The case of the fiendish.., p.9
The Case of the Fiendish Nudger, page 9
“But I saw it with my own eyes, Father!” Miss Foxworthy insisted.
“You saw nothing, Daughter! And in response you bring these charlatans to my home! I thought better of you. I mean to say, look at them. What were you thinking?”
Woolfitt seemed to take umbrage at that, fussing with his stained waistcoat. Only for Miss Foxworthy to continue: “But Mr Woolfitt here brought you back from the brink of oblivion with a quite remarkable mechanism. No doctor was able to do it. Were it not for him, you most likely would never have been revived at all.”
“Is that so? And what mechanism is that, may I ask?”
“A Phantasmal Head Pump,” Woolfitt offered quickly, affecting a scholarly seriousness. “A machine of my own invention. It relieves victims of the crippling effects of Supernatural Stupefaction.”
“Supernatural what, sir?”
“Stupefaction.”
“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all me life!”
“But you are awake, Father,” Miss Foxworthy pointed out.
“I am. Which is usually what follows being asleep, girl. Except, when I took it upon meself to fetch a little something from the pantry, I found meself assaulted by these two nincompoops.”
“I hardly think calling us names is warranted,” Woolfitt said snooty-like. “And how were we to know you were skulking around in the early hours of the morning?”
“It is me house, you buffoon!” the Judge bellowed. “I’ll skulk anywhere I please in me own property!”
“But Father, Mr Woolfitt was only trying to do his job.”
“Aye, a job for which I did not employ him. Nor would I have done so if the least bit cognizant.”
“To be fair,” said Woolfitt, “if you had been cognizant, we wouldn’t have been employed in the first place.”
“Father,” Miss Foxworthy interrupted before her old dad began a new rant. “I’m afraid to tell you your life is in great danger. And perhaps mine as well. The creature that pushed you out of the window could very well return any night. We need protection.”
“But there is no creature! I took a tumble is what happened. A momentary dizziness overtook me. But thankfully the Foxworthys have always been robust and I have now recovered better than before. Which will be an end of the matter. Now...” the judge glared at Woolfitt with such disgust, he looked like he were smelling a terrible stink. “What precisely did you promise Mr Woolfitt and his companion, Cynthia? What monies do we owe? For while I am not duty-bound to pay a single penny to these crackpots... considering there appears to be no written contract to legitimize the transaction... I will nevertheless honour the agreement if only to see the back of them. Then, I will prepare for meself a hot bath, clean this grime from me person, and forget any of this craziness happened at all.”
Wax Cylinder Fifteen
End o’ an Acquaintance
AT THE FRONT DOOR, Miss Foxworthy handed Woolfitt his money with a look of embarrassment. “I’m most terribly sorry, Mr Woolfitt,” she said soft-like, with a glance behind her as if she feared Judge Foxworthy was listening. “But it’s quite baffling to me why my father remembers nothing of what happened.”
“I’m afraid it is quite common when one receives such a visceral shock,” Woolfitt replied, transferring the Phantasmal Head Pump into his carpet bag before accepting the money. “His mind cannot readily process what he saw, so he buries the incident into the depths of his psyche. And there it shall remain until such a time as he is ready to acknowledge the truth.”
“And when might that be?”
“Difficult to say. Some people go their whole lives without recalling a thing. Others have a sudden rush of remembrances often jogged by some small detail that reminds them of their trauma. But for now, your father is clueless as to what has happened to him. A great shame because he might have given us some insight. Even recognised the creature that attacked him.”
“Only for him to be quite dismissive of the very possibility of the whole incident. He’s already ordered Cramp to clear away all the protections you’ve put in place, Mr Woolfitt. Which surely makes as vulnerable as before.”
“Unless the intruder never returns, Miss,” I offered, by way o’ some small comfort. “That’s a possibility.”
“I hope you’re right, Nimble,” Miss Foxworthy murmured, anxious-like. “I really do.”
Only for Woolfitt to quickly interject: “And if it helps, my dear, I will continue to keep my nose to the ground and my ear to the wind. If I hear or smell of anything that is pertinent to your case, I will inform you at once. For if there is still a malevolent force, I will do everything in my power to make sure you remain secure and comforted.”
I looked at Woolfitt with some surprise at that. For he was never one to offer up his services for free. But then, when I saw the gratefulness Miss Foxworthy displayed, them big dewy eyes o’ hers shining in appreciation, I understood at once why the old rogue were so accommodating.
“Well, I would appreciate that very much, Mr Woolfitt,” Miss Foxworthy gushed. “You really are too kind.”
To which Woolfitt replied: “Not in the least, my dear. I am at your service.” Then throwing his carpet bag at me, forcing me to catch it sharpish, we stole from the Foxworthy’s house and into the cold grey streets o’ London just as dawn peeked its rosy nose across the rooftops.
Wax Cylinder Sixteen
Stories at the Monkey & Parrot
TWO DAYS LATER WOOLFITT continued to find a good use for the money we had earned from Miss Cynthia Foxworthy, and it weren’t to pay the rent. The Monkey and Parrot was one of Woolfitt’s favourite haunts in Cheapside—not so far from our offices on Eerie Street—and seeing as he could finally settle his debt behind the bar, he was once again welcomed with open arms. The landlord—a flat-nosed lug by the name of Horace Welks—were only too happy to take Woolfitt’s money, but I were less than enthusiastic about him passing his loose change about. There was all sorts of debts to pay, we had no other jobs lined up, and Woolfitt had already supped down half the proceeds we’d earned on bottles o’ stout. What made matters worse, on that particular evening, he was in a story-telling mood and had attracted quite a gathering.
“It was a foggy night not unlike this one,” Woolfitt intoned, leaning back in his chair as those around him sat listening, enthralled, “when I encountered that hideous monstrosity dubbed the Swarming Calamity: a terrifying, writhing throng of infected paper wasps, their evil assured after feeding on several powerful sorcerous books found in the derelict library of the famed occultist Ullo Thorpe. The mystery then had been solved as why several confectioners had been broken into and their contents spirited away, and I was on hand to bring the case to its natural conclusion.”
“And what’s one of them swarming calamities look like then, Woolfie?” asked Deidre Butters who was pressing her ample bosom up against Woolfitt while she wound one o’ her fingers through his hair.
“I’m coming to that Deidre, my dear. Don’t concern yourself.”
“But it’s all so scary...” murmured Margery Potts, who was sat on his other side, running the back o’ her hand down his cheek. “It’s making me feel all funny inside.”
“Perhaps that’s just your proximity to me, my dear,” Woolfitt grinned, and waggled his eyebrows.
I rolled me eyes, shoving me pipe back in me mouth, and turned me attention back to the window.
The fog really were a thick’un, swallowing most of the street in a soupy yellow pall so that I could hardly see the end o’ it. There were prolly all manner of supernatural threats abroad on in a fog like that. Lucrative ones n’ all. Except we was enjoying none of them riches, stuck inside as we was in a pub, and with Woolfitt spending all our readies.
“...And so it was, through a series of brilliant determinations,” Woolfitt boasted, “I found myself in Nanny Willoughby’s Naughty Treats where the confectioner’s shopkeeper and three assistants were being harangued by the creature as it tried to get access to a box of sherbet fancies. Never before had I seen something so repugnantly sickening as that collection of writhing insects, merged together to form the semblance of a man complete with a top hat, tailed coat and striped jersey. It was an abomination of poisoned sorcery made real.”
“Ooh, how horrible!” shivered Deidre Butters.
“Frightful!” whispered Margery Potts.
“Indeed it was, my beauties. And deadly. For every inch of its creation bristled with countless barbed stings, enough to kill a grown man with one fearsome embrace.”
“But weren’t you scared, Woolfie?” asked Deidre Butters.
“Why, not in the least. I have dealt with such malevolent creations many times before. For me they held no fear. Which is why, with a cry of: ‘Over here you Devils!’ I waved my toffee apple with no thought to my own personal safety.”
I sighed and hopped down from me stool. I had heard Woolfitt’s version of the same story many times before, and each time it got more and more elaborate and unlikely. As to me own remembering of that incident, while we did indeed rescue them shop keepers from the Swarming Calamity, it was me who were waving the toffee apple, while Woolfitt took the shop keeper and his attractive assistants off to safety. But Woolfitt never told that version. I were hardly included at all. No. He came off pretty nice in his recount, and I was hardly remembered. Not that it bothered me too much on that particular night, for me mind were elsewhere: still on Miss Foxworthy and her predicament as it happened. I wondered how she fared and if there had been any more hint of any intruder at her house. There certainly hadn’t been any more reports in the local papers about strange accidents and green-glowing old geezers. Which made me wonder if there had been such a thing at all. Maybe Old Black Cap Foxworthy had been right after all. Maybe it all was just a flight o’ fancy; a half-dream conjured out o’ thin air.
I pushed open the door to the pub and stepped outside, clenching me pipe between me teeth. It were cold, but I was glad o’ it after being in the closeness o’ the pub. I was just about to reach for a match to relight me pipe bowl, when I heard the sound of slapping feet, and out the fog appeared little Fanny Welks, the landlord’s daughter, trying to run in shoes too big for her, her face in a high colour as she came racing up toward the pub.
“Hallo, Fanny,” I said, as she came to a breathless stop before me. She was all damp with sweat, and her hair was all unkempt n’ all. “You look in a mighty hurry.”
“Oh. Hallo Nimble,” she rasped, distracted-like. “I didn’t see ye there.”
“Is everything all right? You look all flummoxed.”
“Well, is it happens, Nimble, I ain’t right at all. There’s been an incident up the road.”
“There has? What’s the matter?”
“I were just on me way back from the tobacconists for me old dad, when I saw it right before me eyes.”
“Saw what, Fanny?”
“A terror in the fog! A hideous green horror! And it only went and pushed someone right off a balcony and into the road. They’s blummin’ dead too!”
Wax Cylinder Seventeen
Foul Murder in Cheapside
THERE WERE AN EXPECTANT silence as Fanny recounted her tale to Woolfitt, who was at first miffed that he’d been interrupted during another o’ his anecdotes, then overcome with an expression of intense interest. Fanny spoke almost at a gabble, so she had to be slowed down by her father until, red-faced, she were offered a tot o’ rum to calm her nerves and she managed to finish her report with a little more composure.
“And that’s about the size o’ it, Mr Woolfitt,” she concluded. “And I came straight ‘ere after.”
“It’s Miss Foxworthy’s apparition, Woolfitt,” I murmured, even though I didn’t need to tell him. He knew well enough. “It’s got to be!”
Woolfitt looked at me, worried-like, then demanded o’ Fanny: “And whereabouts did you witness the incident, child?”
“Barely two streets away, Mr Woolfitt, sir. Just off Broke Road. The police are already there. They questioned me, but when I told ‘em what had happened, they laughed.”
“A common reaction from the authorities, I’m afraid,” Woolfitt said grave-like. “And did you see the body? Was it a woman by any chance?”
And I could see in that moment what Woolfitt were driving at. He thought in that moment it might have been Miss Foxworthy—a terrible thought. But Fanny were already shaking her head. “No, sir. No, it weren’t no woman, Mr Woolfitt. It were a bloke. A well-to-do one n’ all, from what I could see. Dressed up in a dinner jacket.”
At this, Woolfitt frowned. It didn’t sound like no one from Miss Foxworthy’s household...unless Judge Foxworthy had been twice the victim. But before Woolfitt could ask another question, Horace Welks was speaking: “So, this is a new case you’s working on is it, Woolfitt?” He’d always been sceptical o’ Woolfitt’s stories, but now he didn’t look so certain.
Woolfitt looked up at the landlord. “It is indeed, Horace. An unresolved investigation as it happens.”
“So shouldn’t you be about ye business then, Woolfie?” asked Deidre Butters. Everyone who had been listening to Woolfitt’s story was intent upon his next move.
“Hmm?” Woolfitt turned back to Deidre.
Then Margery said: “Aye, Woolfie. Shouldn’t you be solving the case? To make sure we’re all safe?”
Woolfitt blinked as if Margery had spoken in some foreign language. Then he seemed to rouse himself and said: “Oh yes! Quite so, quite so, my dear. Yes, I suppose I should.” And Woolfitt pushed hisself his feet, a little unsteady, and snatched up his hat from the table. “And you’re sure you actually the saw the thing?” he asked Fanny Welks again. “The green and glowing ghostly figure, I mean.”
“On my life, sir. ‘Orrible it were. Shoved that poor fella right onto the street below where...where he fell on some railings.”
There came a collected, ‘Ooo...’ from everyone.
“Well, then there’s nothing for it,” Woolfitt declared, squaring them narrow shoulders o’ his. “Devilry is again at large in the city, my friends. And all that stands between it and the corruption of goodness seems to be me once again.”
“And me!” I piped up.
“Yes, yes, you as well...” Woolfitt flapped a dismissive hand.
“But what are you going to do?” said Horace.
“Well, we must depart in all haste, Horace,” said Woolfitt. “If we’re lucky we might pick up the fiend’s trial.”
“If we’re lucky?” I said, “I’m not sure I’d use that particular phrase.”
But Woolfitt ignored me, addressing the crowd: “Dear people of The Monkey and Parrot,” he said grand-like. “I must say adieu. There appears to be a monstrosity on the loose about the city that needs my immediate attention. And while I am undoubtedly about to face grave danger, which may not end well for me, I will remember you all. Even Donald,” he nodded, indicating the gap-toothed idiot o’ a baker’s son who was nursing his pint o’ ale in the corner. With that, Woolfitt was on his way, planting his hat on his head, with me—once again—dashing to keep up.
“You dun half lay it on thick, Woolfitt,” I said, as we pushed onto the dark chilly streets o’ Cheapside. Behind us I could hear Margery Potts weeping as if we was going off to war.
“I mean everything I say sincerely, Nimble,” Woolfitt replied, flinging his cape over his shoulder. “For we might well encounter terrible danger in our pursuit of the Strange and Unusual.”
And with that, he pulled out his spirit compass from about his neck, striding purposeful-like down the street. “This way!” he cried. “I’m already getting a reading!”
Wax Cylinder Eighteen
Inspector Gamely
WE MARCHED OUT INTO the foggy streets o’ London, Woolfitt taking the lead with the spirit compass in his hand. The needle, he told me, was just quivering as we left The Monkey and Parrot, but as we closed in on Broke Road, it began to twitch and dance as if it were a bloodhound on the scent. The tricky little contraption proved proper n’ all, for as we rounded the next corner and arrived on Broke Road, we immediately saw the presence of a bunch of crushers forming a ring presumably about the crime scene. A small knot of people had gathered too—most craning in the road, but quite a few leaning over the wooden balconies o’ the tenements to take a gander at the scene below.
“And why are we investigating this again?” I asked anxious-like as we moved quick-smart across the cobbles. “There’s no money in it for us, you know.”
“Well, that depends now, Nimble, doesn’t it?” Woolfitt said.
“On what?”
“On whether I can sell the story to Eldritch Monthly. That old rascal Mandrake Pan would be more than happy to pay a guinea or two for the details of such a curious case as this. And if that apparition is abroad as Fanny Welks maintains, and we are indeed able to capture it, we’ll be able to offer Cynthia Foxworthy the necessary peace of mind we promised her. She may even offer us a juicy reward for our troubles.”
“Aye, and we all know what kind o’ reward you’d be after, don’t we?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Nimble!” Woolfitt growled. “I merely suggest that if we can suck the glowing green menace into a witch bottle, we can present the evidence to Judge Foxworthy. Thus, he’ll be forced to acknowledge our part in his recovery from Supernatural Stupefaction, and even realise how our efforts may have saved him from any further threat. Under those circumstances, the Foxworthys would be duty bound to compensate us for all our efforts.”
“Don’t be so sure. Judge Foxworthy don’t seem the compensating kind. And if you expect Miss Foxworthy to give you a sweet favour or two for our efforts, you’ve got another thing coming. She ain’t Margery Potts or Deidre Butters.”
