Barnaby and the Bone China

Barnaby wasn't your typical gravedigger. While others pondered the transient nature of life or the solemnity of eternal rest, Barnaby pondered the excellent condition of Mrs. Henderson's dentures. He'd never meant to start collecting, of course. It began innocently enough, with a particularly shiny set of cufflinks belonging to old Colonel Piffle. Waste not, want not, his mother used to say, and Barnaby took that adage to heart, even if 'waste' now referred to perfectly good accessories six feet under.

His collection grew. A surprisingly sturdy walking stick from a notoriously clumsy banker. A pair of impeccably polished spectacles (prescription unneeded, naturally) from a librarian who’d finally closed her last chapter. Then came the teeth. Oh, the teeth! So many perfectly good sets, just lying there, going to waste. He'd sterilise them, of course. A meticulous man, Barnaby. He even had a dedicated drawer in his shed, sorted by size and gnash-factor.

One crisp autumn evening, as he prepared a plot for a particularly frugal tailor, Barnaby unearthed a small, exquisite porcelain doll. It was intact, save for a minor chip on its left cheek. "Well now," he muttered, brushing off the dirt. "This just won't do." He hurried home, selected the most radiant set of pearly whites from his collection – Mrs. Henderson's, no less – and carefully fitted them into the doll’s mouth. The effect was... striking. A tiny, porcelain grin, radiating a horrifying, toothy cheer.

Barnaby stepped back, admiring his handiwork. "Perfect," he declared, a rare smile gracing his own lips. "Absolutely perfect. Now, what to do about her eyes..." He glanced at a jar labeled "Buttons (various sizes, all shiny)." A truly discerning gravedigger always kept options.