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This chapter is in third person (switching from first person)
The Undertaker thinks quietly to himself about what can be done. The cuts can be sewn closed and neatly erased, but what fun would that be? No, perhaps it will be nicer to extenuate the beauty of it, leave the lacerations open and oozing. Ah, but the family might complain about that. In any case, there isn't much he can do about the face. That is a lost cause.
"You're not my first quest to have such wounds as of late," the Undertaker says to the man in the coffin. "Quite curious, really… yes, very curious."
As fond as the Undertaker is of such glorious wounds, he can sense the danger that was delivered with them. These are not the marks of a mere animal, or even a man. This is something darker… something that hungers in the night, seeking some kind of vengeance. It is growing in power, and soon these simple victims will not satiate its longing.
The Undertaker retrieves his needle and threads and goes to work, closing the wounds, inch by inch. It is disappointing work, but necessary. He gazes down on the face of the man, and thinks he can tell where the lips have once been, but are now nothing but pulpy strips of flesh.
"Smile, lad," says the Undertaker, chuckling. "It's an honor to sleep in one of me coffins."
It will be best if he does his work and remains quiet about his suspicions he decides. If the Earl comes to him for information, well then he will give it, for his usual price, of course. But until then, it is no use dwelling on it. Even so…
The Undertaker pauses in his work, squinting down at the corpse. There is that old story they tell at the academy… But, no. It can't have anything to do with that.
And what if it does? Well, then more than just a few humans will be in trouble.
He really ought to mention it to someone. Not the Earl… but someone who might have a bit more knowledge on the subject. He knows who he should go to, and where he is likely to be found.
The Undertaker slides the coffin's lid back on and leaves it on his workbench. He adjusts the brim of his top hat and assures that his death scythe is safely sheathed within the folds of his long black coat. He gives a departing nod to his guests, sleeping in various places about the shop, and then leaves his macabre place of business.
It is dark out, a good time to be prowling the streets. He keeps a wary eye out, bit his thoughts keep straying back to those claw marks. So much rage, there. It is certainly dangerous for all of London's underworld. But what does it mean, exactly? If it is what he suspects, the worst possible truth… well, then they are all in trouble.
Up ahead the full moon shines brightly and ominously. All those old superstitions about a full moon, when men turn to beasts… It is the nonsense of humans, and yet, there may be some subtle truth in it.
In the distance, the Undertaker hears a shrill cry. And then silence. The screams of the dying are always so clear. He glances up, and sees a flash of red dart between the building. Here already, are you? But we are both too late.
The Undertaker hurries along by the light of the moon. Madness, all of it, he thinks with a think smile. It's quite exciting, isn't it?