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

by Ishbelle Bee

“You have a very unusual ceiling!” I remark.

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “You and I can cannot coexist, Mr Loveheart. That is the way of things, the way of survival of the species. You are the competition and you concern me and yet, you are insane. Your brain is a cauliflower. Why should you worry me? Mad little prince! Hell has dominion over this world. My queen, the Queen of Hell, is conquering the planet, her armies, her navies, claiming new territories. And she sits on the throne of England and rules already a quarter of the earth. We are eating you up little world. We are gobbling you up. Humans! You are a food source for us. That is all you are.”

  “I have to stop you,” and my head is fizzzzzzing and I try to lift my sword but I can’t.

  “Stop me? You are a fool. Your head is full of sponge,” and he laughs, rich treacle laughter. It soaks into the wallpaper, slips over me. He puts his mouth close to my ear, whispers, “I have eaten stardust. It tastes like sugar.”

  We are inside a book of fairy tales and the pages are turning themselves. My head feels so heavy, my heart is the THUD THUD THUD.

  “Red is the colour of my heart” I laugh “RED RED RED RED,” and my head sags and plops into the trifle dish.

  Oh dear.

  I am the melting blue of space. I AM AN ASTEROID.

  CATCH ME!

  Rufus Hazard to the rescue!

  I have just left Miss Pussywillow’s House of Delight. What a splendid evening that was. I was whipped within an inch of my life by a spirited mistress of the cat o’nine tails called Big Gertrude. A most pleasant evening it was and an excellent roast peasant supper at my club beforehand with a marvellous plum pudding and custard. What more can a man ask for than a good flogging and a decent pudding?

  Well Buggeration! That odd fellow, Mr Death, has materialised in front of me.

  “Mr Hazard, I require your assistance. Mr Loveheart is in peril.”

  “EGAD! PERIL IS MY MIDDLE NAME! What can I do to help the young whelp?”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, Rufus Peril Hazard at your service.”

  “Do you have your machete with you?”

  I smile, show my teeth and whip my old trusty machete from its sheath on my back. It glimmers under moonlight.

  TWING!

  “Excellent, the prime minister is about to eat him. Number 7, Flumpet Court. I need to find Boo Boo. Can you manage?”

  “Flumpet Court, I know the place. Never fear, Mr Death, I’ll sort that cad Heap out and rescue Loveheart!”

  I arrive under a bold moon and knock briskly on the rather smart red door. A suspicious looking butler wearing a pink turban and holding a blow pipe opens the door.

  “I am Rufus Hazard and I believe your employer has FOUL intentions towards a very dear friend of mine, a Mr Loveheart. I understand he is being held against his will and … WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH A BLOW PIPE?”

  He shuts the door in my face. THE CAD!

  I shout, “DOORS DO NOT STOP RUFUS HAZARD!” before I boot it with my foot. The door flies off its hinges and collapses. I step over the remains of door and glare at the whimpering butler who tries to blow pipe me! The dart hits the wall and I swipe my machete, slicing the legs off the snivelling coward. His torso glides past me, and out the door screaming.

  “THAT IS FOR TRYING TO BLOW PIPE ME, YOU IMPERTINENT SCOUNDREL!”

  I storm the corridor and boot in the dining room door, appreciating the excellent tapestries and stuffed badger on the mantelpiece. It is difficult to acquire experts in taxidermy in London.

  Mr Loveheart is lying face down, head in a trifle dish. The prime minister looms over him with a curious shaped spoon.

  “STEP AWAY FROM HIM OR YOU’LL FEEL MY BLADE, HEAP!” and I stick my leg up on the chair and swipe the blade; it glints under candle light.

  The prime minister looks genuinely surprised. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Rufus Hazard. Earl of Derbyshire, and that, I believe is a brain spoon.” I point my weaponry at the accursed object.

  He puts the spoon down on the table and sighs. “I am going to skin you alive and then suck your eyeballs out of your head.”

  “TRY IT, SHIT-HEAP. I DARE YOU!” I scream.

  The walls of the house squeeze, the ceiling wobbles.

  A dart hits the prime minister in the forehead.

  Boo Boo is behind me.

  “BITCH!” he cries, and slumps to the ground.

  Mr Loveheart stirs and lifts his head, which is covered in custard, and smiles at me. “Rufus! Hello. I think I am a pudding!”

  “Dear old sock, take my arm,” and I help him up.

  Boo Boo points at the framed picture of a giant butterfly on the wall, “Rufus, get it for me!”

  I step closer but the room is filling with blood. Knee high, I wade through towards the butterfly but there is too much blood and it is rising!

  “Boo Boo, we have to get out quickly.” Too late! We are washed away on a wave along the corridors, fast out the door into the street.

  A voice, that villain Zedock, soars over the blood and he’s laughing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

  What black magic is this? And before I can step back inside to chop the villain’s head off the house vanishes in a tidal wave of blood. HITS US. SLAPS US ABOUT. Carries us down the streets of London. FASTER, FASTER, FASTER. I try to grab a lamp post and fail, scream and get dragged as fast as a bullet across London. Ooze and foul slop of red. It goes down my mouth, into my eyes and nose. I see Boo Boo whizzz past – and is that Loveheart floating in a star shape in the distance?

  We are vomited out into Hyde Park in a violent explosion of red.

  I awake face down, disorientated by a park bench. Boo Boo is shaking Mr Loveheart, who is still somewhat delirious and talking about jam.

  I stand up and raise my machete. “This is not over, Heap.”

  Detective White and Constable Walnut meet Mr Poppy

  Walnut and I are in Spitalfields outside the Magic Emporium, and we’re wondering if Mr Ink-Squid may have some information on the butterfly symbol. Waxford thinks he might come in useful.

  “Did I ever tell you that my great grandfather was an amateur magician, sir?” says Walnut, scratching his chin.

  “I don’t believe so,” I sigh.

  “Well, he was. Pulled dead rabbits out of his hat. Tried to saw my grandmother in half. His career had an untimely ending when the stage collapsed at Brighton pier and he knocked himself unconscious. He never recovered. Couldn’t remember who he was.”

  “There’s always a silver lining in every cloud of misfortune,” I reply, opening the door to the Magic Emporium. A large, black-bearded gentleman stands behind the counter.

  “Mr Otto Ink-Squid?”

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant White and this is Constable Walnut. I believe you have already spoken to Detective Waxford. We were hoping you might be able to help us with our investigation.”

  Mr Ink-Squid nods. “What do you need?”

  “We are investigating the kidnapping of a young woman. She was transported to a gentlemen’s club by the river Thames and kept in a cage. The members of this club had a black butterfly symbol on their hands. We need to know what information you have on any unusual groups operating in the London area.”

  “You mean cults? Do I know of any cults in London?”

  “Yes, do you?”

  “I have heard of this butterfly cult. But only heard rumours. They are one of the more extreme cults and extremely difficult to join. I know of a man who is involved with them on a lower level. He helps them with transportation.”

  “You mean kidnapping?”

  “Very likely. He’s an undertaker. His name is Mr Poppy. His establishment is round the corner; there’s usually a few coffins propped up against the shop wall.”

  “Do you have any idea what this butterfly cult do with the women?”

  “I really don’t know. I don’t like to think wh
at these people get up to,” Ink-Squid says, sadly.

  “What have you heard about them?”

  “I’ve heard Mr Poppy gets a lot of money for disposing of the corpses.”

  We leave the Magic Emporium and in a few hundred yards find Mr Poppy’s undertaking establishment. Mr Ink-Squid was right, half a dozen wooden coffins line the entrance, as though pillars into the underworld.

  “This is a bit creepy,” says Constable Walnut.

  “Death is always a bit creepy, Walnut.”

  We enter the gloomy premises, the black letters of Mr Poppy above our heads, malign, sinister marks. Inside, a very tall skeletal man, wearing a black undertaker’s coat and top hat with a purple feather, sits taking tea and crumpets. He looks over a hundred years old, face withered away, skin stretched over his skull like parchment. The remaining white wisps of his hair hang like loose threads from under his top hat. He looks at us suspiciously whilst devouring the remainder of his crumpet.

  “So, who has died?” he says chuckling.

  “Possibly your reputation,” I reply.

  “Who are you?” his smile removed, wiping butter from his lips.

  “Detective Sergeant White and Constable Walnut. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m rather busy, gentlemen. Come back tomorrow,” and he starts eating another crumpet.

  “Who is your employer, Mr Poppy?”

  “I am the owner, but I suppose my employer in a broader sense would be Death,” and he looks very amused with himself.

  “Very funny. What can you tell me about the Butterfly Club?”

  Mr Poppy’s face stretches into ice. “Never heard of them.”

  “Really? I was under the belief that you got rid of the dead bodies for them.”

  “Rumours ain’t proof.” He sneers and throws a crumpet at Walnut’s head, which boings off and out the door.

  “That’s assaulting a police officer,” says Walnut, and whips out his handcuffs.

  “I THREW A FUCKING CRUMPET AT YOU, THAT AIN’T ASSAULT!”

  “Assault with a deadly weapon,” replies Walnut approaching him.

  “EXPLAIN TO ME HOW A CRUMPET IS DEADLY?” screams Mr Poppy in exasperation.

  Walnut picks up the crumpet and punches him in the face with it. Mr Poppy falls off his chair and lies on the floor unmoving.

  I turn, quite astonished to Walnut. “Sometimes you really surprise me.”

  He grins. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr Poppy after a while regains consciousness and stands up rather creakily and removes a pistol from his jacket. Points it at my head.

  “Boys!” he shouts. Two rather burly looking meat-heads appear. “Boys,” repeats Mr Poppy.

  “Yes, Dad?” one of them replies.

  “We have a little problem.”

  Walnut and I are escorted at gun point into the back room, where two large black coffins rest.

  “Get in,” Mr Poppy says, waggling the gun in my face.

  “Mr Poppy,” I say, trying to reason with him.

  “Get in!” he screeches.

  The coffin lid shuts with a gentle click. Mr Poppy’s fingers tap the surface, humming to himself. I can see nothing. I am submerged in inky blackness.

  I hear Mr Poppy’s toad-croaking voice above me, “Silly policemen. Really, what were you thinking?”

  A few hours pass and then I can feel the coffin being lifted and the lid tapped again.

  “Detective…” Mr Poppy is laughing. “You’re off to be buried. A lovely little spot in St Augustine’s churchyard. Ha ha ha ha.”

  I pound my fists against the lid. “Release me!”

  Rufus Hazard’s London Residence, “Dumplings”, Mayfair

  Loveheart recovers

  Ooh I had a little sleep. Feel much better now. I am lying on a pink sofa being fed buttered tea cakes and Turkish coffee.

  “A man must have his teacake,” says Rufus stuffing one into his mouth. “How are you feeling old boy? Have the drugs worn off yet?”

  My head is a fuzz.

  “I have always had the feeling that the prime minister was an unscrupulous cad!” sniffs Rufus, and passes me a teacake with extra splodge of jam.

  I have a fluffy blanket and cushion for my head. Boo Boo is also eating a teacake, and reading Mrs Charm’s novel The Cannibal Bishop of Edinburgh, which I have heard is a murder mystery set in a sinister Abbey and involves missing monks and a suspicious gigantic shepherds’ pie.

  “When you feel better, you must decapitate that wretch Heap. Give him a good thrashing. Unspeakable bad manners leaving a man with his head in a bowl of trifle.”

  Death appears with a basket of fruit. “Feeling better?”

  “I have a terrible headache and ghastly flashbacks about spoons,” I say and bite into the teacake.

  Death hands me a banana. “Get to St Augustine’s Church as soon as possible. Detective White and Constable Walnut are experiencing a premature burial.”

  To the rescue!

  St Augustine’s Church is tiny, decrepit and overrun with weeds. Apart from the dead body of a vagrant lying face down on the path, the only source of activity is a funeral service where two coffins are being lowered into the earth by two large ruffians. A bedraggled vicar is reading a mumbled sermon. He appears to be drunk. I grab Boo Boo’s hand.

  “I think we’ve found them!” We approach the ruffians boldly.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” I say. “So who are you burying today?”

  The vicar, whose eyes are red and bulging, begins to speak, but belches rather loudly instead, to his own mortification.

  “Never heard of them,” I reply.

  “Open the coffins,” Boo Boo says, pointing her blades at one of the thugs. He laughs, which is often, I have discovered, a mistake with her. One of her blades embeds itself in his brain and he falls aside like a sack of potatoes. The vicar screams like a little girl.

  “Open the coffins,” she repeats to the other thug who obediently does as she requests. She then shoots the other of her blades into his brain like an arrow.

  “Ooooooh, good shot!” I cry, clapping my hands.

  Constable Walnut and Detective White emerge from their tombs, shaken but steady. I keep an eye on the Vicar.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I had no idea they were alive,” he replies, nervously.

  “Oh really?”

  Walnut wobbles and grips a headstone for balance.

  “Are you alright, Walnut?” asks Boo Boo.

  “Not really. I think I’m having a little panic attack.”

  “Breathe deep, constable!” Detective White slaps him hard across the back. “We’re alive!”

  “Thank you, sir. I feel like someone’s done something funny to my brain.” Walnut pokes his skull. “Have they?”

  “I ask myself that same question every day,” White replies, and then looks to me, “Where’s Waxford?”

  “He’s here in London.”

  Boo Boo informs them of naughty Zedock Heap’s demonic and cannibalistic persuasion and that he now has possession of the Angel-Eater.

  “Frankly, nothing surprises me anymore,” sighs Detective White.

  “Who would have expected that!” said Walnut, “That our very own prime minister eats people. Well, it’s not normal, is it?”

  “Sometimes it amazes me that you’ve never been promoted. How many years have you been a constable, Walnut?” says Detective White.

  “Well, if you include the ten years I spent hanging on a wall, metamorphosed into an insect by a perverted sorcerer, about thirty-two years, sir.”

  “Walnut, return to Detective Waxford and inform him of what has happened and arrest that dodgy vicar. Boo Boo, Loveheart, you will both come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” asks Boo Boo

  “To extract some information from an undertaker,” he replies.

  Detective White extracts butterfly information

  We have Mr Poppy tied to
a chair in his basement and I punch him in the face and it feels wonderful. He screams, his skull vibrating. Loveheart and Boo Boo stand either side of him, holding an arm each.

  “Let’s start again, shall we? What do you know about the Butterfly Club?”

  “Sod off,” Mr Poppy says.

  “Oh, that’s charming. Such bad manners,” tuts Mr Loveheart.

  I punch him again, a good hard slog. “I’m waiting, Mr Poppy.”

  He starts to laugh rather manically.

  Boo Boo impales one of her blades in his thigh. His scream is ear-drum shattering.

  “This is the last time I am going to ask you, and then I’m going to let her chop you up… understand?”

  “I only collect,” he says, fearfully.

  “Collect what?”

  “The women. I collect them.”

  “Where is the Butterfly Club?”

  “I don’t know. Please, I just pick up the bodies.”

  “From where?”

  “By the river. There’s an old theatre, the Dancing Imp. They dump the bodies on the stage.”

  “When are you collecting them next?”

  “Tomorrow. Midnight.”

  “Who do you collect the bodies from?”

  “Mr Cobweb.”

  Mr Loveheart is sitting on the desk, flicking idly through his diary. “OoOH on Tuesday he purchased a shovel!”

  Ignoring Mr Loveheart, I continue, “Is Zedock Heap the leader of the Butterfly Club?”

  Mr Poppy grits his teeth. “I don’t know who’s the boss.”

  “Who else is involved?”

  “I don’t know anything else. You’ll just have to kill me.”

  Boo Boo slices his head off. It bounces against the wall and rolls out of the room.

  “He might have had some other information, Boo Boo!” I scream.

  Good fortune smiles on Pedrock