It weren't as though I ever had any complaints. They said it were as good as anything they'd ever bought in London or Paris, that was the last I heard said of it. Just like the real thing, I reckon. Ungrateful, that's what I'd call it.

They want it authentic like, but not the hoity-toity price tag. An' it's not so easy to come by, is it? Sadler - he's a portrait painter, lives in Vauxhall way down yonder - thought it was the finest bit of colour he'd ever seen. None the wiser.

There's bits of my paint hanging on walls from Blenheim to the academy salons.

A colourman, that's me. I get it for 'em, don't I. Burnt Sienna, Umber, bone black... now that one's nasty. Made by burning animal bones. Cheap, though, I gets 'em from the knacker's yard, and it's not like they can do much else wi' 'em.

And mommia. That's the newest one, the latest craze. So I get it for 'em. Or so they reckon, anyway.

Course, it's expensive, but it's supposed to be the best brown pigment in the world, so they say. Graverobbers, that's what I say. No right, see. No more 'n I have. Should be them sitting here in the clink, as much as me. Who the hell ever thought of making paint out of mummies, though, that's what I wonder? Disgusting, really. Still, they're using 'em for enough other things just now. All kinds of 'speriments, like. And they stick 'em in museums for all and sundry to gawp at. Now how would you like them to do that with your Auntie Maud? No. Thought not. And they call me a criminal.

Sadler, he always said it's all the bitumen that does it. Used in preservin' the bodies, like. Makes it nice and pasty. Easy to mix, and doesn't run all over the place like some other colours I could mention. And a good deep shade. Lasts, too. Like I said; it's the best.

Bitumen. It were that that gave me the idea. Not exactly hard to get hold of, is it? Or my other ingredients, come to that. A bit of myrrh. Not cheap. But cheaper than digging mummies out of tombs. A lot less trouble, too.

Add a bit of aloes. Turpentine. A few other things.

A couple of touches of my own.

It's got to have that smell, see. If it didn't -- well, they'd be suspicious. It's got to stink a bit. It's ammonia what does it. But 'ere's the clever bit. Touch of genius, if I may say so. Garlic. Just a touch. Just enough to give it an edge.

Then, throw in a few scraps of linen. That has 'em fooled, right enough. Some old sheets from the back of the cupboard -- my Maisie'll not notice - ripped into strips and rolled about in the back yard.

Course, it's getting hold of the actual bodies that's the tricky bit. 

Don't exactly hand 'em out at the hospital gates, do they? Besides. You only want them as died healthy, so to speak. Not that easy to come by. Don't want to catch nothin', do I?

Stabbed, the first one was, in a brawl down by the quay. Dangerous place, the quay. Some strange folks about. 'E were drunk, probably. Didn't make no difference to the paint, though.

Buried in a quiet little graveyard, he was, and that was a blessing, at least. Not easy work, digging him up, but it was quiet. Dark. Dark deeds need a dark night, see. And no-one missed him. What's worse, eh? I ask you. Those Egyptians was kings and that, weren't they? Or why would they bother preservin' 'em? 'Cos they wanted them bodies just where they was, that's why. No one seemed to want this chap. Pauper's burial, he had, that's all.

There was only me at the funeral. Well, I owed 'im that much, didn't I?

Anyway, 'e were soon all gone.

I wonder if he knows. People lookin' an' gawpin' an' admirin' bits of him, hanging on walls like that and them none the wiser. Better place for 'im than where 'e was goin', I reckon.

The next one, though. That weren't so easy.

I had to do it though. My Maisie being sick an' all. Had to pay the doctor somehow. And it didn't seem like anyone wanted him, either. Not that I could see. Not that the poor beggar had a funeral. Now, p'raps that weren't right.

But I had no choice. No choice at all. It were him or my little Maisie.

Had to be healthy, see. What with the cholera about, an' Lord knows what. Well, this chap looked healthy enough. I followed him, see.

Well, he were nothin' but a tramp. No good to anybody. And my little -- well, I didn't have no time to wait for a dead one, did I?

Did it quick. Quick knock on the head. It didn't take much. Now, if he were supposed to live, it would have taken more 'n a quick knock on the head, wouldn't it?

It weren't so easy gettin' 'im home, though. I were ready with the first one, I'd gone all prepared like. Had a handcart stood by, wi' a pickaxe, an' a shovel -- an' then 'im, an' a blanket over the lot. Easy as you like. I hadn't thought about it with this one. Don't know much of what I was thinkin' of, to be honest. My Maisie, prob'ly.

Anyways, I tried to make out like he were passed out wi' the drink. I pulled 'im all the way into a cab, an' then just pulled him out again the other end. Cabbie just stood by an' watched, all sneerin' an' snooty like.

Worked like a charm, it did.

It were the tooth that were the problem.

Oh, I know, I could've taken all the hard stuff out when I mixed it all up. But they likes to see it, don't they. Bit of a rib here, a finger there. That's how they knows it's authentic, like. Gives 'em a bit of a thrill too, I reckon. Strange folk, painters.

Well, next thing I know is, the Bill's round. Takin' what's left of 'im. And my other ingredients. That's 'ow I wound up in 'ere.

Who'd ha' thought it, eh? A tramp wi' a gold tooth. Who'd ha' thought it.