The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E)

by Ishbelle Bee

“How lovely they are John. Thank you.”

  Around the room, the embroidered biblical phrases hung mounted and framed on pieces of lace. They were surrounding her. They were closing in on her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “The same,” she said, sadly. “Tell me about your telescope. What did you see last night?”

  “Orion’s belt and the Great Bear. They were very clear, very bright. And I saw a shooting star, which is good luck.”

  “Do you think the angels are up there John? Do you ever see angels in the night sky?”

  “Not yet. But I will keep looking. Maybe the shooting star was an angel and he’s coming to get you well again.”

  There’s a tap at the door and Aunt Rosebud enters, steely eyed, holding a ribboned box.

  “Good morning Lily,” (she ignores me) “I have brought a walnut cake.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sister; but I haven’t much of an appetite.”

  “Nonsense, you must eat.” And she glared at me, my cue to leave.

  This time, when I left the room, I sat by the keyhole and watched and listened. I had never done this before. But there were too many of those biblical lace gifts. There were too many of her cakes. My mother was drowning in them.

  Aunt Rosebud perched by the bed, her voice low and hissing: “Lily, dear. Will you not try some of the walnut cake I have brought?”

  “No. Perhaps later.”

  “Just a little, Lily, just a little. It will help you get better. Good girl.”

  “It tastes funny. It tastes strange.”

  “Just eat it my dear.”

  That was all I needed to hear.

  * * *

  pOiSoNeR

  * * *

  When my father returned from Paris that evening I went up to his study and I told him what I heard.

  “And what are you suggesting, John, exactly?” he said, sitting at his study desk, half glancing at the grandfather clock.

  “Aunt Rosebud is poisoning Mamma.”

  He looked at me for quite some time. I think he knew. And then he looked at the grandfather clock, its eyes shifting towards him.

  “Don’t be silly, John, and never mention this again.” His eyes fixed upon the clock. I stood in the way between the clock and him, blocking his vision of this weird idol.

  “Father, look at me.”

  My father’s connection with the clock was broken, and he stared at me sadly. “You will never mention your ridiculous theories to anyone. It would break your mother’s heart. Now go to your room.”

  He knew. He knew. He knew.

  That evening I crept into my father’s study and looked at the clock. I had thoughts of burning it, pushing it out of the window. I kicked it. I kicked it again. I looked into its great moon face. I am sure it was smirking at me.

  I looked through my father’s desk and I found a locket. A curl of black hair; my mother’s was sunflower yellow. And a picture of a woman with dazzling eyes, slanted like an Egyptian princess, and a smile that curved like a scimitar. A wondrous witch-woman for my father.

  There was no one to protect my mother, but me.

  The clock chimed midnight and I went softly into my mother’s bedchamber.

  She heard me step in. “John, is that you?” A heap of books rested on her night table. I glimpsed The Mysteries of Udolpho and Jane Eyre. I stepped close to my mother and sat down next to the bed. “Mother, I need you to listen to me.”

  She stroked my face with her hand gently. “What is it, darling?”

  “You are being poisoned by Aunt Rosebud. I have told father and he will not listen.”

  She looked startled for a moment. “No one is trying to poison me, sweetheart. You are so imaginative.” And she laughed.

  “Mother, please. You must believe me.”

  “Go to bed, John,” she said sadly, and turned away from me.

  And so I went to bed and dreamt that night that the clock was watching me, ticking softly. And I heard the hum of insect wings. Dead angels fell from the roof of our house. I ran to the window and I could see my mother dead and floating down the river, tiny snow-bells in her hair, drifting on the water. My father was locked inside one of his time machines, frozen forever. I was alone with the clock. The wings of the ladybirds were fluttering inside my head.

  In the morning, Aunt Rosebud arrived, a new poisonous cake in her hands. I gazed at her from the top of the stairs and slowly descended, our eyes fixed upon each other. “Aunt Rosebud,” I said. “Good morning. Why don’t we all have tea and cake together? I will fetch Father from his study. It looks delicious.”

  She examined me carefully, her lizard eyes ancient and full of spirals. “I’m sorry John, but your mother likes our visits to be private. She needs the comfort of her sister. Why don’t you run off and play?”

  I had reached the bottom of the staircase. She was trying to read me, to guess what I knew or thought I knew. “What kind of cake is it today?”

  She smiled, a smile like the clock. It frightened me. “Lemon drizzle.”

  I could hear those insect wings humming. The clock was trying to communicate with me. I stepped away from her. I am not a hero. I should kill this woman, destroy the clock and save my mother. I am a child. I speak, my lips moving, my voice from somewhere else. “What poison is in it?”

  She didn’t answer me. “I will speak to your father, John.”

  Everything changed after that. I was confined to my room for a month as punishment. Before that month ended I was informed by my father that my mother had died. It was deep in the month of August and on the day of her funeral it began snowing outside, our house a fairy tale palace of white. It was so beautiful that my heart turned into glass. Broke into pieces. Cut up my insides.

  The servants gasped at the weather and shook their heads.

  “This is witchcraft,” said the maid.

  The funeral was small. A solitary raven watched over the service. Its eyes were devil yellow. Snow rested on the ground, delicate and untouchable as polar bear fur. After the service my father took me aside and said he had found a tutor for me called Mr Fingers, who came with superb references. He would be arriving in the morning.

  That evening the grandfather clock was stolen.

  It was still snowing the morning Mr Fingers arrived, the air dancing with snowflakes, cold little kisses, a thousand tiny bites. He was short, with a pointy black beard and half moon black spectacles and his coat and waistcoat were decorated with ladybirds.

  He saw me staring at his waistcoat and grinned. “Ladybirds are little witches.” His mouth stretched impossibly wide into a demon dazzle of teeth.

  The demon had come for the grandfather clock. He questioned my father and then he tortured him. When he still had no answer as to its whereabouts he stuffed my father into his obsidian sarcophagus. Shut the lid on him.

  When the lid was finally opened my father was gone.

  Floating in space somewhere.

  He let the servants go; took over the house and stole my father’s money. Sent out advertisements with a reward promised for information on the missing clock.

  And he waited.

  “I am your father now,” Mr Fingers said.

  V: August 1888

  Tea and cake with Mr Loveheart & Mrs Foxglove

  I wake up in a plump, pillowed bed to see Goliath sitting quietly by the window, reading The Times. His great bear bulk blocks the sunlight, blanketing me in shadow. The darkness spreads out before me like a roll of carpet to stuff Cleopatra in. Roll her up like a sausage and dump her in front of a Roman Emperor, who’ll unravel her whilst licking his lips and plucking a grape from its skin.

  Goliath smiles at me gently. “Good morning.”

  “Is Mr Loveheart dead?” I say.

  “No. I chased him away. Have some breakfast, little one. There’s toast and honey.”

  I stare out of the window at the sea. We are in a fisherman’s cottage. We are still in Whitby. An envelope rests on the table b
y the honey jar.

  “What is that?”

  “Mr Loveheart has invited us for afternoon tea.”

  “Why? What does he want?”

  “He wants to talk to us both. He wants to negotiate.”

  I spread my toast with a big dollop of butter and honey. “I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “And if he tries to hurt me, I know you will turn into a lion and eat him,” and I stuff a large piece of toast and honey into my mouth.

  Late morning, Goliath carries me up the steps to the abbey and tells me stories of sea imps and underwater worlds.

  The skies are full of soft cocoon-like clouds and the air smells of salt and seaweeds. I stare out at the sea on top of Goliath’s shoulders and it is as blue and as deep nightmares. “Do you think Captain Mackerel has found a mermaid to marry?”

  “I think he has found two. And they catch fish and pearls for him. And he is very happy, and the cat has a pearl necklace and is very happy.”

  We arrive punctually at our tea and cake destination. It is the home of Mrs Foxglove who, Goliath informs me, has a collection of death masks and an interest in tea-leaf reading. It is a large green cottage looking over the sea on the cliff, purple flowers and ferns overgrown in the garden and a bronze fox head as a doorknocker.

  Goliath knocks three times and a tall lady with long white hair and delicate tortoiseshell spectacles opens the door, eyes like bright blue periwinkles, her voice impish and light. “Do come in. Mr Loveheart is already here. He does love my cakes.”

  The cottage has low ceilings, which make Goliath stoop, his great bulk negotiating the corners and doors. The air smells of sea-flowers and something else, something sinister. Goblin green walls are the backdrop for Mrs Foxglove’s collection of plaster of Paris death masks; there must have been hundreds of them, each with a different grimace and look of horror eternally fixed upon their faces.

  We enter the sitting room, where more masks line the walls and an elegant table is laid with numerous cakes and a large pot of steaming tea. And there sits Mr Loveheart, in green velvet with red hearts embroidered on his jacket; he has a mouthful of cake and a big grin upon his face. He remains seated as we enter, while Mrs Foxglove pours the tea. “Now help yourselves to cake. I have six sorts: Victoria sponge, chocolate, vanilla cream, lavender, cherry and almond, and Mr Loveheart’s favourite: lemon drizzle.”

  Mr Loveheart continues to grin, while chewing his mouthful.

  “May I ask how you two are acquainted?” asks Goliath, helping himself to the chocolate cake, an especially large slice, while I point to the vanilla cream.

  “Mr Loveheart is a dear friend, as is his employer, Mr Fingers. They both help me acquire my beautiful death masks. So helpful. Clever boys, they are.” And she ruffles Mr Loveheart’s hair, playfully.

  “Quite a collection you have,” Goliath remarks.

  “Oh yes, I have nearly five hundred. Hangings, decapitation, drownings – you name it, I will most likely have it. It’s a fascination for me to see the human soul trapped in its final moments. The collection is very precious to me. They are my children.”

  “You really believe you have their souls?”

  “Of course. They are trapped within the mask.”

  I look at the faces and lick my fingers of vanilla cream and think, she is wrong and she is quite mad. Mr Loveheart is staring at me, reading my thoughts and he too licks his fingers, gently mimicking me.

  “Shall we get down to business?” he asks.

  Goliath nods and Mr Loveheart, wiping the remainder of Lemon Drizzle from his lips, continues.

  “My employer, Mr Fingers, would very like much like to meet Miss Mirror, and suggested that the ideal location would be my ancestral home, this evening. A carriage will be collecting us after this delightful tea. My father, like Mrs Foxglove, was also a collector, although his obsession was time travel. I have invited many guests to view his machines this evening, with an interest to buy. They have been cluttering up the place for too long.”

  “And what exactly does he want with my ward?” grumbles Goliath.

  “Well, she is of immense value to him due to a peculiar set of circumstances. You see, one of my father’s prized time machines was a clock, which was stolen by your ward’s grandfather, who I understand went quite mad and locked her inside it.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Mr Fingers wanted the clock. Or, to be more exact, he wanted what was inside the clock. The man who made it was a most unusual fellow, and he had trapped a creature inside it. Some sort of deity (and he chuckled as if it were amusing to him). My employer finally acquired the clock through some inconvenience, but it is unfortunately now useless.”

  “Useless?”

  “Yes, it seems that your ward has become the clock. The deity has been absorbed into her, become her. She was, I understand, essentially dead when she was taken out. The spirit of the clock has simply moved from one container to another – into her body.”

  “What does Mr Fingers intend to do with Mirror?”

  Mr Loveheart rolls his eyes and drums his fingers rhythmically against the table, as though playing an invisible piano. “He would like to talk to her.”

  “And if we refuse?”

  “You cannot keep running from us both. Surely you would like this situation resolved quietly. If you refuse, we will simply take her from you. You cannot protect her all the time. All he wants is a little chit chat.”

  Goliath stares deeply at Mr Loveheart and then rests his hand gently on my shoulder. “You and your employer are a pair of monsters. And I believe that you both intend to harm or kill my ward. It is true that this situation needs to resolved, so she can become free of the pair of you. I am her protector until the day I die.”

  “Understood.”

  Goliath turns towards me. “Little one, want do you want to do?”

  “I want to meet Mr Fingers, and I want to see Mr Loveheart’s collection of time machines, and I would like a piece of the chocolate cake.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” and I don’t know why I keep thinking, yes, yes, yes, yes. But it is the right answer to give.

  “Then we agree to your employer’s terms, Mr Loveheart,” Goliath sighs.

  “Super. We were going to drug the tea if you had refused, which would have been frankly impolite.” Mr Loveheart pours himself some more. “I must say I was surprised and quite impressed with your little gift, Mr Honey-Flower. Your transformation into a tiger was quite unexpected. Satisfying, almost.”

  “Throwing you out of the window was very satisfying.”

  Mrs Foxglove, who had been dusting the death masks while we were talking, reseats herself. “Mr Honey-Flower, when you die, do you think your face will remain human or morph into an animal?”

  “If you intend to have my face as part of your death mask collection then you are to be sadly disappointed.”

  She turns towards Mr Loveheart. “Perhaps, Mr Loveheart, we could come to some arrangement? The usual fee, of course. I have a spot over the mantlepiece free.” She looks towards Goliath, “It has a view of the garden.”

  “Madam, please. I intend to remain alive for quite some time,” Goliath growls.

  The small clock on the mantlepiece chimes, delicately. The death masks mutter amongst themselves. One of them speaks to me directly and I mouth the word “Aunt Rosebud.”

  Mr Loveheart looks startled. “What did you say?”

  “Aunt Rosebud,” I say again. The death mask smirks. “You should have killed her.”

  The death masks are laughing. Mr Loveheart grips the table; the teapot is shaking.

  “Perhaps you will have a second chance.”

  Mr Loveheart composes himself. “Clever girl.”

  Mrs Foxglove gathers the empty teacups. “And now I shall read the tea-leaves – my other great passion. Drink up, Mr Loveheart.”

  Mr Loveheart drinks the remains o
f his tea and hands over his cup. She views her own first, turning the cup in her hand, examining the dregs. “Well, it seems a sudden and unexpected event is about to befall me.”

  Mr Loveheart takes out a silver pistol from his waistcoat and shoots her in the head. She falls to the floor in a great heap, the lavender cake plopping off the table after her.

  Goliath stands up, a protective wall in front of me.

  “The lemon drizzle sponge was a little dry, don’t you think?” Mr Loveheart remarks. “Time for us to depart.”

  Outside we can hear the arrival of a horse and carriage.

  “You shot her because the sponge cake was unsatisfactory?” Goliath says, bewildered.

  “Of course. I’m a connoisseur of homemade cakes, you know. Now come along,” and he motions us to the door.

  “You’re insane,” bellows Goliath.

  “Of course.”

  The death masks watch us leave, happy as fat pumpkins in a field.

  “I should warn you. My carriage doesn’t understand the concept of time.” Mr Loveheart adjusts his cuffs.

  “And what do you mean by that, exactly?” asks Goliath.

  “Step inside. Let’s take a ride.” He bows, playfully.

  The carriage is lined with red silk, violent as a murder scene.

  The horses scream, and we are moving – the carriage juddering, moving into darkness. The landscape morphs into a hell realm: the sea turns black with bloated corpses floating on its foaming lips. I see an angel fall out of the sky, black-winged and screaming. It lands in a heap by the road, bones shattering, giant wings a mass of blood and broken architecture.

  “Whoops!” says Mr Loveheart, and shuts the carriage curtains, which are red silk.

  Goliath holds me tight and glares at Mr Loveheart, waiting for an explanation.

  “Short cut,” Loveheart answers. “Spot of black magic.”

  Mr Fingers

  I have no heart, so to speak. I am made up of dark matter and clock mechanisms. I tick, I tock. I have arrived from the underworld because I am looking for something. Tick tock. It is a very precious thing. It holds time, it holds something I want.