The Penny Dreadful Adventures

Book 2: The Mysteries of London (Exposing the Truth)

By Ian Hall (Writing as Alexander M. MacNeill)

 

 

Fangs for the Memories

 

Under supervision from Thackeray, I lay in bed for two days, with meals brought up to me. My uncle appeared only once, a short visit, in which he said very little, perhaps ashamed of my behavior. I read from the myriad of Penny Bloods in my chest of drawers to pass the time, and as I rested I searched my memory for the events of Monday evening.

I’d been drinking, and had visited Lloyd our publisher. There appeared a huge clue in that fact, but it escaped me. Then the penny dropped.

“The Mists of Evil!” I gasped out loud, then clamped my mouth shut with my hands. I searched the room for the Penny Dreadful of that name, but to no avail, then remembered I’d put it in my briefcase, which would probably be in the dining room where I’d left it.

I considered going downstairs, and tested my legs, swinging them off the bed, but the muscles felt weak. I lay back on the bed and considered the evening in question. Mistress Vixen had indeed been in my office, the dining room, on Monday night, but it had been a late hour. Roused from my drunken dreams I remember her condescending smile, her introduction to me… Clara Varney, daughter of Sir Francis Varney… the vampire.

I shook my head to clear it, putting such nonsense aside. Varney was our Penny Dreadful character from the 1750’s, a hundred years ago, and surely had no place in real life.

I pushed the following question away, for if Kitty’s aunt Clara was of Varney’s line, then perhaps Kitty herself was somehow involved.

Again, I slept, and for once the dreams were clear of disturbance.

On Thursday morning I rose after porridge breakfast and quietly dressed myself, determined to rid my mind of the terror of Monday night, and get back to normality. My calf and thigh muscles protested the effort, but I walked slowly down the two flights of stairs.

“Master Alexander!” Thackeray cried on hearing the bottom runners creak. “You should be in bed!”

I moved forward and for the first time, I embraced her. “Dearest Jean, for I know that to your name, look at me.” I pressed myself from her considerable form and gave a small turn. “I have not been ill, I just had too much to drink one night, and that’s all.”

“Your Uncle gave me instructions…”

I silenced her with a raised palm and a winning smile. “I’m fine, and certainly don’t need to be mother-henned. I need to get back to my work.”

“Well, you just remember to Mister Rymer that I protested.”

“I will.” I said sincerely, then entered the room I increasingly called ‘my office’.

My handwritten copy of the last Varney chapters lay on the dining room table, and beside it, a neat envelope probably containing the newest Mysteries of London chapter by George Reynolds.

I stood at the table, feeling particularly fresh, then looked around before starting. The room had been given to me as my workspace, and yet I had altered little in my six or so weeks of its use. With fresh eyes I considered my station. My desk was not fit for the purpose, just a plain dining table; there were no spaces for ink, pens, and suchlike. My chair was not the most comfortable, and my backside spent many hours on it. The only cause for joy was the leather armchair next to the front window, comfort at the highest form.

I decided I needed a desk and a proper work chair for it.

I walked to the window to ponder such an undertaking only to notice two young women walking by.

“Kitty,” I gasped. I had been so involved with vampyres and visions of snarling foxes, I had forgotten to even contact her after the recital. “Any grounds I gained are most-likely lost.”

I quickly sat at the table, pushing all papers aside apart from one sheet; one plain sheet of paper to write a letter to a woman of standing. I shook my head in considerable shame; I also needed some headed paper. How could I even think to court a girl of such substance if I did not take myself or my position seriously?

With the logic that any letter was better than none, I sat to write. By the time the insipid document was finished, sixteen crumpled pieces of paper lay on the floor by the fireplace.

 

My dearest Katherine

I so enjoyed our evening together.

I apologize for my tardy communication, I have been both hard-worked and ill, but now am recovered from both.

Perhaps you would like to take a walk with me, perhaps at the park.

Your humble servant,

Alexander M. MacNeill, 21^st May, 1845

 

Finally content with the simple wording, I penned the address at the bottom, and sealed it in a small envelope I found in Rymer’s office.

My first job begun, I walked to the hall to find my hat and coat, and before Thackeray could protest, promptly walked out into the sunshine. It took a short carriage ride to Gloucester Gate and a sixpence gratuity for the driver to deliver the letter to Kitty’s door.

I watched with a hopeful heart, but to my dismay the driver was turned away after a short conversation. I was already out on the gravel driveway as he returned. “The butler said ‘There is no Miss Katherine at this address’, sir.” The driver looked sufficiently awkward at the situation.

I took the letter and approached the door myself, determined to find out the truth of the situation. The same butler answered the door quickly.

“I seek Miss Katherine Fulton,” I said, looking up at the same uniformed man who had helped my alight from the coach at the recital.

He never flinched. “Not at this address, sir. I have already stated such to your man.”

“But I met her here,” I implored.

“That may be the case, sir, but I assure you, she does not live here.”

“Clara…” My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. “Is there a Clara here, perhaps the lady of the household?”

The butler cleared his throat, and was obviously holding back his anger. He gently shook his head. “No Clara either, sir. Sir Rodney is the head of the household, sir, and Lady Margaret died just recently, so no, I assure you, there is no lady of the household.” He began to close the door, and his expression threatened violence if I pursued my questioning. “Good day, sir, and good luck with your search.”

My reluctant feet crunched back to the carriage, and I got inside, my head still reeling.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked through his hatch.

“One moment,” I tried to remember my other errand. Letter, then… furniture! It seemed so irrelevant in the new circumstances, but perhaps existing in the mundane I could fully consider this morning’s events.

“Where’s the best place to go for second-hand furniture?” I asked.

The driver considered for a moment, surprised by the question. “Easterbys, if it’s cash you have. They auction every Friday night, and their stuff is pretty good quality. I’ve taken a few gentry there, sir.”

“Are they open during the day?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” He smiled showing a few spaces in his teeth. “They’ll be showing now, sir. It’s Thursday, the best time to go.”

I gave a firm nod, then as we drove, settled back to analyze my morning.

Kitty did not live at Gloucester Gate. I considered the fact for a moment, then a revelation fell upon me; Kitty had never actually said she lived there! I searched my mind for conversations… ‘I live just a moment from Regent’s Park’, and then she gave me the invite. I just assumed she lived at the address of the recital.

And the arrival of Aunt Clara? Not the mistress of the house, but perhaps an honoured guest! So in actual fact, the world had not fallen all around me, my perceptions had simply moved. I looked out the window of the coach in far better fettle than a few minutes ago. In fact I grinned like a cat that had just got the mouse!

Easterbys was a large warehouse behind some brickworks about a mile north of home, far more north than I’d ever been in London, and the scenery got greener by the yard. On the way we passed the new wrought iron roof of the Euston Rail Station, the terminus of the London and Birmingham railway, although I witnessed no actual machines on the glistening railway lines. At Easterbys warehouse I was greeted at the door by a very nice elder gentleman who showed me round the various pieces for sale.

“How much do the desks usually sell for?” I asked.

“Three or four guineas,” he said, “Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends on their condition, age, history, their provenance.”

I picked three that looked ideal for my writing, and one came with a comfortable swivel chair; perfect for my needs.

With Easterbys at 5.00pm firmly in my calendar, I allowed the driver to take me home.

Thackeray made a fuss at my taking to the streets so early in my recovery, but when I accepted a plate of vegetable broth without protest, she soon left me alone. I looked at the envelope which would surely contain Mysteries of London, Chapter 45, but rummaged in my briefcase for something else first.

The Mists of Evil was not the page-turner Thomas Prest was involved with now, but it held clues, and I read the three relevant passages many times. I include them here below, I will not append the whole text, for trust me it is not worthy.

 

THE MISTS OF EVIL

THE ARRIVAL OF THE DEADLY FOG

HARBINGER OF DEATH

THE LADY OF THE SHADOWS

 

The air stood still on every street corner, and seemed to grow heavier, more difficult to breathe. When the fog came up the Thames, it rolled like sea breakers, tumbling upriver against both flow and tide. Passersby leant on breakwaters and watched, for against the black sky, the grey rolling wall below made a prodigious spectacle.

I gave it one final look, and headed inland, I had fifteen guineas in my pocket and felt far too vulnerable already. Fog in London brought out the worst in street elements, the pickpockets, muggers and ruffians being the more benign.

But the mist hid a myriad of ills, and I had seen enough to want to see no more.

A sailor’s story told of a beautiful woman who lived in the mist, who could transfix you with one gaze. At her heels walked a fox, a scrawny creature who seemed to be continually on the edge of death, such was his predicament.

I had never witnessed such a scene, but I knew every story had a root in truth, no matter how slight…

 

… “Can you not go, father?” I pleaded, but I knew his stance beckoned no argument. I donned my coat again and crept out into the night, my supper still on the range, my stomach pleading for mercy.

The mist had thickened, even though I would have thought it impossible, but as I crossed Pembroke Street, darting from one alley to another, I swear I caught sight of a shadowy figure farther down the road.

Her pace was unusual, she moved as if she chased something. My curiosity piqued, I set of in pursuit, making sure the stride of my cork soles made less noise than she. Suddenly out of the mist I spotted her quarry, a man of means, staring at her approach, and yet not fleeing. His mouth opened to scream, but by then she had closed on him, her face perhaps kissing him, her hands on his head, holding it firm.

To my surprise, an animal slipped between my legs brushing both trouser legs. I got such a fright, I turned around completely, trying to find the culprit, but, of course, it was gone, but as I turned to my original direction, so too were the figure and her mate. I almost felt jealous…

 

…Clouds of mist rolled toward me, and through the gloom a figure came with it; a hooded woman dressed completely in black. Her short boots clipped on the cobbles, yet the sound seemed somewhat muffled. At her feet, a fox trotted alongside, its claws tapping as it walked the hard stone, its eyes never leaving mine.

“What are you?” I asked the woman, for my feet would not move to retreat.

As she came closer, I could see her features, pale, almost elven, beautiful, and yet any human words could not give her true beauty the accolade it deserved.

“I am called Lady Vixen,” she said as she neared my head enough to breathe her silky air on my face. But she did not falter from her progress, yet pressed closer. “I am your savior.” Her lips now were an inch from mine, and I swear I wanted her, wanted her more than anything in the world. I took a deep gasp of air, and inhaled her musky breath, her feral perfume, so strong, intoxicating.

Her lips drew back from her teeth, and I found myself looking into the jaws of an animal, her pointed teeth snarling at me. Before I could back away, she had rushed upon me, her claws digging into the back of my head, her jaws snapping into the side of my neck, feasting, chewing, and roughly sucking the life’s blood from me…

 

So Thomas Prest, in 1843, two years previously, had penned a story, the very words of which would be perfectly at home in our series Varney the Vampyre. And he had perhaps unwittingly slipped a beefy morsel too… every story had a root in truth, and I had suspected Varney or Bannerworth’s tale to have some grounding in fact.

That brought my thought processes to the mysterious Lady Vixen, who I knew as Kitty’s Aunt Clara, and was perhaps the model for Prest’s story above.

I had first encountered Lady Vixen in a tall house behind the The Dark Africa Society on Fleet Street, and now considered it to be my best bet as Aunt Clara’s lair. I hated the idea that Kitty was tied up in her Aunt’s doings, but was left with no clues to further assist my inquiries. I needed to find out the truth, yet how would I perform these deeds and remain anonymous, now being known by all the players I intended to investigate.

In order to chase such thoughts, I opened Reynolds manuscript. As usual it took a reading or two to get into my editor’s voice, but once there, I swept through the manuscript easily.

 

THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON

BY GEORGE REYNOLDS