Number 2
Penny Dreadful:
“The
Life and Crimes of Lockhart and Doppler”
Beasts. Part One.
The bird
swivelled its head 360 degrees, a smooth shiiink
as the mechanism in its neck
turned. Black glossy wings lifted as it announced;
“Visitor.Visitor!”
She barely reacted
to the familiar mechanoid, only raising her face slightly from the work which
occupied her, peering, goggle eyed through magnified lenses, giving the
appearance of an owl with thyroid trouble. Sounds of approaching footsteps, she
raised the light levels by depressing a brass button fixed to the workbench.
Retreating shadows revealed the room to be a highly organised library come
laboratory. Neat shelves of leather, canvas and metallic spines, glass bottles
of varying shapes and sizes containing the weird, obscure and repulsive. She
continued to probe at the wet thing that lay splayed out in front of her.
The
visitors, for there were two of them, didn’t knock but strode purposefully in,
halting a few feet from the bench. There was nothing unusual about the pair.
Two females, physiognomy suggested familial ties. Both coated in a layer of
dust and grime that was turning to a thin mud from the rain. The younger one
was dressed, vaguely, in the fashion of the times; a full length skirt of dark
green with matching bolero, a low cut blouse hardly revealing a barely developed
bosom. About her neck an array of chains from which hung miniature bottles,
murky brown with inky labels, a long jade travelling coat hung limp to her mid-
calf. Her hair was after the style of Her Majesty with a miniature riding hat
worn forward on the head. The other, somewhat more mature in years, was wearing
unconventional travelling clothes. A taupe Western riding skirt revealed
grubby, distressed boots of brown leather. A high necked cotton blouse of
indeterminate colour and loose waistcoat. Opaque lensed goggles hung about her
neck. Her hair awry, damp and straggled, hung about her shoulders. The whole
ensemble cloaked in an ill -fitting duster coat.
“Do
you have it?” enquired the woman working.
“And good evening to you too Doctor.”
Doppler and
I arrived at the Bath Institute for Mechanical and Biological Organs around
eleven p.m. on this rain sodden Sunday evening. Tired from a tedious coach ride
from Lancashire to Bath, and before that from the American Mid-West; keen to
eat, bathe and sleep but wanting to collect our payment first. Doctor Ada
Hessen had engaged us to find and collect snark pituitary glands. I didn’t know
or care why she wanted them, none of my business, we didn’t usually track and
kill beasties, we left that to the Monster Hunters, but Doctor Hessen had
offered good money, didn’t want her competitors to know and we could keep
quiet. To me it was another job. Doppler, however, was curious and had kept
some of the dark, squishy matter for herself.
I didn’t
particularly like the Doctor. Oh she was intelligent, motivated, independent,
blah, blah, blah. She was also a snob, arrogant, rude; a right Royal pain in
the posterior.
Doppler
deposited a leather cartridge carrying case on the bench in front of the Doctor
with a thump, causing the Doctor to sharply inhale and close her eyes. I
smiled.
“I believe the agreed amount was eighty five pounds.” Said I.
No
response, instead she strode around the table removing green, rubberised
gloves. She opened the case, removed a glass flask and inspected the contents,
she then scrutinised the others. Apparently satisfied, she closed the case,
placed it tidily on a shelf and retrieved a package from between two books. As
she proffered the dirty bundle, her hand hesitated;
“There’s something else.” Her voice clipped, the vaguest hint of
accent.
“Hmm?"
“I can rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.” We chorused.
“Then
I wish you to retrieve something particular, rare. I shall pay you handsomely.”
“We’re
listening” I prompted.
“I
need…the brain of a wyvern” pause, watching for a reaction from us –she got
none.
“If you could actually
bring me the whole creature, then better, if alive, better still, the reward
will reflect the condition of what you return with.”
“No problem”. I
said smoothly.
Outside, in
the drizzly dark, I turned to Doppler;
“Where in the name of the
Divines do we find a wyvern?”
We rented a
room in Bath for the night, a simple establishment run by a scarecrow of a
woman. Mrs Fuller brought us some tepid beer, stale bread and a hunk of chewy,
fatty pork. I was convinced that she had taken an instant dislike to us,
nothing to do with the fact that having heard my accent she visibly cringed
then looked us up and down before declaring,
“We ‘ave honely the one room havailable this night. You won’t mind
sharing a bed, hI’m sure.”
We didn’t have much luggage, and after shoving our bags under the
loosely sprung bed and grinding our way through the minimum amount of victuals
possible, we slept, half clothed through the night. In the morning I ached more
than if I’d slept on a galloping horse. We declined Mrs Fuller’s offer of
breakfast and instead headed into the centre of the Spa town to find a place
that had edibles. A pleasant, pretty place, but not to my liking. The Pump
Rooms seemed to consist of hordes of fluttering young ladies in the charge of
powdery female relatives; promenading their silks and frills for the pleasure
of flocks of lads, who seemed to me to be equally prim.
Not a
single weapon in sight.
Time to
speak to a contact. Time to head for ‘the smoke’.
To be
continued…
©AlexandraPeel
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