Following our recent transatlantic travel, the Benthic Times are a little airship-lagged and so our regular Friday post is appearing on Saturday. The ink in our well is a little dry as well, so I’m afraid we merely have this picture of a staircase from our pleasant stay at Hôtel St Jacques, Paris. We can wholeheartedly recommend this hotel for its location, its staff, and for its collection of Victorian ephemera.
The room was dark with just a little evening sunshine in one corner. It was filled with boxes and mechanical objects of all sizes with a large table in the middle. A small, pale man walked into the room, yawning, and went to the table, carefully avoiding the light. He pressed a button and a clicking sound started from a far wall, followed shortly by a whistling sound. A small toy train emerged with a coffee pot on it. The train pulled up shortly in front of the man and the pot fell off, spilling its contents over the table.
“Hm,” said Phlebotomous Bosch. “Needs improvement.”
He pulled out a notebook and started writing when the door smashed open and five men burst in. Phlebotomous jumped up in horror.
“I can give you a refund!” he said.
“Quick, Symonds,” said Dawlish, “the crucifix!”
Symonds produced a crucifix as the men approached, and instantly a pair of dark glasses appeared out of Phlebotomous’ hat and landed on his eyes.
“Stake! Water!” barked Dawlish and the two men in uniform moved forward. One fired a small piece of wood from a crossbow at Phlebotomous, but a flat brass hand on a concertina extender popped out from his suit and deflected the wood. The other uniformed man squirted some water at Bosch, but an umbrella appeared from the small man’s coat and the water ran off. Dawlish ran forward and grabbed Phlebotomous and dragged him to where the sun came in. He flung open the curtains to expose Phlebotomous to the sunlight. From Phlebotomous’ hat a parasol emerged. Dawlish let go.
“So, gentlemen,” said Phlebotomous, “as you can see, I am invincible.”
He went to lean on a table that wasn’t there and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Sir John looked from behind the other four men who were peering down at the dishevelled heap of suit, umbrella, and parasol.
“Needs Improvement!”
“Do you need some assistance?” asked Sir John and the other four men stared at him.
“No, no need,” said a voice from the pile of clothes and artefacts. “I have just the thing.”
Suddenly there was a loud noise like a bedspring, and the pile of clothes shot up to the ceiling, hitting it with a loud thump before falling to the ground.
“Actually, I may need help,” said the voice again.
Dawlish nodded at the two constables and they lifted the small man to his feet.
“Mr Bosch,” said Dawlish, “Vampire! I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. Eight murders to be precise.“
“Murder?” said Phlebotomous, “I thought you were here about the folding machine. Hah! Well I can’t be a murderer, I’m a vegetarian.”
“You’re a vegetarian?” said Symonds.
“What, you’re not surprised I’m a vampire, but you’re amazed I’m a vegetarian?” said Phlebotomous.
“How do you, you know, eat,” said Sir John.
“I make a protein-based compound using mushrooms, soy, and plum tomatoes. It’s ethical, nutritious, and delicious, too!”
“Do you expect us to believe that?” said Dawlish.
“Of course not!” said Phlebotomous. “You can try it, I always keep some in stock. “
“No,” said Dawlish, “do you expect us to believe you’re not the killer?”
“Inspector Dawlish!” said a new voice from the door, “there’s been another one, a murder, within the hour.”
“But we’ve been watching this house for hours.” said Symonds.
“You see, I am proved innocent,” said Phlebotomous and went to lean on nothing again. Sir John caught his elbow before he fell down. Dawlish look furious.
“Alright, then,” he said, “so it seems. Constables, follow me. We shall investigate the murder. Sir John, take Symonds and this … creature with you. I want to know more about him.”
P Bosch, Esquire, Inventor Extraordinaire, presents for the general public a plethora of devices and machines to enrich and improve daily life.
Ladies in particular will rejoice at the sight of the Folding Machine, which is capable of folding divers articles of clothing (excepting cravats). The Brush Cleaning Device with Mop Squeezing Accessory will ensure that your maid’s cleaning materials are perfect for use every time. The Egg Agitator will ensure that perfect scrambled eggs are presented for breakfast whilst the Toast Warmer keeps toast at the perfect temperature for eating.
Gentleman will enjoy using the Shaving Soap Latherer, a marvellous invention which allows a truly smooth shaving experience. The portable Automatic Toothpick will also allow the modern gentleman the confidence to eat spinach in public. The Recliner Reader, artistically illustrated above, allows one to enjoy a contemporary novel whilst pleasantly supine. It will even turn the page, allowing one to rest completely.
Mr Bosch would be delighted to demonstrate any of these, and many more, devices at households within a five mile radius of Fulham. For personal reasons Mr Bosch can only make calls at night.
Sir John and Marie sat in the drawing room of their house. Sir John seemed quite animated and was glancing from time to time out of the front window whilst Marie was working on some crochet. Eventually he made a contented sound and sat back. A few moment later there was a knock at the drawing room door and it swung open. Sir John sprang up.
“Well, gentlemen, I have had some success,” he proclaimed as the maid came in, alone. She looked a little non-plussed at Sir John.
“Tea, Sir Jenkins?” she asked.
“Was there nobody at the door?” asked Sir John. There was a knocking sound just then from the external door. The maid headed to the sound and Sir John sat down again. As the drawing room door swung open, he jumped up again.
“Well, gentlemen, I have had … ” he started then saw the maid was alone.
“Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” she said. “Two gentlemen of the constabulary. Again. Should I let them in?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Sir John. He sat down again and fidgeted a bit. Marie patted him gently on the knee. The two detectives, Symonds and Dawlish, entered the room with the maid behind.
“I believe you have had some success?” said Dawlish, the older man, as he was entering the room. Sir John sprang up, opened his mouth and then shut it again.
“Well, yes,” Sir John said, looking crestfallen. “How do you know?”
“We are policemen,” said Symonds, “it is our job to know things.”
The maid made a squeaking sort of noise and then quickly left the room.
“How Marvellous!”
“Well,” said Sir John, “I believe I have located the fiend. We have, sirs, an address. I suggest we go straight there and apprehend the fellow.”
“May we sit?” asked Dawlish.
“There’s no time to lose!” said Sir John.
“It’s daylight Sir John,” said Symonds. “The swine isn’t going anywhere.”
Sir John sat down looking defeated, and the other two men took it as their cue to sit.
“They are right, mon cher,” said Marie. “From the research I did these creatures can’t move in daylight. It burns their skin. They are also vulnerable to holy water and crucifixes. And the only way to kill them is to drive a stake through their heart.”
Dawlish’s mustache wobbled in appreciation.
“Excellent work, Mrs Jennings,” he said. “Then we shall need those items. Symonds, can you get those?”
“Most certainly,” said Symonds.
“Sir John, if you can furnish me with the address, I can post a constable outside to make sure there is no movement in or out,” said Dawlish.
“What can I do?” asked Sir John, handing over the paper.
“Prepare yourself, sir. I believe we may need your special skills. You will accompany us when we apprehend the villain,” answered Dawlish.
“How marvellous!” said Sir John. He sat back in his chair.
“Detective Dawlish,” said Marie, “do you really believe it is necessary for my husband to be there?”
“Have no fear, madam,” said Dawlish. “We shall keep your husband out of harm’s way. Our men will go in first. I guarantee that Sir John will come to no harm.”
“See, Marie,” said Sir John, “it’s like I said to you, there’s nothing to be worried about.”
Marie saw his hand was shaking a little.
I have discovered this week that Oscar Wilde’s “Bunbury” was likely a portmanteau of Sunbury and Banbury, following a tryst Mr Wilde allegedly had in a location twixt those two towns.
That led me to muse on my own writing and the fact that, in a less dramatic way, I do something similar. For example, Pook and Clackprattle stay at luxury rooms in Manchester Britannia Hotel because I once spent a unpleasant week in a terrible room there.
I pursued the thought to its conclusion and wondered if writers always hide some aspects of their lives in plain view like this. How many secrets of an author’s life are wrapped up in the warp and weft of their narrative, visible only to themselves and blissfully overlooked by the reader.
—
On the topic of unsatisfactory hostelries, the Benthic Times recently found itself in a hotel that can best be described as “adequate”. In fact it was probably the epitome of adequate.
And although the general blankness of the place worked nicely as a canvas for the imagination, it wasn’t terribly aesthetically pleasing. We did spy, though, these intriguing light fittings. It was most unusual, as we were several miles from the coast. They function as proof that even in the darkest spots, often especially so, one can find something Benthic.
The room was small and lit by candles, barely illuminating the exotic and occult paraphernalia scattered around. There was a table in the centre, and a woman wearing a turban was sitting facing the door. Sir John entered the room.
“Miss Gypsy Rosa Marvelosa?” he asked.
“Who wishes to know?” said the woman haughtily.
“Er, I do,” said Sir John, sounding puzzled.
The woman looked at him balefully.
“You seek wisdom?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Sir John. “I’m looking for …
“Shush,” interrupted the woman. “Sit. The cards will tell me all.”
She shuffled a deck of cards whilst looking into middle distance. Sir John sat hesitantly in front of her. She drew 3 tarot cards from the pack and they both looked down at them. They were Death, The Tower, and The Hanged Man.
“That’s good?” asked Sir John.
“Are you thinking of making any long term business investments?” asked the woman.
“Not really,” said Sir John.
“That’s probably for the best,” she said and cleared away the cards. “Let me try something else.”
She produced a crystal ball and began staring into it, humming lightly. Sir John produced a small magnifying lens on a stick and peered into it.
“What are you doing?” asked the woman.
“Are you aware that object has no magical properties?” asked Sir John.
The woman moved the ball away, and Sir John pocketed his lens.
“That’s Good?”
“What is it you want?” asked the woman.
“I am looking for … a creature of the night,” said Sir John.
“Well, if you go down the docks any evening you should find plenty,” she said.
“Really?” said Sir John. “I had no idea.”
“Yes,” she said. “There are women of every shape and size.”
“Oh,” said Sir John, “I think I’m looking for a man.” The woman looked surprised.
“Well, I imagine there are quite a few of them, too,” she said. “I’m not really up on that sort of thing.”
“Good Lord! How many vampires are there in London!” said Sir John.
“Vampires?” said the woman.
“Of course,” said Sir John. “What did you mean?”
“I … never mind,” said the woman. “I only know of one vampire.” She started writing something down.
“Is that an incantation to summon him?” said Sir John.
The woman handed Sir John the piece of paper.
“It’s his address,” she said.
“Marvellous!” said Sir John. “What do I owe you.”
“You must cross my palm with silver,” said the woman. “Two and six to be precise.”
“Oh, I only have a shilling” said Sir John.
“A shilling!” said the woman, eyes blazing. “Are you aware of the power of a gypsy curse?” At that point, Marie entered the room. The woman instantly pushed her chair back and stared in terror at her.
“Mon cher!” Marie said. Her eyes looked red.
“Darling!” said Sir John. “Do you have any money?”
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all,” said Gypsy Rosa. “A pleasure to help you, sir.”
“I thought you said …” started Sir John handing over the shilling. The woman looked at it in horror and backed away.
“Keep it! Happy to help. Need to close now, though. Getting late.” She quickly went out of the back of the room. “Please see yourselves out.”
“Well,” said Sir John to Marie, holding up the bit of paper, “you were right! I’ve had rather a bit of luck.”
The Benthic Times is currently enjoying a sojourn in the United States of America. We rather enjoy the country, but we have found ourselves in a few scrapes. For example, in Southern California we were pursued by a species of giant mechanical ant.
Despite their size, they are mercifully slow and so we managed to find an building to hide in. We just shut the doors as one of the monstrous creatures crashed into it, its antennae protruding through the wood. Overcoming our obvious terror, we managed to procure a photograph of evidence of our adventure…
Marie walked into the wasteland and looked around her. This was the place the detectives had said the girl was murdered. She wandered around a little before discreetly letting a small pendant dangle from her right hand. She walked around some more, keeping her eye on the pendant. After a little while she stopped and looked puzzled.
She glanced up at a pile of rags on the edge of the scrubby area. It seemed to move suddenly, and Marie strode towards the pile. When she was a few feet away she looked down at it.
“Quelle Horreur!”
“’Ello?” she said.
“Your one of them, aincha?” said a voice from the pile. “Like me grandmother.”
“French?” said Marie, looking puzzled.
“No, no.” said the pile. “I’m not a Frenchy. No, you’re a … a clever lady. A wise woman.”
“Oh,” said Marie, “yes, I suppose so.”
A dirty old face appeared above the pile. It sniffed.
“Thought so,” he said. “I can tell these things.”
“Can you tell me about the girl?” said Marie. “It was you that saw her, yes?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, I seen it. Horrible thing, don’t care to dwell on it,” he said. “But you doesn’t need me to tell you. You can just look-see.”
“I don’t understand,” said Marie.
“You know, like me old granny used to,” said the decrepit looking man. Marie looked confused at him. He sighed, grabbed her hand, and put it to his forehead. Then …
Mon Dieu! What is this? You’re in my head now, seeing what I seen. Like my gran used to when she thought I’d been naughty. See, here’s what you want. The girl! And the vam … the fiend! She’s walking so strange, so carefully, like she’s in a dream. Maybe she had a little sip of liquor. Maybe, she seems … distracted. The man is so very tall and … with a hood? Oh, they’re stopping. This is it miss, are you sure you want to see this. Yes, yes I must … it’s, oh that’s awful. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t react, and he … I thought they was kissing, see, cos she does that little shudder. Oh! Quelle horreur! That’s her dying, I think. She’s falling now. And see, he just turns and leaves her there. His face! His face is so white, and his eyes are shining. I don’t see no eyes miss, just that cold, pale face and … Why is it dark now? Well, I hid miss, in me pile of clothes. Pulled me head in as I didn’t want to be seen. I can hear his footsteps. Yes, miss, slow ain’t they. Like he’s got all the time in the world.
… he let go of Marie’s hand and she staggered back. Her hand went to her mouth, and tears came down her face.
“I’m sorry miss,” said the man. “That weren’t a pleasant thing.”
“No, that was ‘orrible,” she said. “But now, now I have seen him.”
As part of the relocation of The Benthic Times we have inherited this lovely ornate piece of fireplace paraphernalia.
I’m rather taken with it, but the writer in me can’t help wondering what happened to the original tongs…
“Reginald! Use the tongs to pinch it’s nose, those are toxic fumes spewing from them … oh my word! It breathes fire!”
“Mon cher,” said Marie after the policemen had left, “this sounds very dangerous. Maybe we should not get involved. Maybe it would be better if it was someone else.”
Sir John was pacing round the room in an agitated manner, grasping a large glass of brandy.
“Well, I confronted that swine Clackprattle and no harm came to me,” he said, then took a large swig of brandy.
“But … vampires,” said Marie. “It’s a different thing, and we don’t know where to start even. We don’t have any books on these creatures.”
“Well, we can research, we can go to the British Library, they have every sort of book there,” said Sir John. He looked at his empty brandy glass. He crossed the room and opened the door. The maid fell into the room, clutching a glass tumbler.
“In Flagrante!”
“Marvellous!” said Sir John. “Could you fetch me another brandy bottle?”
“I’m sorry, Sir Jenkins,” started Mrs Flitwick.
“Jennings?” said Sir John.
“No Sir, Flitwick,” said the maid. “I’m sorry but I couldn’t help but overhear what you was saying.”
“I thought you were outside the room?” said Sir John looking puzzled.
“Yes, Sir Jenkins, I was, but I had this tumbler against the door. That’s what I couldn’t help. My previous employer had a meeting with some constables that didn’t end so well, so I wanted to make sure everything was alright before I found myself destitute again.”
“I see,’ said Sir John, still a little uncertain.
“So, I heard you mention something unmentionable, and it made me think of someone who might be able to help you, sir. She is a woman with uncanny abilities at seeing the future and finding hidden personages.”
“Go on,” said Sir John, “please explain.”
“Well sir, my sister’s husband went missing, and so my sister went to see this woman, the one I’m telling you about. This woman said that her husband was somewhere in Penge and that his life was in terrible danger, which turned out to be true.”
“How so?” said Sir John.
“Well, my sister’s best friend lives in Penge, so my sister went there to visit and found her friend with her husband … in flagrante,” said the maid, looking meaningful.
Sir John looked puzzled.
“Is that a foreign restaurant?” he said. Marie leaned over and whispered in his ear. He went bright red.
“Oh, yes, I see, yes, so, er, what did your sister do?”
“She killed him sir, thus proving the fortune teller was right.”
“Very interesting,” said Sir John.
Marie sat up. “Where might we find this lady?” she said.
“Well, she’s in prison now, madam,” said Mrs Flitwick.
“No, I mean the fortune teller,” said Marie.
“Oh – she’s apparently called Gypsy Rosa Marvelosa, although I heard her real name is Agnes Pudding. She lives Hammersmith way and operates above a shop in the High Street.”
“Thank you, Mrs Flitwick,” said Marie. “You may go.”
“So, I don’t need to be packing?”
“Not at all,” said Marie. “Everything is perfectly fine.”
As the maid left, Marie turned to Sir John
“Why don’t you go see this woman? I can go to the British Library for books,” she said.
“It doesn’t sound terribly … scientific,” said Sir John.
“Mon cher,” said Marie. “We may learn something useful, and at worst it will be a minor diversion whilst the next steps become clear.”
The Benthic Times 