I can move about London as a gentleman. Strawberry blond hair, ice-cream smile, bright eyes, top hat. I am tall and respectable looking. I am recovered, I am whole again.
But the only thing I can eat are skins. My dietary requirements have made me a serial killer. I catch them at night. Hook them under my arms in back-alleys. Entice them with gold coins. Watch them wriggle, squirm and squeal with horror in the ink-splat darkness.
“Don’t eat that! It’s alive!”
I eat and I wait. I am waiting for Boo Boo to retrieve the Angel-Eater. It will be returned to me. And also, I suppose, I miss her. My little butterfly.
My
little
butter
f
l
y
Detective White and Constable Walnut in the Romney Marsh
The Romney Marshlands are dotted with soft and silver moths that fly round our carriage. One lands on Constable Walnut’s hand and sticks itself to him affectionately.
Detective Waxford and Boo Boo are to stay in London and investigate the Dancing Imp Theatre while I and Walnut are here on the marshlands to view the Hummingbird family home and see if we can get any further information regarding the case. Mr Loveheart has taken it upon himself to locate Mr Angelcakes, a man neither Detective Waxford or myself have yet encountered, but who is leaving a trail of corpses throughout London – without their skins.
Hummingbird Manor House lies in the remotest part of the marshlands. A tiny church surrounded by plump sheep sits a half mile away from it. As our carriage pulls up to the main gates, a ewe raises her head from grazing and stares at us rather intently, eyeballs like soft boiled eggs.
“That sheep’s looking at me!” Walnut says, rather worriedly.
“Don’t encourage her,” I sigh, and we step from the carriage.
Hummingbird Manor is a large sandy-coloured house, plain featured but with a large stone butterfly engraved over the main door. An elderly butler appears from the side entrance trundling a suitcase with what appears to be all his belongings.
“Hello there. I am Detective Sergeant White from Scotland Yard and this is Constable Walnut. I have a warrant to inspect the house.”
The butler – whose face, on closer inspection, resembles a turnip – sneers. “There be no one to show ye about the house. The master is dead. Servants gone. I’m off too.”
“That’s fine. If you can just give me the key. It saves Walnut from kicking in the door.”
The butler removes a large rusty—looking key from his coat pocket and hands it to me.
“If I may ask you some questions before you leave?”
“I don’t know noffin,” he replies.
“We’ll see. What’s your name?”
“Thangus Itch.”
“Sorry?”
“Thangus Itch,” he repeats.
“Unusual. How long have you worked for Ignatius Hummingbird?”
“I have been the butler in this house since the boys were born. Nearly sixty years.”
“We are currently investigating a case which involves Ignatius Hummingbird and the kidnapping of women for a cult in London. It seems he kept a local woman in a cage in his basement. Do you know anything about this?”
“I don’t know noffin about that.”
“Never seen anything suspicious? Women being dragged into carriages, screaming, him hitting them over the head to knock them unconscious?”
“Nope.”
“Anything you can tell me about Ignatius at all?”
“Master kept himself to himself.”
“That’s incredibly helpful,” I say sourly. “Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Club?”
“Nope.”
“One more thing Mr Itch. I would like to inspect your luggage before you leave the premises.”
He looks startled. “Why?”
“You might have nicked something,” Walnut interjects.
“I ain’t letting you poke your nose into my stuff.” Mr Itch spits on the ground.
“Walnut, hold him fast while I take a look.” Walnut grabs the butler by the scruff of his neck while I open the case. A human foot rests neatly on top of a pile of laundry.
“Would you like to explain why there is a human foot in your bag?”
“Nope.”
“Walnut, handcuff him to the carriage while we search the rest of the house.”
“With pleasure, sir!”
I enter the key into the lock and turn it. The door swings gently open to reveal a sombre-looking interior. A huge portrait of Ignatius and Gabriel Hummingbird stands in the hallway glaring down upon me. Behind them is an Aztec temple, surrounded by butterflies. It is a bizarre painting.
Thangus Itch is laughing loudly from outside.
“Shut it!” Walnut shouts.
“Tick tock!” Mr Itch shouts manically back.
I pause. “What does he mean, tick tock?”
“Bomb,” says Walnut.
We run outside. The house explodes, the front door flying off and bouncing against Thangus Itch, flattening him. I am thrown into the gates and Walnut flies past me into the field, landing next to the sheep. The house is an inferno, the air filled with dust spreading out into the marshlands.
When I regain consciousness I wake to see the sheep licking Walnut’s face.
“Are you alright, Walnut?” I shout.