“Nice hat, it’s really rather fetching.”
Alternately, there is this…for modern devices.
http://madeleinedeste.com/2016/08/06/science-fiction-and-fantasy-free-book-promo-6th-and-7th-august/
The Fulham Fiend: Chapter 1
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: Prologue
The morning was cold and the fog was barely burning off as the wan sun struggled to push through a blanket of clouds. A middle-aged man, bowler hat, inexpensive suit, was walking across a patch of wasteland. In one hand he held a piece of paper and in the other a pipe from which he took deep drags. He came to a halt just before a younger looking man, also wearing a suit.
“Another one, Symonds?” said the older man.
“Yes, Inspector Dawlish,” said the Symonds, “just like the others.”
“The same…” started Dawlish, pointing to his neck.
“Indeed, let me show you,” said Symonds and indicated ahead. They walked off together and shortly came to the body of a young girl. A single constable was standing nearby, guarding the body, although it seemed the area was abandoned. The ground was covered by rubbish and effluence and a pungent, animal odour permeated through the fog. Dawlish looked down at the body and grunted. He bent down to examine it and took a pen from his jacket. The girl was dressed modestly with an attempt at the modern style. Dawlish pulled back the collar and saw what he was expecting. Two puncture marks. He looked at the girl’s face and noted how pale she looked. He stood back up and had to steady himself as the blood rushed to his head.
“Was she… like the others also in… temperament,” said Dawlish.
“I’m making enquiries,” said Symonds. “I believe she worked as a governess. I imagine I’ll know more when I speak to the family.”
“A bloody waste,” said Dawlish, looking down, “and we’re no further to finding the swine. I presume no witnesses again?”
“That at least is different,” said Symonds. “Although I don’t think our witness will be terribly helpful. He’s over here by this building.”
“Well, it’s something,” said Dawlish and the two men walked towards where Symonds had indicated.
“Another One.”
“Inspector Dawlish,” said Symonds, “we need help with this. We need someone with specialist skills. It’s one a week now.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Dawlish, “but our best man’s away. In Switzerland, apparently.”
“There is this,” said Symonds, producing a copy of the Times and showing Dawlish a page.
“Washing taken in, enquire Miss Scrote, Cheapside?” said Dawlish.
“No,” said Symonds, “this other one.”
Dawlish read the paper then grunted.
“We don’t know that we need that sort of thing,” he said. “This could just be some fiend of a man. There might be a rational explanation.”
The men came to a pile of rags against the wall. Dawlish looked puzzled and Symonds leant down and spoke slowly to the pile.
“Mr Fringebucket? The inspector is here now. He would like to hear what you told me.”
The rags moved and roiled and a head poked out the top. The aging man’s eyes looked around wildly and he blinked and stared at the men. He cracked something like a smile although most of his teeth were missing. His skin was riven by marks of disease or violence.
“You want to know about the girl?” said Fringebucket.
“Yes,” said Symonds, “please, just as you told me.”
“You forgot already?” asked Fringebucket, looking confused.
“No, Mr Fringebucket, I just want you to explain to the Inspector.”
Fringebucket shrugged then started his tale.
“She come from over there, see, with this other one. That one must be, oh, six foot, maybe taller. So they walks over together and I just think, maybe they’re sweethearts or something. Then I was sure, cos he leans over her. Leans like he’s kissing her. And she leans into him, see… like she likes being kissed. A bit bold in public, I thinks, but then he steps back, and she falls to the ground. Then he turns and walks away. Not runs, walks.”
“His face…” said Dawlish. “Did you see the man’s face?”
Fringebucket nodded.
“Oh, I seen his face, but he weren’t no man. He weren’t nothing living at all. He were white as milk, white as bone. No he weren’t a man. He were Death! It was Death that walked with her, Death that kissed her and Death that took her life!”
There was a sudden crack of thunder and rain started to fall. The two policemen looked at the newspaper that was rapidly getting sodden. Dawlish looked up at Symonds and nodded.
“Jennings and Jennings it is then.”
One Thousand Apologies
Dear Reader
We can only apologise from the bottom of what passes for our hearts for our failure to post something last Friday. All we can give in the paltry way of excuses is that we are in the middle of an international house move. We offer this picture of a gargoyle from the Notre Dame in Paris, which will be featuring in a story in the near future, as recompense.
We are also excited to announce that a new Jennings and Jennings story will be starting next Tuesday. You will gasp in horror, recoil in terror and be otherwise discombobulated by… the Fulham Fiend.
The Mancunian Mesmerist: Epilogue
The four seater train compartment was filled with boxes and a man and a woman. The man was frowning and obsessively hanging on to the boxes as the train made its bone-shaking journey. At each jolt and rattle he seemed to be trying to hang on to all the boxes at once. The woman gazed out the window at the rainy landscape with a half smile on her face.
“Well, it’s good to be going home,” said Sir John, “even if it is in this terrible train again.”
“Yes,” said Marie. “I’m looking forward to getting back. Did you find out about Clackprattle and Pook? Did the constabulary find them.”
“No,” said Sir John. “By the time I had explained and then convinced everyone what had happened Pook and Clackprattle had long gone. They had been renting some rather fine rooms in the Britannia Hotel. They were empty when we got there.”
“I hope they’re caught,” said Marie.
“Well, Clackprattle’s a devious swine for certain, but I don’t think we need to worry about an oily little character like Pook,” said Sir John. “I imagine he’s perfectly harmless without his master in tow.”
They fell silent for a bit, then Sir John said, “How did it go with the Copperwaites?”
“Oh,” said Marie, “I nearly forgot. When I got back of course she had awakened and there was a lot of activity in the house. I tried to speak to the father, but he ignored me saying our services were no longer required as his daughter was better.”
“Oh dear,” said Sir John. “So they didn’t realise we were responsible for that?”
“Well, I spoke to the maid, you know the one we…” started Marie.
“Yes, I know,” said Sir John.
“Well, she let me speak to the daughter, Lillian for a few minutes. I explained what had happened, how she had been mesmerised by Pook … and, er, Clackprattle. I explained what they had been trying to do. She seemed to understand.”
“That’s good, I suppose,” said Sir John, looking a little glum. “Still, I was rather hoping to get paid this time.”
“Well, as I was packing up our room the maid came and gave me this envelope. That is what I forgot.”
Marie took a letter out from her handbag and passed it to Sir John.
“Dear Sir John and Mrs Jennings,” he read, “Thank you so much for rescuing me from the clutches of that evil monster, Clackprattle and his vile servant, Pook. I am grateful beyond measure and want to demonstrate that gratitude to you. I feel that what you have done for me is so great, that no amount of money could ever match it. So instead I have chosen to give you something priceless. I enclose a precious piece of art that I have made to recognise what you have done.”
“Oh dear,” said Marie.
“Well, perhaps this art will be valuable?” said Sir John.
In with the letter was another piece of paper. The Jennings both looked at it.
“Hmm,” said Sir John. “Probably not.”
“Probably Not”
The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 15
The room was full of machinery and there was a low electrical hum. By a doorway on the left was a large device like an organ and in front of that sat a musician. He was completely immobile, his hands hovering over the keys. To the right was Arthur Clackprattle, standing next to a microphone.
“Pook, start the mass dialing,” he said into the microphone. “Make sure the Queen is on the list.”
Suddenly Sir John burst into the room wearing his hat and Marie’s earmuffs. He held a weapon of some kind which he pointed at Clackprattle.
“Give up, Clackprattle, it’s over,” said Sir John. “Surrender at once.”
“Surrender?” said Clackprattle laughing. “Why would I do that, you deluded fool.”
“I can’t hear you speak,” said Sir John. “I’m wearing ear muffs. Are you surrendering?”
“No, I’m not bloody surrendering!” roared Clackprattle.
“I’m not getting a single word, you’ll have to gesture,” said Sir John.
“Take off the ear muffs!” said Clackprattle, pointing to his ears.
“What?” said Sir John.
“Take. Off. The. Ear. Muffs,” said Clackprattle, miming removal of the earmuffs.
“Are you insane?” said Sir John. “Why would I do that? Look, if you want to surrender, hold up your arms.”
“Oh, this is useless,” said Clackprattle. “Pook, man, will you start the dialing.”
At that point, the organist sprang back to life and starting playing the Four Seasons by Vivaldi. A thin reedy sound came from the instrument.
“Are you surrendering?” said Sir John. “I can’t tell. Surrender or I’ll use this weapon.”
“Never!” roared Clackprattle.
Sir John press on the weapon and an arc of electricity spat out, ending a foot or so in front of him, several feet away from Clackprattle. Clackprattle laughed at the sight of it, but the arc bounced back up towards him. It shot up between his legs before climbing up his body to the Sphere. The Sphere shattered into dust and Clackprattle fell to the floor, groaning and holding onto his crotch.
“You Idiot!”
“Good god man, are you all right,” said Sir John, taking off the ear muffs. “I was aiming for your pineal gland.”
“That’s in my head, you idiot!” Clackprattle cried out.
The organist stopped playing Vivaldi and played Beethoven’s Ninth instead. Marie came into the room.
“Mon cher, are you well?” she said to Sir John.
“It’s fine Marie, it’s over,” said Sir John. “The sphere has been destroyed, and Clackprattle can no longer influence us with mesmerism.”
Clackprattle gasped.
“Don’t you call it that!” he said. “Mesmer was a fraud and an amateur! But for an accident of fate the world would be talking about Clackprattlism.”
“Whatever you would call it, it’s done,” said Sir John who turned to look at Marie. “Are you alright my dear you look a bit…”
Suddenly there was a bang and the room filled with smoke.
“You made a mistake turning your back on me,” said Clackprattle, through the smoke. “No one, but no-one, makes a fool out of Arthur Clackprattle!”
The air cleared and the Jennings could see the smoke bomb that had been set off by Clackprattle. He, however, was nowhere to be seen. The organist stopped playing.
“Oh well,” said Sir John, “at least we put a stop to his evil scheme. And I imagine we’ll never, ever see Mr Clackprattle again.”
“Excuse me,” said the organist, “did you want me to play anything else?”
The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 14
The room was full of machinery and there was a low electrical hum. In the centre of the room was a table with a map on it and standing over it Earnest Pook. He was humming cheerily to himself. Marie walked into the room.
“I was wondering,” said Pook, not looking up, “whether I should have Victoria give me India or Africa. What do you think?”
“I think it’s not a very good disguise to use what you are as a name, pookah,” said Marie.
“And I don’t think it’s a very good idea to walk into a pookah’s house with a stone bug in your hand,” said Pook, still looking at the map. “Although in truth I knew you were special even back in the church.”
“Does Clackprattle even know what you are?” asked Marie, walking closer to the table. Pook chuckled.
“Oh, poor, deluded Arthur, ‘master mesmerist’,” he said, mimicking Clackprattle. “Naturally, he has no idea. There’s no such ability of course, it’s all just magic. My magic. With a little glamour to hide it from prying eyes.”
“And the girl?” said Marie, edging quietly closer.
“She was so useful for a while, so wonderfully gullible,” said Pook, not moving. “I didn’t even need to enchant her. She bought us some wonderful toys. Then she got into her head that the Telharmonium was a bad idea. So, nighty, night … she went to sleep.”
“But then her father stopped the money,” said Marie. “So you made her wake at night to write letters and cheques, to keep the institute going.”
“Yes, clever aren’t I,” said Pook. “I imagine next you’ll ask me which lever to pull to turn this all off. And I’ll tell you of course just to show you how clever I am.”
“Does the Sphere of Lethe even do anything?” asked Marie, close to the table now.
“Oh, now you’re being the clever one!” said Pook. “Mesmer wasn’t an idiot. He knew well enough, like me, to have something gaudy, large and dazzling for the paying customers to focus on. No, I’m afraid the real power lies elsewhere.”
Pook suddenly turned from the table, just as Marie was right behind him.
“But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” he sneered. “About using something else to disguise your powers.”
“So… so you have something magical,” said Marie, flinching. “Pookah’s aren’t as powerful as you normally.”
“No, indeed,” said Pook. “Time was that when a humble old pookah tussled with a witch, that the pookah would lose hands down. But as we saw, when you tried to make that boy talk, it seems we’re evenly matched.”
Marie looked down.
“In fact, one could say we were very similar indeed,” said Pook. “Same powers, same method of disguise. Are you sure you want to stop me? Perhaps you’d rather join me? Just think, Clackprattle and Jennings, what a great puppet show. We could tour the the world.”
“I’m not like you, and he’s not like Clackprattle,” said Marie, still looking down.
“How can you stand it?” said Pook, coming close to her, and resting a hand on her cheek. “How can you stand to be in the shadow of that pompous moron?”
Suddenly Marie grabbed for the jewelled pin on Pook’s cravat and shouted, “ALLER!” Pook flew across the room and crashed into the wall. His face looked shocked as he started to rise. “RESTER!” shouted Marie and he sat still.
Marie stared at the creature, one hand on her hip and breathing hard.
“I know, little creature, that you are made of trickery and chaos. So I forgive you. But don’t you dare compare yourself to me. I do not play games with people’s lives,” she said.
She dropped the cravat pin on the floor.
“And I know exactly how to ‘turn this all off’,” she said and stamped on the pin, smashing it. Pook cried out in horror. Marie said “dormir” and he slumped unconscious. She stood there for a moment, staring at the sleeping creature before turning to walk out the door.
“I am a witch,” she said. “We are always in the shadow.”
As she walked out the door, she clicked her fingers and the door slammed shut behind her.
The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 13
The well dressed people gathered at the large lobby of the Peitho Institute, Marie and Sir John amongst them. Fine wine was being passed out by waiters and there was a pleasant hubbub of genteel conversation. A makeshift stage was built at the back of the room, and occasionally Earnest Pook would peer over it and smile.
“May I take your hat and coat, sir?” said an usher to Sir John.
“Er, no, I’m fine, we’re fine,” said Sir John. “We’re from London.”
“It’s starting,” said Marie as Earnest Pook walked onto the stage. He was dressed in an expensive looking suit with a silk cravat and jewelled pin.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said Pook. “You are most terribly, terribly welcome to this event, the inauguration of our most audacious project yet. And to this end, in an act of generosity that behoves one as magnificent as himself, our benefactor has agreed to come and speak. He is, as many of you know, not one for the spotlight, not one to thrust himself into public discourse. Not that he lacks the requisite skill or talent for communication, oh no, but merely because he prefers his works to speak for themselves without the unnecessary personal adulation that such can so often accompany philanthropy such as his. I present, Arthur Clackprattle.”
“The Sphere!”
The hubbub increased as people craned to look at who was coming onto the stage. An obese man dressed in a gaudy costume and with an arrogant look on his face walked onto the stage. Around his neck was a large necklace, with a transparent sphere in a metal coil.
“Look!” said Sir John, “The sphere!”
“Good evening to everyone,” said Clackprattle, “and welcome to this event. It is so wonderful to see so many of Manchester’s finest here. I am so pleased to be able to show you tonight just how incredible a machine we will be unveiling. Many of you may be wondering what it does. Well, rest assured, I shall tell you.”
There was general chatter as the crowd tried to gauge Clackprattle and some suppressed laughter at his unusual dress.
“Silence!” roared Clackprattle. The crowd fell instantly silent.
“That is so much better,” continued Clackprattle. “Silence is truly golden, especially when it’s silence from such a fatuous, smug, and profoundly self-indulgent collection as yourselves.”
No one spoke or moved.
“So, you should all be very pleased, as tonight we shall put Manchester on the map. In the very center of the map in fact,” said Clackprattle, getting more manic with each sentence he spoke. “You may have heard that this contraption will be sending music to owners of telephonic devices. Nothing could be further from the truth. You see, this Telharmonium will be sending my power instead. Anyone who picks up that receiver when we call shall be under my control, and I shall rule England and the Empire!”
Still, no one spoke or moved.
“I imagine,” said Clackprattle,” that you find all of this a little alarming. I imagine you’d like to stop me. But as I’m sure you’ve discovered, you can’t move, and you can’t talk, thanks to this little beauty.”
Clackprattle stroked the metal coil that housed the sphere and said, “And thanks to another beauty. What you might call a ‘sleeping partner’.”
Clackprattle turned to go, chuckling a little.
“Come on Pook, you start the generator and I shall man the microphone,” he said, before looking back at the static audience. “You lot can get ready to bow to me later.”
The tall fat man and the small thin man left the room, the former going right and the latter going left.
Sir John and Marie both let out a breath.
“Good job these hats worked,” said Sir John, looking around at the motionless crowd. “Right, you wait here and I’ll tackle Clackprattle.”
“Be careful, mon cher,” said Marie.
Sir John nodded and then headed off down the right-hand corridor. Marie waited until he was gone then headed down the left.
The Mancunian Mesmerist: Chapter 12
It was the eve of the visit to the Peitho Institute, and Marie and Sir John sat in their quarters in the Copperwaite mansion. Both were silent, thinking of their invitation for the following day and the deadline the day after. Mrs Harper arrived with some supper which she set on a table.
“Thank you,” said Sir John absently.
“Will that be all?” said Mrs Harper. “No need for anything else? Any information? Only I’m free for lunch tomorrow…”
“No that’s fine,” said Sir John. “Oh wait, there is one thing.”
“Twelve o’clock would suit,” said Mrs Harper.
“It’s just a quick thing,” said Sir John. “You said that Miss Copperwaite had an idea to play music through telephonic devices? But you changed her mind?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs Harper, “I told her it was a bl… that it wasn’t a very good idea, and she agreed and said she wouldn’t do it. That was just before she fell ill, in fact.”
“I see,” said Sir John. “That will be everything, thank you.”
Mrs Harper looked a little crestfallen and left the room.
“Tin Hats?”
“Do you know what I think?” said Sir John.
“That Clackprattle made Miss Copperwaite buy the sphere? That he wanted to build this musical telephone machine as well? And that he made her go to sleep when she said no to that?”
“Yes,” said Sir John, looking crestfallen now, “but why?”
“Did you say that this sphere increases his powers through sound? Perhaps he doesn’t want to send music through the devices … perhaps he wants to send mesmerism.”
Sir John gasped.
“Good lord!” he exclaimed. “The Queen has one, you know! We have to stop him!”
“Well, we have an invitation to see it happen…” said Marie, “…which is very strange. I feel it must be a trap of some kind.”
“I think so too,” said Sir John. “Well, I have some ideas to save us from that. Firstly, I’m going to put tin inside our hats. Then, I’m going to adapt my ionospheric emitter to shoot powerful electric charges. And most vitally of all, I’m going to borrow your earmuffs.”
Marie look perplexed.
“Tin hats? Ear muffs?” she said.
“…So I can’t be mesmerised when I tackle Clackprattle,” said Sir John, pointing to his ears. He left the room whistling to himself.
Marie looked at their hats. She put a finger gently on each one and said “proteger”.
About Town
If rumours are to be entertained, and what other purpose do they serve I wonder, last night’s soiree at the Palace Hotel proved less than satisfactory to one guest. An heiress to a local mill owner had seemingly set her eye on a visiting Russian dignitary. She had employed a mode of dress just on the right side of risqué, but far on the wrong side of taste, to catch her erstwhile tzar. Sadly, young Ivan glanced at her not once and seemed to prefer the company of some local well-dressed gentlemen. A story that the young lady in question ran distraught from the party at midnight, like a modern Cinderella, goes unfortunately unconfirmed.
Tonight’s “entertainment” is due to be provided by the Peitho Institute. Once upon a time, this institute’s events were omnipresent on the Mancunian social scene, providing enlightenment and hilarity in equal measure, due to the idiosyncratic curation of its exhibits. It was generally assumed that the steam had long gone out of this engine of the bizarre, but it is seemingly rising phoenix-like for perhaps a last hurrah. The great and good of Manchester have been invited to an event that, it is promised, will show not just Manchester but the world a revolution in communication. Frankly, this columnist cannot wait and will be there to witness with pen, dipped lightly in vitriol, in hand.
And whilst we talk of the Peitho Institute, one cannot help but wonder about its patroness and aforementioned curator. It seems almost a year now since she was seen in public. Friends are a little vague on details on why this may be, and her famously reclusive father says nothing. Has she been banished to a nunnery for offences against artistic sensibility? Or is there a more mundane reason that our patroness of the highest of arts is no longer “about town”. Answers please. Discretion, naturally, assured.
Percival Gribblewax, Manchester Guardian
The Benthic Times 