The table was laid with a white lace teacloth and on it a pile of jam sandwiches and a steaming pot of tea. “Isn’t this a warming reunion? Tea with Mother.” And he guided me to a seat next to her. Her skin was green, her eyes clouded over. Mother. I remember you. I am a cracked teapot. The fault lines run deep. I could smell the rottenness of her. Tumbletee poured the tea and passed me the sandwiches. “Tuck in.”
Isn’t this a strange world? I am having tea with the dead. I am made of marmalade. I am smiling and smiling and cracking and breaking within your hands.
Dearie me, I dropped my teacup.
And he left me there. In my ancestral home with my dead mother and my vast gardens of chopped heads.
Madness is only a word.
Loveheart.
VI: July 1888
Detective Sergeant White & the Invitation
It was lying on my desk when I returned from Doctor Cherrytree’s practice: a little white envelope with a loveheart ink splodge. A dangerous little thing.
* * *
Dear Detective Sergeant White,
You have been invited – Yes, you! – to an art exhibition of Elijah Whistle. All your favourite monsters will be attending.
Bring Walnut if you wish.
Mr Loveheart ?
* * *
“Constable Walnut!” I shouted, and he appeared, poking his head round the door.
“Yes sir?”
“It appears Mr Loveheart has decided to give us a helping hand.”
The Moonstone Opera house, nestled near the Thames, was the venue for the evening art exhibition. It was raining heavily and the streets were oozing with liquid. Purple banners hung, heavy with rain, outside the doors and a soft velvet rope sealed the doorway. It was guarded by an attendant with white gloves, holding a large black umbrella.
“Very posh,” sighed Constable Walnut. “I’ve often considered trying my hand at painting. Bit of an artistic gift running in my family,” and he held up his hands. “Creative hands.”
“I’d keep that to yourself, Walnut, if I were you.”
We approached the attendant.
“Evening gentlemen, may I see your invitations?” He glanced a somewhat suspicious eye over our invite and then reluctantly held the velvet rope aside. The building inside was circular, with a large selection of paintings adorning the walls.
We deposited our coats and stepped into the main exhibition area, in which twenty or so people were gathered. Above the main room was a high balcony overlooking the main exhibition, where an enormous painting of Lady Clarence was hung. She was lying, lizard-like, on a sofa in a vibrant maroon dress. Her expression was odd: it was a mixture of conceit and a strange slyness. And then I realized why, for her hand was resting on a clock. A secret message for all those involved, I thought. Suggesting she has some sort of power over death.
“It’s quite a statement,” a voice like little bells said next to me, and I turned and looked directly at Mr Loveheart. He was dressed in otherworldly green with red hearts bursting like stab wounds all over him. “Of course,” he continued, “these people are all rather stupid. We must not be too hard on them. Their little magic clocks have made them a bit mad.”
“Why exactly did you invite me here tonight, Mr Loveheart?”
“My life is a little dull at the moment, and I do like interesting scenarios. Spice things up a bit. Put you in the lion’s den. See if anyone bites.”
“How thoughtful of you,” I said dryly.
“My pleasure. The art is dreadful and the guests are all dead. Look at them all, detective. Take a good look. You are in the underworld sipping champagne with corpses.” And his eyes were bright with electricity.
I followed his gaze to the centre of the room, where Elijah Whistle was standing next to Lady Clarence, both with a glass of champagne in their hands. He looked like a *cat, as though she had been feeding him cream.
“Dead as doornails, the whole lot of them.”
We moved softly round the edges of the exhibition and stood by a small series of oil paintings of human hands. Constable Walnut examined them, glancing down at his own. Comparing.
“Of course, you can’t arrest anyone,” sighed Loveheart.
“I could arrest you for killing Albert Chimes.”
“I’ve done you a service, detective. I have avenged the death of Daphne Withers. And where will they get their pretty watches from now? I’ve put some pressure on them. Shaken them up a bit.”
“I wanted Albert Chimes arrested. I nearly had enough evidence.”
“They would have got him out.” Loveheart looked out into the crowd. “They would have stopped you. I have saved your life.”
“Do they know you killed him?”
“They think I’m a half-wit.”
“And what are you really, Mr Loveheart?” I looked directly at him. He was surprised by the question and, I thought, rather saddened by it.