From the moment that Jesperson reported everyone in the house was dead, I felt relief that we had managed to rescue Alcinda, and sorrow for the other five women. I felt certain that Mr. Smurl was their murderer. It is, sadly, not unknown for men today to behave like savage kings of the past who insisted on taking their wives, concubines, and servants with them on departing this life. It struck me as just the sort of thing a horrible man like Smurl would do, to take his victims with him, when he killed himself to avoid having to face justice for his crimes.
I was forced to change my mind upon learning that the Christian name of Mrs. Albert Smurl was Violet.
Who was Martha?
After a search, I believe we found her false grave in Park Grove Cemetery. Her name, two years ago, at the time of her supposed death, was Martha Boyd Elliott, and she was married to Channing Elliott, a man who described her as his “dearly beloved wife, taken too soon” and had the words FOREVER IN MY HEART carved below her name and dates. This should not make any difference. The same horrible crimes were committed against the same people. Nothing has changed, but after this knowledge, I have to consider if someone can be a victim and a villain at the same time.
Although I am not certain if I ask myself that question in regard to Martha Boyd Elliott or Albert E. Smurl.
Certain phrases haunt me. I keep hearing Alcinda’s soft, sweet voice saying “I can’t blame him” and “He couldn’t help himself,” but also I remember a policeman who muttered, “Poison is a woman’s weapon.”
Neil Gaiman
One of the hottest stars in science fiction, fantasy, and horror today, Neil Gaiman has won four Hugo Awards, two Nebula Awards, one World Fantasy Award, six Locus Awards, four Stoker Awards, three Geffens, two Mythopoeic Fantasy Awards, and a Newbery Medal. Gaiman first came to wide public attention as the creator of the graphic-novel series The Sandman, still one of the most acclaimed graphic-novel series of all time. Gaiman remains a superstar in the graphic-novel field; his graphic novels include Breakthrough, Death Talks About Life, Legend of the Green Flame, The Last Temptation, Only the End of the World Again, Mirrormask, and a slew of books in collaboration with Dave McKean, including Black Orchid, Violent Cases, Signal to Noise, The Tragical Comedy or Comical Tragedy of Mr. Punch, The Wolves in the Walls, and The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish.
In recent years he’s enjoyed equal success in the science-fiction and fantasy fields as well, with his bestselling novel American Gods winning the 2002 Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker Awards, Coraline winning both Hugo and Nebula in 2003, and his story “A Study in Emerald” winning the Hugo in 2004. His novel The Graveyard Book won the Hugo, the Newbery Medal, and the Carnegie Medal in 2009. He also won the World Fantasy Award for his story with Charles Vess, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and won the International Horror Critics Guild Award for his collection Angels & Visitations: A Miscellany. Gaiman’s other novels include Good Omens (written with Terry Pratchett), Neverwhere, Stardust, and Anansi Boys. In addition to Angels & Visitations, his short fiction has been collected in Smoke & Mirrors: Short Fictions & Illusions, Adventures in the Dream Trade, and Fragile Things. A movie based on his novel Stardust was in theaters worldwide in 2007, and an animated movie based on Coraline was in theaters in 2009. His most recent books include a picture book with Adam Rex, Chu’s Day, his first new novel for adults in many years, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, a time-traveling romp for all ages, Fortunately, the Milk, and, as editor, the anthology Unnatural Creatures.
Here he takes us deep into the surreal world of London Below, the setting for his famous novel Neverwhere, for an adventure that demonstrates that sometimes the clothes make the man—quite literally.
HOW THE MARQUIS GOT HIS COAT BACK
Neil Gaiman
It was beautiful. It was remarkable. It was unique. It was the reason that the Marquis de Carabas was chained to a pole in the middle of a circular room, far, far underground, while the water level rose slowly higher and higher. It had thirty pockets, seven of which were obvious, nineteen of which were hidden, and four of which were more or less impossible to find—even, on occasion, for the Marquis himself.
He had (we shall return to the pole, and the room, and the rising water, in due course) once been given—although “given” might be considered an unfortunate, if justified, exaggeration—a magnifying glass by Victoria herself. It was a marvelous piece of work: ornate, gilt, with a chain and tiny cherubs and gargoyles, and the lens had the unusual property of rendering transparent anything you looked at through it. The Marquis did not know where Victoria had originally obtained the magnifying glass, before he pilfered it from her, to make up for a payment he felt was not entirely what had been agreed—after all, there was only one Elephant, and obtaining the Elephant’s diary had not been easy, nor had escaping the Elephant and Castle once it had been obtained. The Marquis had slipped Victoria’s magnifying glass into one of the four pockets that practically weren’t there at all and had never been able to find it again.
In addition to its unusual pockets, it had magnificent sleeves, an imposing collar, and a slit up the back. It was made of some kind of leather, it was the color of a wet street at midnight, and, more important than any of these things, it had style.
There are people who will tell you that clothes make the man, and mostly they are wrong. However, it would be true to say that when the boy who would become the Marquis put that coat on for the very first time, and stared at himself in the looking glass, he stood up straighter, and his posture changed, because he knew, seeing his reflection, that the sort of person who wore a coat like that was no mere youth, no simple sneak thief and favor-trader. The boy wearing the coat, which was, back then, too large for him, had smiled, looking at his reflection, and remembered an illustration from a book he had seen, of a miller’s cat standing on its two hind legs. A jaunty cat wearing a fine coat and big, proud boots. And he named himself.
A coat like that, he knew, was the kind of coat that could only be worn by the Marquis de Carabas. He was never sure, not then and not later, how you pronounced Marquis de Carabas. Some days he said it one way, some days the other.
The water level had reached his knees, and he thought, This would never have happened if I still had my coat.
It was the market day after the worst week of the Marquis de Carabas’s life and things did not seem to be getting any better. Still, he was no longer dead, and his cut throat was healing rapidly. There was even a rasp in his throat he found quite attractive. Those were definite upsides.
There were just as definite downsides to being dead, or at least, to having been recently dead, and missing his coat was the worst of them.
The sewer folk were not helpful.
“You sold my corpse,” said the Marquis. “These things happen. You also sold my possessions. I want them back. I’ll pay.”