The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2

by Ishbelle Bee

  “What sort of fight?”

  “Miss Boo Boo attacked Miss Prunella, stuck her head in the trifle dish. I didn’t witness it, just heard about it after.”

  “But Mr Hookeye didn’t have an argument with anyone that evening?”

  “Not that we know of sir,” replies Mrs Treacle.

  “And your opinion of Mr Hookeye?”

  They glance at one another doubtfully. Mrs Treacle responds first. “He wasn’t very friendly.”

  “He was a rude bugger,” snaps Sally. Her mother glances worriedly at her. “I only met him a few times, but he was never nice to anyone. Smug and slippery.”

  “What sort of business were Mr Grubweed and Mr Hookeye involved with?”

  “Something to do with the Professor. Mr Hookeye visited us every few months,” says Mrs Treacle.

  “And the work?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Sally also shakes her head.

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to have harmed Mr Hookeye?”

  “No,” they say in unison, both shaking their heads.

  “Thank you, ladies. And now I would very much like to interview Mr Grubweed.”

  “He’s not here, sir,” says Sally, “He’s visiting the Professor, but he should be back for his dinner. Mrs Grubweed and Grandpa are in the lounge though. I’ll take you there.”

  Blind Grandpa sits on an old rocking chair in the centre of the room, a knitted blanket on his lap. His daughter, Mrs Grubweed, sits demurely beside him, staring at the wall.

  “Good afternoon. I am Detective Sergeant White from Scotland Yard.”

  “Where’s Waxford?” says Grandpa.

  “He’s broken his foot. If I could ask you some questions?” Mrs Grubweed is still staring at the wall. “Mrs Grubweed?”

  “Oh, ignore her,” Grandpa replies, and points at his brain with his finger. “Gone with the fairies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You won’t get anything out of her. She’s always been this way. Never said a word from the day she was born. Never cried as a baby.”

  I look at her carefully. She still avoids my eyes. “Well, is there anything you would like to tell me Mr…”

  “Richard Applecore. That is my name but I am usually referred to as Grandpa. I spend most of my time in my room upstairs or in the garden. I am looked after by my daughter and Sally. I was brought down here after the murder. I tell you, this village is cursed, but it’s never boring.”

  “Did you hear Mr Hookeye leave his room at any point during the night?”

  “I heard him go to bed about midnight, because my clock chimed twelve. I slept soundly through the night, so I have no idea when he got up. If you’re wondering if I might know who would want him dead, I have no idea. My son-in-law relied on him for work with the Professor, so I would find it strange if he had killed him. Mr Hookeye was a rather dislikeable fellow, but to chop his head off is a rather bold statement.”

  “What work did he do with your son-in-law?”

  “Something to do with corpses for the students at the university; to practise cutting up. People can request their body to be donated for research for medical advancement. My son-in-law has a lot of connections through his previous work as an undertaker.”

  “Really. I believe Professor Hummingbird is an expert on anthropology, so why is he involved?”

  “You’d better ask him,” Grandpa Applecore replies.

  “Can you tell me anything about the Professor?”

  “Very little. And I may be blind, but I am not an idiot, Inspector. My son-in-law is a greedy but stupid man. If you are looking to cast your net for the killer, don’t waste your time with the tuna… go and talk to the shark.”

  “And why do you consider the Professor involved?”

  “Call it a gut instinct.”

  “I would very much like to interview the children, perhaps separately, considering the fight yesterday.”

  “They are all in their rooms.”

  Prunella and Estelle share a large room on the second floor, next to their brother and parents. The girls sit playing with their dolls on the floor. A sandy haired rocking horse sits in the corner of the room. Both girls are stout and possibly twins.

  “Young ladies, I am from Scotland Yard and I have come to ask you some questions about Mr Hookeye.”

  “Is he really dead?” asks Prunella, excitedly.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “How?”

  “It appears someone cut off his head.”

  Both girls’ eyes light up. “Uuurrggggghhhhhhhhh!” they say together.

  “Did either of you see or hear anything strange last night?”

  Prunella shakes her head and Estelle speaks. “We both went to bed at ten o’clock and went straight to sleep.”

  “Neither of you left your room at any point during the night?”

  “No, sir,” says Estelle.

  “What did you think of Mr Hookeye?”

  “Boring,” replies Prunella.

  “Yes, boring,” mimicked Estelle.

  “That’s incredibly helpful,” I say, wearily. And I leave them to it. I’m not going to get anything useful from them.

  I knock and enter Cornelius’s room. He is sitting on his bed, carving a piece of wood with a little knife, shaping it into the form of a man.

  “Hello Cornelius. I am–”

  “I know who you are,” he interrupts me, not looking up from his carving.

  “I need to–”

  “I don’t know who killed Mr Hookeye. I don’t know anything. I don’t care that he’s dead.”

  “If you know anything that might assist my investigation, you need to tell me.”

  He remains silent, continuing to carve the little wood man. I step closer to him. He stabs the little doll in the head. “Like I said, detective, I don’t know.”

  I shut the door and leave him to his voodoo.

  A young boy approaches me in the hallway. He is small for his age, with a smooth, round face and nut-coloured hair. He shakes my hand. “Pedrock. Age ten. Mr Grubweed is my Uncle.”

  “Nice to meet you Pedrock. My name is Detective Sergeant White. Is there anything you know that could help with our enquiries?”

  “Mr Hookeye and Mr Grubweed were arguing last night about the Professor. I heard Uncle say ‘He will drag us both to hell’. Mr Hookeye threatened to have my sister committed to a madhouse.”

  “Anything else, Pedrock?”

  “Yes, inspector,” and Pedrock looks worried, “yes, there is something. I keep hearing noises at night coming from my sister’s bedroom. She is only six and I hear something talking to her at night. I went in her room, but I found nothing, I am worried that…”

  “I understand. And I will look into it for you.”

  “Thank you so much, sir.”

  Constable Walnut comes up the stairs. “The body has been removed for the physician. No sign of the murder weapon so far, sir.”

  “Thank you, Walnut.” I open the door to Boo Boo’s room. She is sitting on the floor, playing with a large axe covered in blood.

  “Good God,” I say under my breath. I approach her softly. “Boo Boo, please give me the axe.” And she does, without any problem. I hand it to Constable Walnut who says quietly, “Well that was unexpected.”

  She is smiling, the little thing. Black eyes, black hair. There is something unusual about her that reminds me of an insect. But, she is six years old. She does not have the strength to wield an axe, let alone cut a head off. She looks up and me and points to Walnut and laughs.

  “Funny face!”

  “Yes, he does have a funny face, Boo Boo. I am a police detective. My name is Percival. Can you tell me where you got the axe from?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Did you find the axe?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Did someone give you the axe?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Boo Boo, who is talking to you at night?”
>
  “An angel,” she says, her eyes bright and dark like liquid chocolate.

  I crouch next to her. “What does the angel look like?”

  She touches my nose with her finger. “Like you,” she says.

  “He’s a man. What is his name?”

  “Mr Angelcakes,” and she smiles a big soppy smile and cuddles me.

  I meet with Constable Walnut in the herb garden.

  “Everything alright, sir?” he enquires.

  “Yes. I want you to ask Sally to make arrangements for us to stay at the Highwayman public house in the village tonight. And get her to send this telegram.” I hand him the note.

  Detective Waxford —

  Can we meet? Very strange situation here.

  Detective Sergeant White

  “Are you arresting the six year-old?”

  “No. Someone is manipulating her and making a fool of us.”

  I go back into the house and inspect the guest room of Icarus Hookeye. The room is comfortable, if small. The bed unmade with gentlemen’s toiletries by the mirror and washbasin. His coat hangs behind the door. I go through the pockets, only finding some matches. Nothing else. It is then that I examine the pocket book I found on his body. A little red book, and what a curious thing it is! On every page is a sketch of a black butterfly. Over and over. Butterfly after black butterfly. They soar across the pages in inky shapes. Snap shut their wings at the edges, glide over white spaces. Is this some sort of code? Does this have secret meaning?

  Detective Sergeant White and Constable Walnut interview the Professor

  We trudge through the undergrowth towards the medieval keep of the Professor and arrive just as the sun is beginning to set. I have borrowed a lantern from Mrs Treacle for our return journey. The woods round this area are especially sinister. An owl hoots in the distance.

  “Any theories, Walnut, on our killer?”

  “Nothing is springing to mind, sir.”

  The moated keep materialises in front of us. White-moon-coloured flowers float on the waters. We cross the bridge and walk into the courtyard, approach a little side door. To my surprise, it is open and we enter. The corridor is blood red: the wallpaper red, the carpet red, the ceiling red. It is like stepping through a tunnel of blood. Inside an intestine. Red upon red. Red, they say, is the colour of magic. The colour of devils.

  This is a labyrinth maze. A coiling puzzle of corridors, each leading to a room of red. And along the walls are framed glass pictures, each with a butterfly with a pin through its heart.

  To stop you flying away, you naughty thing

  There are hundreds of them, each different. Chocolate browns, fuzzy pinks, lemon curd yellows, peacock blues. We keep moving: red upon red surrounds us, enclosing upon us. More butterflies trapped in glass.

  “This is some sort of madness,” I say to Constable Walnut.

  Finally, the corridor coils, spiral shaped, into a room at the centre, the heart of this diabolical maze. Here sits Professor Hummingbird at his study desk, writing in his journal. Behind him is an enormous butterfly, the wing span of two human hands. It is ebony black with two red shaped eyes on the wings.

  “You are admiring my prize possession,” the Professor remarks, and he raises his head. His voice is soothing and oddly mesmeric. He is a man in his late fifties, I would have guessed; he sports a long beard and has deep amber eyes. He wears striped trousers and pointy blue slippers.

  “She is the rarest butterfly in the world and I have the only specimen. She’s a dazzler, isn’t she? Originates from Mexico. Her name translates as ‘Angel-Eater’. She eats other butterflies.”

  “I am Detective Sergeant White and this is Constable Walnut. I believe Mr Grubweed may be here?”

  “You just missed him. He left rather upset. He was very close to Icarus.”

  “You’re aware of the situation then?”

  “Of course. My associate has been decapitated.” The Professor smiles.

  “Do you know of anyone that would want to harm him?”

  “Not at all. He was quite an amusing fellow and competent doctor.”

  “And can you account for your whereabouts last night?”

  “I was here the entire evening, writing my journals. I have no alibi. I have only one servant, my housekeeper, who comes in the mornings. I prefer as little human interaction as possible. I can only work with my butterflies with absolutely no other distraction.”

  “What sort of work was he doing for you?” I step closer.

  “Menial tasks. Paper pushing, administrative silliness.” He yawned.

  “Procurement of body parts for medical research?” I add.

  “Oh, he wasn’t that macabre. You see devils, sergeant, when there are only men.”

  “Perhaps, but something bizarre is happening,” I state.

  Walnut points to the Angel-Eater. “Blimey! She’s still alive!” The Angel-Eater is beating its wings against the glass.

  The Professor strokes the glass. “She’s excitable today. It would be for the best if you both left us in peace now.” And he points a finger at the door.

  I take my pistol out and point it at his head. “You’re coming in for questioning.”

  The Professor pounds his fists on his desk. The walls move, ripple like water.

  ZAP!

  We are transported in a flash of blue light to the Highwayman pub.

  The locals are staring at us, their eyeballs on stalks. I put my pistol down. “Walnut, what just happened?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but I could murder a pint.”

  After a few moments recovering from the shock, we eat meat pies and mash and wash it down with plenty of ale.

  “So we’re dealing with a sorcerer?” Walnut sighs.

  “It looks that way. I should have known we’d get something peculiar. He is one of Loveheart’s neighbours.”

  “Well, we’ve met some odd balls before, sir.”

  That night I dream I am in the Grubweed kitchen with Boo Boo, and she has a knife in her little hands. On the table is a cake, yellow and pink sponge, and she is slicing it and blood is oozing out and dripping on the floor.

  “Angel food cake,” she giggles, and I open my eyes.

  When I wake up two things occur. A telegram arrives back from Detective Waxford:

  PERCIVAL

  COME BACK INTO LONDON AND MEET, 38 BIZWIT STREET, NR BAKER STREET.

  HENRY WAXFORD

  Walnut taps me on the shoulder. “Mr Grubweed has not returned home. He’s officially missing.”

  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 oh 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?”