Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
A Pear-Shaped Funeral
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright 2015, Fearful Symmetry, LLC
Cover design copyright 2015, Chersti Nieveen
Cover art by Sarah Stapley
eBook ISBN 978-1-944150-00-6
www.thedanwells.com
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Dan Wells. A Pear-Shaped Funeral.
A Pear-Shaped Funeral
by Frederick Whithers,
as edited by Cecil G. Bagsworth III
Restored and published by Dan Wells
Foreword
After discovering the historical documents heretofore published under the title “A Night of Blacker Darkness,” I did not expect to find any more of the writings of Frederick Whithers. Imagine my surprise when, while researching the pathfinding practices of a Cro-Magnon civilization, I found pressed between the pages of a book by Daniel Marlett the following account. The title is my own, but the handwriting and stylistic flourishes do indeed seem to be a match to Frederick Whithers. I have tested the ink and paper thoroughly, and confirmed that they are authentically dated to the Regency era, though I strongly suspect that their presence in the Marlett book is a much more recent development. I can only assume that someone is, at this point, actively seeding these documents for me to find, though who or for what purpose I cannot say.
—Cecil G. Bagsworth III
Postscript: At the risk of endangering their safety, I must thank the following people for their help in publishing this volume: Andrew H., James A., Tom P., Ben S., Shel & Jen D., Jole L., Dave T., Ed G., Jake C., Adam N., Ernest B., Jordan L., Alex T., Amanda P., Jason & Mike M., Wil R., and Eliza & Doug S. Their names have been shortened to protect, if not their innocence, at least their naivete.
A Pear-Shaped Funeral
being the 2nd memoir of
Frederick Whithers
as edited by
Cecil G. Bagsworth III
Chapter One
"I'd like to arrange a funeral."
The gentleman in my office was tall and thin, his sparse hair long ago gray, with a well-tailored suit I could only assume connected him to a significant bank account. I longed for a significant bank account. I'd been very close to one once—not my own, of course, for fate had seen fit to curse me with a shocking lack of wealthy relatives, and an overabundance of expensive friends—but I had lost the account at the last minute, thanks in part to a vampire, a poet, and a number of lady authors. It's a long story, and it doesn't really make any more sense if I tell it to you, so suffice it to say that instead of money I have a deeply indebted mortuary, which is really kind of the opposite. Fate, as they say, can go and boil its head.
Wealthy gentlemen in well-tailored suits, on the other hand, can have as much of my time as they like, and so I cheerfully—yet solemnly, as mortuary appearances must be maintained—asked him what I assumed was a simple question.
"Who," the simple question began, "is this funeral for?"
"Myself," the gentleman replied.
Perhaps not as simple as I had hoped.
"We understand that you wish to arrange it," said John, my business partner, "but for whom is it to be arranged?"
"For me," said the man.
"It's possible we are not explaining ourselves clearly," I said. "Whose death is this funeral intended to honor? Who has passed away?"
"I have," said the man. His voice, it should be noted, while not particularly strong, was also decidedly not dead. The same could be said of his body, given its insistence on sitting peacefully in my office instead of toppling to the floor in a heap.
"This is so much more interesting than our normal funerals," said John cheerily.
I frowned, studying the gentleman carefully. "You do realize that 'passed away' means 'died,' correct?"
"Correct," he replied.
"Am I to understand, then," I said, "that you wish to arrange today a funeral that will take place in the future, at some unforeseen and, if God is merciful, very distant occasion?"
"I didn't say that I intend to die," said the gentleman. "I said that I have died, and I meant it. I am not one to misspeak."
"It seems you're not one for a lot of things," I said, noting again the gentleman's distinct not-dead-ness. I paused, then, considering my next words carefully. On one hand, I did not wish to spend my precious remaining sanity, mingled, as it was, with a precariously small amount of patience, on a madman. On the other hand, the gentleman's rings and pocket watch were as expensive as his suit, and I hated poverty even more than I hated madmen. I adopted a suitably serious face, steepling my fingers in what I hoped was a gesturing bespeaking great wisdom and trustworthiness, and then proceeded to not having anything wise or trustworthy to say. I chose, in my discomfort, to say nothing.
John leaned forward. "Mr. Crow, was it?"
"Daniel Crow," said the gentleman with a nod.
"I'm John Keats," said John, shaking Mr. Crow's hand. "A part-time funeral director, and full-time worshipper at the altar of love and beauty."
"Excuse me?" said Mr. Crow.
"It means he's a poet," I said. "Which is not to say that I speak poet fluently, but I can understand some of what he says when he talks slowly and points at the menu." I extended my own hand. "My name is Oliver Beard." My real name was Frederick Whithers, but seeing as that name was wanted by the police, I didn't use it often.
"I believe we might be able to help you, Mr. Crow," said John, "but first might I be so bold as to enquire about the nature of your death?"
"The typical
