The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) (12 page)

I
t was
ten o’clock at night by the time we had stuffed the dubious Doctor Cherrytree in a cell. I had been nursing my sore arm, and Constable Walnut brought me in a cup of tea and a sticky bun. All was well with the world. Constable Walnut sat down to join me.

“That was quite an evening, sir.”

“What did you think of the exhibition?” I said, sinking my teeth into the bun.

“I’m more of an Expressionist, sir. Distorted for emotional effect.”

There was a knock at the door and Inspector Salt entered. Constable Walnut and I rose from our chairs.

“Inspector,” I said. He was a tall, thin man with snow-white hair and watery eyes.

“I need a word with you, sergeant. Constable, you can stay put. You need to release Doctor Cherrytree immediately.”

“He tried to kill me!” I said, outraged.

“I have spoken to him, and he says it was an accident and you fell, and there are twenty witnesses who say the same thing.”

“It wasn’t an accident, sir,” said Constable Walnut.

“Did you actually witness Doctor Cherrytree push Sergeant White?”

“No, sir, but–”

“Well then. It was an accident. A tragic one.”

“Inspector Salt, I have been a detective for Scotland Yard for twenty years and I am not a liar.”

“The witnesses say otherwise. You lost your footing and fell. Take a few days off.” And at that he produced a pocket watch and clicked it open. It shimmered with weird light. I felt giddy. I felt sick.

“You’re… one of them,” I said. Constable Walnut looked worried. He had seen the watch and worked it out.

Inspector Salt clicked the time mechanism shut and eyed me coolly. “Like I said. Take a few days off. And we’ll say no more about this.” He was as cool as an iceberg. My world was collapsing. He left, the door shutting behind him.

I looked to Constable Walnut, “What can we do?”

Walnut replied, selecting another sticky bun. “We could always ask your Mr Loveheart.”

I
returned
to the home of Mr Loveheart. I really had no other place to go. My arm was bandaged in a sling, much like my career – wounded. He stood in the garden in front of the house, waiting for me, waving, wearing a bright yellow waistcoat with buttercups in his hair and a lopsided grin. I wondered if I should slip off home, unnoticed.

“Good morning, detective. How’s your arm?”

“Sore.” I edged closer to him cautiously.

“Will you be attending the funeral of the man you squashed?”

“No,” I sighed. “I have a feeling you pushed Elijah to break my fall.”

“Of course. Only happy to help.”

“Then help me again. I don’t know what to do now.”

“Mmmmm,” hummed Loveheart, and put his finger to his chin, playing with me. “What do you want to happen?”

“I want all those monsters stopped. I want Lady Clarence and her group punished. But the law can’t do it. The law is powerless. I can’t do my job. Even my inspector is involved with them.”

“Do you want me to get rid of them for you, detective? Are you asking me to murder them for you?”

“I don’t know what I’m asking. I need advice. I need some options.”

“Your options are limited to say the least. Nasty bunch, that lot. Very unsavoury,” he said, glittering like tinfoil.

“Please, whatever you can do.”

“I would love to assist you, Detective Sergeant White. I tell you what. I’ll decapitate Lady Clarence, Obadiah Deadlock, Edmund Cherrytree and Inspector Salt, who are the main culprits. Their group will fall apart without them. We can’t have a member of the police force involved with them – what would Queen Victoria say? In return, you must do me a little favour.”

“Which is?”

“In the near future I will need your help, and I will call upon you. It is a matter very close to my heart.” He looked at me almost as though he would burst into tears, and then within an instant he was grinning again.

“All right.” We shook hands. A deal had been struck. And I wouldn’t regret it.

“Don’t ever feel guilt, detective. Remember they are already dead. You are administering natural law and I am your willing assassin.”

I felt the greatest sense of relief. He was as mad as a spoon. But he was also oddly heroic and had absolutely no fear of anything. I wondered what on Earth had happened to him to make him into this creature. And I suddenly realised, I think, that I actually liked him.

W
hat on Earth
does one wear for a funeral? Something dramatic, obviously. The theme is death. So, black seems obvious, if not a little predictable, and I am not at all predictable. I was of course invited. I am one of the richest men in England and considered an amusing eccentric. So, I can really wear whatever I like. And I can kill whomever I like.

I’d chosen to wear white with, of course, my trademark red hearts. A dashing bachelor!

I’d been mulling over how to kill them all.

D
ECAPITATION

I
simply love the word
. Head over heels

I
take
my ancestral sword with me. Daddy will be so proud that it was going to get some use. Heads lying around the cemetery like pumpkins! I can’t wait. I do hope they have an interesting vicar. Maybe one with a lisp. It is going to be a splendid day!

Clippety-clop. Off we trot in my white carriage with white horses. I do like to make an impact. White is so saint-like. So ghostly charming.
Clippety-clop.
To Underwood Church and cemetery. I really could not be late. Important people to kill. Promises to be kept. Keep your fingers crossed, Detective Sergeant White. This one is for you, sir.

It is a beautiful, shiny day in London. My favourite city. My little world. I like to watch the people, the tiny dolls. Puppet people on invisible strings. The bearded ladies dancing in the mud, the rude, misshapen street children, the frog-croaking drunks. All this wickedness of history, layer upon layer of it, like one of Aunt Rosebud’s trifles. Poison neatly laid to rest in the layer of custard.

And we arrive at the gates of Underwood Cemetery. A little white church for the elite. Even a rose garden especially for the dead. How very pretty – and they were all hovering about like flies over dung. I could see Lady Clarence in a black gown with a string of pearls, she was weeping on the shoulder of Doctor Cherrytree. What a marvellous actress she would have made. A very sturdy Lady Macbeth, no doubt. Ooooh, and I could see Obadiah Deadlock, that orange-haired fellow on his own. Not much good with company, that one. Maybe he’s a bit shy? Even Inspector Salt was there, always good to have a corrupt member of the police force at a mock funeral. And out of the carriage I popped, sword in hand. Am I eccentric enough for you all? I approached them and bowed very low to Lady Clarence. “I really am terribly sorry about the death of Elijah. Have I missed the service?”

Lady Clarence looked at me as though I was a bug to be squashed. She reminded me of Aunt Rosebud in many ways. “Yes. It was a beautiful service,” she said, not really looking at me but at an imaginary audience. “We are about to bury him, if you’d like to follow us. If my nerves can stand it – I feel so frail. My poor Elijah. Taken so young.”

“Surely not that young, madam,” I piped in. “He was a good ripe age.” Yes, I imagine he was nearly one hundred.

And all eyes fell upon me. “But his talent will live on. It is certainly burned into my memory!” and I tapped my skull rather animatedly.

At this her lips pursed and she started to move into the cemetery, the rest of her acolytes trailing behind. I could hear Doctor Cherrytree, who was holding her arm, whispering, “Odd fellow, that Loveheart.”

Obadiah Deadlock crept up on me. “I do like your sword, Mr Loveheart.”

“Oh, thank you very much. I am quite fond of it, myself. Tell me, what’s the vicar like?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Has a bit of a lisp though.”

“Marvellous.” I said.

Obadiah scratched his large head, nervously. “I am worried about Lady Clarence. During the service she broke down in tears several times. And she’s such a strong lady. Quite formidable, if I dare say.”

“Yes, I was just thinking that she reminded me of my Aunt Rosebud.”

“Really, was she a formidable woman?”

“Well, she murdered her own children and my mother. But she was extremely good at baking cakes.”

“Good grief,” cried Obadiah.

“Oh, don’t upset yourself, dear fellow. My strange family hasn’t affected me in the slightest,” and I waved my sword about theatrically.

He didn’t respond, oddly enough.

“So,” I said, “I hear you’re a bit of a star gazer.”

“Yes,” he replied nervously. “You may have read one of my published works on the theory of time travel.”

“Indeed, my father had a keen interest as well. As do I. But I do wonder if humans should be meddling with time at all. Dangerous business, dabbling with the work of the gods.”

“Why shouldn’t we? It is scientific progress. Evolution.”

“At what cost?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there is always a price to pay, Mr Deadlock. Always. Tell me, have you ever met Death?”

“Met him? Of course not. He’s not a person.”

“Oh yes he is, and I’ve met him. And he’s really someone you don’t want to annoy.”

“I can’t continue this conversation, Mr Loveheart. You are talking nonsense. You are talking in riddles.” And he moved away from me.

The coffin was white and Lady Clarence laid a single red rose on it, weeping into her enormous bosom. The vicar, a tall, gangly-looking fellow with beady yellow eyes stood at the foot of the grave. I was looking forward to this.

“Iths a thad dhay. The death of Elilah Whhithlle hath moved uth all. Deeply.” The vicar’s tongue wobbled about his mouth.

Lady Clarence began to wail.

“I know how she feels,” I said.

“Elithhahh whath a phhainther. A phhalennted indivduhal...”

I could bear it no more and lopped the vicar’s head off with my sword,. It spun into a nearby gravestone, bounced, and then plopped into a hedge.

I then turned to Obadiah and swooshed the sword across his neck, his head dropping neatly into the open grave.

Doctor Cherrytree began to make a run for it – he really was a terrible coward – while Inspector Salt stood in my way. “I am arresting you for murder. Put the sword down, Mr Loveheart. You’re obviously having a little turn.”

“No, inspector, I am not having a little turn. I am, in fact, on a killing spree.” And I chopped his head off too, the blood splattering across myself and Lady Clarence’s face. At least she wasn’t running away – she was made of stronger stuff. She glared at me instead.

“You stupid little man,” she spat. “You’re not going to kill a woman.”

“Actually, I’ve killed several women. And all of them nasty pieces of work, just like you, madam.”

“You’re a devil!” she cried.

“No, I’m not a devil. Merely a man who is fighting for his soul.” I chopped her head off and she sank to her knees. I was covered in blood. I couldn’t distinguish the hearts from the blood. I turned to look for Doctor Cherrytree.

But then I heard Bad Daddy speaking.

“Loveheart.” It was a voice from the deep dark. It was Mr Fingers. He was leaning against a headstone, smiling gently. “My dear boy. Am I interrupting something?”

“No, does it look like I’m busy?”

“Thought I’d pay you a visit. I need to send you on a little errand.”

“Can’t you get your other son to do it?”

“You were always my favourite.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I will gobble you up.” His voice was a black hole in space. And the dead stayed quiet in their graves. “Good boy. Now I have your attention, I need you to go to Whitby. I have found the girl. The girl in the grandfather clock. I need you to bring her here to me.”

I
was the mistake
. I was the ending of the clockmaker. The tickety-tock maker. Little did I know as I was growing up that I would end up in a ladies’ watch, with a topaz butterfly gilt in a display cabinet.

Bit of an odd ending, really.

I was twelve years old, small for my age and plain-featured. I had a gift for playing the piano, so I was told, and no brothers or sisters. On my father’s birthday I had decided to buy him a pocket watch. A very special one. Recently my parents had hosted a dinner party and one of my father’s friends, a Doctor Cherrytree, attended. He had the most beautiful pocket watch. It was silver and engraved with a serpent with ruby eyes. He told me about the clock making shop where he acquired it – and so I decided to find a wonderful gift for my father.

I was wearing a plain white dress, white gloves, and a yellow ribbon in my hair. My hair was very long and the colour of sand. It was the same colour as my grandmother’s. The yellow ribbon was a gift from her. It was made of silk and was so soft to touch.

The day was fine, so I walked through the park, the avenue of trees cool and regimented, planted in straight lines.

I had sat and painted watercolours here; but they were not very accomplished, so my tutor informed me. The park was a flat, green, open space with borders of yellow and pink flowers – and paths as unbending as arrows. There were ladies in carriages, wearing pink gloves and fixed smiles. A gentleman on a bicycle rode past me and tipped his hat. He had a dark moustache, hairy and strange, and his teeth were yellow and bent, and I could see the pink tip of his tongue sticking through. It felt like some sort of warning. Some sort of sign.

But I continued down the straight path. It was at times like those I wished I had a brother or sister to take with me, to talk to. I suppose I was quite lonely. I knew I was lucky to live in a nice house with a good family. I was told this regularly by my parents. I wonder, if you are continuously told how lucky you are, something bad eventually happens.

I was lucky

I was lucky

I was lucky

I

        was

                so

                        lucky.

The gentleman on the bicycle rode past me again. This time he was smiling. He circled me with his bike, playfully. Marking out a circle. Enclosing me. I ignored him; I kept my eyes straight ahead on the path through the park. And then he rode off. The danger was gone.

I was lucky.

The path approached the vast flat lake in the centre of the park. I could see a white boat with couples oar-in-hand sail past. The air was calm, the water flickered gently, a few ducks floated past, comfy and quacking. The colours of this park were watery blue and soft greens with a few drops of Turkish delight pink and buttercup yellow, and a great deal of grey. It was a boring watercolour. A bad painting. A line of heavy-laden trees stretched over my head, momentarily putting me into shadow. Cool and dark. For a moment I felt that heavy shadow over my head, as though the features of my face had disappeared. As though I had gone. As though I was already slipping away out of this life, out of this world. And yet I kept walking.

The darkness made me think about Doctor Cherrytree. He had a face like a shadow, it hides his real intentions. He had clever little dark eyes and a very ugly mouth. Over dinner he was telling my father about his photographs. He takes pictures of souls leaving human bodies. He showed me one of them. It was a picture of an old lady in her armchair. She looked as though she were asleep, a book resting in her lap and over her head a wispy trail of light, which Doctor Cherrytree said was her soul.

I asked him, “Have you trapped her soul in the photograph?” And I remember, that was the point when he took out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was humming like a soft insect. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and he was very pleased that I liked it. He seemed amused by it. The way he looked at me: he saw a plain, not very interesting girl; he saw something empty in me. And I think that’s why he let me look at his watch. He let me touch the ruby snake eyes. They were warm, like fire beads. And he took a small card out of his pocket with an address on it and said, “Why don’t you get one for your father for his birthday? Here is the address of the shop.”

That card was in my purse. It had his fingertip prints on it. Maybe he left a trace of his own soul upon it. And, I wondered, when I die will Mr Cherrytree take a photograph of me?

I walked round the edges of the lake, the path still straight as a line, all clear. I could see the exit; I could see the gates in the distance. Children played on the lawn with a fox-eyed Nanny; a policeman strolled past, eyes ahead, always looking ahead. My feet kept moving, one step after another, as though I were an automaton. I had a wind up clock monkey that walks up and down on the carpet that Daddy got from India. That’s what I felt like, now. I was moving but someone else had control over me. I was turning into dark spaces. Emptying.

The rest of my journey I forgot, as though it wasn’t important. As though I had been switched off. When I arrived at the clock-maker’s shop I felt like I had woken up, and I looked into the window at the beautiful display. They were like precious jewels glinting, touched with something magical. A dark elixir. I found it hard to take my eyes off them. Right in the centre of the display was a silver toad with its mouth open, and inside a clock ticked gently. It made me feel calm, its soft ticking a creepy crawly sleepiness. I opened the door to the shop, the bell above my head ringing, and I knew suddenly.

I
was already
a dead thing

Albert Chimes was standing in front of me with a strange magnifying eye contraption on his eyes. He was a very old man. His body didn’t seem comfortable within its skin, as though it were a bad fit. I think he might have been near to a hundred years old. He looked like a wizard in a fairy tale. One that lives in a strange tower in a forest. A dangerous wizard, who had gone mad, maybe? Is London a great forest? Am I in a magical tower? I think I may have walked into a fairy story.

He took the eye contraption off and smiled politely. “Good morning, young lady. How may I help you?”

I could hear a cat purring, and a slinky plump black-as-night feline materialized on the shelf, watching me with dazzling emerald eyes.

“Her name is Cleopatra. Do you like cats?” His smile remained fixed.

“I have come for a gift for my father. It’s his birthday. And yes, I do like cats. She is very pretty.”

“What sort of clock would your father like?”

“A pocket watch.”

“I have quite a few pocket watches at the moment. Step over here and we’ll have a look in the display cabinet.”

I crossed to him, where a glass cabinet with a purple velvet lining sat. Inside, a dozen pocket watches were nesting. As comfy as eggs. All of them were made of silver, some with gold threads and jewels. Some had animals carved into them, or symbols: I saw a fox with a diamond tail, a tortoise with a green jewelled shell, one with an eye symbol, another with a row of dancing imps. But in the corner, I saw a watch for my father: it had an engraving of a kingfisher with a key in its mouth. My father had always loved kingfishers.

“That is the one I want,” and I pointed to it. Albert Chimes was just about to open the case, when he looked at me rather oddly. The way the man on the bike had looked at me.

Circling me.