The True Essence

A Ghastly Story to Save Christmas

Doctor Pfeffel struck the laboratory door loudly with the knob handle of his walking cane: rat-tat-tat! A faint crash and tinkling of breaking glass, followed by a pronounced sigh, was the only reply.  If Doctor Pfeffel were encapsulated in a glass case, he would remind one of the grossest inadequacies of cheap museum taxidermy: an uncanny simulacrum of a human, whose seams appeared about to burst.

Doctor Pfeffel bellowed impatiently at the door, “Come along, Hancock! Tempus fugit! My appointment with Lady Cummings beckons.  We are due to attend at her Barnard Circus residence within the hour!”

“Yes, Doctor,” came the strained reply, “The final plate will be fixed in just a few moments.”

“Get on with it man! Sunak will require assistance loading the equipment onto the coach.”

“Of course, Doctor.  I will attend forthwith.”

Doctor Pfeffel spun around and ascended the creaking wooden stairs from the cellar to the vestibule.  As he emerged onto the opulent carpet, he saw that the large double front doors were open and he heard huffing and puffing coming from outside.  He strode purposefully out onto the front steps of the portico to see Sunak struggling with a large trunk.  

Sunak was a diminutive, neat and tidy Hindu, who held the position of chief finance wallah in Doctor Pfeffel’s household.  Nonetheless, like all of Doctor Pfeffel’s servants, he was treated as a general dogsbody whenever it suited the doctor.

“Belay that!” shouted Doctor Pfeffel, “Hancock will be up here to help, pronto!”

Sunak gently lowered the end of the trunk onto the stone step and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.  Then he turned to Doctor Pfeffel and spoke clearly, “Doctor, I would like to take this opportunity to discuss the economic impacts of the current pandemic.”

“Come now, Sunak, business is booming!” exclaimed the doctor with a grin.

“I'm afraid many lines of business are not,” said Sunak.

“Surely, the ones that matter to us, or that we have been able to muscle in on, are doing better than ever!” responded the doctor.

“It is true that our personal fortunes have benefited greatly.  But, some of our backers are getting very concerned that they are unable to collect the rents at a level to which they have become accustomed.”

“I see.  Then what are you doing about it?”

“I am working on a scheme to encourage the commoners to return to normal daily activities sooner than they might otherwise be inclined.  It would help if you could also encourage this.”

“By Jove, Sunak, I think you have just written my next party speech for me,” said the doctor, grinning.

Sunak bowed in supplication, “Always glad to be of service.”

Doctor Pfeffel swelled with patriotism and looked out from atop the stone steps, as if to address a large gathering on the empty lawn.  Doctor Pfeffel began his grand oratory, “England expects every plebeian to do their duty.  We are a nation of shopkeepers and the tills of the Empire must be kept rattling.  Not only for Queen and Empire must we do this; we must do this to save Christmas!”

“Bravo!” said Sunak with fulsome applause.

There was another audience that did not applaud: a murder of crows watched in patient silence from the trees that lined the drive.

***

Within the hour, Doctor Pfeffel and Hancock were sipping tea in the candlelit parlour of Lady Cummings.  Were Hancock to be encapsulated in a glass case, he would conjure an image of an antediluvian common ancestor of the ferret and the toad.

Doctor Pfeffel sighed impatiently, “You made us late, Hancock!  And now look, here we are, kept waiting like a couple of lackeys.”

The parlour door swung suddenly open and the butler strode into the room, “Gentlemen, her ladyship will see you now.”

Doctor Pfeffel and Hancock sprang quickly to attention as the butler stepped smartly aside from the doorway and Lady Cummings swept into the room.  She was a tall, elegant lady of middle years, dressed head to toe in the black garb of the recently widowed.  Doctor Pfeffel and Hancock bowed deeply and her ladyship bobbed her head slightly in return.

Doctor Pfeffel cleared his throat, “Lady Cummings, please accept our earnest apologies for our tardiness and our deepest sympathy for the loss of your husband.  His lordship was, by all accounts, an honourable and distinguished gentleman.

A dark shadow flit across the features of her ladyship, before she thrust her chin upwards and spoke firmly, “Poppycock!  My late husband was an unprincipled rogue who thrived by exploiting the weak and powerless.  I am somewhat surprised, Doctor Pfeffel, that a man of your repute is not better acquainted with that of his lordship.”

Doctor Pfeffel bristled with indignation, “I beg your pardon, My Lady, his lordship and I perchance have partnered for sundry business opportunities from time to time, but I can assure you that, certainly for my part, those dealings were as scrupulous and sincere as one would expect from any Englishman of good standing.”

Her ladyship stared down her nose at Doctor Pfeffel, clearly unmoved.

Doctor Pfeffel joined his hands in supplication and filled his voice with pathos,  “Please forgive me, My Lady.  The pandemic is a terrible tragedy that has touched so many of us of late.  It is an absolutely stupendous honour to have been called upon to offer my services, to enshrine forever the dearly departed.”

Lady Cummings rolled her eyes, but spoke in measured tones, “My Dear Doctor, I did not summon you to provide a keepsake of that ghastly man.  It is common knowledge that he ploughed every strumpet this side of the Thames, whereupon his comeuppance arose. His coffin shall remain on show only so long as good etiquette requires and not a moment longer.”

Doctor Pfeffel was stunned into silence.  Lady Cummings continued calmly  “I wish for you to make a likeness of our young daughter, Britannia.  Your letter spoke of examples of your work?”

“Indeed, My Lady, I have brought some samples that I can display at your convenience.  With Your Ladyship’s permission I shall exhibit them here.” said Doctor Pfeffel, indicating the lacquered oak table that currently held the porcelain tea service, from which Hancock and the doctor had been quaffing earlier.

“Very well,” said Lady Cummings, with a nod to the butler.

Within a few minutes the tea service was being removed by the maid and Hancock was unbuckling the lesser of the two substantial trunks he and the doctor had brought with them on the coach and had placed in the parlour earlier.

Doctor Pfeffel cleared his throat nervously, “M’Lady, please forgive me if this seems an insensitive question to ask at this difficult time, but, Mistress Britannia, is she …?”

The demeanour of Lady Cummings lightened considerably and she smiled faintly as she interrupted the doctor, “She is, most definitely, alive and well.  Thanks be to God.”

“Wonderful!” beamed the doctor as he turned to Hancock and nodded.

Hancock nodded back and left the unfastened straps of the lesser trunk and instead began to unfasten the straps of the much larger trunk.  Within a few moments Hancock had the trunk open. He removed three red velvet boxes, very carefully, one at a time and placed them in a row upon the oak table.

Doctor Pfeffel gestured towards the red velvet boxes, “If Your Ladyship pleases, I will exhibit some fine examples of my work.”

“Very well, Doctor, please do.”

The doctor then stood over the first red velvet box and busied himself with arranging the exhibits.  After a few moments he stepped back two paces and exclaimed, “Voila!,” smiling broadly as he raised his arms.

Lady Cummings approached the table and stooped to examine the first exhibit, a framed glass plate displaying a photographic head and shoulders portrait of a gentleman.

“My Lady, please allow me to elucidate.” said Doctor Pfeffel as he stooped beside her ladyship.

“Please do,” replied Lady Cummings.

Doctor Pfeffel continued, “My Lady, this is a Pfeffelotype of a former acquaintance of mine, Mister Jacob Mogg.  Perhaps you have heard of Mister Mogg?  He made his vast fortune by bringing gas lighting to the nation on an industrial scale.”

Lady Cummings shook her head.

The doctor continued, “No matter.  Just look at the exquisite detail in this image.  A Pfeffelotype is the finest portrayal of corporeality that is known to science.  A Pfeffelotype captures the very essence of the sitter.”

Lady Cummings was fascinated by the image shimmering before her, it seemed ghostly and ethereal to her unaccustomed eyes,  “I see, I see,” she whispered, “The portrait is incredibly lifelike.”

Doctor Pfeffel continued, “Lifelike indeed, that is why one should hold no truck with the cheap imitations: ambrotype, tintype and the rest; they are crass forgeries that are designed to make charlatans rich, rather than provide the solace that only a true essence of the loved one can impart.”

“Solace?”

“Well, yes. Mister Mogg passed on shortly after his likeness was captured.  Speaking candidly, My Lady, Mister Mogg looks more alive in this Pfeffelotype than he ever looked in life. The effigy of Mister Mogg has been captured and preserved within an incorruptible layer of silver; this metal is shunned by unclean spirits, for they cannot abide its purity and fear its righteous judgement.  Then, in a post process unique to the Pfeffelotype, provided under exclusive licence by Messrs Astra and Seneca, judicious colour is added to complete the illusion of reality.    Mister Mogg has finally become immaculate.”

“He seems somewhat concerned.”

“Perhaps, My Lady.  Methinks he sought to leave this likeness of himself when he realised his end was nigh.  Mayhaps he had last minute doubts about his reception at the pearly gates.  But forgive me Your Ladyship, I am certain such melancholy shall not disturb the likeness of Mistress Britannia; beauty, sweetness and purity shall be the only muses that attend her portrait.”

“Of course,” said Lady Cummings.

Lady Cummings then examined each of the other two portraits in silence.  Then she stood up straight, “Doctor Pfeffel, I am reassured that your process will capture the spirit of our precious daughter.  When will you be available to take the portrait?”

“One moment, Your Ladyship, I shall instruct my assistant to check whether the present conditions are auspicious.”

“Please go on.”

“Thank you, Your Ladyship.  Hancock, please check the current meteors.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Hancock turned and walked over to the window, which was veiled in black lace.  Hancock drew aside the lace slightly and peered out.  “I am afraid we are losing the light already, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Hancock.  My Lady, it would appear that we have insufficient time to prepare before the sun will dim.  If it pleases Your Ladyship, my assistant and I shall return tomorrow at nine o’clock, with the aim of taking the portrait during the mid-morning, when the light will be providential, weather permitting.  We shall need a bright room or seating outside.” 

“Very well, I shall have the terrace prepared in the morning, weather permitting,” replied her ladyship.

“Gratis, My Lady.  I shall send a messenger boy first thing to inform you of our assessment of the meteors.  Rest assured that, in my hands, the beauty and virtue of Mistress Britannia shall be preserved for all eternity.”

“Thank you, Doctor.  My butler and footmen will assist with your equipment in the morning.”

“Most gracious, Your Ladyship.  Would it be convenient to leave our trunks here overnight?”

“Certainly.  Until the morrow then,” said Lady Cummings, holding out her hand.

Doctor Pfeffel took her ladyship’s hand and bowed over it, placing a wet kiss onto her wrist.  Her ladyship shuddered and took a sharp intake of breath, before snatching her hand away, rapidly turning on her heels and leaving the room.

Doctor Pfeffel stood up to look straight into the beady eyes of the butler.  Doctor Pfeffel held his stare for a few moments while smirking, before asking, “My good man, would you be so kind as to show us the door?”

The butler answered, unblinking, “My pleasure, Doctor.”

The butler escorted Doctor Pfeffel and Hancock to their coach.

Inside the coach, Doctor Pfeffel whispered to Hancock, “Are both trunks unfastened?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Hancock whispered back.

Doctor Pfeffel struck the coach roof loudly with the knob handle of his walking cane: rat-tat-tat! “Homewards with all haste!” he shouted.

The coach and horses lurched forward and sped into the gathering gloom, as a murder of crows settled ominously onto the iron railings that fronted her ladyship’s property.

***

The next morning, Doctor Pfeffel was just about to dip his bread into his soft-boiled egg, when Hancock burst into the breakfast room.

Doctor Pfeffel jumped to his feet and knocked his chair over behind him, “Good grief, Hancock! How many times have I told you not to burst in like that when I am dipping my soldier!?

“I beg your pardon, Doctor, but an urgent message has just been delivered.”

“The messenger has returned from Lady Cummings already?”

“No, Doctor, it’s a messenger from the sanatorium.”

“Oh. Well, spit it out man! What is it?”

“It reads as follows: ‘The new intake has been fully accommodated.  However, many are infectious.  The pandemic is spreading rapidly.  We are already losing patients. Please send more of the remedy, much more, as soon as possible.’  That’s the end of the message, Doctor.”

“Good God, Hancock, delete that message immediately!”

“Delete it?”

“Mangle it, burn it, eat it!  Come here, wrap this bacon around it; Cameron always said everything was better with bacon.”

“Eh, thank you, Doctor.”

“Eat it man!  Go on.”

Hancock put the bacon wrapped note into his mouth.

“Now, chew.  Come on Hancock, everyone says you are an expert masticator, chew, chew, chew!  Now, swallow.  There you go.  If you want to hang on to my coat-tails, Hancock, you must learn to swallow when I expect it.”

“What about the request for the remedy?” gagged Hancock.

“Ah, Carpe Diem, Hancock, Carpe Diem!  Deliver a message to the Venerable Olde Company of Malfeasance; instruct them to increase production of the placebo to maximum and deliver it to the sanatorium immediately.  Tell Sunak to make certain the sanatorium foots the bill!”

“As you wish, Doctor,” said Hancock as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Doctor Pfeffel picked up his fallen chair, sat down and returned to his boiled egg.  He was just about to dip his bread when he was interrupted a second time by a timid knock on the door.

“Deodamnatus!” shouted Doctor Pfeffel as he rammed his bread into the egg yolk and left it there, “Enter!”

The door opened slowly and Hancock peered around it, “So sorry to disturb you again Doctor, the messenger has now returned from Lady Cummings.”

“And?!”

“Lady Cummings has fallen ill, and though it is perhaps no more than a  slight chill, she has taken to her bed.  Her ladyship has sent for her usual physician, Doctor Whitty, but he is extremely busy with serious cases at the sanatorium so is not expected to make a house call until this afternoon.  Nevertheless, Lady Cummings has suggested that, since the meteors are propitious, you could continue with the portrait of Mistress Britannia this morning.”

“Tremendous!” grinned the Doctor, “Have the coach brought around front, immediately .”

“Right away, Doctor,” replied Hancock.

***

Within the hour, Doctor Pfeffel and Hancock were sipping tea in the parlour of Lady Cummings.  The door swung suddenly open and the butler strode smartly in, causing Hancock to choke on his tea.  The butler gave Hancock a withering look and without waiting for his coughing to cease, turned to address Doctor Pfeffel loudly, “Doctor, I am afraid that her ladyship is still indisposed.  However, her ladyship has directed me to assist you in any way possible to continue with the making of the portrait of the young Mistress.  Your equipment has been situated as you advised in the terrace garden, where Mistress Britannia and chaperone await you now.  I will guide you there at your earliest convenience.”

“Excellent,” said Doctor Pfeffel, “Come, come Hancock, get it up and let’s be about our business.”

Hancock coughed even louder, tears welling up in his bulging eyes.

After a few more coughs, Hancock and the doctor followed the butler through to the rear of the house and outside onto the stone terrace.  As they looked over the balustrade, they saw Mistress Britannia in the garden just below.  She was a tiny porcelain cherub, dressed in delicate white lace.  She knelt, unaware of their presence, in a bed of daisies, lazily picking the petals from a flower.

“Shush,” whispered Doctor Pfeffel, “that pose is idyllic.  Quickly and quietly Hancock.”

Hancock nodded and the two men worked in silent harmony to prepare the photographic apparatus standing on the terrace, mostly hidden beneath a thick black drape that was decorated with strange runes.  Then Hancock stood like a statue as he kept time on his pocket watch, whilst Doctor Pfeffel operated brass buttons and levers on the box of heavy mahogany and silver filigree.  The two men communicated with nods and gestures, in a seasoned routine.  Hancock then raised his arm and the doctor removed the lens cap.  After several minutes, Hancock lowered his arm and the doctor pushed the lens cap back into place.

“I think our work is done,” said the doctor as he grinned childishly at the butler.

Mistress Britannia continued to play in the flowers, blissfully ignorant that anything had been taken.

Doctor Pfeffel glanced at Hancock’s pocket watch, “My goodness, is that the time?  I have an assignation I must keep.  Hancock, please pack away the equipment.  I shall send the coach back for you later.  Get on and process the plate as soon as you return to the laboratory.”

“Of course, Doctor,” said Hancock.

“Allow me to show you out,” said the butler.

“Wonderful.  Please lead on,” replied the doctor.

Within minutes, Doctor Pfeffel was seated in his coach as it sped away from the residence of Lady Cummings.  He chuckled smugly to himself as the murder of crows scattered before the thundering hooves of the horses, their raucous augury unheeded.

***

Early the next morning, Doctor Pfeffel struck the laboratory door loudly with the knob handle of his walking cane: rat-tat-tat! Almost immediately, the heavy bolts on the inside of the laboratory door were drawn with a loud clunking.

The door opened and the obsequious smile of Hancock beamed out, as he held up a red velvet box of the kind in which the photographic exhibits were housed, “The plate is ready, Doctor.”

“Very well,” said Doctor Pfeffel, “bring it along to the gallery.”

Hancock followed Doctor Pfeffel through the house until they stopped at a large double door.  The doctor took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.  Both men strode in and Hancock put the red velvet box down on a small table just within.  The gallery was a long room, well lit from a skylight above.  The walls were lined with row upon row of Pfeffelotypes, each on its own small shelf.  Every single one was a portrait.  Doctor Pfeffel strolled down the gallery admiring each one in turn.  Every single one of them stared back, some with pleading eyes, some with a hollow vacant stare, some dripping with hate and vitriol.  Then both Hancock and the doctor were alerted by the faint ringing of the front doorbell.

Doctor Pfeffel rubbed his hands together, “Quickly, Hancock!”

“Right away, Doctor,” said Hancock as he turned and ran out of the gallery.

Within a few moments, Hancock returned with an envelope.  Doctor Pfeffel took it and pulled out a slip of paper.  He carefully unfolded the note and a smile spread across his face as he read it.

“Hancock, you may open the box; Doctor Whitty reports that Mistress Britannia has been taken overnight by the pandemic.”

Hancock opened the red velvet box and removed a heavy glass plate wrapped in a black silk cloth.  He passed it to Doctor Pfeffel, who walked further down the gallery to stand before a small empty shelf on the wall.  He removed the black silk wrapping and let it fall to the floor.  He raised the glass plate up to the light.

“Magnificent!” he exclaimed.  He placed the glass plate in its place on the small shelf.  Within the glass an image of Mistress Britannia shimmered.  She looked concerned and confused.

Doctor Pfeffel looked pleased with his new Pfeffelotype, “Ah, the innocent. My favourite subjects. It takes them a long time to realise; most of them never ever do.”

FINIS