Death's Puppeteer

1908

With January 1908 came the middle of the harshest winter London had seen for years. So few people ventured into the streets and those that did never stayed out long if they could avoid it. With the exception of the children determined to make a game of pelting anyone in sight with snowballs. Trade in most businesses dwindled in contrast to the soaring demand of coal for fires. Snow fell so deeply over London that the unfortunate horses struggled to pull their loads through it and the wheels of wagons and carts more often than not had to be dug out of inches of snow before they could be used.

Whilst most trades, with the exception of coal, dwindled during this winter, the cities undertakers were in far higher demand. With outbreaks of pneumonia becoming increasingly easy to contract and hunger amongst the poorer classes reaching a dangerous level, the doctors and unfortunately undertakers in turn were busier than ever.

It was in the midst of such freezing conditions that Enoch decided to oblige his curiosities.

He lay wide awake in his bed, not daring to move from it until he was sure both his parents had passed his room on their way to bed. He waited a while after that too ensure that they would be asleep before tossing off the two blankets he'd huddled under and slowly sliding his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked as soon as he put weight on them and he stopped to listen for any movement elsewhere in the house before standing up. Pushing aside his bed, he upturned the few floorboards he had pried loose to extend his secret hiding place and plunged a hand into it much as he would an animal. Uncovering what he was looking for, Enoch quickly replaced the boards and stood up again. He pulled on his warmest coat and slipped into his boots before slowly slipping from his room onto the landing and down the stairs and quietly and quickly as he dared. The fire was burning low in the grate, giving off the last of its pleasant warmth as Enoch passed the kitchen and stole out of the door into the bitter chill.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and immediately regretted not bothering to put gloves on as he crunched through the snow to the funeral parlour. He'd planned ahead enough to swipe his uncle's key without his noticing early that morning as he arrived.
Admitting himself, Enoch let out a breath that misted in the air before him. It was so cold inside without a furnace or fireplace that there was little need at all for the cool box or really embalming at all. Freezing almost did the job itself in the winter.

He could already feel all the blood in his face flooding to his ears and he turned up the collar of his coat in a poor effort to combat it.

The body was laid out on the table, encrusted with a thin layer of ice crystals and so pale the skin was almost translucent. It was a middle aged woman with a hooked nose and greying hair, covered by a thin white sheet. She had been a victim of pneumonia that Uriah and Owen O'Connor had brought in that morning. This corpse would do as well as any other, and Enoch supposed might even be easy to bring back to life than a fat, sixty year old man.
Enoch pulled out the jar from within his pocket and placed it beside the dead woman's head. Inside was a heart submerged in a pickling solution to preserve its freshness as long as he could. He'd taken it from a dog that had frozen to death by the river. If pigeon hearts could not effectively bring a dog back to life for more than a moment, he could hardly have expected them to work on a human being.

Without batting an eyelid, Enoch dragged the sheet covering the corpse down. Whatever modesty anyone had in life could hardly be expected to carry through into death. He rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to warm them at least enough to stop the shaking as he picked up the razor sharp scalpel. It shook in his hand, poised over the breastbone for so long that Enoch could have frozen in place without realising it.

He could have pretended it was the cold that fogged his mind, but it would have been lying to himself. As accustomed, and strangely intrigued as he was by the sight of death, the only incisions he'd ever made in a human being had been surgical ones to replace blood with embalming fluid. He wasn't disturbed or disgusted, per se, as much as he was peculiarly curious. If the first time he'd cut open a cat had been odd, this seemed downright ludicrous or even deranged.
For a split second, Enoch's lips twitched as he imagined the faces of anyone who walked in and caught him in the act of what he was about to attempt. He'd be branded as a monster and a freak, and more likely than not a potential murderer in the making.