I do sometimes wonder about that man. He knows too much about the future. Could it be that spirit mediumism is one of his talents? Or does he have a time machine lurking somewhere in the cellar?
Anyway. The Christmas entry, which through necessity came early, contained nothing which needed to be led into which the reader wouldn’t have known about already, particularly since our two protagonists were quiescent over the Christmas period. Similarly, as you’ll see, what follows between now and Christmas contains nothing which will pre-empt or change that day in any way whatsoever, so the twenty-four hours over Christmas can quite safely be said to be self-contained, and a brief transposition in time won’t confuse the reader. If you aren’t confused, please pardon a brief recapitulation for those who are.
Mr Whybrow had discovered a previously unknown tunnel system which was used by Jasper the (former) Postman and his mysterious female companion, we’d deduced that those two were pilfering legitimately-smuggled goods (if there is such a thing) in order to go into “distribution” on their own account, and they had decided that Mr Whybrow and I constituted An Obstacle To Be Removed, thus their urge to Remove us came not entirely through thwarted romance. That aspect had only been a failed ploy, not a motivation on its own. Consequently, I’d been nursing Harry the spider, who’d bravely taken my poison to warn me of its presence, and Mr Whybrow and I were regarding the world with eyes in the cheeks of our fundaments, as Mr Whybrow would put it.
So, there I was, standing in the shop and fretting about my patient – quite unnecessarily, I’ll admit, since his rapid ingestion of my charcoal biscuits indicated that he was quite definitely recovering. I could not help wondering who that woman was. She was clearly known to Mr Whybrow, and I suspected that he was keeping some details to himself. Why that should be, was not my business to inquire. He valued his privacy, and I valued the kindnesses he’d shown me. What I did know was that those two would not give up until Mr Whybrow and I were in no position to inconvenience them any further.
Mr Whybrow was working in the yard – suspiciously quietly, I thought, leaving me starting at every footfall and rattle of wheels that went by, and with my trusty Boxer revolver under the counter, always within arm’s reach.
I tried to distract my nerves, with some success, by planning the work outstanding on my airship. After all these weeks, it now looked like an airship, albeit in pieces, and I had every confidence that it would work. In between chewing over mechanical minutiae, I indulged in a minor amusement in the back office.
My divertissements were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger boy, bearing a small parcel. Without thinking, I signed for it, thanked him, and prepared to open it. Then I hesitated and started thinking. For its size, the parcel was heavy and solid. I remembered what Mr Whybrow had said about bombs, and almost dropped the bloody thing as the little package took on a whole new and dreadful significance.
I should have consulted Mr Whybrow immediately, but since my refusal of his sanctuary, he’d been behaving as though he was a little uncomfortable about me, and consequently, I was uncomfortable being about him, as I hadn’t worked out how to rectify the misunderstanding.
So it looked like this problem was down to Shopgirl. If it was a bomb, it could have a timer to it, so speed was important, although it couldn’t have had a tilt switch or the delivery boy would have triggered it. In fine, with care and a judicious haste, it should be safe to handle.
Gingerly, I picked it up and carried it out to the harbour. Relying on the heavy stonework for protection, if its sudden immersion should set it off, I dropped it in the water and threw myself flat.
Absolutely nothing happened. Well, apart from a saucy little splosh of a probably innocent parcel entering the water. Raising myself on my elbows, I noticed Mr McKew giving me a very curious look from his shop.
I didn’t want to create a panic, so I gave him a cheery wave. “I tripped over myself!”
He rolled his eyes and went back to stirring batter, which left me to contemplate my next action, which I’d been hoping to avoid. Now I would have to notify Mr Whybrow. I brushed the dirt from my knees and rapped on the door. As I’d expected, his response was sharp and best described as “irritated.”
“What is it?”
“A parcel arrived, sir.”
“So?”
I cleared my throat. “In the light of previous experience, I judged it wise to take precautions.”
Silence. That, I did not find favourable.
“What did you do?” he asked, suspiciously.
I told him. Forcing a brightness I didn’t feel, I added, “And it didn’t explode, sir!”
There followed another silence. Longer, this time. “Did you read the return address?”
Oh, Gawd! “No, sir – “
Mr Whybrow emerged, wriggling into his frock coat. “If that was what I think it is, you won’t be popular.”
Without another word, he stormed out to the quayside and made me point it out. Luckily, I’d dropped it right at the water’s edge, where it was relatively shallow, so it was easy to see.
Mr Whybrow tapped a toe, patiently. “That is not a bomb, Miss Bluebird. Kindly retrieve it.”
“But I can’t reach – “
He met my horrified look with one that made me shiver. Unforgiving and as yielding as the Forth Bridge. I knew what I’d have to do.
I bit off a sigh as I dropped my skirts and stockings. It had been my own silly fault. The cold water clutched my feet in hands of steel as I lowered myself in. It was shallow enough to stand in, and after a futile attempt at moving the parcel with my toes, I accepted that there was nothing for it but to undergo total immersion, as the Baptists say.
I tried not to think about all the things that must have gone into the harbour over the years. I closed my eyes tightly, fumbled around with my fingers, and quickly located the parcel, which I passed up to Mr Whybrow. I looked up in the hope of getting a helping hand from the water, but he was preoccupied with the parcel’s return address, and took no notice of me until I’d clambered out by myself.
The look that he gave me, as I stood before him dripping all over the harbour, was almost sneering in its condemnation. “I’d been expecting this, as you’d have known if you’d been keeping up to date with the correspondence. You’d better stoke up the stove in the back office.”
Without another word, he marched back, leaving me to follow. My feet proclaimed my ignominy to the world by splatting wetly with every step as I carried my skirts, which I dared not try to put on as I’d only make them as wet as I was. He did not speak, but he didn’t need to. His silence was a greater testament to my disgrace than any words could have been.
In the back office, I threw a few shovels of coal into the stove and watched, shivering, as he gingerly unwrapped the parcel. It contained a large copper-cased fobwatch and, with the accompanying letter, a drawing which had been slightly smeared by the water. It appeared to be of a ring, with two parallel bands of tiny stones sandwiching a third band of larger gemstones; the author had labelled all the little ones with a key down the margin, in two columns. The design was familiar to me, but I was too unsettled to think clearly.
“Thank God she’d anticipated the Post Office leaving it out in the rain,” said Mr Whybrow, sliding the letter towards me. “The fobwatch would have been salvageable, but another ten minutes would have been too late for the drawing. I think that will explain all.” He nodded to the letter; although the paper was barely damp, the writing had started to spread and blur.
“Dear Mr Whybrow,
“I enclose my late husband’s fob watch, as agreed in our recent correspondence. I suspect that it simply needs a good clean, as indicated by the gradual nature of its failure to work, although I leave this matter to your judgment which I am content to accept.
“Of more importance to me is the ring which I lost. My own skills with pencil are not remarkable, but I trust that the accompanying drawing will furnish sufficient information as to enable you to supply a replacement. The metalwork, as you can see, is not complicated; the true significance lies in the stones themselves.
“Should you encounter any difficulty, please let me know. Otherwise, I await your delivery at your soonest convenience.
“Yours Faithfully,
“E.M. Beauregard (Mrs)”
Then I remembered where I’d seen the ring before. Mr Whybrow, seeing recognition dawn on my face, bore me out.
“The middle stones are Diamond, Emerald, Amethest, Ruby, Emerald, Sapphire and Tourmaline,” he supplied. “’DEAREST’ is an old device, I’ve been selling ‘em myself for long enough. Sooner use Tanzanite, but many see it as a fancy modern stone and unbecoming to a romantic testament. The outer stones are the names of herself and her late husband, of course, spelled out in similar fashion.”
“And she lost the original ring?” I said.
Mr Whybrow nodded – his reticence, I suspected, was more out of sympathy with the widow Beauregard rather than through disparagement at anything I’d done. “The fobwatch’ll get a clean now, whether it needed one or not. That should be no problem. But the ring will be a different matter, with only her drawing to go on. She’d had the original for forty years, and couldn’t afford to insure it; I would like to make a half-decent job of it.”
“Then – if it isn’t indelicate, sir, if she couldn’t afford the insurance, how does she hope to pay you?”
His face softened as he turned to me, all acrimony forgotten. “You can probably guess. She lost her husband ten years ago, killed on active service. She lives very quietly and sees nobody, so you’ll be honoured by getting to see her. I never have, we’ve corresponded only by letter. Don’t tell anyone I’ve accepted her IOU, by the way, or they’ll all be trying it on. I’ve had too many fluttering their eyelashes and then throwing a fit because they can’t get free work out of me.”
That was one IOU which I knew would remain unpaid for as long as Mr Whybrow lived. He pocketed the parcel’s contents and turned to go back to the yard; Mrs Beauregard would receive his attentiion in his own good time.
“Won’t this interfere with your work in the yard, sir?”
My probe failed with a big Thud. Mr Whybrow, blocking the view of the yard with his body, half turned to me with a chuckle.
“Keep trying, Miss Bluebird. And since you ask – not at this stage; in any case, Mrs Beauregard is in no desperate hurry. Now go and change, you’re making my office all wet.”
I did so, after a nip of Mr Whybrow’s brandy in case I’d ingested anything nasty from the harbour. I felt such a fool, and it would have to have involved a particularly “sensitive” customer. However, Mr Whybrow knew I’d acted for the best, or his explosion would have been heard across the district.
I was still brooding on this latest embarrassment when I became aware of a pair of customers at the door. I almost leapt out of my skirts, and had to stifle a reflex grab for my revolver. What had Jasper done to my nerves? These couldn’t possibly be our adversaries – the lady was too old and stout, and the young man with her too lean. No disguise could remove four stone from Jasper.
Hoping they had discerned nothing of my fright, I gave a shaky curtsy behind the counter.
“Good day, Madam, Sir. May I be of assistance?”
The lady gave me a good-natured beam, although her companion had a cast to his eye which I did not trust. Well, both eyes actually, but they were so close together that the difference was nil.
“We’re looking for something suitable for vampires,” she explained.
Vampires? All right. Mr Whybrow had warned me that we could expect to see those amongst the clientele. He had taught me about Mr Stoker’s recent novel and Calmet’s Histoire des Apparitions, and neither source had covered costume jewellery although this lady’s fashion sense appeared to be contemporaneous with Calmet’s treatise of a hundred and fifty years ago.
“Did Madam have any sort of thing in mind?” I flannelled. All I had in mind was inverted crucifixes, which I knew for a fact that Mr Whybrow would not countenance.
“We were hoping you could show us,” returned the lady, pleasantly.
Boing! The ball bounced back into my court. Oh, Gawd. Ah, just a minute. These two were obviously harmless; I stepped out from behind the counter. “We have some pentagram ear pendants which might suit; if Madam would be so good as to follow me?”
I led the way up to the top floor, where all the loose ear pendants were situated, and took care to remain ahead of the couple. They were not the two I was dreading, but something was not right about them. I kept my unease to myself as I stood before the ear pendants, proudly explaining, “And here we are, Madam. Gold pentagrams with Barney Bat hanging from a crossbar – “
Something else had been nagging at me, and I realised what it was. Oh, you silly little fool! “I’m afraid the pentagram has one horn exalted, Madam – “ I broke off my apology under her quizzical frown. “Is something wrong?”
“One horn exalted?” queried the lady. The young man with her didn’t appear to have a clue what I was talking about, either.
“One point sticking up,” I explained, grateful that Mr Whybrow’s tuition had been so thorough. “As opposed to two – one being the benign pentagram, and two being the – ah, other variety.” A big alarm bell rang in my head. They should know this themselves!
The lady’s booming laugh resounded from the ceiling. “Oh, I see. That. Yes, of course that’s the sort I meant. We’re nice vampires.”
I – see. Everything about them seemed wrong, but until they revealed their true intentions, they were just two somewhat extraordinary customers. And most of our customers were extraordinary. “One moment, Madam, I’ll get them down for you.”
As I reached up to remove the ear pendants, a shadow fell over me. A small patch of my throat began to feel warm, and I knew instantly what was about to happen. I steeled my every muscle, and spun on one heel to drive my elbow into the diaphragm that I knew would be there.
It was. The younger vampire folded in two like a glove. Without pause for consideration, or paying any heed to the lady’s appalled expression, I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him as far as I could. Unfortunately, there was a window in the way, and doubly unfortunately, it was closed.
But the tinkle of glass meant nothing to me as I glowered at the matron. I was still searching for a suitably diplomatic follow-up when she gave up searching for anything from “1001 useful phrases for Self-Righteous Customers” that might have helped her, and settled for “1001 useful phrases for Self-Righteous Minor Bureaucrats” instead. Luckily, she wasn’t the hysterical type or she’d have followed the young oaf out of the window.
“I can’t believe my own eyes! You’ve laid hands on my son! I shall call a constable at once – they’ll hang you for this – “
A groan reached me from the street below. “Put a bung in it, Madam! He’s as sound as you are, although you won’t be if you try what he just did. Or didn’t you teach him never to bite people without an invitation?”
She could hardly dispute the fact that he was too alive to pose the ultimate threat to my well-being. “Your master shall hear of this. Fetch him at once! At once!”
Oh, the sort who was always in the right. Especially when she wasn’t. “That will be a pleasure, Madam.”
We arrived on the ground floor, with the matron trumpeting like an elephant with piles, as her son stumbled in from the street, shaking broken glass from his collar.
“Are you all right, Sweetums?” cooed Mama.
“Uh, I think so. Landed on my head.”
That would explain a lot. “Sweetums,” for the love of God! Stiffly, I marched behind the counter, simmering as Mama fussed over her offspring.
“Did the nasty girl hurt you, then? Don’t you worry, she’ll never work again if I have my way.”
Her son soaked it up, stretching a dreadful countenance of misery that would have got him expelled from even the worst amateur dramatic societies. He must have been in his early twenties, and I was sure he would still be sleeping with his teddy bear, had those been invented at the time.
Mr Whybrow burst in from the back office. Of course, he had heard all that had happened on the ground floor, and the crash of the broken window.
Mama wasted no time. “This gel of yours just assaulted my son – threw him clean through the window.”
“From the second floor,” Junior put in.
Mama waved him to silence. “I demand that you fetch a constable at once! She’s not fit to be at large.”
Mr Whybrow ignored her and turned to me. “Are you all right?” he asked me, quietly.
“Vampires,” I mumbled. “He tried to bite me.”
He spun to the injured party. “What do you have to say about that?”
Junior rolled two large puppy eyes to Mama. “Of course I didn’t. You tell him, Mama.”
Mama folded her arms and snorted as though her son had said all that needed to be.
Mr Whybrow told her, “If my shopgirl defenestrated your son, then he not only deserved it, but can thank his lucky stars that that was all she did. Now get out, the pair of you.”
Mama drew herself up to deliver a retort, but Mr Whybrow beat her to it. He snatched out the revolver from under the counter and aimed it squarely between her eyes. “If you’re real vampires, this’ll give you no more than a headache. If you’re not, we’ll be redecorating the shop.” He drew back the hammer with a resounding click.
A longish silence ensued, which probably wasn’t as long as it seemed, during which the Madam tried to maintain her haughty stance while deciding whether or not he was serious about pulling the trigger. I could see the white of his knuckle; he was. Her son seemed to hang with his feet on the floor like a laundry item on an invisible washing line; his face looked to have been left out in the rain. Finally, a little diamond pane surrendered its death grip on the leading, to tinkle on the pavement, provoking Mama to a decision.
“You’ll be hearing from the authorities about this, sir!” Mama snorted. “Come, Marmaduke.” She held out an elbow as a visual signal for her son to escort her out.
As they went through the door, Mr Whybrow levelled the revolver at her head, and squinted. “Bang,” he said, barely loudly enough for me to hear.
Marmaduke? I had to bite my tongue for my incipient laugh to emerge as a snerky snort. It was probably just my nerves; gallows-humour, I think they call it. I suppose the real surprise was that Mrs Vampire had actually bred – you know, with a man. Maybe he was the result of one of those society weddings I kept hearing about, where “that sort of thing” was a mere duty, like inspecting the servants for lice.
“Yours, I believe.” Mr Whybrow handed me the revolver, butt-first. I appreciated that. “Those two are all we need on top of all that other stuff.”
I had reservations. “How would the authorities receive her story, sir? He really did try to bite me, you know.”
Mr Whybrow shook his head. “They’ve more to fear than you. For a start, even if he’d broken the skin, you’d get nothing worse than an infection that we could clear up with surgical spirit.”
A penny dropped. One of those big copper pre-1860 ones which fishermen used as ledgering weights. “Sir, did you know they were fakes?”
“Of course I did. Would a real vampire have called during the daylight hours? No, Miss. There are those who aren’t actually vampires but for reasons of their own, admire the lifestyle. Some of them take advantage of the innocent, to blackmail them into servitude. He’d no doubt have told you that you were his to command, and that if you wanted to survive beyond sunrise you’d have to perform some particularly unsavoury service for him. Believe me, Miss Bluebird, they won’t go within a mile of a policeman.”
I shuddered, partly at my own ignorance. Even now I still had so much to learn about these people. Then my nerves caught up with me and I had to grip the counter to suppress a shuddering that tried to surface. I hoped for some tangible reassurance from Mr Whybrow – he must have seen me shaking – but of course I should have known better.
“They won’t be back,” he told me, quietly. “Just stay alert, and I’ll be in the yard if you need me.”
“Thank you, sir.” He’s right. Get a grip on yourself.
I felt slightly stung at his off-handed dismissal. Was he still irked over my refusal of his own private sanctuary? But I had just given myself sound advice. Get on with something! Mr Whybrow was so absorbed in whatever he was doing in the yard that I could do almost what I wanted, provided it didn’t make any noise likely to attract his attention. Now, there was the matter of an unfinished airship.
One thing I needed was enough cable to sling the gondola from the gasbag. He was quite determined that Old Stumpy’s sailing days were over, so he would not miss two hundred yards of one-inch line from her cable tier. Keeping an ear on the shop, I passed a therapeutic couple of hours in the cellar, turning it all into a netting which I hoped would support the structure.
That still left the matter of an engine. I filched one of Mr Whybrow’s cigars from the back office and mulled over my problem.
There had to be a way. Running it on steam was out of the question, with all that explosive gas floating scant feet above me. Clockwork – electricity – both were swiftly labelled as, “Don’t be silly!”
Then I realised that I was sitting on that crate which had arrived during my swimming lesson, and which Mr Whybrow had been irked to find that he could not use. I puzzled over its legend. “EXCELSIOR V TWIN THIRTY HORSEPOWER” – I had no idea what the first bit meant, but anything measured in horsepower had to be an engine of some sort.
Oh, you clod! All this time………..
Mr Whybrow called down; from the remoteness of his voice, he was still in the yard. “Miss Bluebird? Are you there?”
Hastily, I shuffled my skirts on. That rope had roughened my hands a little, but at least it had been clean. He wouldn’t notice anything. I sauntered up the stairs to the back office and was surprised to find the door to the yard standing open. My view of whatever lay beyond was occluded by Mr Whybrow standing in the way. I’d guessed that he was finally going to show me what he’d been doing, but if I’d expected a showman’s flourish, I’d misunderstood him completely. Instead, he looked at the ground in embarrassment, and stepped aside with a mumble.
“I hope this will meet your needs, Miss Bluebird.”
I stepped inside to a wonderland. A candle on a shelf cast its cheery welcome over a little room, with a porcelain pan and mahogany seat – he’d even put in one with pretty pink flowers, like I’d asked for. A sink with tiled splashback in the corner, and presiding from on high was a water cistern. He'd even laid a lovely pattern of tiles on the floor.
Suddenly I felt very small and insignificant. “It’s – a – convenience,” I spluttered, dumbly.
“Can’t have you traipsing out into the rain and catching cold, can we?” he said.
I scarcely heard him through my stupefaction. “You – pull the chain to make it work, right?”
“Right.”
“And is that – “ I pointed at a small cylinder on the shelf.
“Proper paper. No more cutting the “Times” into squares. I’ll let you get better acquainted with it, I think. I’ll leave the manufacturers’ literature in the back office.”
Which was probably the right thing to do. An army of nagging spirits tore at me. So this was what he’d been up to all this time – all for me – Guilt crushed my throat; I wanted to squeeze him to me in a neverending hug. He’d probably guessed that last, and decided that it would be prudent to absent himself for a little. It’s not a ladylike thing to think about, I know, but I couldn’t wait to use his gift in anger, and I knew that it’d be a thrill which would never pall.
It came with easy instructions on how to clean it, how long to let the cistern recharge, and what to do if any of the components should fail.
Mmm-hm, all right. Straightforward enough. The health and safety manual, however, was another matter.
Half way through the chapter on ladder safety while re-attaching disassociated chains, I realised that I hadn’t thanked him at all. That was awful of me; what must he have thought? I ran out immediately. He could read me so well; I’m sure he was waiting for me, silently and correctly predicting my every move when I found him outside quietly ruminating over a cigar.
For a long moment, we just looked at each other. I think he knew that I wanted to give him a great big hug, but was forbearing.
Oh, sod it!
In the street, uncaring of who might have been watching, I stretched up and pecked his cheek. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed.”
He didn’t flinch at all; he must have seen it coming. Neither did he press back. He merely twitched a smile as if to say, “You’re welcome.” “Stay warm, Miss Bluebird.”
There was so much else that I wanted to say, but he wouldn’t have appreciated it. Simple thanks were vital, but all that were necessary with him. But something else flared in my mind. It was an ideal time to ask, although I hesitated a little, anxious that I might appear greedy.
Feigning innocence (appallingly), I asked, “Sir; I was tidying up in the cellar when I noticed that crate you had delivered a few weeks ago.” At his curious squint, I described it. “Did you want it thrown out, sir? You don’t appear to be using whatever it is.”
My probe bounced off. “Good Lord, no!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t found a use for it yet, but I’m confident that I will. One day,” he added, after a suitable pause.
“What is it, sir?”
“An internal combustion engine,” he explained, happier now that we’d moved onto technical matters. “I was going to use it in the Dreadnought, for more power up the hills now that it’ll be carrying us both as a matter of course. But it turned out to have too long a stroke.” Seeing my puzzlement, he explained, “The pistons drive it like a locomotive, as I’ve told you. The distance they travel is called the ‘stroke.’ And that one’s so long that neither of us would have a hope in hell of starting it. We simply don’t have the leverage,” he explained, stretching an arm out. “Not unless you have legs five feet long,” he added with a chuckle.
Legs, or – a propeller! Problem solved! Well, almost. I still needed to do a little work on him to get him to hand it over.
No, I didn’t. He astonished me by adding, “You might as well put it in your airship. I’d use it in mine, but I’m happy with the one I have.” Ignoring my look of absolute stupefaction, he gave me a grin that told me, You didn’t expect to keep it a secret forever, did you? “Go on, Miss Bluebird. Finish your airship.” Then he left me to contemplate my windfall, but threw over his shoulder, on the way back in, “You’ll need a 9/16 inch AF spanner to mount it. Try the back office, bottom desk drawer.”
I could have thrown myself around him like a starved octopus, but as we all know, he didn’t Do That Sort Of Thing. Besides, he was already too far away. “Thank you, sir,” I called after him.
Mr Whybrow waved back. That was all I’d needed to say.
I wanted to explode in a human firework display of happiness. My airship was almost finished – it was so close!
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