Concept date: 5th August, 2017
First published: 20th March, 2018Status: COMPLETED.
Version: EXTENDED.
Age recommendation: 15+
Average Reading Time: Approximately 45 minutes.
Age recommendation: 15+
Average Reading Time: Approximately 45 minutes.
Revisions: 6. [Last Edit: March 2020]
Angel-in-charge: Margret Team Assigned: Team 74
Human Time: 1889AD-1306AH Mission: 048124 - 2 - 2600
MISSION SUMMARY: "Damian Coffin is the Ring-Master of 'Circus Diablo' who tour late Victorian Britain, but this is no entertainment for families; as they perform only for the ultra wealthy and the powerful. Only the morally corrupt and sexually deviant are their Patrons - and some of them are prepared to pay their Soul for a very special performance; 'The Dance of the Black Queen'. Mr. Tibbs is back in 1889, in the East End of London; because the Devil's Circus has come to town!"
Angel-in-charge: Margret Team Assigned: Team 74
Human Time: 1889AD-1306AH Mission: 048124 - 2 - 2600
 |
| "THE DEVIL'S CIRCUS." |
MISSION SUMMARY: "Damian Coffin is the Ring-Master of 'Circus Diablo' who tour late Victorian Britain, but this is no entertainment for families; as they perform only for the ultra wealthy and the powerful. Only the morally corrupt and sexually deviant are their Patrons - and some of them are prepared to pay their Soul for a very special performance; 'The Dance of the Black Queen'. Mr. Tibbs is back in 1889, in the East End of London; because the Devil's Circus has come to town!"
NOTES: This episode was written with humour to the fore, but contains mild language and sexual references.
"This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental." The Author.
"THE DEVIL'S CIRCUS."
Several Constables had been required to clear the throng of on-lookers from around the body and allow Detective Inspector Maurice Mountjoy access to the corpse. He was accompanied [as usual] by Sergeant Thomas Bass, who blew his nose several times into a gaudy bright red handkerchief and cussed loudly; ”This bloody cold is really pissing me off!” The Inspector smiled and tapped his assistants shoulder; “Try some rum with hot water and lemon, that normally works for me.” The sergeant grunted and blew his nose again.
“How the hell did I catch a stinking cold in the middle of summer?” Sergeant Bass wiped his nose again, but smiled at the thought of hot rum and spices. They approached the street corner, now cordoned off with Constables and could see the figure lying covered with a dirty tarpaulin, hastily borrowed from the builders yard several doors down. Divisional Surgeon Clive Roberts was writing into his little red note book and looked up; he smiled, adjusting his small round glasses and pointed to the body with his pencil.
“A real queer one this, Inspector.” He spoke softly and pushed the notebook into his coat pocket. “Been dead for about four to six hours and by the look on his face, he died in utter fear and horror.” Inspector Mountjoy and the Sergeant exchanged glances and big Tom Bass reached down, lifting the canvas sheet slowly from the head of the body. In the warm early morning sunshine they both stared at the contorted face of the dead man.
“Sweet fucking Jesus!” Tom muttered, the old Police Doctor wasn’t kidding one little bit; the poor bastard looked like he had seen the Devil himself. “What’s the cause of death?” He asked the Doctor, who was closing up his ‘Gladstone’ bag and lighting a little brown cigar.
“I would say heart failure; there are no obvious marks upon the body. I will know more after the autopsy. But according to your Constable Lofthouse he had nothing on him – perhaps he had been turned over by footpads and simply dropped dead – but that certainly wouldn’t explain the face.” The Doctor looked down at the body and all three men could see that the corpse’s suit was on the very expensive side of good quality.
What was an obviously wealthy man doing in this grim part of the East end in the middle of the night? Mountjoy pulled his cigarette case out and popped one into his mouth – he offered Tom one, which was reluctantly refused – smoking really aggravated his bloody throat and made him cough now.
The Inspector called over Constable Lofthouse and asked him about the man’s possessions – or rather lack of them.
“Not a thing Sir, nothing in his pockets and no rings on his fingers. The suit jacket is missing and maybe his overcoat and hat have gone too – if he was wearing them - when he died.” Constable Lofthouse was a veteran of nearly ten years service and had seen lots of dead bodies, but the face on this one gave the old Policeman the shivers.
“Old Stan Cornish and his youngest boy found the body at six thirty this morning – he was here to deliver a couple of sacks of coal to the little toy factory in King Street and saw the body in the kerbside.” The Constable pointed over to old man Cornish and his coal cart. The boy was feeding the horse with a couple of apples whilst Stan Cornish sat smoking his pipe – he lifted his dirty hat to the Inspector and sucked hard on his large cob pipe.
Inspector Mountjoy didn’t bother having the old coal merchant or his cart searched; he had known Stan Cornish since his boyhood and whatever Stan was, it wasn’t a thief. Constable Lofthouse held up his Police notebook and added; “I have his statement written down and I’ve asked him to drop into Brick Lane nick to make a full one – Can I let him get on with his deliveries?”
Mountjoy nodded affirmative and smoked quite slowly, staring down at the body and wondered who the corpse was and what the hell he was doing here at his age; which the Doctor estimated to be the late fifties. Mountjoy watched the coal cart pull away and could see the Police Ambulance turning into the street from Queen’s Square. It was the gaggle of reporters following that made him groan and motioned to them, telling Bass to keep the bastards away from the removal of the body.
“With bloody pleasure. “Sergeant Bass muttered and told a couple of Constables to keep them away from the stiff. The Inspector peered down the entrance of the dark alley, which the body lay in front of, and threw down his cigarette. He wandered across and stared down the alley; a typical grim East end collection of dilapidated houses and boarded up shops. He looked up at the street sign: ‘Hobbs Lane.’
He nodded to himself; the place had a dark reputation stretching back many years for death and violence. Most of the decent locals avoided the place at night because it was now filled with the dregs of Europe, as he called them. Refugees from Russia, Serbia, Poland and even the Ottoman Empire now called it home – it was a ghetto of crime and vice – but it had always been so, if he was honest with himself.
He smiled at his thoughts; if the old man had been robbed and murdered, then he wouldn’t have to look too far for suspects! He watched as two burly Constables lifted the body upon a rough wooden stretcher and placed it in the Police Ambulance. The Inspector walked slowly over to the group of reporters and they gathered about him, shouting questions and waving notebooks in his face.
Amongst the slightly interested crowd was a tall young man in a cheap suit and boots; he certainly watched with real interest and took a deep breath. "He went too far last night, changing back to his true form in front of that poor old twat, but who the fuck has the balls to tell him that?" He spoke quietly to Peter who nodded his agreement - he certainly wouldn't tell the master how to behave; he was a fucking demon and you didn't really argue too much with them.
The odd looking pair walked away from the Inspectors impromptu press conference and headed for the Queen's Head, which was open and packed with dockers leaving the night shift. Damien Coffin checked his pocket watch and Peter pushed open the pub door and Damien walked in, his thoughts cantered on tomorrow night's performance - the big one, as Lord Arthur referred to turning this very important trick, who would be played like a fish and landed.
"Katrina had better keep off the fucking gin until this is done." He muttered and ordered beer and whisky for himself and Peter. The fat publican; Dave 'dogface' Sellers stood arms folded, bowler hat pushed back, behind his bar and smiled; "It's still on for tomorrow night then?" he asked quietly. Damien nodded and jerked a thumb towards the two young barmaids; "Only those two Dave, they know what their doing around toff's. I can't have any fucking upsets, this is too fucking important for that. It has to be sweet, like a clock; tick-tock."
'Dogface' grinned; "Yeah, ten bob each for them and two quid for me. I know we agreed ten bob for the pair and a quid for me. Sorry, but I'll need a little more; because of all the police activity now. You know, with that toff turning up brown bread [dead] by Hobbs Lane. It's fucking risky." Damien sighed and nodded his agreement; "Just make sure the tarts are washed and looking good. Just aprons and stockings; nothing else." he tapped the bar and pushed three pounds across to Dave, who grabbed the money up. "Sure, I'll scrub the bitches myself!" he smiled and pushed the notes into his gaudy waistcoat pocket.
The barman wandered down his bar and spoke to the girls, who turned and smiled at Damien. "Fat grasping bastard." Muttered Peter and swallowed his beer down. Damien tapped his shoulder; "Steady mate, we need that fat bastard for the girls and the booze he's supplying - at cost price. He's laid his fat hands on some decent champagne and we can't dish up anything fucking less. The bloody toff's will smell crap a mile away and the game will be up. Nah, we need the fat fucker - for now." He smiled at Peter, who nodded and picked up his whisky glass; "Then he's mine." He whispered.
Damien and Peter finished their drinks and headed for the doors. From a quiet corner, Sir Francis Drake had watched the pair and the fat barman interact, he rose slowly and followed them out. Well, it actually wasn't Sir Francis Drake himself - he's been dead for over three hundred years; it was some twat dressed like him. Outside the Queens Head, he rubbed his chin and wondered what old 'Dogface' was up to with this pair of shifty strangers. He could smell a few shillings in it for him.
Two old women in shabby shawls walked past and the tall one cackled; "What's up William? Lost your bloody stage?" They both gripped each other and laughed like hyena's watching a gazelle die. "It's fucking Sir Francis Drake you fucking old crones! he shouted after them, but they were gone. "Bloody Philistines." he said and headed for home.
2. MR. TIBBS IS ON THE CASE.
Jericho and Owen watched the Police Ambulance depart and turned back to Ali Mennza, the Collector who had asked for Temporal Detective assistance after finding no soul to collect. Little Ali smiled at Jericho and held open his Soul Ledger; “He’s in here for this morning, but he was suppose to die on some wasteland at the rear of Victoria Park – not on this street corner, miles away!”
Ali tapped his book and continued; “I waited for a few minutes at the wasteland, and then did a body search which bought me here, but again; no soul present.” He folded his arms and smiled again; “That’s everything Mr. Tibbs.”
Owen consulted his mirror and read about the deceased; “Lord Henry Snowfield, passed over at 2.10 AM, using local time and dates; on the 7th June 1889 on wasteland at the rear of Victoria Park, London. Now classified as a ‘lost soul’ with the body appearing at the entrance to Hobbs Lane, there are no apparent changes to the current human Time-Line. Oh, and his soul Marker is 3241202 – it was his first time in the ‘Life-Cycle, so he’s quite a fresh one.” Owen shrugged his shoulders and added; “He died on time, so that helps – but what the fuck happened to his soul?”
Jericho tapped Ali on the shoulder; “Thanks Ali, we’ll take it from here.” The Collector smiled broadly and flicked open his Soul Ledger to see the soul’s details had vanished; replaced by a simple reference number: ‘048124 – 2 – 2600 TIBBS’.
The matter was now allocated to Temporal Detectives and the Collectors involvement was at an end. “Thanks Mr. Tibbs, I’m staying local for the next pick-up; the mum of a stillborn in Nelson Road. The kid didn't even know she expecting - but her dad certainly did.” Ali waved and vanished, leaving the pair of Temporal Detectives watching the crowd dispersing in the morning sunshine.
“Good man that Ali, he gets lots of compliments from the newly dead about his manners.” Owen spoke to Jericho whilst reading his mirror again. He looked up and added; “Cause of death was a massive heart attack.....” He hesitated for a few seconds, then shook his head in disbelief; “According to the Dispatch Department, the poor bastard died of heart failure bought on by fear and shock.” He glanced at Jericho who just nodded his head.
“Can someone really die of terror?” Owen asked and pushed the mirror back into his pocket. Jericho just smiled in reply and the pair then disappeared to the wasteland at the rear of Victoria Park. Jericho pulled a glass orb from his inner pocket; no bigger than a golf ball and held the strange object out in his open hand. The little clear ball immediately showed red streaks flowing about its circumference.
“A Minion of the ‘Dark Prince’ was here.” Jericho stated and pushed the orb back into his pocket. “The trail is still very fresh, just a few hours old and its presence was a strong one – strong enough to steal a soul.” He added and looked about the litter strewn ground – why was there so much rubbish here? Jericho then noticed the small parade of shops opposite and he motioned for Owen to follow.
The little bell attached to the Tobacconist’s door tinkled as Jericho wandered in and started looking at the jars of tobacco and boxes of cigarettes. Owen followed and breathed deeply’ “That’s a bloody gorgeous smell!” He exclaimed and then, the young clerk appeared behind the counter and asked if he could be of assistance.
Jericho picked a handful of large cigars and placed them on the counter; the young man carefully wrapped his purchase which was a whopping nine shillings and smiled broadly; this was a cracking start to his day.
Jericho started up a conversation with the Tobacconist about the rubbish strewn wasteland opposite and why the local Council hasn’t cleaned it up yet. The young man informed Jericho that some travelling show people had camped on the ground for the last week, but when he opened the shop this morning, they had cleared off.
“What sort of show people?” Jericho asked, pushing his purchase into one of the many pockets of his overcoat. The young man rolled his eyes and laughed; “They were supposed to be a Circus, but they played no shows – well, not for anyone around here - some kids rushed across there to see the Clowns and came back frightened and crying. Apparently the Clowns looked fierce and miserable. One of the little girls said they were ‘bloody evil looking’. Some flipping Circus!”
“What was the name of the show?” Owen asked, sniffing a circular carton of Turkish cigarettes. He grimaced and put the carton down quickly, muttering; “Smell’s like horse shit.” The young clerk laughed and thought for a few seconds; “Circus Diablo....or something like that. A real strange, dark bunch of characters I can tell you. Foreigners most of them, but the Ring Master was quite pleasant and spoke good English – he liked those very cigarettes you just picked up, so I guess he was a refugee from Turkey.”
The young man busied himself wiping down his counter and then laughed; “They had a couple of young women travelling with them and they certainly caught the attention of the men around here – they were a couple of stunners – olive skinned with dark eyes and figures they didn’t mind showing off. I suppose modesty hadn’t reached Turkey yet.”
Owen and Jericho chuckled at the young clerk's words. The young man brushed down his apron and smiled broadly; "I did see the woman they all seemed to fall over, [the circus crew] the way they treated her, you'd think she was some kind of princess. Tall blond lady with a figure like a Greek statue and I mean a figure." He formed big breasts with his hands and smirked; "Probably had legs all the way up - a real gorgeous piece of skirt. You don't see many ladies of that quality around here." He seemed unhappy about that particular omission and groaned a little, when a woman's shrill voice called him from the rear.
"Just serving some gentlemen my dearest." He shouted - unsmiling., then he sighed; "The little woman - bless her." and the look upon his face spoke volumes. Owen had to restrain a laugh and coughed, then said quietly to Jericho; "What would a circus want with such a woman?"
"Honey trap." Muttered Jericho and thanked the young man for his time and the cigars, then left the little shop and its 'happy' owner, and stood outside in the sunshine. The street was now quite busy with passer-by's, tradesmen and carriages. Owen stood, hands in pockets, watching the street filling with people and traffic; “Who would operate such a Circus?” He asked the thoughtful Jericho.
Jericho folded his arms and sighed; “The Devil.”
3. TICKETS TO THE DEVIL'S CIRCUS DON'T COME CHEAP!
Tim's the Butler stared at the young man standing in the doorway. He wore a cheap three piece suit with a cheap Homburg hat and Tim's noticed that he wore cheap machine made boots. He sighed, what on earth would his lordship want with such a fellow? Especially one that smiled so much - for no apparent reason. But Tim's was a professional and he bowed and smiled.
Reluctantly, Tim's showed the young man into the Front reception room and made a mental note to check for any missing items after the strange young man had departed. "I will inform his lordship that you are here...Mister...."Tim's had already forgotten the name offered and adjusting his glasses, looked again at the yellowing business card the man had offered. "Mr. Coffin." He said simply and walked to his lordships study and knocked gently upon the door and entered.
Lord Arthur Horewood - 9th Earl of Rochford, sat behind his uncluttered desk and stared at the afternoon edition of the local paper. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled a thick brown envelope from it and placed it upon the table. He also stared into the drawer at the small loaded pistol that also lay there. He sighed loudly and looked up as Tim's announced the arrival of a certain Mister Coffin. The Earl just nodded and gestured for Tim's to show the young man in. He looked back down at the envelope and snatched it up, placing it back into the drawer; "We'll see." he muttered.
Lord Arthur also checked that the pistol was loaded and left the drawer half open, then rose slowly as Mr. Coffin was shown in - his cheap Homburg clutched in both hands. Nothing was said until Tim's left the pair. Lord Arthur pointed to a chair in front of the desk and sat back down. Mister Coffin eased himself onto the chair and fumbled in his jacket with one hand whilst the other gripped his hat tightly. He held up a small gold and silver bracelet; a snake and a circle.
"Verax enim Pater Salutat." He spoke softly and smiled, then pushed the bracelet back into his jacket pocket. Lord Arthur nodded; "Omnes laudes fater tenebris." he replied and held up a matching bracelet, which he quickly pushed back into his waistcoat.
"I take it you've seen the afternoon edition of the local paper for the bloody East End?" Lord Arthur clasped his hands together and sat back in the chair; "What the fuck happened to the old man?" Damien Coffin squirmed a little in his seat - the smile was gone. "He just fucking dropped dead, honestly guvnor. One minute he was full of life, enjoying the show and the next, he was stone fucking dead. Little Ivor reckons he had a massive heart attack. What the fuck could we do but dump the bloody body and get the fuck out of the place. We can't have coppers near the show - you know that."
Damien hesitated then thought; fuck it. He ran a hand over his face; "It didn't help the situation that the master changed in front of the poor old sod and I suspect that killed him - stone fucking dead." Damien felt a little better getting that off his mind.
Lord Arthur sighed and stared up at the ceiling for a couple of minutes in silence and then turned back to the obviously nervous young man in the cheap suit. "Are you sure no-one can trace his visit back to the circus?" He asked and leaned forward; one hand hovering just above the open drawer. Damien grinned and relaxed; "Yep, no fucker even knows he was with us last night - nobody. The fucking coppers haven't even identified him yet. I thought of that and we stripped the old bugger of anything that could identify him. I came up with that Guvnor - good eh?" Damien tapped the side of his head and grinned broadly.
The Earl ran a hand across his face and stared hard at the young man sitting in front of him; "You had better be right in that Damien, our master is not generous to failures and the circus is his special little project and he will protect it. You understand that?" Damien nodded vigorously; "Yeah, no sweat guvnor. It's all sweet. No fucker saw anything I can guarantee that."
"It had better be 'all sweet' as you say, the master has too much time and resources ploughed into this; to allow fuck ups. The big job is now underway and you had better come through it smelling of bloody roses or we're both in fucking serious trouble - do you understand that?" The Earl reached into the drawer and pulled the envelope out and slapped it upon the desk. Damien swallowed hard and managed a smile; "Yes Guvnor, everything will go like a clock - good and sweet - tick tock, tick tock."
The Earl snorted and sat back in his chair; he indicated to the envelope and Damien slowly lifted it from the desk and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. "There's a hundred pounds there Damien, make sure its spent well and keep her off the fucking gin until the jobs done." Lord Arthur wagged a finger and relaxed a little.
"Everything is in place for tomorrow night, she's going to give the fucker some show to remember and you'll have him guvnor - all sweet like. "Damian said and smiled - again - to the earl's slight annoyance. Lord Arthur half smiled; "Who are using for back-up? whose behind the mirror?"
Damien grinned - yet again; "I've got 'Black Bart' from Brighton for that. You know he's sound guvnor and he's the best. But he wants ten quid for the work."
"Yes, that's fine; Bart knows what he's doing and always keeps his mouth shut. A good man to have on standby. That's a good choice and he's certainly worth ten pounds. Yes, that's good." Lord Arthur rose from his chair - indicating that the meeting was over. Damien stood up and held out his hand; "You and the master will be sweet with what's done. Like clockwork - tick tock, tick tock."
The Earl just stared at the hand offered and walked to the door; "Just make sure there are no more fuck ups Coffin - for both our sakes." Damien dropped his hand and disappeared through the door and placed his hat on. Tim's showed him the front door and shook his head - he had already checked the front reception room and found nothing out of place. The Earl told Tim's to fetch some whisky and glanced at the large clock in the hallway - he would be here soon.
Lord Arthur returned to his study and picked up the paper; he felt little sympathy for old Lord Snowhill - the old fool should never have insisted that he see the show, despite Lord Arthur's warnings; he had bought a ticket. "Fucking expensive show, Henry. It cost you - your miserable life and probably your fucking soul." He slumped into the chair and stared through the window into the gardens. The slim figure of his teenage daughter could be seen walking with her maid; "Reading another bloody book are we Dorothy?" He muttered, but just had to smile.
Tim's appeared with a tray of whiskies and placed them down; "Mrs. Cole asks if you will be wanting dinner tonight my lord?" Lord Arthur shook his head; "Myself and Lord Lewisham will be dinning at the club - thank you Tim's." He checked his pocket watch against the grand clock in the hallway; 6.45PM. He would be here soon and Lord Arthur was already sweating. He glanced down at the open paper upon his desk and wiped his face with a hankie; That won't go down to fucking well with him, but bloody Coffin seems to have put a lid on it, he thought.
Lord Arthur actually chuckled; "Coffin...put a lid on it." Then heard the front door bell. "He's here." He spoke softly to himself and straightened his tie and jacket and swallowed hard. This could be a bit unpleasant.
4. JUST THE FACTS - PLEASE!
The little group wasn't really noticed on the crowded street; the temporal detectives had gone to some trouble not to draw attention to themselves. But, of course, most of the men [and some of the women] noticed Alex in her costume. Even dressed as an East End 'street girl' or 'prossie' she drew attention. "I told you that those damn hooters wouldn't go un-noticed around here." Wilson chided her - but with a grin.
Alex just smiled, but did try and restrain her magnificent bosom from escaping her bodice - again. Owen chuckled and turned to Jericho; "Christ, our Alex could earn a fortune around here. How many 'gentlemen' have tried to hire her now?" Jericho checked his fob watch and sighed; "Several, as you know Owen." He pointed to the entrance of a closed down theatre; "There it is." He said and gestured towards it. Wilson nodded and smiled at Alex; "He certainly seems to know his way around here." Alex managed to refrain from grinning at Wilson's comment and continued to struggle with her breasts, in an effort to stop them from escaping again.
"He's human agent for these parts, has some information on that bloody grim circus that seems to be connected with the lost soul." Alex spoke quietly, as yet another well dressed young 'gentleman' lifted his hat to her and was about to speak. But he said nothing and hurried away - really quickly - when Wilson simply opened his coat and displayed the long, shiny knife that was strapped beneath his arm. "Remind me to invest in one of those." She murmured to Wilson - and a man like Wilson to carry it, she thought.
"Why the hell did I have to dress up as a bleeding tart?" She moaned to Jericho, who stopped and waved his hands about; "We're in the slums of Victorian London, do you really think a lady of real quality would be seen dead around here? Believe me, if you had dressed up as one of them and came strolling around these streets, your dress would be up around your waist, with some dirty fucker enjoying himself, whilst his friends slit our throats. Do you get that?" He said in rebuke - but did smile. She nodded and pulled her coat about herself. "I always have to play the bloody tart." She muttered under her breath.
"Why the hell did I have to dress up as a bleeding tart?" She moaned to Jericho, who stopped and waved his hands about; "We're in the slums of Victorian London, do you really think a lady of real quality would be seen dead around here? Believe me, if you had dressed up as one of them and came strolling around these streets, your dress would be up around your waist, with some dirty fucker enjoying himself, whilst his friends slit our throats. Do you get that?" He said in rebuke - but did smile. She nodded and pulled her coat about herself. "I always have to play the bloody tart." She muttered under her breath.
They stood outside the derelict theatre and Jericho knocked hard upon the shabby door. "He's name is Crispin St. Michael; an actor currently resting between jobs - apparently." Two old ladies in dirty shawls passed the group and the skinny one cackled loudly and gestured towards Alex. "I bet she gets tuppence from punters just to suck those puppies!" They laughed together and disappeared down the street. Owen stared up at the sign above the door; "Who the fuck are they trying to fool?" He said to no-one in particular. The sign read: 'The Magnificent Apollo Emporium'.
The door creaked open and Jericho removed his hat and smiled; "Hello Nelly my girl; is he in?" The young girl was about thirteen or fourteen, dressed in a short colourful child's dress [her working clothes] that had clearly seen far better days. She was smoking a delicate little cob pipe which she removed from her mouth and blew a little smoke ring. "Good evening Mr. Tibbs, he is in. He's expecting you." She grinned and then stared at Alex; "Jesus fuck Mr. Tibbs! - that is a real pot of honey you've got there. I bet you get ten bob just for a five finger tug job off her." [ten shillings - fifty pence nowadays - about twenty pounds in today's money].
The young girl stepped aside and allowed the group to enter, she clearly liked Wilson and pushed up close to him; "I do like really big exotic gentlemen - the blacker the better." She smiled broadly and suddenly pulled the front of her dress up - exposing her dirty thighs. "You can have the first one for free." She said softly and smiled again.
"No thank you." Wilson managed to sputter out - He was saved by a smiling Mr. Tibbs. "Where is he Nelly?" Jericho asked and the girl, somewhat disappointed, pushed her short dress down and turned, pointing to a shabby curtain covering a doorway. "In there Mr. Tibbs." She walked towards the curtain, gesturing for them to follow - scratching her bare arse as she walked.
"No thank you." Wilson managed to sputter out - He was saved by a smiling Mr. Tibbs. "Where is he Nelly?" Jericho asked and the girl, somewhat disappointed, pushed her short dress down and turned, pointing to a shabby curtain covering a doorway. "In there Mr. Tibbs." She walked towards the curtain, gesturing for them to follow - scratching her bare arse as she walked.
Wilson, looking a little concerned, turned to Alex and said quietly; "I think you really should have motherly words with that girl." Wiping sweat from his face and adjusting his tie. Alex sighed; "Sadly, I think its rather too late for that...and obviously way too late for her mother." They followed Nelly onto the rear of the stage and found 'Crispin St. Michael' sitting on a large up-turned bucket, reading a newspaper. For some reason - known only to himself - he was dressed as Sir Francis Drake; complete with feathered hat and fake sword. He leapt from the bucket, throwing the paper down and bowed quite low, waving his hat in a sweeping downwards motion - the large ostrich feather fluttered to the floor.
He grinned and retrieved the feather slowly; "Verily, a pox upon the hat maker for such neglect in his constructions!" He smiled at Jericho and adjusted his sword, which had become entangled with his brightly coloured hose. "And a pox upon the Cutler for this damn sword." He added, then saw Alex. He bowed again - carefully holding onto his hat feather. "My lady of Venus, you could easily eclipse the very...." he didn't finish as Jericho held out a couple of gold sovereigns and asked; "What have you got for me Reggie?"
Reginald Norman Sponge sheepishly replaced the feather onto his hat and slapped it upon his head. "Blimey Mr. Tibbs, you know I like to be called..." Jericho just sighed; "What have you got for me?" He repeated and waved the coins under Reggie's nose. Owen chuckled; "Reginald Sponge?" and folded his arms. Wilson appeared quite glad that Nelly had gone 'for another bleedin' piss' as she put it - in her ladylike manner. Alex wondered why Reggie was dressed as William Shakespeare, when he was supposed to be 'resting' between jobs. She really did want to ask, but didn't want to interrupt Jericho.
Reggie - sorry, Crispin St. Michael - threw a loose arm into the air and striking a dramatic pose, began his practised oration for Mr. Tibbs; "I came close to much danger my generous patron, for we are dealing with desperate men here. I do swear that nothing short of foul murder plays upon their twisted and deranged minds. At great risk to myself I...." Jericho held up a hand; "Just the facts -please." Reggie stopped in mid-sentence and smiled, he stared at the coins and said; "Alright guvnor, straight to the chase, as you like it."
Reggie - sorry, Crispin St. Michael - threw a loose arm into the air and striking a dramatic pose, began his practised oration for Mr. Tibbs; "I came close to much danger my generous patron, for we are dealing with desperate men here. I do swear that nothing short of foul murder plays upon their twisted and deranged minds. At great risk to myself I...." Jericho held up a hand; "Just the facts -please." Reggie stopped in mid-sentence and smiled, he stared at the coins and said; "Alright guvnor, straight to the chase, as you like it."
They all heard the sound of water hitting metal from behind a shabby curtain at the rear of the stage, followed by Nelly softly groaning; "Gawd that's bleedin' better." They watched in silence as the girl emerged from the curtain; pulling down her dress and carrying a metal bucket. Nelly walked to a half open window and emptied the bucket through it. She turned and smiled at the silent group. "I'm pissing like a bloody horse these days." Nelly explained and shrugged her shoulders - she lifted the pail and grinned; "Anyone for a cup of tea? - I'll fetch some fresh water."
Surprisingly enough, everyone declined her generous offer - quite politely - and she returned the bucket to behind the curtain. Owen whispered to Wilson; "Why is Reggie dressed as Robin Hood?" Wilson didn't smile; "You mean Ivanhoe. He's dressed as Ivanhoe - obviously." He replied with a deep sigh. Jericho gently placed the coins into Reggie's hand and smiled - again. Reggie gripped the coins tightly and looking around - as if anyone else could hear in the deserted theatre - pulled close to Jericho and whispered for some minutes. Jericho nodded a couple of times and then walked back to his waiting team.
They huddled together and Jericho pulled his mirror out; "There's a certain Damien Coffin, whose the supposed Ring-Master of a black circus called Diablo, he has been hanging around some very wealthy local men - one of them was old Lord Snowfield - apparently the circus performs only for rich patrons. The tickets can be fifty guineas a piece. A hundred if you want to see a very special performance called the 'Dance of the Black Queen'. That is bloody serious money for these times; equivalent of thousands of pounds in, say, the 21st century. I've instructed Reggie to find out where their next performance is to be held." Jericho operated his mirror and the group returned to the lighthouse.
As they walked towards home, Alex just had to ask Jericho why Reggie was dressed like William Shakespeare in the deserted theatre. "I thought you said he had no work?" She questioned and Jericho nodded; "He's had no paid performances for months - he's a lousy actor but genuinely loves the theatre. I really don't know why he's dressed up as a bloody Musketeer." Everyone nodded, but were none the wiser for Jericho's answer.
Alex still looked a little puzzled and asked Jericho; "Why did Reggie have to whisper his information just to you, when he clearly knew you would tell us what he said anyway?" Jericho stopped walking and shrugged his shoulders; "Maybe because he's a bloody idiot - I really don't know Alexandra."
The dinner conversation was quite lively that night.
As they walked towards home, Alex just had to ask Jericho why Reggie was dressed like William Shakespeare in the deserted theatre. "I thought you said he had no work?" She questioned and Jericho nodded; "He's had no paid performances for months - he's a lousy actor but genuinely loves the theatre. I really don't know why he's dressed up as a bloody Musketeer." Everyone nodded, but were none the wiser for Jericho's answer.
Alex still looked a little puzzled and asked Jericho; "Why did Reggie have to whisper his information just to you, when he clearly knew you would tell us what he said anyway?" Jericho stopped walking and shrugged his shoulders; "Maybe because he's a bloody idiot - I really don't know Alexandra."
The dinner conversation was quite lively that night.
5. THE 'BLACK QUEEN' IS PISSED - AGAIN.
Little Ivor sat at the rough little table and stared at his cards, then at the small pile of coins upon the table. He scratched his shaggy black beard and cussed a little in Russian. He looked at the other three sitting around the table and cussed some more. "Come on, fucking hell Ivor make a call; are you in or folding?" Peter the 'clown' was fast losing patience with the big Russian and it showed. Ivor actually bared his strong white teeth and growled like a Siberian bear with his wedding tackle caught in a hunter's trap. Peter got the message and fell silent - finally, he smiled grimly at his big colleague; "When you're ready mate." He muttered.
The other 'clown' chuckled and lit yet another cigarette, coughing and wiping his mouth. "Did you tell MISTER Coffin that 'Black Bart' has arrived?" He directed his question to the little man sitting opposite, who was staring at his cards. Santo, the dwarf, screwed up his face in puzzlement; "This is the third hand where I have been dealt four aces of spades." He looked up at the others and placed the cards face up on the table. Everyone stared at the cards in total silence. Peter threw down his cards in some anger and disbelief; "Fuck me!" He exclaimed - he had four aces of spades too.
The big Russian growled again and started to eat his cards with some frustration; he had four aces of spades too. The chain smoking man; a thin weedy fellow called 'Suet' because his surname was 'Pudding' also groaned - he had the same. After a few moments of silence, Peter slumped back in his chair; "We've been fucking playing with old 'Marvo's' fucking magic cards - again!"
The poker game broke up with the table being kicked over and the cards and coins scattered over the dirty floor. Santo then cussed loudly; "To answer your fucking question; no I fucking haven't!" He yelled at 'Suet' the smoker, who had asked him about MISTER Coffin. "I'll do it fucking now." He muttered and headed out the small tent towards Coffin's elaborate wooden, horse drawn caravan. He couldn't believe it; they had played three hands of poker with the same fucking single card and no-one had noticed! - MISTER Coffin was right; they truly were fucking retards. He banged loudly on the door and waited.
The big Russian growled again and started to eat his cards with some frustration; he had four aces of spades too. The chain smoking man; a thin weedy fellow called 'Suet' because his surname was 'Pudding' also groaned - he had the same. After a few moments of silence, Peter slumped back in his chair; "We've been fucking playing with old 'Marvo's' fucking magic cards - again!"
The poker game broke up with the table being kicked over and the cards and coins scattered over the dirty floor. Santo then cussed loudly; "To answer your fucking question; no I fucking haven't!" He yelled at 'Suet' the smoker, who had asked him about MISTER Coffin. "I'll do it fucking now." He muttered and headed out the small tent towards Coffin's elaborate wooden, horse drawn caravan. He couldn't believe it; they had played three hands of poker with the same fucking single card and no-one had noticed! - MISTER Coffin was right; they truly were fucking retards. He banged loudly on the door and waited.
'Marvo' the pathetic magician, was also hurrying towards the caravan with some really bad news. He walked briskly, then stopped to grab at his shirt and a fat grey pigeon fluttered out and returned to its coop. "Fuck!" He muttered, he must remember to empty his shirts after each fucking performance. He saw Santo at the bosses' door and slowed to a stroll. He smiled a little; he's really bad news can wait until Santo had been shouted at.
Damien stood in the doorway, just in his underwear. Surprisingly he didn't shout at the little man, he just nodded and told Santo to show 'Black Bart' where to position his camera's. Santo passed the magician, while returning to the tent, and he grabbed Marvo by the trouser pockets - that's all he could reach and snarled; "Keep those fucking cards of yours in your fucking tent or I'll shove them up your fucking arse and you'll need some real magic to have a fucking crap then!" He shouted at the crotch in front of him; Marvo just grinned and nodded.
Damien stood in the doorway, just in his underwear. Surprisingly he didn't shout at the little man, he just nodded and told Santo to show 'Black Bart' where to position his camera's. Santo passed the magician, while returning to the tent, and he grabbed Marvo by the trouser pockets - that's all he could reach and snarled; "Keep those fucking cards of yours in your fucking tent or I'll shove them up your fucking arse and you'll need some real magic to have a fucking crap then!" He shouted at the crotch in front of him; Marvo just grinned and nodded.
The little man disappeared into the tent - still cussing; they were the best hands of poker he ever had. Marvo grinned at Damien; then decided that looking grim would go down better with the news he had to impart. There was no other way to say it; "She's pissed out of her head - again." He said with an appropriately solemn face. Damien said nothing, but quietly sat upon the small bed and placed his head in both hands. Marvo said nothing more for a few minutes, then just had to smile; "Lucy is her stand in - ain't she? - she'll have to turn the trick."
Damien looked up and simply could not smile, or strangely enough; shout at Marvo - he simply sighed, long and slow. "Lucy couldn't stand in for a dog having a crap in Victoria Park. Not even if we printed the fucking instructions on the fucking toilet paper for her." He said between clenched teeth and was amazed at his self-control. He stood very slowly and scratched his crotch - that was another little matter he needed to speak to Lucy about - but that would have to wait. He groaned loudly; "We need a real fucking classy tart, a real East end princess for this fucking trick. For Christ sake, even I only fuck Lucy because its free!"
Marvo nodded and scratched his own crotch; he needed to speak to Lucy about that - even if it was free. There was silence for a few minutes, then Marvo had a rare intelligent thought. he coughed and smiled; "I think I know where we can get one of them Boss."
Damien stared at the magician and was about to scream, but he calmly asked; "Where can we get what?" He said and half smiled. The magician smiled broadly; "That useless actor, Crispin St...Something, you know, the one who lives with Nelly could have the answer to this." Damien stared long and hard at the magician; he had decided to shoot him and wondered where he had put his little pearl handled pistol. But unable to find his gun, he Finally muttered; "Nelly is a good kid and gives value for money to her tricks, but if you hadn't fucking noticed - she ain't no East End princess. We need a classy, big tit tart with long legs and a fucking big, pretty smile for this trick - nothing else will fucking do."
Marvo grinned and told Damien what Nelly had told him about the classy tart she had met yesterday. Damien scratched his crotch again; he knew Nelly wasn't one for exaggeration or tall tales, she left that, to her useless brother Reggie. He listened with real interest to what Marvo said and then rubbed his chin - which made a change from his crotch.
"Get Peter and little Ivor over here, we're going to pay a visit to that twat actor and tell them to tool up - just in case." Marvo nodded and walked away - truly surprised that Damien hadn't shouted at him or pulled his fancy little pistol out and threatened to blow his balls off. He smiled to himself, then stopped and grabbed at his crotch, loosening his belt and out popped a large white rabbit.
"Sweet fucking Jesus!" He muttered; maybe he didn't have to speak to Lucy after all.
6. AN OFFER YOU CAN'T REALLY REFUSE.
Nelly, despite having no medical training whatsoever, had managed to extract the ostrich feather from where little Ivor had placed it - quite forcibly it must be said. "Do you know that fat Charlie, the hat maker, will pay a shilling for a feather like this?" She dropped it carefully onto the table and made a mental note to give it a quick scrub before selling it to 'fat Charlie'.
Reggie groaned with relief and reminded himself that it could have been a lot worse; little Ivor had wanted to shove something else up his poor back passage and the term 'little' didn't match what he was holding at the time - with a real grin upon his face. He tried to sit; but simply couldn't, so he stood by the window and sipped a cup of tea, just made by his little sister. "Did you use fresh water?" He asked Nelly, adding; "It has quite a tang to it."
Reggie groaned with relief and reminded himself that it could have been a lot worse; little Ivor had wanted to shove something else up his poor back passage and the term 'little' didn't match what he was holding at the time - with a real grin upon his face. He tried to sit; but simply couldn't, so he stood by the window and sipped a cup of tea, just made by his little sister. "Did you use fresh water?" He asked Nelly, adding; "It has quite a tang to it."
Nelly just nodded, her thoughts were all about her 'Finance' as she called him; a strapping big sailor from HMS Colossus called Tom Bell - he had proposed after a particularly passionate session of love-making last night. Well, it was for him apparently, but Nelly wasn't too happy; she had dropped several stitches whilst repairing her best jacket.
She was in two minds about being his wife, the main stumbling block was her future married name; Mrs. Nelly Bell. It sounded like the fucking name you give a pet goat, she reasoned and thought about Tom's best mate, another sailor from the same ship - Fred Crapps. He had paid Nelly sixpence to watch, while he enjoyed a bottle of beer and had told her, when it was his turn, that he would also happily marry her. Then she groaned; Mrs. Nelly Crapps. What the fuck should a girl do? They were the only genuine offers on the table at the moment.
So for now, she remained Miss Nelly Victoria Sponge - strangely enough she never used her middle name!
"She'll have to do it, Mister Tibbs will convince her." Reggie was wandering about the stage, muttering and gripping his poor abused backside. Nelly sighed; "How the fuck did mum [old Nelly as she was called] land me with this useless twat of a brother?" Reggie grinned at his sister and placed his cup down; "What's that you say?" Nelly shrugged and held up both hands in mock despair; "Shouldn't you at least get hold of Mr. Tibbs, I mean, they're want that classy tart for tonight and they'll pay fucking good money for her to perform for that bloody toff."
"Oh shit!" Reggie exclaimed and grabbed up his hat, then picked up the feather and carefully replaced it. He made for the door shouting for his sister to get his best suit [well, his only suit actually] out of the pawn shop - he couldn't keep wandering around London dressed as Sir Francis Drake; people were starting to ask embarrassing questions. Nelly nodded; "That's a whole fucking shilling walking out the door." She muttered and also remembered, she hadn't cleaned that damn bucket this morning - still, she couldn't be expected to remember everything in her delicate condition.
Nelly pulled on her jacket and placed the straw bonnet on her head, carefully folding her long dark hair underneath. She fetched ten bob from the jar in the small kitchen, at the rear of the disused theatre, and headed for Samuel Franks Pawn shop on the Whitechapel Road. The money Mr. Tibbs had given Reggie, had provided a God send for the pair - especially Nelly, she could now buy some decent second hand baby clothes and maybe, an old crib. She smiled, and maybe old Sam would like a little fun while she was there; he always paid a shilling, but kept his hat on for some strange reason.
As she walked to the shop on the crowed pavements, she remembered the conversation with her brother about old man Samuel and his bleeding hat. Reggie had thought long and hard about his sisters question, then broke into a huge smile; "Its because he's Jewish; old Samuel practises the religion of old Israel!" Then added, with a dramatic change in voice and crossing himself; "They killed the Christ you know." That confused Nelly somewhat; old Sam had the same strange religion as old Israel Stoneman?
Old Israel Stoneman ran the chemist shop in Queen Street - but old Israel never kept his bloody hat on; while doing it - besides, everyone knew it was the fucking Romans that killed Jesus. She decided that asking Reggie anything really important was a total waste of bloody time.
That afternoon, Jericho and Owen sat in the lounge bar of the 'Royal Oak' tavern and sipped their beer quietly and slowly. It was quite crowded and Owen asked Jericho if anyone actually worked around this place - the East End. Jericho just chuckled and gave Owen a quick history lesson about London Docks and that, the workers did shifts. So the pubs were open nearly all the time - there were no real 'Licensing Laws' - yet. They would come during the First World War, to stop vital war workers from turning up pissed.
Owen hoped that the bloody actor would turn up suitably dressed and so draw no attention to them. He was greatly relieved to see 'Crispin St. Michael' arrive in a shabby three piece suit - fresh from the pawn shop. Owen collected more beer from the bar and Reggie poured an entire pint down his throat without stopping to say anything. Suitably refreshed, the whole dreadful story of Damien Coffin's visit was played out - complete with theatrical gestures and the placing of that awful feather.
A big drunk docker, watching from the bar, then staggered over and gripped Reggie by the shoulders; he was actually crying. "For fuck sake my poor friend, the same bloody thing happened to my horse; Hercules." The big man sobbed openly; "The fucker called himself a Vet, but Hercules was never the same again." The big man slammed several loose coins upon the table and cuddled Reggie tightly, finally releasing him, when Reggie started to turn a mild shade of blue. "You poor bastard; they did that to your fucking ostrich. Have a drink on me." He staggered away and fell through the pub's door - several people stepped over him, but a couple did help themselves to the contents of his pockets.
Gasping a little, Reggie managed to finish his story and plead with Jericho to convince Alexandra to perform for the sake of his poor arse - and dignity, of course. With the promise of assistance, Jericho finally managed to solicit the location of Damien Coffin and his Dark circus from Reggie - after several pints.
They managed to get Reggie onto a bus. Jericho had to pay his fare - of course. Their 'good' deed didn't end well. They had put Reggie on the wrong bus and he ended up in Bermondsey. Still a little worse for drink, he tried to explain his sad predicament to some passing gentlemen - repeating his performance from the 'Royal Oak'. He was a little unfortunate; both were foreign gentlemen visiting London from some far flung foreign climes. He actually had to run for it, when they started to pull down their trousers and press coins into his hands.
He made it - only just, and found refuge in a local graveyard, where he slept it off, sprawled upon an old grave. It had started to rain and the night was drawing in. A couple of stray dogs pissed on him and chewed his boots. it wasn't going well for the Thespian.
Jericho and Owen found a quiet alley to operate their mirrors and returned to the lighthouse. For some reason, Jericho kept chuckling to himself, as they walked to their home, looming above them. Owen heard him mutter; "She'll go bloody nuts when I tell her. I hope for the sake of Reggie's backside, that he's got rid of that frigging feather." Owen just grinned, but was a little angry with himself; he had forgotten, in all the excitement, to ask Reggie why he had dressed up as Robin Hood, when he wasn't even in a play - any play.
He had a bet running with Wilson over the costume and he desperately wanted to get something over the big man - for a change. But Wilson and Owen both couldn't hide their laughter, when Jericho informed Alex of her dramatic new assignment. But they knew she would eventually give in - for the sake of the mission and to help out poor young Nelly - who would struggle without her brother, so Jericho explained to her; fingers crossed behind his back.
It worked. "Yet another bleeding tart." Alex groaned, a little disappointed. Then she sighed, it seemed to be her lot in life [sorry - death] to be a tart. Even when she played a grand Egyptian princess, she was dressed like a frigging tart!
The Supplies Department came up with a cracking costume for Alex and the two dressmakers told Jericho, that the outfit would rekindle the passions of a dead eunuch - never mind some perverted Victorian toff. Owen stared at one of the seamstresses; he would have sworn, he had seen her before - but where?
Wilson watched the two ladies depart. He scratched his chin, deep in thought. He was sure that the tall skinny one was Elizabeth; a medieval witch the team had dealt with some mission's back. She turned out to be a real witch with real powers. What the fuck was she doing working for Supplies? He shrugged his shoulders; I suppose that jobs for witches were hard to come by in the afterlife and so she had probably diversified. Multitasking was the new catchphrase he thought.
Alex, to the bitter disappointment of Wilson and Owen, would only allow Jericho to see the finished item - while she modelled it. He came down from her rooms and grabbed up a full glass of brandy and swallowed it down. "I'll kill that bloody witch!" Jericho muttered. There was silence for some time as he carefully refilled his glass. Finally, Owen just had to ask; "What the hell does she look like?"
Jericho's mouth moved, but nothing came out. He grinned at the desperate pair and swallowed down his brandy, finally muttering; "If I wasn't already dead, I could now die happy." He said nothing more, but slumped into his favourite armchair and stared at the fire place. Wilson and Owen sat down slowly on the sofa and cradled their drinks. They exchanged sad glances and also said nothing further. Ruth peered through the doorway and was quite bewildered. She returned to the kitchen and asked Mrs. Harris about the boys.
Mrs. Harris simply smiled; she had just served Alex a couple of brandies in her rooms and seen her latest outfit. Finally, she said to Ruth; "Sometimes it's far better not to see what you really, desperately want. It would ruin everything else." Ruth was now definitely none the wiser. She had helped Alex dress and thought her outfit was a little sparse - but nicely made. She went about her duties and didn't think anymore on the incident.
The team gathered together for their return to Victorian London. Alex was wearing a tightly buttoned ankle length black coat that revealed nothing. The only clue to what she may be wearing, [or not wearing, as the case may be] was the silver & diamond tiara in her hair and piano black high heels.
They jumped back in silence - apart from some heavy breathing from Owen, for which he received a slap from Wilson.
The little group walked slowly through the light drizzle, Jericho holding his big umbrella over Alex, so her hair didn't get ruined. Wilson and Owen trailed behind - still quietly arguing over Reggie's bloody costume.
"The common is located at the bottom of the next street. Reggie said that Damien has a beautiful, wooden horse drawn caravan. He must have 'Romany' blood somewhere in the family." Jericho told his team as they walked slowly - for them - through the rain. Owen kept staring at Alex's bottom - shaped by her tight coat - as it swung in rhythm with her strides. The spring in her dainty little walk was helped by her high heels. He actually groaned a couple of times which made Wilson smile and despair a little. "Behave yourself baby brother." He muttered and slapped Owen on the back.
Young Constable George Jones [collar No. H211] watched the little group approaching with some interest, standing in the doorway of Wilson's the Bakers, out of the rain. He gripped his lamp tightly and felt in his pocket for his notebook. He pulled it from his jacket, adjusting his black cape. George opened the book and read about questioning strangers in the area - especially if they didn't appear to look like locals! The woman particularly caught his eye. What was a beauty like that doing with a dumb looking boy, a big black fella and some toff?
Then of course, there was 'Jack the Ripper' - the evil bastard had killed five women last year - with real brutally and butchery; and was still at large, probably hanging around these very streets. That sent a shiver up the young constable's spine and he pressed against the firm door. The bastard won't get through a door, he reasoned. Then slowly swallowed hard; A fucking door can be opened! He slowly turned and jumped with sheer fear - then realised it was his own reflection in the glass.
Sighing from relief, he started to breathe again. Then Mr. Wilson opened the door and asked; "Can I help you George?" George jumped so high that his helmet actually hit the door lintel. He calmed down a little and said between chattering teeth; "No you bleeding can't - piss off!" Wilson shrugged his shoulders and returned to the backroom of his shop and removed his dressing gown - he was stark naked.
The two naked young girls sprawled over cushions, sipped their wine and Stella [the older one] asked; "Who was it Uncle John?" Wilson sighed; "That bloody idiot young George Jones. He couldn't police sheep - not even if they were locked in their bloody pen. Where's your mum with those mince pies; I'm bleeding starving?" Mrs. Trundle appeared - quite naked - with a tray of said mince pies. "Pie anyone?" she asked - smiling. They returned to their game of 'strip' Happy Families
Now composed, George snapped the book shut and leaped into action; he would find out who they are and what the fuck are they doing on his patch. He stepped from the shop doorway and raised his lamp; "Excuse me, can I have word please." The little grouped halted - in silence. He walked over and held his lamp up and stared at Alex; "Are any of these gentlemen family members Miss?" Alex smiled - really smiled; "Yes, this is my brother Jericho and we're looking for a circus that has apparently set up around here - can you help please?"
Jericho was always impressed with Alex - especially how she could easily distract someone - usually young men - and deflect difficult questions. He just had to smile. The young copper smiled broadly and lowered his lamp slightly; "There's no circus around here Miss, just a group of gypsies camped on waste ground by the old brick works. They are quite a strange bunch and I would advise you to stay well clear of them." Jericho coughed; "I think the officer is quite right Alexandra, you never know what people like that can get up to."
"Quite right Sir." The Constable said, but never took his eyes off the smiling Alex, who demurely lowered her eyes and quietly thanked the young officer. "Another bloody moth to the flame." Wilson muttered quietly and Owen chuckled softly at the big man's comments. Jericho told the group to wait for him, while he had private words with the officer. They walked on a little way and Jericho caught up with them - the smile on his face intrigued Alex; "What have you been up too?" She asked and handed back his umbrella.
"I always like to co-operate with the local Constabulary." He said and the little group came upon the 'Circus' at the next corner. They found Damien's caravan and Jericho knocked at the door. After a few seconds, Damien opened the door and immediately stared at Alex. "Hello Mister Coffin, A friend of ours - a certain actor - says you have a proposition for my lady." Damien nodded; "Just you and the tart, the other two can wait outside. There's not enough room for them - especially the big fella."
"Tart? Charming." Muttered Alex, then remembered what she was almost wearing beneath her coat and just had to nod her agreement - with that comment - and smile.
With Jericho and Alex inside, Damien closed the door and sat on the end of his small bed and lit a cigarette; "Its five pounds for a little work, no fucking questions answered and the tart does as she's told. She'll be quite safe, my men will be ready to spring to her aid; if anything kicks off - agreed?" There was another knock at the door and Damien yelled for them to enter. It was Santo, carrying a rusty money box; he looked Alex up and down, then smiled. He stood by the bed and handed the box to Damien.
Jericho smiled broadly; "Well, that sounds fine - except its twenty pounds for the performance Mister Coffin." Both Damien and Santo laughed loudly and Damien just shook his head; "For Christ sake Mister...whatever your name is, I wouldn't pay that kind of money to see Miss Lottie Collins fuck a donkey on stage!" Santo laughed out loud and shook his head too; "What the fuck makes this tart worth that kind of money?"
Jericho just smiled; "Alexandra, would you please settle this."
Both men were still chuckling and Alex simply stepped forward and slowly unbuttoned her coat. "What, you've got fucking pigeons in your drawers!" Damien chuckled at his own supposed wit. Alex pulled the coat open and stood quite still, then turned a little, showing her backside to the pair.
Damien and Santo had fallen silent. Santo simply groaned and fell upon his back and lay still on the floor by the bed. Damien could say nothing and the cigarette fell from his lips onto his lap. It actually burnt a hole in his trousers before he yelped and slapped his leg. "Santo, give the gentlemen fucking twenty pounds." He managed to say softly and lit another cigarette with shaking hands.
Alex closed her coat and smiled; "You can blink now."
Damien did blink, then kicked Santo and opened the money tin himself, pushing four white, five pound notes into Jericho's outstretched hand. He stared down at the dwarf; he was groaning loudly and clutching his erection with both hands. Damien had covered his own with the small cash tin - it was certainly adequate for the task. Finally, he said quietly; "Peter will show you and the lady, her dressing room. The show starts when all the marks are sitting." He actually groaned a little, then added; "You best keep her covered up till then Mister...." He looked up at Jericho, who folded the money and pushed it into his coat pocket.
"Its Tibbs - MISTER Tibbs." He said simply.
They left the little caravan and re-joined Wilson and Owen outside; Peter and little Ivor stared at Alex for some time, then Peter finally managed to say; "This way please Miss." They sat in the tent and passed a hip-flask amongst themselves. Jericho and Owen had gone to check the 'ring' for the performance, whilst Wilson stayed to look after Alex, who sipped her flask and chatted about Reggie and poor Nelly.
Jericho and Owen returned and they huddled together, Jericho not talking above a whisper. They had found a certain gentleman called 'Black Bart' sitting by a couple of camera's - cleverly concealed behind a magnificent two way mirror. "There's a little private 'ring' and the camera's are set up there, I assume to capture whoever the most important victim is, and I expect dirty blackmail follows. But this does not explain old Lord Henry's missing soul and take a look at this." Jericho pulled a little glass orb from his pocket - there were small red streaks around its circumference. Traces of a demon - powerful enough to take souls. "I've already put a call in for a Guardian." He added, and accepted the hip-flask from Alex.
"If they going to all this trouble, they must be after someone important - I mean for these times." Owen accepted the flask from Jericho who nodded; "I think I know who." They all looked up as Peter stuck his head around the tent flap; "MISTER Coffin says the marks are in the reception tent and keep the girl covered up. She only performs for the mark in the private ring. The girls will take care of the others." He held up a thumb and smiled. Jericho replied with thumbs up and a big smile.
Jericho rose and headed for the flap with Owen in tow; "Lets see whose paid a small fortune to be entertained tonight." Alone with Alex, Wilson just had to ask what happened in the caravan; he and Owen had seen the dwarf carried out by little Ivor. Alex smiled; "He was a little overcome by something he had wanted and dreamt of all his life - and can never have." Wilson was none the wiser with that answer, but didn't push the point - for now.
Owen appeared at the tent flap and indicated for the pair to follow him and they quietly assembled by the rear of the main tent. Jericho was standing by a slightly open flap and he gestured for silence and they all peered through. Sure enough, there were half a dozen very well dressed gentlemen beginning to take their seats. Damien looked resplendent in his Ring-masters outfit and was paying close attention to one of the gentlemen - very close attention indeed and bowing often.
Owen tapped Alex on the shoulder and whispered; "That's the main mark, that's your man." Alex stared at the young man quite hard and turned to Jericho; "He was well known for big collars and cuffs. In fact, the Bloody Prime Minister, sarcastically, use to refer to him as 'Collar & cuffs'. Jesus Jericho, what's going on?" Wilson stared in and said; "Who the fuck is he?" Owen chuckled; "British Royalty not your strong point, big man?"
Jericho indicated they should return to their tent; his mirror had informed him that the Guardian had arrived and was waiting for them. "Well, who the hell is he?" Repeated Wilson. Owen sighed; "That's Prince Eddy, Queen Victoria's grandson and heir to the British throne after his father, Edward the Prince of Wales, who would become King Edward VII in 1901. A very important historical figure for the current time-line."
"So he becomes King some day; big deal." Muttered Wilson, who was not impressed. Owen chuckled; "Wrong big man, he's really important because he never became King!" Jericho stopped the pair and spoke softly to them all - including Alex. "We know there's a demon hanging around the place and how does this little scenario sound; he gets compromising pictures of the prince and that means he can control the young man - a human vassal of the 'Dark Prince' in a very important position."
Owen coughed; "But it won't matter, Prince Eddy dies long before he could even inherit the throne and so why all this?" Jericho grinned; "Well, it means the 'Dark Prince' has his foot in the door, for when the young man does die and what if, he re-animates the body with a carefully chosen minion and so everyone believes the young man has survived the illness that should have killed him. Britain has a demon on the throne when the world is about to go to War in 1914 - the world war that changed history completely. The 'Dark Prince' is playing a very clever long term game and if he succeeds, well, God knows what will happen to the current human time-lime."
"So the bloody demon could be here as an 'understudy' to the prince?" Alex said and Jericho had to agree with her. "Learning his ways and duplicating them, ready to take over, when the time comes." She added, now really concerned.
With that revelation, they made their way back to the tent and greeted Emika Sato, the Guardian assigned to the case.
8. AROUND AND AROUND THE MULLBERRY BUSH.
They all greeted Emika with some affection - especially Alex and the pair hugged; "Its been too long since we worked together Alex." Emika said and smiled broadly at the group. She was a petite Japanese women, but was wearing a modern 'business suit' with trousers and bright pink 'trainers'. She gripped her 'Staff of Moses' firmly and consulted her mirror. "All the signs point to Hari and we all know that he's a clever bastard. One of the Dark Prince's better new minions. I'll stay cloaked until needed."
Jericho was well pleased with the Guardian that the Demon Ingress Department had assigned; Emika was well experienced and could be totally relied upon - even if she was a bit 'quirky' according to some who had worked with her.
Peter stuck his head in and coughed; "She's on." was all he said and was gone.
Jericho grinned and rubbed his hands together; "I've waited a lifetime to say this; ITS SHOWTIME!" Everyone just stared at him and Alex sighed; "Come on, lets get this done." They trooped from the tent in silence until Owen patted Jericho on the shoulder; "I got what you meant Boss." Wilson sighed loudly; "Bum licker." That made Alex and Emika giggle a little.
Wilson and Owen remained outside the tent with strict instructions not to enter or even look until called; Jericho really rammed that instruction home and they both agreed - reluctantly.
Jericho and Alex peered into the private 'Ring' through the two-way mirror and saw the young man sitting in his well upholstered chair; smoking a large cigar with a glass of champagne in the other. 'Black Bart' finished fiddling with the camera nearest to him and jerked a thumb towards the young man on the other side of the mirror; "I'll want another ten pounds off that queer little fucker, he didn't say it was him. I don't want fucking Scotland yard crawling up my fucking arse over this." He didn't seem happy.
Jericho whispered to Alex; "No wonder he didn't end up on the floor like the little man - Our friend Damien plays for both sides, he was affected, but not like Santo." Alex nodded and started to unbutton her coat, 'Black Bart' grunted; "Keep your bloody tits and arse out of his face, that's really important; ok?" Alex turned and pulled her coat off; "I'm sure you'll enjoy the show." Her coat dropped to the floor and she stepped towards the tent flap that Jericho pulled slightly open.
'Black Bart' simply stared and his mouth moved a couple of times, but nothing came out. He hit the floor and groaned a little - still clutching a photographic plate and a camera cable; the camera went off with a small puff and so did 'Black Bart'. He groaned loudly and clutched his crotch. "Oh dear, the camera went off prematurely. " Alex muttered and Jericho sighed; "So did 'Black Bart' apparently."
Alex stepped into the ring and curtsied before young Prince Eddy; "I do hope your Highness will enjoy the...."Alex never finished her introduction because the young prince looked up from his cigar and sat motionless. The big cigar fell from his fingers and rolled down his jacket, across his trousers and fell to the floor - the champagne glass followed; smashing on the floor.
He managed a little groan and quite slowly slid down the chair until gravity worked its magic and he slumped upon the floor - on his knees. This was followed by words that Alex and Jericho couldn't make out and the young prince fell upon his face and he clutched his crotch and grinned broadly. Apparently it took a couple of days for Prince Eddy to lose the smile.
Alex stood, arms on hips and sighed; "Charming. I never even got to do my little dance...." She was interrupted again - by Emika who shouted something about the demon Hari and burst into the tent. She stared at Alex and fell face down on the dirt, groaning and cussing. Jericho placed both hands upon his head; "For Christ sake Alex! - get your bloody coat on!"
Alex sprinted into the other tent and grabbed up her coat and pulled it on. She shouted for Owen and Wilson. Jericho pushed through the tent flap and groaned, then sort of smiled; "Well, that puts an end to some of the rumours about young Emika, I think. But now, what the fuck do we do about the bloody demon?"
Alex folded her arms; "I wondered why she kept following me into the toilet, whenever she could. Bloody hell, you really don't know people - do you?" She asked Jericho, who didn't answer, he was staring at the tent flap and the strapping young man standing there. Hari was dressed in a quality Tuxedo, with a white rose in his lapel. He waved a hand behind him; "Sorry about them two Jericho, I just couldn't resist." Both Jericho and Alex stared out the tent flap and saw two goats wandering about. "Oh you didn't - did you?" She asked Hari, who nodded and grinned mischievously; "Afraid so Alex."
"Oh bollocks!" Said Jericho and slumped onto the little folding chair that 'Black Bart' had been fond of [he was still laid in the dirt - grinning] and pushed his fingers through his dark hair. Alex recalled that Hari had actually been a handsome young man as a human - he didn't really need to manifest such a disguise, as most of the other male demons did, when in the realm of living humans.
"There's another two like that at the back of that small ring - a big man and a tall skinny one." Hari gestured to 'Black Bart' and added; "What on earth have you been up too Jericho?" Alex guessed that was little Ivor and Peter - they just couldn't resist taking a peek, she reasoned, then smiled.
"I suppose it was my really sexy outfit Sir." She spoke to Hari softly and started to unbutton her coat. He just chuckled; "You are a stunningly beautiful woman Alexandra, I'll give you that, but nothing you possess I haven't seen and enjoyed before." He lifted both hands; "Now you can join that pair out there, munching on the grass."
Alex dropped her coat and Jericho covered his eyes with both hands - just in case the immunity was wearing off. She placed both hands upon her hips and did a little twirl. Hari laughed; "I'm immune to your stunning, sexual charms..." and fell flat on his face, groaning and clutching his crotch, he managed to mutter; "The master will understand, he'll...." Then groaned even louder.
Alex grabbed up her coat and covered her charms. Jericho rose from the chair and surveyed the scene before him; "Now what the fuck do we do?" He sighed.
"I really would like to know; what the fuck is going on here Mr. Tibbs?" Inspector Mountjoy stared at the two moaning on the floor - but quite happy - strangely enough. Jericho shrugged his shoulders; "If you take a look in there, You may begin to understand Sir." Mountjoy turned to Sergeant Bass who pushed into the tent, cussing loudly and rubbing his backside. "Check the other tent Tom - when your ready." The sergeant nodded; "One of those fucking goats just bit me, all I did was pat the bloody thing." he wandered into the adjoining tent and after a few seconds shouted for Mountjoy.
"That'll be Wilson - that bit him." Alex whispered to Jericho. "How do you know that?" Jericho asked - smiling at Mountjoy. "Easy, Owen is way too timid to do such a thing. Simple." Jericho just sighed at that 'brilliant' deduction; "They're now bloody goats Alex and will behave like goats. Too timid my ar..."
Alex suddenly grabbed Jericho by the arm; "Emika is in there!" Jericho just smiled; "She's still cloaked for living humans; we'll collect her later." Mountjoy returned and shouted for more constables. He turned to Jericho and wiped his face; "I think you and your lady had better accompany me down to Brick Lane Station and make a statement about all this - don't you?"
Jericho nodded and straightened his jacket; "But first we need to recapture our goats Sir - they're family pets and Alexandra here will be most upset if we lose them." Mountjoy just stared at Jericho, he couldn't speak for a few seconds; "You want us to round up goats when the fucking Heir to the throne is laid upon a dirty floor, clutching his...well, never mind what he's holding, that's his royal business. The bloody goats can wait." Jericho nodded at Alex; "Well, you can tell them I tried." and smiled - broadly.
The old Queen stared down at them from over the small fireplace in Inspector Mountjoys equally grim office. They both sat in uncomfortable chairs and said nothing. Constable George Jones stood by the door and kept smiling at Alex. Finally, he broke the cold silence; "Would you like a nice cup of hot tea Miss?" Alex turned on her chair and smiled; "That would be lovely, thank you Constable. Could my brother have one too?" She asked and adjusted her hair.
The young constable grinned; "Of course Miss, I'll see if they can conjure up some biscuits as well. my old gran always says that tea is too wet without them." He opened the door and shouted down the corridor. "Old Norman will fetch them." he said and straightened his uniform jacket. "You look very smart in that uniform and very professional Constable." Alex smiled - again and crossed her legs in a very dainty and ladylike fashion. "You can call me George - if you like Miss." He replied and opened the door for 'old Norman' with the tea tray.
Jericho slapped a hand over his face and quietly moaned; "Another bloody moth to the flames."
9. ASSISTING THE POLICE WITH THEIR ENQUIRIES.
They were finishing their tea when Inspector Mountjoy returned and dropped into the threadbare chair behind his desk. He had a large wad of papers clutched in his hand and rather bizarrely; a large black wooden dildo in the other. He slapped both down in front of them. Alex had struggled to prevent the giggles from escaping - but failed. She composed herself and shifted in her chair.
"This is no laughing matter young lady, the life of the young Heir to the throne could have been in jeopardy. The Prime Minister himself has been informed of this matter by the Home Secretary. The Commissioner had to call him from a very important state dinner - he was not amused and both the officers who were assigned to guard the prince have been fired." The Inspector stared at the tea tray; "Jones get more tea here, I really could do with a cup." The constable disappeared to fetch more.
Mountjoy carefully flicked through the papers, now placed on the desk - he was using the dildo as a paperweight and poor Alex just had to chuckle. The Inspector peered over his glasses at her; "Anymore of that and I'll have you thrown into a cell - do you understand?" Alex nodded and whispered that she was sorry and it was her nerves - she admitted to the Inspector that she was a little afraid and clutched her 'brothers' arm. "Oh, I see Miss - yes, I have a young daughter and I would not want her in a Police Station at this time of night." He actually smiled, then returned to the papers.
He picked up the dildo and moved it to one side and caught the look upon their faces; "I found this strange object by the prince, I can't believe it fell from his pocket." Jericho coughed' "it was probably placed there by Coffin - to discredit his Highness." Alex shifted on her chair and muttered under her breath; "Like hell it was." Jericho gently kicked her under the table and received a 'death' stare in return. Mountjoy stared at the pair and Alex smiled and clutched her 'brothers' arm; "You were saying sir?" She said and fluttered her eyes; demurely.
Mountjoy nodded his agreement with what Jericho had said and sat back in his chair with both hands on the desk; "So as I understand it, this Damien Coffin fellow was using his so called 'Circus' as a cover to blackmail wealthy gentleman by getting..." He shuffled the papers, lifting the dildo up and down, then continued' "Getting a certain disreputable photographer, a Mister Bartholomew Blackberry from Brighton to photograph them with ladies of the night from behind a special mirror - is that correct?"
Alex breathed deeply as he lifted the dildo up and down again. They both nodded. The inspector grunted; "Excellent. I will charge Mr. Coffin with blackmail and attempted blackmail and the rest of his merry band as accomplices'. The prince's name will not appear in any police reports and you will not mention him in your statements. I'm sure your staunch patriots and love the Queen. But I must know what you were doing there...Miss Alexandra Tibbs?"
Jericho suddenly Leaned forward and said softly; "Inspector, I'm sure you will understand that this is a most torturous and difficult confession, but I fell to Coffin's evil scheme and he insisted that I allow my sister to perform....dance for the prince or expose my own sad shortcomings to the sordid world of the tabloids. He had to procure a very pretty young girl to entice the prince and I was forced to agree - to my shame."
Alex dabbed her eyes with a little lace hankie; "I had to agree otherwise my dear brother would have been ruined for one stupid mistake which he clearly bitterly regrets." The Inspector nodded; "So that's why you tipped off Constable Jones Mr. Tibbs - to protect your sister and see an end to these dreadful happenings?" Jericho nodded and placed his arm around Alexandra; "I did Sir."
Constable Jones returned with more tea - and biscuits - and placed them down, standing next to the Inspector, smiling at Alex. "With your permission sir, I need to inform Miss Tibbs of something that is clearly very important to her - may I?" The Inspector nodded. George folded his arms and smiled - again; "Don't worry about your precious family pets Miss, I had some of the lads round them up and they are tied up in yard; safe and sound." Mounjoy just snorted; "Don't mention those beasts to poor Tom, the Divisional Surgeon had to plaster his ar...backside with iodine."
Mountjoy grunted; "So you were only to dance for the prince Miss?" Alex nodded vigorously; "Yes sir, my brother made that completely clear to that blackmailing wretch Coffin." The Inspector tapped his chin; "I see, well it must have been one hell of a dance or outfit to keep a young prince of the realm in such an establishment. You've clearly had no time to change, so please, let us see this magical costume."
Alex shook her head; "I'd really rather not Sir." The Inspector shrugged his shoulders; "Well, if you cannot corroborate your brothers story, then we must look closer at his participation in all this. If what his says is true and you were there only to dance for the prince, then you both can go free. If not, then I'm forced to keep you here for some time and the press will be all over the story - it's out of my hands, sorry."
Alex quietly stood and started to unbutton her coat, Jericho stared at the floor; "Here we go." he muttered. She opened her coat and managed to smile. Mountjoy nodded and adjusted his spectacles, then pulled them from his nose and cleaned them - replacing them in an instant; "Yes, I can see that could keep a young hot blooded man in such a place. But I would caution you young lady, that such an outfit would only be suitable for viewing by your husband - and behind locked doors. You understand that? " An amazed Alex could only nod her agreement.
The Inspector turned to young Constable Jones; "Show them out and reunite the young lady with her bleeding goats." Jones nodded; "I will sir." He smiled at Alex and whispered; "I would be most grateful and proud if you would allow me to be that husband - please." He fell forwards and lay quite motionless on the floor - apart from a very happy little groan. The Inspector jumped from his seat in surprise; "For heaven's sake Jones - get a grip man; haven't you ever seen a..." Then collapsed over the desk, groaning loudly and slivered to the floor - smiling. "I've haven't had one in years....." He moaned, clutching his crotch.
Jericho grabbed Alex by the hand and headed for the door; "That's some delayed reaction!" Alex managed to button up her coat by the time they reached the police station's yard and collect the unhappy goats waiting there.
Alexandra was grinning; "That lovely young man actually proposed, you heard him, didn't you?" Jericho just groaned; "Alexandra, in that outfit, the bloody Pope himself would have proposed to you." They dragged the goats behind them and reached where the circus was. Jericho explained to the constables on duty there, that he needed to retrieve his coat from the tent.
Unsurprisingly, they folded their arms and said NO. The older constable wiped his nose and shook his head; "Sorry, can't let you Sir. This is now a cream scene - the CID officer told us so. No-one is allowed in there. Sorry." The younger constable chuckled; "Wally, you mean crime scheme! - that's what Tom said, not flipping 'cream scene'." The older constable just nodded and wiped his nose again. Jericho realised these two were the not the brightest lights in the famous Metropolitan Police and smiled; "Gentlemen, I really need to retrieve my coat and it's so important, that I will make a very generous donation - via you two honest officers - to the Police Widow and Orphans fund." He produced the wad of white fivers that Damien had paid him earlier.
Both officers stared at each other, then smiled. The younger one adjusted his helmet and said quietly; "Bribing a police officer is a serious offence and bribing two of them is even seriouser. Get him!" They both leaped forward and grabbed an arm each, pushing Jericho to the ground; "Get the bleeding cuffs on him Wally!" the younger one was now actually sitting on Jericho and the older man struggled under his cape for handcuffs.
Alex sighed really loudly and unbuttoned her coat; "Gentlemen, would you like some of this?" She pulled open her coat and stood smiling. The old Constable stood slowly and wiped his nose; "Sweet fucking Jesus, I haven't seen anything like that since they closed down St. Mary's convent.....Oh Fuck!...I don't.." He fell forward and lay in the mud - crying with happiness, clutching his crotch.
The young copper climbed off Jericho and stared at Alex, she turned and pulled the coat right up her backside. "Or would you prefer some of this?" She smiled and patted her bum cheek. The young constable said nothing and just stood there - and stood there - and stood there. Jericho pulled himself up and brushed mud from his jacket and trousers. He walked round and stood in front of the young policeman. "Cover yourself up Alexandra." He said and very slowly, pushed the young constables shoulder with a single finger. It was like a mighty oak felled by a lumberjack; the young constable crashed to earth and lay motionless.
"Now that's different." Alex murmured and patted the goats.
Jericho knelt down and pushed the money into the young policeman's jacket and patted his arm; "Thanks, that'll pay for dry cleaning your coats." he stood and gestured towards the tents; "Come on Alexandra.....and bring the bleeding goats." Alex wrapped her coat around herself and followed Jericho into the tents with the goats in tow - she was puzzled.
"What on earth did that old copper mean about St. Mary's bloody Convent. I'm wearing nothing that remotely looks like a Nun's habit." She asked Jericho, who just shrugged his shoulders; "My old Uncle Septum always said the police were a queer bunch, but then, they harassed him over his hobby constantly." Alex stopped; "Since when was having a hobby a criminal offence?" She asked - a little intrigued.
Jericho stopped and rubbed his chin; "I don't know; he studied reindeer." The pair walked on and Alex stopped again; "Since when did studying reindeer become a crime?" Jericho shrugged his shoulders; "He use to photograph young girls dressed up as reindeer's, red noses, antler's, bells, the works." Alex shrugged; "That doesn't sound criminal. probably quite cute, you know for Christmas cards and that, but a bit strange I grant you." Jericho nodded his agreement with that, then stopped again; "I think what the police really objected to was the fact; that all the girls were stark naked."
"Oh...that' will do it every time." Muttered Alex. They reached the small ring; "Fancy not having your bloody mirror on you." He scolded Alex and managed to find his coat - where he left it - and with some relief found his mirror in the pockets. "You can talk, you should have kept your bloody coat on." She said and they both helped Emika to her feet. She grinned at Alex; "Would you wear that for me?" Emika murmured to Alex.
"No." came the reply and they grabbed the goats and Jericho operated his mirror.
Back at the lighthouse, they had to call upon James - a Knight of God - to return Wilson and Owen back to their proper form. Ruth wasn't happy; she wanted to keep the goats - she thought they were 'cute'. Alex was more than happy to change out of her outfit and into some proper clothes. She settled into her favourite armchair by the fire and enjoyed several brandies before dinner. Wilson and Owen sulked a little over not seeing Alex in her costume, but were glad not to be goats anymore.
Jericho tried to settle the mystery of Reggie's costume; it was Sir Francis Drake, he announced. Everyone stared at each other; "Bloody never!" was all Owen said and Wilson still insisted it was Ivanhoe. Alex simply refused that answer; "No, he was playing William bloody Shakespeare, its so bloody obvious, really...."
Jericho stared up at the ceiling and sighed - he said nothing further on the subject - ever. The only strange mystery remaining was the big bruise on Wilson’s arse. He had no explanation for it.
The dinner conversation was definitely, quite lively that night.
"This 'Special' episode was written with some humour in mind. The demon Hari's little project was broken up and his plans thwarted. by Team 74. It wouldn't be the last time that prince 'Eddy' would be involved in a temporal detectives mission before his untimely death in 1892. Alexandra's outfit remains a legend in the department to this day. When asked about what he saw her wearing, Jericho would only groan, shake his head; and say nothing!"
CHARACTERS:
Lord Lewisham [aka the demon Hari] had disappeared without trace from that time period and its reported, despite his failure, that he remains a favourite of the Dark Prince and this demon and Jericho Tibbs were to encounter each other again.
Damien Coffin was sentenced at the old Bailey to eleven years hard labour. He was incastrated at Brixton Prison, where he was very popular with inmates of a certain persuasion, who called him MISTRESS Coffin or 'Tick-Tock'. He was released in June 1900 and joined the Royal Navy - he was accidentally killed in a freak accident aboard HMS Colossus, a cannon accidently went off and blew him apart while at sea. No soul was collected and that is subject of yet another Temporal Detective investigation. Two sailors were cleared of any blame for the accident. Able Seamen Bell and Crapps continued to serve on the ship until they both retired from the navy in 1902. They remained good friends for the rest of their lives and died in 1927 and 1933 respectively. Both souls were collected and processed.
Reggie Sponge [aka Crispin St. Michael) continued to try and find acting jobs - with little success, but did assist Jericho on a couple of more missions in late Victorian England. Finally the penny dropped and he gave up acting, becoming a shoe salesman for 'Stead & Simpson' and ended his days as a Regional Manager for that company. He never married and died in 1936 - his soul was collected and processed. Jericho and Alex attended the funeral.
Nelly Victoria Franks [nee Sponge] married Mr. Samuel Franks in 1889 and the old man was delighted with their son, little Samuel - despite the boy being a touch on the dark side. They had no other children and Nelly was widowed in 1908. She was now quite a wealthy woman and remarried in 1912 to a Silversmith called Dean. [Nelly Dean! she really didn't have much luck with her men......] - They had five children together and Mr. Dean never wore a hat in bed. She was widowed again in 1929. She didn't marry again and died in 1940, surrounded by her large family of six children, nineteen grandchildren and six great grandchildren. Her soul was collected and Nelly became a very popular 'Collector' - she still works as one to this day. She counts Alex as a good friend.
Detective Inspector Maurice Mountjoy remained at Brick Lane Police Station until his retirement in 1899; his position was filled by a very promising young Detective; Harry Hadden who became [with his sister Dorothy] a human agent for Jericho Tibbs. [See the authors published book series; "MISS DOROTHY HADDEN" which contains Adult content.] Maurice didn't enjoy his retirement for long and died of cancer in 1903. His soul was collected properly.
Sergeant Tom Bass didn't look after his 'summer cold' too well and it progressed into influenza. He died in 1890. Temporal Detective Inspector 'Doc' Underhill dealt with his case - no soul was collected - the case currently remains unsolved.
Lord Henry Snowfield’s soul remains missing; his case is marked ‘LTDA’ [Lost to Demonic activity] and is currently closed.
‘Little Ivor’ – the big Russian, served five years hard labour in Wandsworth Prison and upon his release in 1894 became a professional wrestler with the stage name: ‘The Bear’. He was very popular and died in 1922 – quite a wealthy man. His soul was collected and processed.
Santo only served a year in prison; the Judge at his trial had many fond memories of circus clowns and dwarfs from his happy childhood days – he was lenient towards the little man. Santo gained a job with ‘Walpole Salad’s Travelling Show’ in America, where dressed as a cowboy, he rode a large pig called ‘Edith’ and fired off pistols. It wasn’t much, but it was a living. ‘Edith’ the pig died in 1907 and Santo simply walked to some wasteland behind the showground and blew his brains out with one of the pistols. His soul was collected and processed.
Peter Zackiskovy received eight years hard labour and never completed his sentence. Another inmate at Pentonville prison cut his throat over unpaid gambling debts and with no relatives to claim his body, was buried in a ‘Paupers grave’ at Whitechapel Cemetery – which was 'unmarked'. His soul was collected and processed.
‘Marvo the Magician’ – real name: Alistair McArden continued his magic act in Vaudeville – badly. He had escaped prison due to possible insanity; he had turned up for his trial with several rabbits in his trousers that escaped during his appearance at court. He actually did have no idea they were still there. Finally, he gave up show business and worked as a porter in a London Hotel. He had a fatal accident in 1910; he fell down a staircase – pissed – and broke his neck. His soul was collected and processed.
Katrina Boggavich – aka ‘The Black Queen’ escaped any prosecution because of lack of evidence and the sneaking possibility that she was stark raving mad. Police had searched her humble caravan on that fateful night and found her face down on the floor – drunk. The fact that she was dressed as a Durham Miner, complete with helmet, boots and coal dust aided her defence. Wisely, she fled Britain and became a ‘mystic’ in New York, reading palms and her crystal ball. Katrina became known for her prophecies until 1901, when, unfortunately, a milkman’s horse kicked her in the head and she died of her injuries – she hadn’t seen that coming. Her soul was collected and processed.
Lucy Kassine and her twin sister Fatima also escaped prison. They became the mistresses of the judge who heard their case. Both had been born together and both died together of tuberculosis on Christmas Day 1896. Both their souls were collected and processed.
Emika Sato remains a Guardian - despite her failure to deal with the demon - and remains 'friendly' with Alex. Though she did stalk Alex for some time, sent her flowers repeatedly, turned up on missions when no guardian was called for and still followed her into toilets whenever possible. Its only been a couple of centuries and so Alex thinks she will get over it....
Constable George Jones [H211] remained in the police until he retired in 1917. He never married and died in 1931. His sister Lillian cleared out his small cottage in Kent to sell it [she was his only surviving relative and heir] amongst his possessions she found a sketch book [apparently he kept his superb drawing skills to himself and sketched in secret] the old scrap book was full of drawings of a stunning young woman called Miss Alex Tibbs. He had never spoken to his sister about this girl - ever. His soul was collected properly. The scrap book was kept by his sister until her death in 1952. It was found in an antique shop in 1974 and purchased by a young woman for three pounds - its whereabouts are now unknown.
Bartholomew Blackberry [aka 'Black Bart'] served three years at her majesty's pleasure and was released in 1892. He disappeared for a while, but resurfaced in Hull. Still skilful with the camera, he actually became a noted 'Scene of crime' photographer for the police and also sold pictures to various newspapers. He married an exotic young lady of Welsh and Eskimo decent and died a happy man in 1913. His soul was collected.
Police Constable John Lofthouse {H241] dealt with many dead bodies and strange incidents during his twenty seven years in the Metropolitan Police. He retired in 1916 and became a Post Sub master in a small Essex village. Both his two son's were killed in the Great War [WW1] and he never really recovered from such a loss. John hung himself in his bedroom in November 1920. His soul was collected and possessed.
Roger 'Suet' Pudding received three years hard labour and was released in 1892 - sadly, he was a habitual criminal - and a lousy one - he was released in 1897, again in 1902, 1910 and 1922. Finally, the penny dropped and he gained 'honest employment' in 1923 as a Road Sweeper. It didn't last long; he was killed by a car on his first day of work - he had spent so much time in prison that he really didn't understand; that you didn't carrying on sweeping when a motor car approached - at speed. His soul was collected and processed.
Stanley Edwin Cornish continued to run his coal delivery business until 1897, when his horse 'Neptune' suddenly dropped dead in Eastham High Street. He truly loved his old faithful companion and workmate and couldn't bring himself to replace the old horse. He survived a few years by delivering coal with a hand barrow, but had turned to drink. He was found dead in the street one night and his family couldn't afford his funeral; he was buried in a 'paupers grave' with no headstone. His soul was collected and possessed.
Percival Tim, Lord Arthur's snobbish Butler found himself unemployed after the death of his master in 1904. He was forced to seek employment on the stage, appearing in a 'drag' act called 'East & West' - his fellow artiste was a young Chinese man called Gan Ho and the pair were quite successful until they were found in bed together - dead from an opium over-dose in 1909. Both souls were collected and processed.
Dave 'Dogface' Sellers wasn't implicated in any crime by his two loyal barmaids and continued to run the 'Queen's Head' pub. The pub became a haven for crime and prostitution throughout the last years of Queen Victoria's reign and old 'dogface' died in 1904 in mysterious circumstances; well, they weren't that mysterious considering the type of people he dealt with. He was found hanging in his cellar - stark naked - with barbed wire wrapped around his penis and a dead rat shoved in his mouth. Strangely enough, the inept Coroner decided it was 'Death by Misadventure' and no one was ever prosecuted for his strange death. No soul was collected and the case remains 'unsolved' by the Temporal Detectives assigned to the case: Inspector Gwyn Francine and Team 28.
SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, as himself.
| Prince Albert Victor | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Duke of Clarence and Avondale | |||||
.jpg)
Photograph by W. & D. Downey, 1891
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| Born | 8 January 1864 Frogmore House, Windsor, Berkshire | ||||
| Died | 14 January 1892 (aged 28) Sandringham House, Norfolk | ||||
| Burial | 20 January 1892 | ||||
| |||||
| House | Saxe-Coburg and Gotha | ||||
| Father | Edward VII | ||||
| Mother | Alexandra of Denmark | ||||
Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale (Albert Victor Christian Edward; 8 January 1864 – 14 January 1892) The prince was never mentioned at the trial of Damien Coffin or any of his merry men. No scandal was attached to 'Prince Eddy' [as he was known to friends and family] over the 'Devil's Circus' incident. but there were other episodes that linked his name to scandal.
He died in 1892 and when his father; King Edward VII died in 1910, his younger brother George, became King George V. Such was the Prince's 'dark' reputation that some modern scholars have linked him with the 'Jack the Ripper' killings in London's East End. There is no evidence available to really add credence to such stories.
He had been engaged, at the time of his untimely death, to princess Mary of Teck. His brother George eventually married the princess who became Queen Mary.
Prince Eddy's soul was collected and processed. He is sometimes referred to - in popular literature - as 'the King we never had'. But the prince is subject of yet another Temporal Detectives mission!
IMPORTANT NOTICE: “Jericho wishes to point out that no animals were harmed in this episode – well, except a certain goat that was kicked up the arse by a certain irate policeman. Thank you.”
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