by Ishbelle Bee
After the wedding massacre I inherited the entire Grubweed fortune and estate as the remaining male relative.
Mr Cedric Evening-Star, the family lawyer who has been working on my behalf, sold the Grubweed family home and helped me arrange the funerals for Grandpa, Aunt Grubweed, Cornelius, Prunella and Estelle. Of course, Mr Wormhole the vicar was unable to perform the services on account of him fleeing the area in fear of his life, so a replacement, called Mr Fishwick, was brought in from a nearby village. He did a very nice job.
Mrs Charm decided to leave the village of Darkwound and is moving to Tintagel in Cornwall to continue the phenomenal success of her Medieval Horrors. She left me several of her chutney recipes and a plot outline for her next novel, The Severed Leg.
I left the ship building firm of Winkhood & Son and have bought myself an enormous boat which I have named Dragonfly. I intend to sail across the world in it. I have so much time before me and it is all my own. Indigo waters and cotton-wool-cloud skies of nothingness. Miss Penny Seashell and I are to be married at sea this very week. She is my “someone” to share all this freedom with, all this wonder.
While my sister slices up London in a butterfly dance of blades, I am sailing away into calmness, into an ocean of sleep.
Mr Angelcakes in London
I am having such fun here. Such fun! I am eating skin and it has made me so much stronger. My rotting skin is no longer rotting. No more brown teeth, green lips and heaps of squashed, mushy intestines.
I can move about London as a gentleman. Strawberry blond hair, ice-cream smile, bright eyes, top hat. I am tall and respectable looking. I am recovered, I am whole again.
But the only thing I can eat are skins. My dietary requirements have made me a serial killer. I catch them at night. Hook them under my arms in back-alleys. Entice them with gold coins. Watch them wriggle, squirm and squeal with horror in the ink-splat darkness.
“Don’t eat that! It’s alive!”
I eat and I wait. I am waiting for Boo Boo to retrieve the Angel-Eater. It will be returned to me. And also, I suppose, I miss her. My little butterfly.
My
little
butter
f
l
y
Detective White and Constable Walnut in the Romney Marsh
The Romney Marshlands are dotted with soft and silver moths that fly round our carriage. One lands on Constable Walnut’s hand and sticks itself to him affectionately.
Detective Waxford and Boo Boo are to stay in London and investigate the Dancing Imp Theatre while I and Walnut are here on the marshlands to view the Hummingbird family home and see if we can get any further information regarding the case. Mr Loveheart has taken it upon himself to locate Mr Angelcakes, a man neither Detective Waxford or myself have yet encountered, but who is leaving a trail of corpses throughout London – without their skins.
Hummingbird Manor House lies in the remotest part of the marshlands. A tiny church surrounded by plump sheep sits a half mile away from it. As our carriage pulls up to the main gates, a ewe raises her head from grazing and stares at us rather intently, eyeballs like soft boiled eggs.
“That sheep’s looking at me!” Walnut says, rather worriedly.
“Don’t encourage her,” I sigh, and we step from the carriage.
Hummingbird Manor is a large sandy-coloured house, plain featured but with a large stone butterfly engraved over the main door. An elderly butler appears from the side entrance trundling a suitcase with what appears to be all his belongings.
“Hello there. I am Detective Sergeant White from Scotland Yard and this is Constable Walnut. I have a warrant to inspect the house.”
The butler – whose face, on closer inspection, resembles a turnip – sneers. “There be no one to show ye about the house. The master is dead. Servants gone. I’m off too.”
“That’s fine. If you can just give me the key. It saves Walnut from kicking in the door.”
The butler removes a large rusty-looking key from his coat pocket and hands it to me.
“If I may ask you some questions before you leave?”
“I don’t know noffin,” he replies.
“We’ll see. What’s your name?”
“Thangus Itch.”
“Sorry?”
“Thangus Itch,” he repeats.
“Unusual. How long have you worked for Ignatius Hummingbird?”
“I have been the butler in this house since the boys were born. Nearly sixty years.”
“We are currently investigating a case which involves Ignatius Hummingbird and the kidnapping of women for a cult in London. It seems he kept a local woman in a cage in his basement. Do you know anything about this?”
“I don’t know noffin about that.”
“Never seen anything suspicious? Women being dragged into carriages, screaming, him hitting them over the head to knock them unconscious?”
“Nope.”
“Anything you can tell me about Ignatius at all?”
“Master kept himself to himself.”
“That’s incredibly helpful,” I say sourly. “Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Club?”
“Nope.”
“One more thing Mr Itch. I would like to inspect your luggage before you leave the premises.”
He looks startled. “Why?”
“You might have nicked something,” Walnut interjects.
“I ain’t letting you poke your nose into my stuff.” Mr Itch spits on the ground.
“Walnut, hold him fast while I take a look.” Walnut grabs the butler by the scruff of his neck while I open the case. A human foot rests neatly on top of a pile of laundry.
“Would you like to explain why there is a human foot in your bag?”
“Nope.”
“Walnut, handcuff him to the carriage while we search the rest of the house.”
“With pleasure, sir!”
I enter the key into the lock and turn it. The door swings gently open to reveal a sombre-looking interior. A huge portrait of Ignatius and Gabriel Hummingbird stands in the hallway glaring down upon me. Behind them is an Aztec temple, surrounded by butterflies. It is a bizarre painting.
Thangus Itch is laughing loudly from outside.
“Shut it!” Walnut shouts.
“Tick tock!” Mr Itch shouts manically back.
I pause. “What does he mean, tick tock?”
“Bomb,” says Walnut.
We run outside. The house explodes, the front door flying off and bouncing against Thangus Itch, flattening him. I am thrown into the gates and Walnut flies past me into the field, landing next to the sheep. The house is an inferno, the air filled with dust spreading out into the marshlands.
When I regain consciousness I wake to see the sheep licking Walnut’s face.
“Are you alright, Walnut?” I shout.
“Yes, sir,” he replies.
I stand up. There is nothing left of the house. Thangus Itch is dead, squashed by the door. I walk over to Walnut who is sitting next to the insolent lump of a sheep. I extend a hand to him and help him up from the ground.
“So, what’s the plan, sir?”
I look around us and out at the marshlands.
“We’ll search that church over there,” I say, pointing a finger, “and then we return to London.”
The pair of us, half blown up, stroll the half mile over the marshlands through grazing sheep and brown and grey butterflies, which swoop delicately over our heads. The earth is soft under our feet, the squidge and squash of bogland. The church is tiny, painted white, with a huge keyhole in the door. The key to the Hummingbird Manor House is still in my pocket. It fits perfectly into the church lock.
“As I thought, this church belongs to the Hummingbird family. We may find a clue yet, Walnut.”
The door swings open.
“Oh my God.”
Walnut faints. A nearby sheep bleats rather sarcastically.
The church is stuffed to the brim with s
keletons and decaying body parts. Green flesh hanging off, leaking eye sockets. The stench is unbearable. It nearly knocks me over. I gag and feel dizzy.
And round the walls of the church are painted butterflies of a thousand different colours, each one glittering with alien beauty. I shut the door and pass out in an undignified heap on the grass.
Detective Waxford and Boo Boo investigate the Dancing Imp Theatre
It’s nearly midnight. Boo Boo and I are hiding behind the stage curtain of the Dancing Imp Theatre. I’ve got my gun and the little lady has her blades. The theatre is a ruin, the walls half collapsed. A tatty poster of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, starring Lavender Charm as Titania, hangs off the wall.
I’m sure Detective White and Constable Walnut’s investigations in the Romney Marsh have been uneventful. Nothing there but a load of sheep.
Suddenly there’s a noise from the side of the theatre: the sound of a carriage. And in step two men carrying a body, and behind them the eye-patched Mr Cobweb ordering them about. The men dump the body on the stage and then go off to retrieve another.
The body is of a young woman. Her chest has been cut open. An empty red space where her heart should be.
I signal to Boo Boo and we step out onto the stage. I aim my gun at Mr Cobweb’s head. Boo Boo launches her blades, one each landing in the forehead off the hired thugs. They fall to the ground rather neatly. She steps lightly over to them and pulls the blades out, pressing her foot against their skulls as leverage; slightly disturbing considering she’s only sixteen.
“Mr Cobweb,” I say. “Nice to see you again. Fan of the theatre, are you?”
Mr Cobweb, a little surprised, says, “Shit.”
“Would you care to explain to me the corpse on the stage?”
“Not especially.”
I shoot him in the knee and he screams.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?” Boo Boo stands next to him, her blade gently tapping his shoulder.
“Boo Boo and I would very much like to visit the Butterfly Club and I believe you will be taking us there. Or she’ll chop your arms off.”
“This is really a pointless exercise, Detective Waxford. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. Torture me all you wish…”
Boo Boo slices his arm off. It plumps to the floor.
“There was really no need for that!” he says through gritted teeth.
“Where is the Butterfly Club?” I ask again.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not my arm lying on the floor.”
Boo Boo places her blade on his other arm.
“Stop that!”’ he cries.
“I am losing my patience. You know what I want, Mr Cobweb? I want to retire to a nice little cottage in the countryside. Relax. Write my memoirs. Maybe get a cat. Before I can do that, Mr Cobweb, I have to provide justice to this poor woman,” (and I look towards the stage) “and the countless other women being kidnapped and murdered by your associates. If it takes cutting off every single part of your anatomy to retrieve the information I require then I will do it.”
Boo Boo raises her blade.
“Houses of Parliament,” he says softly.
“What?”
“The Butterfly Club is underneath the Houses of Parliament.”
Part Four
The Butterfly Club
Houses of Parliament, 1889
It’s a full moon tonight. Why am I not surprised? Lightning cracks across the sky, exploding and sizzling a church rooftop. The London nightscape boils above our heads.
Mr Cobweb, Boo Boo and I are dressed in black hooded robes and we are outside the entrance to the Butterfly Club, situated underneath the Houses of Parliament. I have my gun against Mr Cobweb’s back in case he tries any funny business. I never thought I would see the day when I would be dressed up looking like this. It’s frankly bloody embarrassing. Infiltrating a cult!
An enormous bare-chested man guards the entrance. He must be the size of a tree.
“Good evening, Mr Cobweb,” he says, tipping his hat.
Mr Cobweb nods. “I have some guests with me this evening.”
“Very good, sir,” and he lets us through. I am hoping no one notices Mr Cobweb has only one arm. We left it in the Dancing Imp Theatre, lying on the floor.
We enter a long candlelit corridor and begin to descend a series of winding stairs which spirals far into the earth, under the Thames. On the walls, a series of tiny blue butterflies dance and shimmer in spirals. I can hear faint music and chanting deep beneath us.
“You do understand,” says Mr Cobweb, “when they realise who you both are, they’ll probably eat you alive.”
I slap him round the back of his hooded head. “No one’s eating me tonight. Especially while I’m wearing this stupid robe.”
“I think you look rather fetching, Detective Waxford,” says Boo Boo.
“I can’t take myself seriously wearing this.”
“If you want to blend in, you’ll have to chant,” Mr Cobweb interjects.
I slap him round the back of the head again.
“Suit yourself.”
Further and further down we go. The walls are cold stone, the butterflies are intermingled with bloody hand prints. The chanting becomes louder, the music some sort of hypnotic repetition. And finally we emerge into what I can only describe as an enormous Aztec temple, the size of St Paul’s Cathedral. There must be five hundred hooded robed figures swaying and chanting; a sea of black. At the far end of this bizarre temple, a huge stone altar soaked in blood. And sitting behind, on a throne of human skulls, sits the prime minister, Zedock Heap. Above his head the Angel-Eater, with a pin through its heart. Its wings beat frantically.
“Well bugger me!” I say. “The leader of this demented cult is the prime minister.”
“I thought you would have guessed by now,” says Mr Cobweb, adjusting his hood.
“I have to arrest the British prime minister for running a death cult. I’m never going to get my pension.”
“Probably not.”
“Why the hell is he even involved?”
“He’s a very powerful demon. He eats human hearts; they increase his power.”
“Didn’t Loveheart tell you?” says Boo Boo.
“NO, HE DID NOT TELL ME THE PRIME MINISTER WAS A DEMON. I bloody voted for him!”
“We all did.”
“Why are all these people even here?”
“It’s a bit like the Masons, really,” Mr Cobweb continues happily.
I slap him round the back of the head again. “It’s nothing like the fucking Masons. They don’t kill people and eat body parts!”
“Detective Waxford,” says Boo Boo. “Please can you free the butterfly for me?” and she points to the Angel-Eater.
“I’ll try, sweetheart. I’m in shock at the moment.”
We move to the very back of the temple, near an enormous pillar. Round the walls are huge, weird paintings of the Angel-Eater butterfly, liquorice black-winged, soaring over the ceiling.
And then we hear a scream and a young woman is dragged from the back of the temple and pulled onto the altar and tied down. Zedock Heap rises from his throne, moving towards her, a black dagger in his hands.
There is no time left.
I shoot my pistol at the ceiling. All five hundred hooded figures turn, gazing at me. Zedock Heap raises his head, curious.
“I am Detective Waxford of Scotland Yard and you’re all nicked!”
Boo Boo uncovers her blades and positions herself in front of me. Mr Cobweb creeps aside. And then Zedock Heap, smiling to himself, shouts across the temple.
“COME TO ME,” he says and the walls shake, ooze blood.
I shout back: “Boo Boo, WIPE THE FLOOR WITH THEM!”
Detective White and Constable Walnut infiltrate the Butterfly Club
Walnut and I have just returned to Scotland Yard where a note has been pinned to my desk.
Percival,
Butt
erfly Club under Houses of Parliament. Boo Boo and I already there. QUITE POSSIBLY DEAD. Hurry Up.
Waxford
“Let’s get to it, Walnut!”
“Yes, sir!”
We race outside and hail the nearest cabbie. “Quick as you can. Houses of Parliament.”
“Yes, guv’ner.”
Our carriage races along the streets of London. The moon is full tonight and wicked.
“Eventful day so far,” says Walnut.
I load my pistol. Walnut holds up the hand grenade Mr Loveheart gave him for Christmas, shaped like a potato, a little red heart painted on it.
“Could prove useful,” he says.
The cabbie drops us off and we circle round the back of the Houses of Parliament to where an enormous man stands guarding a small door, obscured from view by the shadows. We approach him.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he says, carefully.
“Open the door. I am Detective Sergeant White and I am investigating a series of murders.”
“No,” he replies coolly.
I take my pistol out. “Earlier today my constable and I were blown up. I’m not in the mood for the word ‘no’ tonight.”
“You’ll have to shoot me.”
“Fair enough.” And so I do, albeit in the leg.
We enter the building and follow the staircase downwards, following the noises of screaming and gunfire. Finally we enter the enormous temple. A body part (I can’t distinguish exactly what part) flies past my head. Walnut and I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded.
Waxford runs towards the altar, shooting hooded figures left right and centre. We hear him swearing loudly and as he proceeds to push his way towards what appears to be–