There are those who will tell you that anyone could be a Night-Soil Man, if they were desperate enough for work. What could be easier than wandering around, emptying cess-pools and outdoor privies? The answer is, of course, that most people would not last one night in the role. A Night-Soil Man lives a life of enforced isolation and celibacy, not only doing a job which would make others physically sick, but regularly being beset by challenges which most could not even begin to imagine. Although the noisome stench, which permeates his skin and clothing, keeps most creatures, (including other humans) at bay, confronting the often hideous denizens of Hopeless, Maine, needs an iron nerve and a strong stomach. Even when these qualities are present, without great physical strength, a Night-Soil Man would never be able to complete his tasks or, indeed, stay alive for any length of time.
Miss Calder, the ghostly administrator of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, shimmered faintly in the darkness. She had long entertained certain feelings for Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, and, while aware that such love must be unrequited, watched appreciatively as his burly physique bore the limp body of Marigold Burleigh down the hill, carrying her as if she were as light as a feather. Marigold had collapsed in his arms just minutes earlier, her last words apparently accusing Philomena Bucket of trying to kill her. It was hard to believe, but the truth was that Philomena had been acting really strangely, lately. Rhys could not worry about that, right now, however. He had to get Marigold some help, though he was quite unable to tell if the pretty young nurse was still alive; usually his all-pervading reek would have been as good as smelling-salts to bring someone back to consciousness, but Marigold was showing no signs of life.
Miss Calder subdued her unearthly glow as Rhys drew near, preferring to stay unseen for now. She saw him gently place Marigold on the ground in front of Doc Willoughby’s surgery, bang on the door, then hastily retreat a few yards downwind.
The Doc, wrapped in a dressing gown, opened the door cautiously and peered down at Marigold’s prone form. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Doc Willoughby, sorry I know it’s late, but I didn’t know where else to take her…” Rhys called.
Doc looked across the street, registering the presence of the Night-Soil Man for the first time.
“Get her off my doorstep,” he growled, “The woman’s obviously dead, can’t you see? There’s nothing I can do. Now go away, and take that god-awful stink with you.”
Before Rhys could say a word, the curmudgeonly physician went back inside, slamming the door behind him.
With a heavy heart, he lifted Marigold once more. He had no idea what to do now.
“Rhys… what has happened?”
He turned in surprise at the voice; he was relieved to see Miss Calder gliding towards him.
“I’m not at all sure,” he replied, not wishing to divulge details of Marigold’s accusation until he was certain of the facts. “And I don’t know where to take her body.”
“She’s still alive, Rhys” said Miss Calder, who knew about death better than most. “The Doc was wrong. She just needs looking after.”
“Can you…?” the question died On Rhys’ lips as he realised that, however capable Miss Calder appeared, she remained a ghost; non-corporeal and quite without substance.
Miss Calder shrugged sadly, then an idea occurred to her.
“Get her to The Squid and Teapot,” she said, “Ariadne and Philomena will know what to do.”
Rhys was about to say that Philomena was probably not the best person to be around Marigold at the moment, but thought better of it. He could not believe that the barmaid harboured the girl any ill-feelings, but if there was going to be a problem taking her to The Squid he would worry about it when he arrived there.
“Good idea,” he said. “Will you come with me? They won’t want me being too close when they take her in. You know… the smell…”
Being a wraith, Miss Calder was impervious to the Night-Soil Man’s effluvium. She smiled. Of course she was always very happy to accompany Rhys anywhere. In her excitement, however, she allowed her face to become skull-like for a moment or two. Rhys blanched but said nothing. He didn’t think that he could ever get used to that.
Ariadne Middlestreet opened the door of the inn. It was well past closing time but she and her husband, Bartholomew, always had chores to do once the patrons had left. Tonight had been especially busy, she told them. When Philomena arrived back at The Squid she had not stopped to help clear up, but gone straight upstairs, saying nothing to anyone.
“She has worried me lately,” confided Ariadne to Miss Calder, after Rhys had left. “She has been acting strangely ever since Rhys told her that he had to go back to night-soil work and they couldn’t be married. Anyway, we can’t worry about that now. I’ll get Bartholomew to carry Marigold in and we’ll put her in one of the guest-rooms.”
Philomena Bucket had indeed gone straight upstairs, upon returning to The Squid and Teapot. It was not to her bedroom that she went, however, but to the attics. She had discovered, a year or so earlier, that what appeared to be a sea-chest, squatting in the corner of one of the rooms was, in reality, a cunning skeuomorphic construction, disguising the entrance to a secret passage that would take her down to ground level, then delve deep into the earth, to the Underland, far beneath the surface of the island. It was not clear to her exactly why she needed to get to the Underland, only that it was crucial that she did so. Taking the key from the chain around her neck, where she hung it for safe-keeping, Philomena unlocked the lid and peered down into the gloom. With practised ease she tucked her skirt into the waistband of her inherited industrial-strength Victorian underwear, climbed into the chest and began the vertiginous descent of the vertical ladder, beginning the journey that would take her to the base of the building, then on to whatever mystery awaited her.
To be continued…
