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.”

The Fulham Fiend: Chapter 7

“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 Fulham Fiend: Chapter 3

Marie and Sir John were sitting in the drawing room. Marie was working on some crochet and Sir John was reading the Times. He punctuated his reading with noises indicating astonishment, irritation, or pleasure in roughly equal measure. From time to time his hand would creep onto the table between them where there was a selection of biscuits. A biscuit would disappear behind the newspaper and the exclamations would be temporarily modified, if not reduced.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Sir John put down the paper and looked at the biscuit pile, which was much reduced.

“We get through these quickly don’t we!” he said to Marie, before turning to the door. “Come in!”

The door opened and the Jennings’ maid came in.

“Excuse me, Sir Jenkins, Mrs Jenkins, but there’s two policemen to see you.”

“It’s Jennings, Mrs Flitwick,” said Sir John gently.

“No,” said Mrs Flitwick, “it’s Dawlish and Symonds. Shall I show them in?”

“Please,” said Sir John, looking deflated.

“Bite Marks?”

The maid showed in the two detectives, who stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“Welcome!” said Sir John, “I am Sir John and this is my wife.”

“Good afternoon, Sir John,” said Dawlish, glancing at Marie. “We’d like to speak to you in a professional capacity.”

“Oh, good!” said Sir John. “Please sit!”

Dawlish and Symonds glanced at each other.

“Should Mr Jennings be present?” asked Symonds.

“I don’t catch you?” said Sir John.

“Jennings and Jennings?” said Dawlish.

“Oh!” said Sir John, “Mrs Jennings is the other Jennings.”

The two detectives both looked shocked.

“This … may not be a suitable topic … for a woman,” said Dawlish.

“Why ever not?” said Sir John. “Mrs Jennings has proved herself more than capable on our paranormal investigations.”

“It concerns murder,” said Symonds, “… of girls. Rather grisly murder.”

“The people murdered are girls?” said Marie.

“Yes, madam,” said Symonds.

“Do you know why these girls were murdered?” said Marie.

“No, madam,” said Symonds.

“Are any girls helping you to find out why?” said Marie.

“No, madam,” said Symonds.

“Have you spoken to any girls about the case at all?” said Marie.

“Again, no, madam,” said Symonds.

“Then maybe a woman will be ‘elpful,” said Marie. “Many of them used to be girls, you know.”

“Actually, now I’m confused,” said Sir John. “If this is murder, then why do you need us. We are primarily, well, we are actually, paranormal investigators.”

Dawlish sighed and sat down.

“I shall explain,” he said. “Then you can decide if you want to help. You see, there is an aspect to these murders that you won’t find in the papers. The girls have two marks on their necks. They look like … bite marks. They have been drained of their blood. And they were all … pure.”

“Pure?” said Sir John.

“As snow,” said Symonds.

Sir John still looked puzzled.

“They were untouched, Sir John,” said Dawlish.

“Their flowers were unplucked,” added Symonds.

“Their ships were unsailed,” continued Dawlish.

Sir John looked confused still, and Marie leaned in and whispered in his ear. He turned red.

“Right, I see, yes, I understand,” he said.

“For the last killing there was a witness, of sorts,” said Symonds. “His testimony is a little suspect, but he told us the killer was tall, very pale, and did not look human.”

“You see now, Sir John, why we want your help,” said Dawlish. “All the evidence suggests we are looking for a tall, pale, inhuman creature that sucks the blood of pure girls.”

“My God!” said Sir John, “a vampire!”

The Fulham Fiend: Chapter 2