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

  “Why exactly did you invite me here tonight, Mr Loveheart?”

  “My life is a little dull at the moment, and I do like interesting scenarios. Spice things up a bit. Put you in the lion’s den. See if anyone bites.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” I said dryly.

  “My pleasure. The art is dreadful and the guests are all dead. Look at them all, detective. Take a good look. You are in the underworld sipping champagne with corpses.” And his eyes were bright with electricity.

  I followed his gaze to the centre of the room, where Elijah Whistle was standing next to Lady Clarence, both with a glass of champagne in their hands. He looked like a pussycat, as though she had been feeding him cream.

  “Dead as doornails, the whole lot of them.”

  We moved softly round the edges of the exhibition and stood by a small series of oil paintings of human hands. Constable Walnut examined them, glancing down at his own. Comparing.

  “Of course, you can’t arrest anyone,” sighed Loveheart.

  “I could arrest you for killing Albert Chimes.”

  “I’ve done you a service, detective. I have avenged the death of Daphne Withers. And where will they get their pretty watches from now? I’ve put some pressure on them. Shaken them up a bit.”

  “I wanted Albert Chimes arrested. I nearly had enough evidence.”

  “They would have got him out.” Loveheart looked out into the crowd. “They would have stopped you. I have saved your life.”

  “Do they know you killed him?”

  “They think I’m a half-wit.”

  “And what are you really, Mr Loveheart?” I looked directly at him. He was surprised by the question and, I thought, rather saddened by it.

  “I am,” he said very softly, “rather dangerous…”He turned and walked off towards the balcony.

  Constable Walnut and I moved down a side corridor, where a row of miniatures of Elijah’s early works were hung. They were botanical illustrations in black ink, dotted about like formula. I found them far more interesting than his portraiture. This was his work before he died. Before he met Lady Clarence. Before he was given his first demonic watch. This was who he had been. The illustrations were precise and methodical with sharp edges and a scientific line to them: they were curious dark little things. Ferns, mushrooms and weed-like creatures coiled over the wall, each with its scientific name, each with its own darkness.

  “I don’t like them. They give me the creeps,” said Walnut, scratching his chin.

  I could hear a splattering of applause and laughter behind us. Lady Clarence was giving a toast, her champagne glass lifted into the air, the crowd responding appropriately. The dead toasted the dead. All very civil. And then I saw Mr Loveheart walking towards the centre of the room, clapping in a long, slow motion. The crowd turned to watch him and parted for him like waves, lapping round his feet, circling him.

  “Marvellous speech,” cried Loveheart, “really splendid!”

  “Walnut, follow me, something is about to happen.” The constable and I edged closer to the main room.

  Lady Clarence looked at Mr Loveheart rather pitifully. “Oh, John. It’s lovely for us to finally meet. It’s a shame your father can’t be here. He was a wonderful man.”

  She was mocking him. A smile like a pair of scissors, I thought. She really does believe he is a fool. His outfit looked quite ridiculous. All that shocking green, all those hearts, pantomime almost. And his hair as yellow as butter, sticking up as though he had been hit by lightning. He looked as though he had stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, but I wasn’t sure what character he was.

  The crowd tittered playfully, an obedient audience to Lady Clarence. I could see Doctor Cherrytree behind her, watching carefully. And he wasn’t laughing. Lady Clarence handed her champagne glass to Elijah to hold, another act of humiliation. This evening was really all about her. She was quite a lot taller than Loveheart, her gown heavy and wide. She was filling space and she was the only female in the room. Queen bee and her boys. And there was Mr Loveheart, the defective worker bee, floating, alien like. Hovering like an assassin.

  “Your father, Lord Loveheart,” she continued, as smug as a bug, “was a sensible, reliable and wise man.” Her eyes lowered playfully, every compliment a reversed insult to Loveheart. “He was a patron of the arts and was always elegantly dressed.” Gentle laughter crept out of the audience. And yet Mr Loveheart remained quite still. “He will always have a place in our hearts.”

  The audience applauded her.

  Mr Loveheart bowed very low. “I am afraid, madam, that none of us have our hearts anymore.”

  “What a curious remark,” she replied.

  “Do you think it’s going to kick off?” said Walnut quietly from beside me. I really had no idea. I couldn’t predict anything Mr Loveheart would do. He could walk away laughing. He could have killed everyone in the room. I almost felt concern for him and I’m not sure why. My own world felt suddenly very small and very ordinary. I am a detective. I look for clues, I arrest criminals, I uphold the law of England. This was outside of my world and my own understanding. I was essentially useless in this situation. My own power limited. I was only an observer; he wanted me to observe.

  A hand patted me on the shoulder. It was Doctor Cherrytree. “Detective, I wonder if I could have a private word with you upstairs.”

  I told Constable Walnut to wait downstairs for me, and I followed the doctor up the stairs, past more of Elijah’s portraits of lords and ladies, some with little dogs, others with hunting rifles posed like kings and queens. Captured in time. Captured within the canvas. On to the balcony we stood under the gigantic portrait of Lady Clarence, heavy and imposing. I could almost feel her weight upon me, suffocating. It was as though she was floating, like a deity, and we were within a chapel, her acolytes below, rubbing their hands, dizzy with religious fervor.

  Doctor Cherrytree tapped the rail of the balcony with his long, pale fingers. “I’m not sure how you managed to get into this private exhibition but–”

  I interrupted him, “I was sent an invitation.”

  “By whom?”

  “It was anonymous.”

  “I find that extremely hard to believe. In any case, it’s most inappropriate for you to be here. You have accused and insulted our members with the most ludicrous theories. I can’t have Lady Clarence upset.”

  “You really all believe you can outwit Death?”

  Doctor Cherrytree looked a little taken aback by this remark, and then smirked, “I want you to leave, detective. And take that stupid constable with you.”

  “I’m not leaving and my constable is certainly not stupid. He has an appreciation of the arts. Although I am beginning to wonder if this really is an art exhibition.”

  Then he pushed me. I was surprised at how strong he was and I felt myself falling over the balcony. I grabbed at the rail but he shoved me over. I caught sight of his expression: he was manic, his teeth gritted. I grabbed hold of his neck and pulled him with me.

  It was a long drop. As I was falling I could see the painting of Lady Clarence, the smug goddess waiting to hear my neck break. I could see Mr Loveheart in the crowd, he was behind Elijah.

  We fell to the floor with a thud. We had landed on top of Elijah with a horrible crunching sound. There was a scream from Lady Clarence. I was in pain. Constable Walnut was helping me up. Doctor Cherrytree was crawling off towards the other side of the room. Elijah lay still, his neck twisted, his eyes blank. He looked like a squashed blackbird.

  “Constable Walnut,” I shouted. “Arrest Doctor Cherrytree for attempted murder!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Walnut, and leapt on the doctor who was hobbling off into the side room. Walnut had hold off him and dragged him to his feet. “Come here you slippery bugger!”

  I could see Mr Loveheart helping himself to the trifle, an especially large portion, and looking very pleased with himself.

  Inspector Salt

  It was ten o�
��clock at night by the time we had stuffed the dubious Doctor Cherrytree in a cell. I had been nursing my sore arm, and Constable Walnut brought me in a cup of tea and a sticky bun. All was well with the world. Constable Walnut sat down to join me.

  “That was quite an evening, sir.”

  “What did you think of the exhibition?” I said, sinking my teeth into the bun.

  “I’m more of an Expressionist, sir. Distorted for emotional effect.”

  There was a knock at the door and Inspector Salt entered. Constable Walnut and I rose from our chairs.

  “Inspector,” I said. He was a tall, thin man with snow-white hair and watery eyes.

  “I need a word with you, sergeant. Constable, you can stay put. You need to release Doctor Cherrytree immediately.”

  “He tried to kill me!” I said, outraged.

  “I have spoken to him, and he says it was an accident and you fell, and there are twenty witnesses who say the same thing.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, sir,” said Constable Walnut.

  “Did you actually witness Doctor Cherrytree push Sergeant White?”

  “No, sir, but–”

  “Well then. It was an accident. A tragic one.”

  “Inspector Salt, I have been a detective for Scotland Yard for twenty years and I am not a liar.”

  “The witnesses say otherwise. You lost your footing and fell. Take a few days off.” And at that he produced a pocket watch and clicked it open. It shimmered with weird light. I felt giddy. I felt sick.

  “You’re… one of them,” I said. Constable Walnut looked worried. He had seen the watch and worked it out.

  Inspector Salt clicked the time mechanism shut and eyed me coolly. “Like I said. Take a few days off. And we’ll say no more about this.” He was as cool as an iceberg. My world was collapsing. He left, the door shutting behind him.

  I looked to Constable Walnut, “What can we do?”

  Walnut replied, selecting another sticky bun. “We could always ask your Mr Loveheart.”

  VII: Detective Sergeant White Visits Mr Loveheart

  I returned to the home of Mr Loveheart. I really had no other place to go. My arm was bandaged in a sling, much like my career – wounded. He stood in the garden in front of the house, waiting for me, waving, wearing a bright yellow waistcoat with buttercups in his hair and a lopsided grin. I wondered if I should slip off home, unnoticed.

  “Good morning, detective. How’s your arm?”

  “Sore.” I edged closer to him cautiously.

  “Will you be attending the funeral of the man you squashed?”

  “No,” I sighed. “I have a feeling you pushed Elijah to break my fall.”

  “Of course. Only happy to help.”

  “Then help me again. I don’t know what to do now.”

  “Mmmmm,” hummed Loveheart, and put his finger to his chin, playing with me. “What do you want to happen?”

  “I want all those monsters stopped. I want Lady Clarence and her group punished. But the law can’t do it. The law is powerless. I can’t do my job. Even my inspector is involved with them.”

  “Do you want me to get rid of them for you, detective? Are you asking me to murder them for you?”

  “I don’t know what I’m asking. I need advice. I need some options.”

  “Your options are limited to say the least. Nasty bunch, that lot. Very unsavoury,” he said, glittering like tinfoil.

  “Please, whatever you can do.”

  “I would love to assist you, Detective Sergeant White. I tell you what. I’ll decapitate Lady Clarence, Obadiah Deadlock, Edmund Cherrytree and Inspector Salt, who are the main culprits. Their group will fall apart without them. We can’t have a member of the police force involved with them – what would Queen Victoria say? In return, you must do me a little favour.”

  “Which is?”

  “In the near future I will need your help, and I will call upon you. It is a matter very close to my heart.” He looked at me almost as though he would burst into tears, and then within an instant he was grinning again.

  “All right.” We shook hands. A deal had been struck. And I wouldn’t regret it.

  “Don’t ever feel guilt, detective. Remember they are already dead. You are administering natural law and I am your willing assassin.”

  I felt the greatest sense of relief. He was as mad as a spoon. But he was also oddly heroic and had absolutely no fear of anything. I wondered what on Earth had happened to him to make him into this creature. And I suddenly realised, I think, that I actually liked him.

  VIII: August 1888

  The Funeral of Elijah Whistle

  What on Earth does one wear for a funeral? Something dramatic, obviously. The theme is death. So, black seems obvious, if not a little predictable, and I am not at all predictable. I was of course invited. I am one of the richest men in England and considered an amusing eccentric. So, I can really wear whatever I like. And I can kill whomever I like.

  I’d chosen to wear white with, of course, my trademark red hearts. A dashing bachelor!

  I’d been mulling over how to kill them all.

  * * *

  DECAPITATION

  I simply love the word. Head over heels

  I take my ancestral sword with me. Daddy will be so proud that it was going to get some use. Heads lying around the cemetery like pumpkins! I can’t wait. I do hope they have an interesting vicar. Maybe one with a lisp. It is going to be a splendid day!

  Clippety-clop. Off we trot in my white carriage with white horses. I do like to make an impact. White is so saint-like. So ghostly charming. Clippety-clop. To Underwood Church and cemetery. I really could not be late. Important people to kill. Promises to be kept. Keep your fingers crossed, Detective Sergeant White. This one is for you, sir.

  It is a beautiful, shiny day in London. My favourite city. My little world. I like to watch the people, the tiny dolls. Puppet people on invisible strings. The bearded ladies dancing in the mud, the rude, misshapen street children, the frog-croaking drunks. All this wickedness of history, layer upon layer of it, like one of Aunt Rosebud’s trifles. Poison neatly laid to rest in the layer of custard.

  And we arrive at the gates of Underwood Cemetery. A little white church for the elite. Even a rose garden especially for the dead. How very pretty – and they were all hovering about like flies over dung. I could see Lady Clarence in a black gown with a string of pearls, she was weeping on the shoulder of Doctor Cherrytree. What a marvellous actress she would have made. A very sturdy Lady Macbeth, no doubt. Ooooh, and I could see Obadiah Deadlock, that orange-haired fellow on his own. Not much good with company, that one. Maybe he’s a bit shy? Even Inspector Salt was there, always good to have a corrupt member of the police force at a mock funeral. And out of the carriage I popped, sword in hand. Am I eccentric enough for you all? I approached them and bowed very low to Lady Clarence. “I really am terribly sorry about the death of Elijah. Have I missed the service?”

  Lady Clarence looked at me as though I was a bug to be squashed. She reminded me of Aunt Rosebud in many ways. “Yes. It was a beautiful service,” she said, not really looking at me but at an imaginary audience. “We are about to bury him, if you’d like to follow us. If my nerves can stand it – I feel so frail. My poor Elijah. Taken so young.”

  “Surely not that young, madam,” I piped in. “He was a good ripe age.” Yes, I imagine he was nearly one hundred.

  And all eyes fell upon me. “But his talent will live on. It is certainly burned into my memory!” and I tapped my skull rather animatedly.

  At this her lips pursed and she started to move into the cemetery, the rest of her acolytes trailing behind. I could hear Doctor Cherrytree, who was holding her arm, whispering, “Odd fellow, that Loveheart.”

  Obadiah Deadlock crept up on me. “I do like your sword, Mr Loveheart.”

  “Oh, thank you very much. I am quite fond of it, myself. Tell me, what’s the vicar like?”

  “Oh, he’s fine
. Has a bit of a lisp though.”

  “Marvellous.” I said.

  Obadiah scratched his large head, nervously. “I am worried about Lady Clarence. During the service she broke down in tears several times. And she’s such a strong lady. Quite formidable, if I dare say.”

  “Yes, I was just thinking that she reminded me of my Aunt Rosebud.”

  “Really, was she a formidable woman?”

  “Well, she murdered her own children and my mother. But she was extremely good at baking cakes.”

  “Good grief,” cried Obadiah.

  “Oh, don’t upset yourself, dear fellow. My strange family hasn’t affected me in the slightest,” and I waved my sword about theatrically.

  He didn’t respond, oddly enough.

  “So,” I said, “I hear you’re a bit of a star gazer.”

  “Yes,” he replied nervously. “You may have read one of my published works on the theory of time travel.”

  “Indeed, my father had a keen interest as well. As do I. But I do wonder if humans should be meddling with time at all. Dangerous business, dabbling with the work of the gods.”

  “Why shouldn’t we? It is scientific progress. Evolution.”

  “At what cost?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there is always a price to pay, Mr Deadlock. Always. Tell me, have you ever met Death?”

  “Met him? Of course not. He’s not a person.”

  “Oh yes he is, and I’ve met him. And he’s really someone you don’t want to annoy.”

  “I can’t continue this conversation, Mr Loveheart. You are talking nonsense. You are talking in riddles.” And he moved away from me.

  The coffin was white and Lady Clarence laid a single red rose on it, weeping into her enormous bosom. The vicar, a tall, gangly-looking fellow with beady yellow eyes stood at the foot of the grave. I was looking forward to this.