by Ishbelle Bee
“As I was saying,” continues Death, completely unfazed, “You can see this underworld is organic. It moulds itself to its king. Shapeshifts around you. You have made it bloom with life, Mr Loveheart, burst with it. It was a stagnant, dark place before. Now it is energy. It fizzes.”
A fairy with indigo wings zooms round Death’s head. Sits on his shoulder. She’s after his éclair.
“Another lump?” I pass him the sugar bowl.
“No, thank you,” and he peers at the fairy, who refuses to move from his shoulder. She squeaks some instructions at him.
“Your creatures are as impertinent as you are!” and he passes her an éclair. She picks it up, (it’s the same size as her) and carries it off.
“I’m very fond of fairies. They bite, you know, if you don’t give them sugar.”
Death eats his éclair. “This is very tasty. I see you’re thinking of wooing Miss Boo Boo.”
“Yes.”
“Professor Hummingbird is in the way of course. He will have to be removed,” says Death.
“Why do you help me?”
“Because I like you, Mr Loveheart. And because, I too am lonely.”
Pumpkin the cat mews from the top of the staircase at Loveheart Manor. He wants an éclair.
Revenge is best served with custard
I am sitting in my office, eating a custard tart.
It’s Monday morning and surprisingly chilly. I am looking at the Times, who have printed on their front page all six photographs of every wife of the Professor’s. Their faces stare out of the pages like fish underwater.
MURDER INVESTIGATION
Urgent information required on the identity and whereabouts of these missing women. All previous wives of the anthropologist Professor Gabriel Hummingbird, brother of Ignatius Hummingbird. Scotland Yard investigating.
I eat the ooze, lick the pastry clean.
Boo Boo
Sixteen
I am engaged to be married to the Professor. The wedding is next week. I examine myself in my looking glass and touch the black heart round my throat. Am I uninteresting, ugly, wretched? Am I a lunatic, gone mad, a killing machine? Am I a pretty girl, beautiful girl? None of these things, all of these things. What am I? Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, butterfly.
I think about the Angel-Eater, the tattoo on my back. I am marked with her, she is part of me. Under my skin, inside my bones. Black wings, sharp as a razor edge. Slice me up with your love; dissect me. Open me up and find butterflies inside my stomach,
Today the Professor is in London on business. More butterflies to capture. I wander round the house. My head is full of prisons, vaults, hidden chambers, locked windows and doors. I keep hearing a beating of wings. Mr Angelcakes sleeps next to me every night but he says things will change after the wedding. I must kill the Professor and take the butterfly and then Mr Angelcakes will lick my skin with a thousand green-tongued kisses.
I cannot kill him yet. He has my soul under glass.
Today Detective Waxford arrives. I tell him where Detective White is. Finally he smashes the frame and sets them free. Mr Loveheart looks at me strangely. His eyes follow me about like a puppy dog. Does he know what I am? My black dress slips like trickling black waters along the courtyard. He follows me outside into the warmth.
“You are engaged to be married? You’ve not picked well, Miss Boo Boo. He’s a bit of a shit.”
“Who would you rather I married, Mr Loveheart?”
“I was hoping we could get to know each other a little better. You’re very compelling.”
“Your timing is terrible.”
He steps closer. “Really?”
I throw him in the moat.
Night-Time Fizz
Puffs of black magic. Sleepy time.
My
head
is
a spoon.
You fill me with jam.
The Angel-Eater. Wings beating above me.
My spooky sister.
“Hello again,” I say. My words are bubbles; they make pops.
Black flutter. Insect judder. Flippety flap.
Give me some sugar.
Make me your cake.
I dream of butterflies, I dream of butter.
I dream of butterflies.
I dream of butter.
Don’t lose your head, Horatio!
The Beetles have invited me for afternoon tea. Repugnant things! Slippery black, slime tongued socialites. It is Wednesday. It is three days before my wedding. The Professor is still away in London, staying with his brother; perhaps a bachelor party? He will not return until the Saturday. So I must entertain myself as best I can. Mr Angelcakes and I play hide and seek. He smells so bad, I find him easily in the pantry, small pieces of rotten greenish black flesh falling from him.
“You need new skin, Mr Angelcakes.”
“When you kill the Professor I will be strong again. Perhaps I will wear his skin.”
The gloom dark of the pantry makes his eyes glint putrid yellow.
“Go and play with the Beetles. Squash them.” He smiles with what is left of his lips.
I wear my long black velvet dress. Only ever black for the Professor. He doesn’t explain his preferences, he just expects conformity.
The Beetle mansion, cream coloured and orderly. A nice neat green lawn. A perfectly acceptable border of flowers, neatly positioned, controllable.
Lady Beetle and her son sit wearing a dark shade of purple in their garden. A tea pot and tea cups neatly arranged before them. A pile of delicate sandwiches and fairy-like cakes. Beetle, I think. Beetle, rolling dung, living in shit.
“Good afternoon, Miss Frogwish,” says Lady Beetle, dryly. She is wondering how far up the society ladder I will climb once I become Mrs Hummingbird.
“Good afternoon,” I reply and sit down beside Horatio Beetle, now twenty-six years old, dashingly handsome and still a nasty little boy. He is watching me playfully.
“You interest me, Boo Boo.” He wants to play games with me. “Your eyes are mischievous, trying to bewitch me. I am, as you may have heard, a heart-breaker. I leave a trail of weeping women in my wake. Much like Lord Byron, I am mad, bad and dangerous to know.”
“What a fucking pile of shit,” I say and remove my butterfly blades from my boots. “You’re an ignorant child and I am going to teach you a lesson in manners to women.”
I slice off his mother’s head first and fling it aside. He has defecated himself like an animal and is crawling away from me screaming. I throw both blades, which land in his eyes, impaling him to the ground. I then cut off his head and fling it in the pond.
This is too easy. I am bored with this.
Mr Loveheart appears, sprinting across the lawn with a bunch of roses. He bows very low. “I thought you dealt with them rather tastefully.” He hands me the flowers.
“I am not available, Mr Loveheart. I am getting married on Saturday.”
“Then I will have to kill your wretched fiancé in a duel.”
“Duel? You were intent on blowing him up.”
“Yes, because it’s funnier. Miss Frogwish, my heart is in your hands, dear lady.”
“You have very pretty eyes, Mr Loveheart.”
“I won’t let you marry him, Boo Boo. I will not give up on you.”
I take the flowers and walk through the woods and think about his eyes, which are black like mine.
Detective Waxford and White find Pandora
I am outside the Lupine Asylum with Detective White. We have found Pandora, the fourth wife of Professor Hummingbird, committed to the madhouse. Of his six wives, we have discovered through advertisement in the Times that three are dead, one was buried alive and now lives in Paris and two were committed to an asylum, one escaping with the help of Mr Loveheart. This is our last lady.
Pandora is outside in the courtyard on a seat, knitting. It appears to be an extraordinary long yellow scarf she is making, despite there being a heat wave.
&n
bsp; “Hello, Pandora. My name is Detective Waxford and this is Detective White. We would like to ask you some questions regarding your late husband, Professor Gabriel Hummingbird. He will be marrying a sixteen year-old this Saturday.”
She looks up from her knitting. The scarf, I estimate, must be twenty foot long, at least.
“Is she pretty?” Pandora asks, her voice very light and childlike.
“She is sixteen, madam, and in danger,” I say.
“He said I was pretty,” sighs Pandora. “He said that before we got married. Afterwards he just said I was mad.”
“What happened to you? How did you end up here?”
Pandora continues to knit, the great heaps of butter yellow wool trailing like Rapunzel’s hair by her feet. “After the wedding night he seemed bored with me already. I didn’t know how to please him. Maybe I should have made him a cake with some sugared flowers or a meringue. I’m not mad. I am a good girl. I am a good girl.”
I think to myself, she has been driven mad. He may as well have killed her.
Detective White kneels by her side. “It is a very beautiful scarf,” he says kindly.
“Thank you. The fairies helped me.”
Detective White and I head back to Scotland Yard. We are being followed.
“Percival, there’s something watching us,” I say, and glance over my shoulder, catching sight of a top-hatted gentleman with an eye patch. Instead of flinching, he acknowledges my suspicions with amusement.
When we arrive at Scotland Yard, Constable Walnut is waiting for us by the entrance, eating a mutton pie.
“Detectives, there’s a lady here to see you.” He looked at me sheepishly, wiping crumbs from his lips.
“Thank you, Walnut.” I open the door to my office. A lady in a long, moth-grey veil which covers her face is perched nervously on a chair by my desk.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Are you Henry Waxford?” her voice nervous, her small hand in a lace glove, pointing at me. She looks as though she belongs in another world, like a little ghost.
“Yes, and this is my colleague, Detective White. How may we help you madam?”
“I saw the pictures of those poor women in the Times. The brides of Gabriel Hummingbird. How many are still alive?”
“Three. Would you like some tea, Miss…?”
“Yes please. My name is Mary Summerfly.”
I pop my head out of the door and ask Walnut to bring in some tea and biscuits.
“Did you know any of these women?” I ask, sitting myself back down again.
“No, I never met any of them. I… I am…” She struggles terribly with the words.
“Are you alright, miss?” asks Detective White.
“No, I am not. My life is in danger. I need your help. I need your protection,” she gasps.
“You are safe with us, Miss Summerfly. Please tell us what has happened.”
“Do you know Gabriel Hummingbird?” I intervene.
“No, but I knew of his brother, Ignatius. I was brought up on the Romney Marsh. I lived with my Aunt in a small cottage near his family home. I used to take walks on the marshland and sometimes I would bump into him and we would have conversations. We would talk about the wildlife, mostly the butterflies. He seemed like an interesting, well-educated gentleman. I believe he works for the government, holds a position in the House of Lords.”
Walnut enters the room, announces, “We’re out of custard creams!” and lays the tray on the table.
“Thank you, Walnut,” replies Detective White. He begins pouring the tea.
“Please continue,” I say to her.
“A few months ago, we met up on the marshlands again. He invited me to take tea with him at his home. He said the local vicar would be there, as they would be discussing an archaeological dig to take place on the marshes. He went into some depth about the burial mound of an Anglo Saxon king. Apparently artefacts had been discovered which had caused some excitement amongst both the locals and an expert from the British Museum. I accepted his invitation and walked back with him to his house.”
She suddenly goes very quiet. Detective White passes her a cup of tea. She removes her veil, revealing her face, which is ghostly white. Around her neck is a thick black choker with an ivory cameo. She sips some of the tea, her hands shaking.
“What happened, Miss Summerfly?” I ask.
“When I was inside his house he hit me across the face and I must have become unconscious. When I woke up I was in a small cage in a cellar.”
Walnut steps back into the room, “I’ve found some hobnobs,” and places them on the table.
Detective White stares at him rather seriously and he slips quietly out of the room.
“After a while two men came. They made me drink something sweet. It made me feel sleepy. A bag was put over my head and I was dragged into a carriage and we travelled for several hours. When the carriage finally stopped I was dragged out and I heard a man say the word butterfly. They took me into a building and put me into another cage. The bag was taken off my head.”
“What did you see?”
“Other women in cages. We were in some sort of underground cellar. Stone walls; it was very dark, a few candles burning. The ceiling had… The ceiling.” She bursts into tears.
“What about the ceiling?” I persist.
“It had blood dripping from it,” she sobs. “I was so frightened but I couldn’t shout out, the drug… the words… No noise came from my mouth. I tried to speak to the other women. I couldn’t.”
“How many other woman were there?”
“Maybe ten, maybe more.”
“What happened next?”
“The drug was beginning to wear off. Men came in and started opening the cages and dragging the women out. My cage was opened but before I was pulled out there was a terrible screaming, a woman started attacking one of the men, punching and kicking him. I took a chance. I ran as fast as I could, past the cages and up some stairs. I could hear them behind me. There were so many corridors, so many doors, all locked. I just kept running until I came to a door I was able to open which I burst through into the light. There were lots of men smoking and drinking and laughing. It looked like a formal club of some sort. I saw Ignatius smoking a cigar. He was just staring at me. I think he was amused. My only thought was of survival. I saw a great window on the other side of the room and I ran towards it and threw myself through it. I fell a great height into dark water. Into the Thames.”
The tea cup trembled in her hands
“I thought I was going to die. I woke up washed up on the shoreline near a boatyard. I have been in hiding in lodgings in London ever since. I had been too frightened to come to you and then I saw the pictures of the women in the Times and I thought about all those women I left behind. God knows what happened to them.” She bends her head very low.
“You are a very brave woman, Miss Summerfly, and you are under our protection now. The building you were held captive in by the Thames, do you remember anything about it? Could you find it again?”
“I… I remember very little.”
“Anything, even the smallest detail may prove significant.”
“Only the smell. Like a slaughterhouse,” and she held her hand to her mouth, trembling. “Those poor women, you must find them… I… wait. I remember, when I was in the cage, the men had a symbol, a tattoo on their hands. A black butterfly.”
Miss Summerfly is escorted back to her lodgings by Constable Walnut and placed under police protection. I have advised her to leave London, to stay with her relatives by the sea until this investigation is complete and those responsible arrested. Professor Hummingbird’s wedding will be taking place tomorrow morning and I intend to intercept the nuptials. Detective White will travel to Kent to investigate the kidnapping.
BUTTERFLY
everything is cracking
splintering
being
d
e
s t
r
o y
e
d
Romney Marshes, England, 1865
Mr Angelcakes and Mr Hummingbird
My name is Wesley Angelcakes and my dearest friend is Gabriel Hummingbird. I have known him since I was ten years old. We grew up together in England on the Romney Marsh, in houses near to each other, across that eerie, ghost ridden landscape. We used to pretend we were explorers and dig into the earth. We found Roman coins and fragments of pottery, a flint blade and the skull of a sheep. We collected beetles, horned ones: black hairy legs, emerald eyes, deep set like jewels. We stored them in jars and then gave them mock funerals down wells.
But after a few years we started to both have a deep fascination for butterflies. It became an addiction. Our fathers gave us butterfly nets for our birthdays and we chased those white marshland moths, the pale blue summer flies and the cabbage-eaters. We chased them as the god of the underworld chased Persephone: unyielding, obsessively.
By the time we were eighteen we both had extensive collections and every variety of butterfly in England sat pinned through the heart in our houses. We arranged a trip abroad to South America to collect varieties of the rarest in the world. It took over a year to plan and here we now are.
We are in Peru exploring an Aztec temple. We’ve been in South America for two months now and already have a good collection of ghost moths, emperors and dancing flames. The latter is a vibrant pink and orange butterfly. Gabriel has found seven of those, each one he kisses when he captures them.