The Attendant was small and crook-backed. His complexion and his breath spoke of an intimate association with cheap whisky. His name was Amos, and he stood poised over one of the cold stone slabs upon which lay a cadaver, covered in a rough, stained grey cloth.

‘Are you ready, flower?’

I stood close by, ’kerchief pressed to my mouth to mitigate against the dreadful stink of the charnel house.

‘“Mine eyes are glassy, cold and dim,”’ quoted Amos. ‘“Adieu, my dear, think no more of him.”’ Then, like some fearful conjuror, he drew back the cloth.

I almost fainted dead away. Alas, my poor dear brother!

Amos’s smile crumpled and he shook his head. ‘Hell fire!’ he breathed. ‘That’s put me right off me mash. Another one!’

I gazed upon the dreadful sight. Edmund’s face and hands were constricted in a rictus of terror, his waxen flesh giving off a weird, reddish glow. Like a bad lobster in a dark cellar.

‘Another?’

‘He’s not the first I’ve ’ad in ’ere looking like that,’ said Amos, rubbing his bristly chin. ‘The Crimson Horror! That’s what they’re calling it!’

I scowled and dabbed at my forehead where a cold sweat had appeared. ‘Please. I have no interest in the deplorable excesses of the penny-dreadfuls.’

‘Found ’im in’t canal, did they?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aye. Just like t’others. Bugger me. Not a lot left of him, is there? Scarcely worth scraping into a box. How long will you need?’

‘A few moments only.’

Amos seemed to recover quickly and sidled over to me, grinning once more. ‘Payment in advance, flower. Taking a big risk, you see, I am. They’d have my vitals for fiddle-strings if they knew I’d let you come to have a look at one of their precious stiffs.’

With trembling hand, I pressed a coin into his palm. ‘That “stiff” is my brother,’ I hissed. ‘I’ve come up from London to bring him home.’

‘Oh aye?’ Amos seemed already to have lost interest.

Hastily, I took the necessary items from my capacious bag and assembled the camera. If no one was able to tell me how Edmund had met his end, then I had a theory. It might have been scoffed at as mere gypsy superstition in some quarters but I was, in extremis, prepared to try anything. I arranged the cumbersome device so that the lens looked down balefully upon my brother’s agonised features. Huddled under the cloth, with the attendant looking on, I adjusted the lens, attempting, by degrees, to get closer and closer to Edmund’s dead, staring eyes.

Flash! The powder charge in my hand ignited, smoke drifted like gunpowder through the fetid air.

Flash! Closer still towards the still, sightless orb.

At length, I finished and began to pack away the camera.