The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (13 page)

Pedrock Grows up, 1899

Sailing

T
he lake today is full of silvery threads and spirals of colour. Insects dart over the surface, deeply in love with their reflections. I have returned to the village of Darkwound and borrowed Grandpa
’
s boat. I have returned for my little sister
’
s wedding. I haven
’
t seen her in ten years. He has kept her locked away. The little boat glides gently over the water, like a leaf. Gliding without any particular purpose. I can see the edge of the woods, the edge of the world.

I work as a clerk in the ship-building firm of Winkhood & Son in London and have lodgings near St Martin
’
s. I am courting a hat maker
’
s daughter, a Miss Penny Seashell, with hair the colour of white honeycomb beaches and eyes as green as algae.

Much has happened over the last ten years. Mrs Charm
’
s Medieval Horrors were published and a phenomenal success; she is currently writing her seventh book,
The Wicked Monk of Winchester
,
which again explores the notion of demonic possession in the clergy. I have read and enjoyed them all. She misses Mr Loveheart terribly and dedicates all her books to him, hoping secretly that he is somewhere safe, reading them, and not dead as everyone believes. Cornelius, who is now twenty-six, has sadly become an opium addict and is cared for by his mother at home. He has also become fascinated with turnips, which, I have been informed by the village apothecary, Mr Pinhole, is a side effect of the drug usage, although Mrs Charm tells me this is complete nonsense and Mr Pinhole has been obviously self-prescribing himself laudanum. Grandpa is still with us, at the ripe age of
ninety
, but Guardian the dog died after a night of howling at Boo Boo
’
s window and is buried under a rose bush in the garden. His ghost, I am sure, watches over her. He will forever be her Guardian.

Prunella and Estelle, now twenty, are plump, pretty and blonde, with the sole intention of marrying Horatio Beetle, who is still unmarried, although has broken a string of hearts according to village gossip, and has by all accounts several bastard children in the village. Mr Grubweed was never found and Mrs Grubweed has still not yet uttered a word. Whether she has chosen never to speak or is simply unable to remains a mystery.

Mr Wormhole, the
v
icar, will be performing the wedding service for my sister next Saturday. He remains still paranoid that he will join the other
“
missing
”
.

The sun is starting to set, an orange ball sinking; the moon, as white as baby teeth, emerging. My little boat floats on under this new moonlight, sweaty glinting water ripples. It moves forward, it must keep moving forward.

Above in the black sky, a comet tail blazes and explodes. Ribbons of gold and shocking phosphorescence dazzle. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and yet it is

the

death

of

a

star.

Th
e butterflies
i
n the house

of Hum
mingbird

are shaking on the walls.

The glass
is cracking

Scotland Yard, July 1899

Detective Waxford and the butterflies

Ten years. Ten bloody years. White and Walnut pop into my head every
day. Even the mad Mr Loveheart
!
I couldn
’
t find you, I am so sorry, I couldn
’
t find you. I dream of butterflies. They dance behind my eyes, soar in my brain. I am infested by them.

I sink back into my chair, peek at a file on a local strangler. Sip my tea, plop another sugar lump in and give it a swirl. Mrs Sultana, the tea lady, wheels her trolley in and gives me a sticky bun.

“
Cheer up,
d
ucky,
”
she says.

“
Thank you Mrs Sultana,
”
I grumble in reply.

She squeaks her trolley off and I hear her in the corridor,
“
He
’
s such a big grumpy pussy cat.
”

Constable Luck peeks his head round the door.

“
Sir, there
’
s a gentleman here to see you. Says he has information on Professor Hummingbird.
”

My brain wakes up,
“
Send him in, and get some more tea and buns off the trolley would you.
”

“
Yes
,
sir.
”

A moment later a large black bearded man enters my office looking extremely uncomfortable.

“
I am Detective Waxford. Please take seat Mr
…
?
”

“
Otto
Ink-Squid
,
”
he says,
and he does, squash
ing
himself into the wobbly chair.

Constable Luck appears and plops a mug of tea on the table and a plate of buns and retreats.

“
So, what do want to tell me
,
Mr Ink-Squid?
”

“
I have some worrying information regarding this wedding announcement,
”
and he plops a copy of today
’
s
Times
on my desk and points to the newspaper article:

Announcement

Professor Gabriel Hummingbird, the eminent anthropologist, is to marry Miss Boo Boo Frogwish on August 8
th
at St Cuthbert
’
s Church in the village of Darkwound, Kent.

My heart full of bu
tterflies. They pound
within my chest.
“
Go on,
”
and I await his answer.

“
It is something quite disturbing. I must tell you quite a story. I own a
m
agic
e
mporium in Spitalfields. I have had the business for over twenty years. Ten years ago a girl came into my shop for help. Professor Hummingbird had buried her alive.
”

I see a butterfly on the window flutter past.

Mr Ink-Squid
’
s voice is full of sadness
.
“
My shop is located on Beeswax Lane: I sell Ouija boards, Psychic Trays and tarot cards; that sort of thing. I don
’
t get many customers, mostly postal orders from
a
very peculiar cliental. So, I was quite shocked when she fell through my front door, covered in mud and in her night gown. Bare feet, hysterical. I told her to sit down, got her a blanket and a cup of tea. I tried to calm her down. She told me her name was Guinevere Harlowe and she was sixteen years old. She said she was the wife of a Professor Hummingbird, a marriage arranged by her father, whom she described as a famous collector of butterflies and moths. She told me her family had a large collection of fine specimens: ghost
moths, from Peru,
‘
worth a fortune to an avid collector,
’
she said. She told me that was what Professor Hummingbird had wanted.
That was what he was after.
”

Mr Ink-Squid paused and drank some tea. He looked weary.
He felt like me. He felt the weight of a world gone mad.

“
Please continue, Mr Ink
-
Squid,
”
I said gently

“
She told me about the wedding night. She said he was
–”
he paused,
”–
there was something abnormal about his desires.
”

I waited.

“
She said the morning after the wedding, a funeral carriage arrived. She asked him
‘
Who is dead? Who has died?
’
He had replied,
‘
Why you of course, my dear
.
’
”

I waited.

“
He
’
s a monster,
”
Mr Ink-Squid shuddered.
“
A deranged collector. She told me she was screaming, tried to run, but they caught her, the Professor and his vile brother, Ignatius. Caught her, drugged her and stuffed her in a coffin. She said she awoke in darkness. Running out of air. She said she was dying.
”

“
How did she escape?
”
I leant forward

“
A boy dug her up, opened the coffin. She said she would have thought him an angel, but he looked sinister. Said he had eyes as black as nightmares. Reminded her of a little shark. He opened the coffin lid and said to her,
‘
Do not go back to your husband, as he will kill you. Do not return to your father, for he is murdered. Seek help from a man called Otto Ink-Squid who runs an emporium on Beeswax Lane
.
’”

“
That is most queer,
”
I said taking another sticky bun.

“
Yes, apparently he said he had saved her because he objected to people being buried who are not actually dead. Well, she pulled herself out quick as she could and made her way to my little shop. I have no idea who this young boy is and why he would have recommended me to her aid.
”

“
And she didn
’
t go to the police?
”

“
No, she was terrified, as she was still his wife and property. He would have killed her. I said that she could stay with me until we could sort something out. She had no family: her monies were in the possession of that villain, Hummingbird. She stayed with me for three months and eventually I arranged her transportation to Paris to stay with my sister; to begin a new life.
I gave her the money to do it and she never came back. She is now engaged to a Captain Flint of the British navy, who knows nothing of her past, and will travel with him to the South Americas. When I read the article of his young girl
’
s forthcoming marriage, well, I had to try
to
prevent it somehow.
”

“
Would Guinevere Harlowe be prepared to make a statement?
”

“
I cannot have her involved in this. If he knew she were alive he would surely try to murder her.
”

“
I cannot arrest a man on a mere rumour. I need her statement; I need proof, Mr Ink-Squid.
”

“
She does not know I have come here. I vowed I would never betray her trust. But seeing this young girl is to be married to him. It is a death sentence.
”

“
This young girl, Boo Boo, will be his seventh wife
,
”
I say and lean back into my chair, thinking.

“
Seventh?
”
Mr Ink-Squid cries
.
“
There must be something that can be done. There must be!
”

“
Tell me
,
Mr Ink-Squid, do you believe in fate? You do run a magic emporium, so I expect you are predisposed towards the more unusual and unexplained aspects of life?
”

“
Well, yes, I suppose. It was my father
’
s shop originally. He was a magician, performed on stage, and when he retired opened the shop. It
’
s all illusion, of course: hidden mirrors, sleight of hand.
”

“
Yes, illusion, quite. I have met this girl Boo Boo before. She was his adopted daughter. My friend Detective White went missing at the Professor
’
s
h
ouse
while trying to rescue her.
”

“
I am so sorry. Do you believe him murdered?
”
he replies

“
I have never found out the truth. The only witness was the girl and do you know what she said to me?
”

I pause.

“
She said he had turned him into a butterfly.
”

“
Perhaps she was in shock?
”
he said

“
That
’
s what I thought for many years. It has haunted me. I cannot let it go and yet there have been no further developments. I keep dreaming about that girl and what she said.
”

“
It is guilt, perhaps. It weighs heavily on your mind. He was your friend.
”

“
What if she was telling the truth?
”

“
It is an impossible thing you suggest. Maybe you should speak to her again, convince her not to marry this monster. Maybe she will remember what really happened.
”

“
Thank you, Mr Ink-Squid, for your information. I will see what I can do and I will keep you informed if there are any developments,
”
and I shake his hand.

“
I would be most grateful. We cannot let anything happen to that young woman,
”
and he leaves me sinking into my chair; the weight of darkness pressing upon me.

I suddenly remember seeing a magician
’
s trick of concealing a butterfly in his top hat so it flew out. It escaped only at the end.