According to Reverend N. S. Godfrey in his book, Table Turning: The Devil’s Modern Masterpiece, it is the work of the Devil, and we should all be cautious of the four-legged threat in our homes.”

 

  I looked warily at the table between us.

 

  The Professor chuckled. “Of course, the whole notion is complete nonsense. There is no Devil and there are no spirits involved in moving the table.”

 

  “But if it is not spirits moving the table, who is?”

 

  “The people sitting at the table,” the Professor said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “The great scientist Michael Faraday has proved it is unconscious movements by the participants. You will have to read the findings that he published several years ago. Remind me and I will dig them out for you. Anyway, table turning is not the only way to communicate with the dead. There are far more elaborate and impressive manors in which the dead can supposedly respond. Now if you are ready, we shall give it a go.”

 

  “You want to summon the dead? Are you sure that is a good idea?”

 

  “What did I say about your feeble attempts at humour? Now place your hands on the table.”

 

  Hesitantly I lowered my hands on to the table. The Professor positioned his hands either side of the flickering candle.

 

  “I feel confident enough that we can summon the afterlife without singing hymns,” the Professor said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he spoke in a deep commanding voice. “We are gathered here to open a link to the spirit world. Is anybody out there?”

 

  I looked around the room wondering what would happen next. The candles flickered, a log in the fire snapped and crackled. A minute passed and nothing remotely unusual happened.

 

  “Is some -”

 

  “Patience,” the Professor barked. “Forming a link to the spirit world is not an instantaneous process. I will ask again. Spirits we seek you out beyond the borders of death. I ask again is there anybody willing to communicate with the living.”

 

  We sat in silence for over a minute. When the spirits rejected his request for a third time, the Professor made a fourth plea. I rolled my eyes wondering how long the Professor would endure this charade. Nothing was going to happen.

 

Then something knocked in response…