Marie and Sir John sat in front of a huge desk covered with various gold ornaments. This reflected the look of the room where expensive objects were displayed with seemingly little care for decorum. A particularly ostentatious statue of an ichthyocentaur caught Marie’s eyes as she looked around, trying to avoid the appraising gaze of the obese man behind the desk.
“Cultured Eye?”
“So what have you found so far?” said Henry Copperwaite glaring at both his guests. His breathing was loud and rasping. Combined with his flaring nostrils, he reminded Marie of an elderly bull.
“Well,” said Sir John, “our enquiries are at an early stage. We have some interesting avenues to explore.”
“No,” boomed the man, “answer the blasted question. Not what are you going to do, what have you found?”
“Well, er, to be completely frank,” said Sir John, “very little. In fact, it wouldn’t be, er, completely inaccurate to say… nothing.”
The man grunted in what could have been approval or contempt.
“Same as all the other quacks, medics, and cranks that have come through the door. No surprise there.”
“Well, it’s early days…” started Sir John.
“Pipe down,” interrupted the man. “I know how this goes. You’ve things to check, something to test, blah blah. Well, the good news for you Mr Jennings…”
“Sir Jennings,” interjected Sir John. The large man glared at him and Sir John went red.
“Well, the good news for you Sir Jennings,” he said with mocking emphasis, “is that I am at my wit’s end and probably my life’s end but not at the end of my resources. I have little faith in your abilities no matter what I hear from other sources, but I am, frankly a desperate man.”
“I see,” said Sir John.
“I don’t need no doctor to tell me my days are numbered and all I want before I pass from this place is to see my daughter awake and alive. After her mother died young she is all I have. She’s a special girl you see, Sir John. She’s been raised well, not like me. I dragged myself up from the gutter with these grubby hands.” He showed Marie and Sir John a pair of spotless, fat fingers. “I worked like a Trojan for every penny. From nothing. I did all of this so she could have the finer things in life. And then a year ago, on the first of April…” He thumped his fist on the desk and looked away.
“I thought it was joke at first, because of the date,” said Copperwaite forlornly, “but she hasn’t woken up since.”
“You said she was special,” said Marie, “was there something she did, some interest she had, which might help us understand her.”
“Oh, well that’s a new straw to clutch at,” scoffed Mr Copperwaite, regaining some of his bullishness. “You could say that. She was one for the arts and the finer side of life, as she put it. She decorated this room for example. She had a…” he waved his hands, groping for a metaphor.
“Cultured eye?” said Sir John.
Copperwaite shrugged, “As you will. I’ve never understood it but there you go. She was interested in the ‘world beyond this’ as well. More tosh. I suppose when her mother died young, it got to her. She went to this church, spiritualist, to talk to the dead. Well, if she doesn’t wake up soon, she may need to go there to talk to me.”
Mr Copperwaite started to breathe heavily, and his head sank down a little. It was hard to tell if he was tired or sad or just bored. He waved his hand at them to indicate they could go.
“Well, that will be everything I suppose,” said Sir John starting to stand, seemingly keen to get away from the man.
“I wonder,” said Marie, “before we go, if you would have an address for that church.”
Despite wearing his Sunday best for the photoshoot, poor Sir John had to be decapitated for artistic purposes. Here he is restored to his full glory for your amusement this Friday.
We have, incidentally, created what we believe is called a “Facebook page” for this magnificent publication. You may wish to visit if you find yourself short of entertainment over the weekend. The weather forecast promises little, we’re told.
The butler led Sir John and Marie into the large, well decorated bedroom. A middle aged maid was sitting across from the bed on which the young Lillian Copperwaite lay. The prone figure gazed vacantly into space from under the covers, with just her arms and chest exposed.
“This is Miss Copperwaite,” said the butler reverently. “Mr Copperwaite thought it best you see her first.”
“Quite right!” exclaimed Sir John excitedly, causing the maid to jump. “Objectivity is vital at this stage.”
Sir John donned a pair of heavy looking goggles. “Ectoscopic glasses,” he said half to himself. He wandered around the room looking initially at the walls and the desk.
“Miss Copperwaite is over here,” said the butler, looking bemused.
“It’s a background check for residual energies,” explained Sir John. He waved his hands to aid explanation, which didn’t seem to reduce the confusion of the butler. Sir John walked around to the head of the bed still looking at the wall. He turned and looked across the bed at the maid on the other side. He jumped back, making a loud gutteral noise. The maid emitted a shriek.
“Sorry,” said Sir John. He went over to the bed and looked at Miss Copperwaite, his head looking up and down her immobile body. Then he leaned forward to peer into her face looking closely with the goggles. He lifted up the covers to peer underneath. Marie coughed. Sir John stopped and took off the goggles to look at Marie.
“Are you alright dear?” he said. Marie indicated to her right with her eyes, and Sir John saw the butler’s face looking shocked.
“Yes, well, that’s, er, all straightforward,” said Sir John, flushing a little. He looked down at Miss Copperwaite and noticed her arm outside the sheets. He picked up the hand a little and let it drop. It fell like a stone. He picked up her forearm and held it a little higher and again it fell with a small thud. Then he lifted her whole arm up and was about to drop it when Marie said urgently, “Mon cher!” Sir John looked back and she made the same motion with her eyes. The butler looked highly agitated. Sir John wandered back to his wife.
“Mon Cher!”
“Well, that will conclude our, er, initial analysis,” said Sir John to the butler who looked somewhat relieved. Sir John then turned to his wife and whispered, “I can’t see anything paranormal at all.”
“Perhaps I may escort Sir Jenkins and his wife to Mr Copperwaite,” said the maid. She came over to the Jennings’ and the butler left the room, muttering under his breath and glancing at Sir John.
“You ain’t found nothing. I can tell,” said the maid. “And you won’t neither. This ain’t nothing medicinal and this ain’t no spooks. Miss Copperwaite is under the thrall… of …Mesmerism.”
Marie made a loud gasp. Sir John and the maid both looked at her.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I sat on this bit of metal and it was ‘ot.”
“That will be the central ‘eating miss,” said the maid.
“How interesting,” said Sir John.
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.
“Pleasant View?”
“I am truly sorry my dear for this intolerable form of transport,” said Sir John Jennings, trying to hold down a small tube which was rolling back and forth.
“Mon cher,” said Marie Jennings, “it is fine, it is nice to journey out of London and have this pleasant view.”
“Pleasant view?” said Sir John, “How can you see a thing with that downpour? If I had known that this investigation would require such deprivations… Are you sure you can bear it?”
“It is nothing,” said Marie, “but you do need to do something.”
“I do?” said Sir John. “Do you want a different compartment? I’m not sure I can…”
“Non, mon cher,” said Marie. “You have told me so little of this investigation. Just there is a wealthy man who lives in Manchester, a sickly daughter, I don’t know a thing really.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Sir John, “I’ve been so busy making arrangements for the journey. Well, let me tell you about the letter I received. It was from a Henry Copperwaite, apparently a man of industry, a man of progress. He is what you might call self made, working his way up from low origins to becoming an owner of a number of factories and works. He’s funded some interesting scientific projects. I have some hope that … well, never mind. His main concern, as he relayed to me on the telephonic device, is his daughter Lillian. You see, this esteemed gentleman is not of good health and is nearing the end of his days. He is thinking of his legacy and the future of his name. He has but one daughter and no sons, and the daughter is most unwell.”
Marie looked puzzled. “That seems a shame, but what is it to us? Are we not supposed to be investigators into the paranormal or the bizarre? This sounds like a job for a physician.”
“Oh drat it all, this confounded contraption will drive us to distraction,” exclaimed Sir John after a particularly strong bump sent a small suitcase flying. “I’m sorry, dear, but this is almost too much to endure. Yes, I said the same to the gentleman, but he has insisted Miss Copperwaite has been seen by a number of physicians. The best money can buy, he said, and none of them can give an explanation for her ailment. It is like a sort of catatonia. She lies all day in bed, cannot be roused but her eyes stare open, vacant at the ceiling.”
“She is, er, not dead?” said Marie.
“I was uncertain how to raise that with him myself, but he said she breathes and she will take a little food. But no other activity. He is convinced it has a supernatural cause, and after the Howarth case, he asked us to come to see.”
“It seems most strange, I agree,” said Marie, “but this isn’t like anything we have read about or seen.”
“No, I know. It was the intrigue that caused me to consider this journey.” The train bumped violently. “Well, curiosity may not have killed this cat, but he is not too comfortable. Do try to be patient, Marie, it’s not too many more hours now,” said Sir John.
Marie continued to gaze out of the window, a serene look on her face. She watched the countryside racing past along with the occasional small town. She wondered at how different this all seemed from her native France and at how calming it was to watch the rain run diagonally across the window. It was a most interesting and relaxing journey, giving her time to pause and reflect.
“Oh damn and blast,” shouted Sir John as a small box fell from the rack onto his head.
Well Gentle Reader, we have come to the end of our story. From next week The Benthic Times is very pleased to announce the commencement of another Jennings and Jennings adventure. A story of machiavellian manipulation, of Mephistolean mind control, of melodramatic machinations called…. The Mancunian Mesmerist.
For those of you who hanker to hear a little more of the goings on at Grimley Hall, fear not. Every artistic endeavour is bound to fall foul of some errors or problems, and ours most surely has. For your general entertainment and edification we present, in the language of the common parlance, the “bloopers” from the Howarth Haunting.
“I think I detect something,” said Sir John pacing around the room.
“Yes!” proclaimed Sir John. “A definite trace left behind. Something very old and potentially evil… there!” He pointed in front of himself and pulled off the goggles to discover he was pointing at empty space.
“I’m over here, dear boy,” said Lady Howarth. Both Marie and Sir John burst into laughter.
From next door came a creaking noise that Marie knew was the Thanatograph. It sounded like something was happening this time, as a thin voice came through. Marie could just make out her husband saying, “Remarkable, isn’t it?” Then Mrs Howarth said loudly,
“What’s it saying – sounds like – ‘you’ something – ‘you – snake?’ ‘YOU SNAKE!’ No… no it doesn’t, does it? It’s supposed to be you serpent, you sodding serpent.”
Marie could hear laughter through the wall.
“You Sodding Serpent!”
“We ‘ave so little time,” said Marie, as the maid brought another tray. “If only we knew what it meant, ‘the letters spell it out’.”
There maid daintily put the tea on the table and stood back. The Jenningses both looked at it in a confused manner.
“Oh!” Started the maid suddenly a look of shock on her face. “Oh, bo…”
“Butter fingers!” quickly interrupted Marie, and Sir John started laughing.
“I’m sorry madam,” said the maid, “but I couldn’t help overhearing you yesterday. About AC and EH and… and some letters. Alice Copsey. She’s my aunt, see. Well my great aunt. There were facts about her and… and the old master…”
“Rumours?” said Marie, whose shoulder were starting to shake a little.
“Yes madam, facts that were like rumours, but were actually more sort of facts.” Marie shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. “You know what madam, I’ll come back and try again,” said the maid, desperately trying to suppress a smile.
“She is possessed by a demon!” said the Bishop and made towards Marie. He put his hand on her forehead and muttered something in Latin. Marie turned around to face him, looking wild and confused. Then as he continued, her features softened.
“Merci, Monseigneur,” she said, and snatched his crozier. She stood away from the Bishop and the wall and held the crozier behind her head. She swung it round with a grunt and hit the wall. The crozier broke instantly into 3 pieces leaving Marie with a short piece in her hand. The bishop and and Sir John started chuckling and Marie could barely hold onto the crozier for giggling.
“You just can’t get the staff these days,” said Lady Howarth, provoking much hilarity.
“You’re calling from what? The Manchester Guardian? No, thank you. I have no interest in talking to a provincial paper,” said Sir John and put down the telephonic device.
“These people are like seagulls,” said Sir John to Marie. “They make a racket and pick away at you.”
“Still, it is nice to have you home,” said Marie. “I missed you.”
“And me, you,” said Sir John. “The constabulary had lots of questions, not a few I couldn’t answer. And none seemingly that Lady… that Miss Scrote could answer.”
Marie coughed. “That is her real name?” she said.
“Yes, it seems it is. It’s generally agreed now that her father was Robert Scrote so she’s no longer Lady Howarth and instead is plain Miss Violet Scrote. The newspapers started to get interested, as well, and they had even more questions than the police.”
The telephone rang again.
“Hello? You’re from where? The Washington Post? But the events didn’t occur anywhere near Sussex!” said Sir John, and put the phone down angrily.
“It’s a shame they don’t pay money for these conversations,” said Sir John. “I don’t think Lady… I mean Miss Scrote is likely, or even able to pay us.”
“Oh, that would be monstrous,” said Marie. “People would just make up stories for money… What will happen to her anyway?”
“To Miss Scrote? Well, it seems Lord Edward had a cousin, Margaret, who is delighted to take ownership of Grimley Hall. She has an estate already so probably won’t move there. She has said that Miss Scrote may stay there for a while, perhaps work in the kitchens or something, and have a small room. They’ll pay her a reasonable wage, even though she has no employable skills as such.”
“So she won’t move to Cheapside?” said Marie with a smile. “It must be the cousin who sent this,” she continued, indicating a large object on a table in the room.
They both walked over to the table and looked at a bulky object tied under a large piece of tarpaulin tied by string. There was a note that read, “Awfully grateful, Margaret.”
“I didn’t look,” said Marie, “in case it was one of your experiments.”
Sir John untied the tarpaulin and they both peered inside.
“How interesting,” said Sir John and replaced the tarpaulin. Marie did not stop him. “Must be the Howarth naval connection, I suppose.”
“How Interesting!”
“But tell me, how was your trip to the village?” said Sir John. “Did you find Alice Copsey?”
“I did,” said Marie, “and I read her her letters. She was so old and frail. I think this is why the ghost was so active. He didn’t want her to die not knowing the truth. She listened quietly to the letters and at the end she smiled like an angel. And a single tear ran down her face.”
“You may well be right. There hasn’t been a single haunting since you uncovered the skeleton,” said Sir John, when the telephone rang again.
“Now look here, I don’t care who you are or where you are from, but I have no wish talk to you so please GO AWAY!” He paused and turned white. Then his head bobbed down quickly. “Your Majesty!” he said weakly.
This very evening we shall be repairing to local hostelry The Yellow Book to hear the work of a young poet called Professor Elemental. I’m not sure which academic institute awarded him this title, so cannot speak on that point, but I have heard that he is a first rate wordsmith. Interestingly, there is a novelty element to his literature in that he has set his work to a sort of rhythmic drumming. This shall be interesting to observe although frankly I don’t think this sort of thing is likely to catch on.
But thinking of great poetry set to music I was reminded of the famous poet William McGonagall whose own ode The Famous Tay Whale was set to music. Those unfamiliar with Mr McGonagall’s work are urged to seek it out forthwith. His use of language and masterful command of metre are truly breathtaking.
Of course famous though this work is, perhaps his greatest poem is The Tay Bridge Disaster. The opening and ending are included here to allow you, gentle Reader, to bask in wonder at the power of this work. So evocative and profound is this writing, it has been known to reduce men to tears.
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.
Lady Howarth, SIr John and the Bishop were in the haunted room. There were some dull thumping sounds as the Bishop began to speak, waving his crozier. Small objects occasionally flew across the room. Lady Howarth stood imperiously in the middle of the room, defying the spirits, whilst Sir John was wearing the Ectoscopic glasses and looking around wildly. His hair was nearly on end, although it was hard to tell if that was ghostly forces or just terror.
The Bishop was intoning something slowly, when there was a commotion at the door and Marie burst in.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Lady Howarth.
“You must stop this at once!” said Marie. “There is no need for this, I know what has happened.”
Just then the butler came into the room. “Now then, madam, you can’t go in there,” he said and looked puzzled.
“I thought I told you to stop anyone coming in?” Said Lady Howarth to the butler.
“I meant to, your Ladyship,” said the butler, “I don’t know what happened.”
Marie addressed the Bishop, “Monseigneur, you must stop.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I am in the middle of a sacred rite. It is highly dangerous to stop now whilst the spirits are arisen.”
“But it is wrong to continue, I can show you.” Marie turned to her husband. “Mon cher, make ‘im stop, things are not what they seem. I ‘ave it all figured out.”
“What is it, Marie?” said Sir John, “What have you figured out?”
“Sir John, you will remove yourself and your wife from this room,” said Lady Howarth sternly.
“Mon cher, please listen to me,” said Marie.
“Sir John, did you hear me?” bellowed Lady Howarth.
Sir John looked at Lady Howarth, then at Marie, and then back between the two, his face looking anxious. The Bishop had paused his litany.
“Sir John!” said Lady Howarth at fever pitch.
“Lady Howarth, I am talking to my wife!” said Sir John loudly, then getler to Marie, “What is it?”
“It’s what you said at the start,” said Marie, “how we should not be biased by stories and just use fact. What you saw in the portrait in the hall, what you saw the first time you used the glasses, what you saw in the corridor… something is wrong and I can prove it.”
“How?” said Sir John.
“We need to go back to the corridor,” said Marie.
“Out of the question!” said Lady Howarth. “Smyth, remove these two!”
“Arrêter,” whispered Marie then ran for the corridor to the west of the room.
“Smyth!” bellowed Lady Howarth, but the man seemed rooted to the spot.
“Pardon, Monseigneur”
Marie ran down the corridor and stopped in front of the portrait of the two boys. Lady Howarth, the Bishop, and Sir John arrived at the end of the corridor, with a bemused looking Smyth behind them. All the paintings and the ornaments were moving and rattling now, creating a racket. The ghostly voice that came out of the Thanatograph could be heard behind the walls.
“What in blazes is that voice?” said the bishop. “What’s it saying? Usurper?”
“I will show you!” said Marie and pulled the boys’ portrait off the wall and threw it to one side. She started banging on the wall with her fists. There was a sound like a drum as she did.
“She’s gone mad!” said Lady Howarth. “Smyth, stop her!”
Smyth muttered something, although it was hard to tell what over the din. It may have just been a cough.
“She is possessed by a demon!” said the Bishop and made towards Marie. He put his hand on her forehead and muttered something in Latin. Marie turned around to face him, looking wild and confused. Then as he continued, her features softened and she smiled.
“Pardon, Monseigneur,” she said, and snatched his crozier. She stood away from the Bishop and the wall and held the crozier behind her head. She swung it round with a grunt and hit the wall. A crack started to appear.
“Stop it! Stop it now! Have you forgotten who I am!” shouted Lady Howarth. Marie brought the crozier down a second time and the crack widened.
“I have not forgotten who you are,” said Marie, “but I’m not so sure you know.” With a final swing the crozier smashed into the wall. Plaster fell everywhere to reveal an alcove. And in the alcove, were the bones of a young man. The rattling and chaos and voices stopped instantly.
“I present,” said Marie, breathless, “Lord Edward Howarth.”
“What rot!” said Lady Howarth.” My father is buried in the Howarth mausoleum.”
“Your father may be,” said Marie, “but your father wasn’t Lord Howarth. He was the boy, Robert: Lord Howarth’s childhood companion, and his murderer.”
“This is nonsense,” said Lady Howarth. “What proof do you have for these allegations? You will leave my house at once!”
“Something strange has happened here,” said the Bishop. “It cannot just be swept under the carpet, Lady Howarth. Madame Jennings, you make a bold claim, what evidence do you have?”
“Here,” said Marie, “are letters from Lord Howarth. They explain most of what happened. The rest is…” Marie went silent as she realised she could not explain what she had seen. Sir John went to his wife, seeing her confusion.
“The rest is conjecture at best and hogwash in reality. In any event, there is an easy way to disprove it. Lord Edward had a fall from a horse as young boy. His leg was fractured and never quite recovered. That was kept secret of course to maintain his manly reputation. I don’t know what this macabre find is, or who it was, but unless it has a…”
“…Severe fracture on the upper left femur?” interrupted Sir John, who had been staring intently at the bones, “not made at the time of death, years earlier I would say. Looks like he lost a tooth as well.”
Marie glanced down at the portrait she had thrown from the wall. The picture of Lord Edward looked like it was smiling in a lopsided way, self conscious of his smile.
“I’m afraid, “Lady” Howarth, that it seems there is something to this allegation. As I said, this cannot simply be swept away. The constabulary should be called. There are… implications,” said the Bishop.
“But it can’t be,” said Lady Howarth, turning white. “I would be penniless, a commoner. I’d be forced to live somewhere like Cheapside!”
“Oh,” said Marie. “I’ve been there once.” She put her handkerchief over her nose.
A large number of our readers have requested information on how some of my marvellous devices work. It is almost as if they doubt the veracity of the account presented herein! Below, for the general edification of our audience, is an explanation of how the Thanatograph functions. I hope this clarifies the matter. We are available to carry out demonstrations in the Home Counties for a small fee.
Sir John Jennings
The Benthic Times 