Authors: Ishbelle Bee
Tags: #Pedrock, #Victoriana, #butterfly magic, #Professor Hummingbird, #Boo Boo, #Fantasy, #John Loveheart
Sunday Sermon
I
hold my sister
’
s hand as Mrs Treacle escorts us to church, Guardian the dog following. The church is about half full. I recognize Mrs Charm and the landlord
’
s son and his parents. Mrs Treacle points out Mr Pinhole, the apothecary, a weedy looking man near the back row, and Mr and Mrs Tufflehump who own the bakery. The air is cool inside the church and little blue flowers have been placed round the pews. Mr Wormhole ascends the pulpit, flaming eyed, and a respectful silence ensues.
He shakes his head wearily.
“
Murder!
”
he cries, arms raised.
“
Bloody murder! The devil is here in our village. He walks amongst us! Perhaps he hops amongst us; he may even LIMP!
”
A voice behind me mumbles,
“
He
’
s been on the rum again
.
”
Revered Wormhole holds a stiff finger aloft
.
“
FEAR NOT, THE LORD WILL STOMP A MIGHTY FOOT ON THE VILLAIN. SQUASH HIM INTO THE GROUND, MAKE HIM A SPLAT!
”
The congregation gasp, and I can hear Mrs Charm comment to Mrs Tufflehump,
“
He
’
s definitely improved.
”
Mr Wormhole continues,
“
Pray to the Lord to reveal this monster. Show his face to us
o
h
Lord!
Help the policemen from London arrest, charge and execute! Oh merciful God, make sure this evil creature is
flogged repeatedly
in the hell fires. Save us from further decapitation!
”
Much nodding of agreement from the heads of the congregation. I turn my head and I can see Mr Loveheart, dressed in lemon curd yellow, standing by the door. He waggles a finger for me to come over to him. Red hearts are all over his waistcoat. I slip away unnoticed while Wormhole begins protestations about being roasted to death by devils with forked tongues and large cooking implements.
Mr Loveheart and I walk out into the graveyard and the dazzling sunshine.
“
I thought I had better warn you,
”
says Loveheart.
“
Of what?
”
“
I think your uncle is dead and I believe the
Professor
has some sinister plan for your sister.
”
“
What can I do?
”
I say.
“
You
’
re too little, Pedrock. Fear not! I have managed to acquire a bomb and I am thinking of blowing him up,
”
laughs Mr Loveheart.
I really don
’
t know how to respond to that remark.
Detective White and Detective Waxford compare notes
I
find Bizwit Street after some initial confusion. I had travelled down to London immediately after receiving Waxford
’
s telegram and have left Constable Walnut to take statements from the villagers to see if he can acquire any further information. I knock on number 38 and Henry Waxford, hobbling
, opens the door.
“
Come in
,
Percival.
”
His voice is like roasting wood on a fire, spitting and cracking.
We sit in a very comfy study surrounded by his book collection and he hands me a glass of whisky and props his foot up on a cushion and stares at me.
“
So, how is the case developing?
”
“
Professor
’
s physician found decapitated in Mr Grubweed
’
s house and now Mr Grubweed is missing; they both worked for the
Professor
. The murder weapon, an axe, was found in the hands of a six year-old cousin, Boo Boo, who claims a man called Mr Angelcakes is visiting her at night.
”
“
This is a wicked business,
”
growls Waxford. He sinks back his whisky.
“
And that Professor has everything to do with it. Have you interviewed him yet? Seen his butterflies?
”
“
Yes, yes, it was bizarre. His house is a maze and it appears the Professor dabbles in the occult: he managed to evict myself and Walnut from his property using
…”
–
I pause
–
“
some sort of black magic.
”
Waxford looks a little shocked.
“
Black magic? More like trickery, Percival. They
’
re all nuts in that village. Especially that bloody Mr Loveheart.
”
“
Loveheart can be extremely cooperative. You just have to humour him.
”
“
I
’
m glad I don
’
t have to go back there.
”
Waxford sighs.
“
It would have driven me mad.
”
“
I have been reading your journals and they have been most helpful. Is there anything you left out which could aid me now?
”
Waxford wiggles his bandaged foot.
“
I tried to research the
Professor
and it was very difficult. He has two family members alive. A wife, Lucy, who is in a madhouse. Her full name is Lucy Dewdoll. By all accounts she didn
’
t go mad until she married him. And guess who one of the doctors was who signed the certificate to condemn her?
”
“
Hookeye?
”
“
Yes. And she
’
s the sixth wife he
’
s had.
”
“
Good
G
od
, what happened to the rest?
”
“
I couldn
’
t find out. I was sure I was being followed at the time. Not a scrap of proof. His brother is Ignatius Hummingbird, who holds a seat in the House of Lords and has influence with the prime minister. I
’
m afraid Professor Hummingbird is very well protected.
”
“
Where is his wife now?
”
“
Well, they are divorced due to her madness and she resides in the Blue-Flower Institution near Blackheath. But she may have information for you which might help. She is the only lead I can think of.
”
“
Thank you, Waxford. Tell me, what do you think he
’
s up to, the Professor
? What
’
s really going on?
”
“
There were a lot of suspicions at the time. The main line of thinking was that Hookeye and Grubweed were providing bodies for experimentation. The question was how they were getting these bodies. But I can
’
t see the reason for the
Professor
to have any interest in such a thing. He
’
s obsessed with his butterflies and his research on the Aztecs. No, in my opinion there is something else going on.
”
“
I found a little red diary in Icarus Hookeye
’
s coat pocket. Inside were numerous drawings of butterflies.
”
“
What meaning could that have,
other than a connection to the Professor
?
”
“
That
’
s what I wondered,
”
and I help myself to a refill of whisky and top Waxford up.
“
Why kill Icarus and Grubweed?
”
“
Maybe someone is picking them off,
”
I say instinctively, and suddenly feel quite odd.
“
Percival, are you alright?
”
Waxford leans forward.
“
Yes. I just had the strangest feeling.
”
The Blue-Flower Institute
I
am, I admit, a little drunk after seeing Waxford. He has a more robust constitution for alcohol. I buy some strong coffee and make my way to the reception area of the Blue-Flower Institute, a
miserable
-
looking building. A largely built woman with fierce little eyes examines me at the front desk.
“
My name is Detective Sergeant White and I need to see a resident. A woman named Lucy Dewdoll. It is quite urgent and involves a murder investigation.
”
I am escorted to a cell where Lucy Dewdoll sits at a small table in a long grey dress. Her hair, loose and falling to her waist, is the colour of dirty sand. Her face is like her name: doll-like, perfect skin and round blue eyes. She turns to look at me.
“
Please get me out of here.
”
“
Miss Dewdoll, I understand that you were married to Professor Hummingbird. I am currently investigating a murder and I need to know whatever you can tell me, anything that might give me some insight into his character.
”
“
If I do this, can you get me out of here? I am not mad. I have never been mad.
”
“
I will do everything in my power to help you.
”
“
If you want any power over him,
d
etective
, steal his favourite butterfly. It is his only weakness.
”
“
My dear lady, what happened to you?
”
I ask,
and
then
I listen
.
“
I was living with my stepsister in Whitstable when I met him. The year was 1886.
I was twenty-five and our life was peaceful, unremarkable, until a letter arrived from a solicitor in London called Mr Evening-Star, announcing that I had been left a fortune from my eccentric Uncle Lionel, who was an explorer in Mexico. I had become his heiress, owner of a moated castle on the outskirts of London, as well as inheriting his entire collection of artefacts from his explorations. Well, I nearly fainted on the carpet I was so shocked! Winnie thankfully retrieved the emergency brandy from under the cupboard.
”
A slight smile danced across her face at the memory, and then vanished just as quickly.
“
The following day I received a visitor, a friend of my Uncle Lionel, who wished to offer his condolences. His name was Professor Gabriel Hummingbird. He was a widower in his fifties and there was something unusual about him, some strange, cool mischief. The way he looked at me
–
as though he were peering down a microscope, examining my cells, wanting to rearrange them. We talked at length about my uncle
’
s work in Mexico and then finally about his own research. They had worked together for years teaching at the University in London. My uncle had died while camping on an Inca burial site, slipped and fell off a ravine while drunk on chocolate-wine. His body had been buried out there, the service simple, but in accordance with my uncle
’
s wishes, according to Professor Hummingbird.
“
The Professor
informed me that he would be staying in Whitstable for a few weeks as a holiday and hoped we should meet again. Apart from the fact that he was too old for me, there was something else about him that made me concerned. There was something mechanical, something calculating about him. I was persuaded he did not desire me; however, I was an heiress now. Perhaps it was my money, perhaps something else I had acquired, and yet despite all these warning signals I agreed to see him again, and again. It was almost as if I could not say the word
‘
No
’
to him. The word just would not form on my lips.
“
We met for tea and sandwiches and walked along the beach, picking up curious shells. I told him about my quiet but happy life, but thinking about my Uncle Lionel, I realised how little I had actually lived. How empty my background a
ppeared in comparison with the Professor
, who regaled me with tales of his hunting for rare butterflies in Peru and getting lost knee deep in a swamp while being chased by local tribesmen.
“
On our third meeting he proposed and I accepted. I knew I had made a mistake when I said the word
‘
yes
’
. I knew and yet I said it anyway and did not retract.
”
She sobbed and I put my hand in hers, and after some time she regained her composure and wiped her eyes,
“
We were married in a small church by the sea. Our honeymoon was spent at our moated castle and the
…
”
–
she paused
–
“
…
the wedding night was
…”
S
he stopped and looked at me,
“
It is only the butterflies that excite him.
”
She continued,
“
He had every wall in the castle painted red as though we were walking in tunnels of blood and on every wall nothing but his butterflies. Row after row of them. And his favourite he hung in his study.
“
One evening we received two guests for dinner: both medical doctors. Icarus Hookeye and Sebastian Crabmouth. I should have known what he was planning. The wine was drugged. I was transported to the Blue-Flower Institution for the insane and have been here for over two years.
”
“
I am going to get you out of here,
”
I said
.
Mr Angelcakes visits Boo Boo
H
e has come again to see me. The lovely, mad Mr Angelcakes. He only comes at night. He comes when people are sleeping.
Tonight he starts to carve something into m
y back. It hurts a lot. He says:
Ssssshhhhhhh
Boo
Boo Don
’
t be
afraid. I am the angel man.
It
’
s only a
butter
fly