by Ishbelle Bee
Ten years. Ten bloody years. White and Walnut pop into my head every day. Even the mad Mr Loveheart! I couldn’t find you, I am so sorry, I couldn’t find you. I dream of butterflies. They dance behind my eyes, soar in my brain. I am infested by them.
I sink back into my chair, peek at a file on a local strangler. Sip my tea, plop another sugar lump in and give it a swirl. Mrs Sultana, the tea lady, wheels her trolley in and gives me a sticky bun.
“Cheer up, ducky,” she says.
“Thank you Mrs Sultana,” I grumble in reply.
She squeaks her trolley off and I hear her in the corridor, “He’s such a big grumpy pussy cat.”
Constable Luck peeks his head round the door.
“Sir, there’s a gentleman here to see you. Says he has information on Professor Hummingbird.”
My brain wakes up, “Send him in, and get some more tea and buns off the trolley would you.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later a large black bearded man enters my office looking extremely uncomfortable.
“I am Detective Waxford. Please take seat Mr…?”
“Otto Ink-Squid,” he says, and he does, squashing himself into the wobbly chair.
Constable Luck appears and plops a mug of tea on the table and a plate of buns and retreats.
“So, what do want to tell me, Mr Ink-Squid?”
“I have some worrying information regarding this wedding announcement,” and he plops a copy of today’s Times on my desk and points to the newspaper article:
Announcement
Professor Gabriel Hummingbird, the eminent anthropologist, is to marry Miss Boo Boo Frogwish on August 8th at St Cuthbert’s Church in the village of Darkwound, Kent.
My heart full of butterflies. They pound within my chest. “Go on,” and I await his answer.
“It is something quite disturbing. I must tell you quite a story. I own a magic emporium in Spitalfields. I have had the business for over twenty years. Ten years ago a girl came into my shop for help. Professor Hummingbird had buried her alive.”
I see a butterfly on the window flutter past.
Mr Ink-Squid’s voice is full of sadness. “My shop is located on Beeswax Lane: I sell Ouija boards, Psychic Trays and tarot cards; that sort of thing. I don’t get many customers, mostly postal orders from a very peculiar cliental. So, I was quite shocked when she fell through my front door, covered in mud and in her night gown. Bare feet, hysterical. I told her to sit down, got her a blanket and a cup of tea. I tried to calm her down. She told me her name was Guinevere Harlowe and she was sixteen years old. She said she was the wife of a Professor Hummingbird, a marriage arranged by her father, whom she described as a famous collector of butterflies and moths. She told me her family had a large collection of fine specimens: ghost moths, from Peru, ‘worth a fortune to an avid collector,’ she said. She told me that was what Professor Hummingbird had wanted. That was what he was after.”
Mr Ink-Squid paused and drank some tea. He looked weary. He felt like me. He felt the weight of a world gone mad.
“Please continue, Mr Ink-Squid,” I said gently
“She told me about the wedding night. She said he was–” he paused,”–there was something abnormal about his desires.”
I waited.
“She said the morning after the wedding, a funeral carriage arrived. She asked him ‘Who is dead? Who has died?’ He had replied, ‘Why you of course, my dear.’”
I waited.
“He’s a monster,” Mr Ink-Squid shuddered. “A deranged collector. She told me she was screaming, tried to run, but they caught her, the Professor and his vile brother, Ignatius. Caught her, drugged her and stuffed her in a coffin. She said she awoke in darkness. Running out of air. She said she was dying.”
“How did she escape?” I leant forward
“A boy dug her up, opened the coffin. She said she would have thought him an angel, but he looked sinister. Said he had eyes as black as nightmares. Reminded her of a little shark. He opened the coffin lid and said to her, ‘Do not go back to your husband, as he will kill you. Do not return to your father, for he is murdered. Seek help from a man called Otto Ink-Squid who runs an emporium on Beeswax Lane.’”
“That is most queer,” I said taking another sticky bun.
“Yes, apparently he said he had saved her because he objected to people being buried who are not actually dead. Well, she pulled herself out quick as she could and made her way to my little shop. I have no idea who this young boy is and why he would have recommended me to her aid.”
“And she didn’t go to the police?”
“No, she was terrified, as she was still his wife and property. He would have killed her. I said that she could stay with me until we could sort something out. She had no family: her monies were in the possession of that villain, Hummingbird. She stayed with me for three months and eventually I arranged her transportation to Paris to stay with my sister; to begin a new life. I gave her the money to do it and she never came back. She is now engaged to a Captain Flint of the British navy, who knows nothing of her past, and will travel with him to the South Americas. When I read the article of his young girl’s forthcoming marriage, well, I had to try to prevent it somehow.”
“Would Guinevere Harlowe be prepared to make a statement?”
“I cannot have her involved in this. If he knew she were alive he would surely try to murder her.”
“I cannot arrest a man on a mere rumour. I need her statement; I need proof, Mr Ink-Squid.”
“She does not know I have come here. I vowed I would never betray her trust. But seeing this young girl is to be married to him. It is a death sentence.”
“This young girl, Boo Boo, will be his seventh wife,” I say and lean back into my chair, thinking.
“Seventh?” Mr Ink-Squid cries. “There must be something that can be done. There must be!”
“Tell me, Mr Ink-Squid, do you believe in fate? You do run a magic emporium, so I expect you are predisposed towards the more unusual and unexplained aspects of life?”
“Well, yes, I suppose. It was my father’s shop originally. He was a magician, performed on stage, and when he retired opened the shop. It’s all illusion, of course: hidden mirrors, sleight of hand.”
“Yes, illusion, quite. I have met this girl Boo Boo before. She was his adopted daughter. My friend Detective White went missing at the Professor’s house while trying to rescue her.”
“I am so sorry. Do you believe him murdered?” he replies
“I have never found out the truth. The only witness was the girl and do you know what she said to me?”
I pause.
“She said he had turned him into a butterfly.”
“Perhaps she was in shock?” he said
“That’s what I thought for many years. It has haunted me. I cannot let it go and yet there have been no further developments. I keep dreaming about that girl and what she said.”
“It is guilt, perhaps. It weighs heavily on your mind. He was your friend.”
“What if she was telling the truth?”
“It is an impossible thing you suggest. Maybe you should speak to her again, convince her not to marry this monster. Maybe she will remember what really happened.”
“Thank you, Mr Ink-Squid, for your information. I will see what I can do and I will keep you informed if there are any developments,” and I shake his hand.
“I would be most grateful. We cannot let anything happen to that young woman,” and he leaves me sinking into my chair; the weight of darkness pressing upon me.
I suddenly remember seeing a magician’s trick of concealing a butterfly in his top hat so it flew out. It escaped only at the end.
Village of Darkwound
Detective Waxford and Professor Hummingbird’s Wives
This bloody place never changes! Deranged woodlands, crawling with specimens of toadstools with fangs and potato-brained villagers.
I am outside the home of Professor H
ummingbird. I know that he is away on business in London, seeing his brother Ignatius. I knock on the door. If no one replies I will break in.
A young woman in a black dress opens the door.
“Ah, Miss Boo Boo. Hello again. It has been many years since we last met.”
“I remember you,” she says.
“I need to ask you once again, what happened to Detective White, Constable Walnut and Mr Loveheart?”
“Please, come in,” she says, and I follow her into the hall of red and she points to three butterflies on the wall: one brown, one white and one bright red.
“It is as I told you before. The Professor turned them into butterflies.”
“You realise what you are telling me is madness.”
She doesn’t respond. She is a very strange young woman, moving silently, as though she does not exist.
“I need to know what happened to them. I have to know.”
“I have already told you.”
“ARE THEY ALIVE?” I shout, gripping her by the shoulders. She doesn’t flinch.
“Yes, but they are trapped.”
“What must I do to free them?”
“Smash the glass,” she says so softly.
“What?” I say, almost laughing. “You have gone mad!”
“Smash the glass,” she says again, willing me to do it.
“LUNACY!” I shout.
“Smash the glass,” she says again.
I pick up the butterflies and smash the frame against the wall. The glass smashes into pieces. I can hear lightning crack in the sky and a hand touches my shoulder. I turn round and Mr Loveheart is smiling at me. “Detective Waxford. I am making a confession in advance. I am going put the Professor’s head on a stick outside Scotland Yard and then blow his house up… again.”
“Loveheart?” I am confounded. Detective White and Constable Walnut are standing beside him.
“You look older, Waxford,” Detective White says, rather wobbly on his feet. “It must be this case getting to you.”
“Thank God, you’re alive.” I am nearly crying with disbelief.
I turn to the girl. “You could have freed them. Why didn’t you?”
“I can’t. I am a butterfly.” And she wanders off down the hallway.
“Now, she is interesting,” remarks Loveheart.
“We have to stop the wedding,” I blurt out.
“What wedding?” says Detective White.
“You’ve all been trapped for ten years. It’s 1899. That girl is Boo Boo, and the Professor is marrying her next Saturday.”
“My grandma is going to be rather worried,” say Constable Walnut.
“I wouldn’t concern yourself, Walnut,” replies Loveheart. “She already thinks you’re dead.”
“What on earth do I tell her?”
“Say you were on a sabbatical.”
“For ten years?”
“Coma?”
“She’s not buying that. I need something more convincing.”
“Bullet in the brain… amnesia.”
“Shut up the pair of you,” says Detective White. “There is proof, Waxford, against Hummingbird.” And Detective White shows me the room where the photographs of his wives are hanging.
The glass cracks.
BONG
BONG
BONG
BIG BEN GOES BACKWARDS
10 YEARS fall off the clock
The Perils of Using Black Magic!
The spell is broken
The glass is broken
TIME IS BROKEN
THE YEAR IS BACK TO 1889
And yet, we are still the same
Death wakes up from a snooze, checks his pocket watch and sighs.
1889, again!
Mr Loveheart and the wooing of Boo Boo
I’ve decided I shall marry her! She’s perfect for me. We go together like cheese and pickle (am I the pickle, perhaps?). Of course I shall have to murder her fiancé but I can’t suppose anyone will mind too much; he’s an insane insect collector. He’s only after your wings, Boo Boo!
Loveheart Manor has become rather overgrown after ten years. I have to hack my way through thorny shrubs and teethy rose bushes with my sword. Ouch! This reminds me of a fairytale. Now which one is it?
Hack, hack, hack
My gardens are wild. A fleshy patchwork quilt of fruit, weed and flowers. They burst at the touch; shape into hearts and break within my hands. My kingdom, my beautiful kingdom.
A big orange cat is sitting on my front steps; his bottom a splatty shape. “And I shall name you ‘Pumpkin’,” I say, “because you resemble one.”
The cat looks at me with disgust, his jade eyes narrowing, and then raises his tail and breaks wind.
“That’s not very nice, is it, Pumpkin?” Naughty cat. And he won’t budge from my front step. He’s blocking the door with his huge shape. I wonder what he’s been eating? Possibly my neighbours.
I shall have to climb through a window. “Pumpkin, you must guard the entrance to my kingdom.”
The cat yawns.
“I am the Lord of the Underworld,” I explain.
He isn’t impressed. Well, that’s cats for you.
I leap through a downstairs window into my library. Bit dusty in here. Cough. Splutter. I am looking for some rose shears. I have decided to collect some flowers for Boo Boo. My insect queen. I sprint into the kitchens and Ah Yes! GARDENING shears, underneath the sink perhaps? No. Oh well, I shall use my sword instead.
Mr Fingers floats in the mirror in the hallway. A specimen in a jar. He doesn’t appear to be able to die. Dizzy in the eyes; full of stars. I tap on the glass. He stirs like a baby in a womb. Bares his teeth. Mad dog.
I should end this. This has gone on too long.
“Goodbye, Mr Fingers,” I say.
I drive my sword through the mirror and it smashes. An explosion of glass, a scream. He disintegrates. The house shakes. My kingdom wakes. The Underworld is awake. Tentacles of black break through the earth in my kingdom and coil into my trees, they wind themselves about the flowers and into the architecture of my house.
I open the front door. Pumpkin the cat is unaffected by the huge disturbance of undergrowth. The landscape is shifting, distorted. My rose bushes are blooming; the roses so red they stab my eyes. Big bloody petals intoxicate and overpower all other flowers.
My crown sits on the hall table, glinting. I pop it on my head. Glitter magic thing. Dark star. Best keep it on from now.
A dark fairy zooms past in the hedgerow and Pumpkin the cat moves like an arrow after it, his enormous bottom wobbling off into the wilderness.
I step into my gardens with my sword and start collecting roses for my beloved Boo Boo. My queen of hearts.
The under-stink of this new world is a little like meat being left out too long. It merges within my kingdom of hearts, invents new plants, new life forms. I may have problems finding a gardener.
An armful of roses: they are big girls, heavy petals, red as meat; thorns like fairy blades. I shall gather her a mountain of them. A bloody wobbly tower of them with perhaps a little note attached.
Would you like to be my queen and live in my Palace of Hearts?
A heart in every room, on everything (including the chamber pots), and all of them for you, my love. Every one for you.
I find magpie feathers on the path and a coil of snail shells. Wonderful things, little parts of my garden. The language of fairies: magic gobbledygook floats in my kingdom. And now a staircase coiling to the underworlds has appeared. Coiling down into dark places; black feathers and toad croak. I leave the roses in a powerful heap by my door and go down the staircase to inspect my other kingdom. Pumpkin the cat watches me from a distance, licking his paws. What did the fairy taste like, I wonder?
A loopy amputation – that is what it feels like to walk down into the underworlds. You’ll feel disembowelled, stepping into deep magic. The Kingdom of the Underworld adjusts itself to its ruler. Before, under the rule
of Mr Fingers, it was made of demented clockwork; the constant ticking of mechanical contraptions; the sounds of time. Regulated, obsessive tinkering.
I step into a world now of black hearts: jam flowers, fairies with tartan slippers, a river of red flower petals. Lush, nervous energy, bursting fairytales. The clocks have melted. Time has no meaning here anymore. My world is an upside down fairytale. A heart lollipop on a stick. Go on, give me a lick.
A little madness never hurt anyone.
I wander amongst my Palace of Hearts. I am alone here, despite the wildlife. I have no queen. No heirs. There is of course Pumpkin the cat, he would make a very fine ruler of the Underworlds.
Death appears. “Don’t you dare!”
“Dare what?” I turn around, surprised. He always pops up at the strangest moments.
“Don’t bequeath your new kingdom to an overweight cat.” He examines the lollipops. “This is an improvement from last time, if a little peculiar.”
“I didn’t know you could read my thoughts.”
“Sometimes, and it’s quite unnerving. You will be wondering what your responsibilities are now, I suppose. Mr Fingers spent most of his time collecting assassin sons and clocks. You will serve a greater purpose, I hope,” and he eyes me rather sternly.
“Shall we have some tea and cake?” I motion him towards a table under a black tree of raspberry jelly heads. Eyes made of marshmallows. On the table sits a pot of steaming tea and a plate of chocolate éclairs. Death pours the tea and adds three lumps of sugar and a dash of milk.
“You’re looking very well,” I say, for the sake of polite conversation.
His eyes turn from a deep shade of gold to black and fix upon me. His hand selects an éclair.
“Now then. I will be keeping an eye on you, Mr Loveheart. You can be rather naughty and unpredictable.”
I take my pistol out and shoot something above his head, which screams and falls to the ground with a thud.