Effectuators: Book 1 - "Horrors of the Night"

By Paul Kidd

Effectuators!
"Being in the main the adventures of Brilliana Stetham,Paranormal Investigator, and Resolver of all Problems Supernatural” – her trials and adventures.
Rip roaring Victoriana paranormal adventures, in the Year of Our Lord 1869!

Brilliana Stetham is a delicious charlatan. She dresses the part of the elegant mystic, and woman of dark, dire learning. Brilliana is an intelligent, elegant and perfectly serious fraud. Total idiots (with money!) come to her, convinced that they have a house that is haunted. Brilliana “senses vibrations” and searches the houses. She researches old papers and legends, collecting a convincing body of local history and folk lore. She concocts a reason for a ‘ghost’ to exist – and then provides the “cure” through tools, ceremonies, séances and exorcisms.

“Brill” has eked out a marginal life with her endeavours – managing to stay just ahead of the suspicious local law enforcement. She sees herself not as a total fraud, but as someone with something very real to offer.

-She sells her clients peace of mind.

She is managing it all perfectly well – until one day, a haunting she is investigating turns out to be real....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Kidd
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311639073

Book preview

Part One:

The Grey Lady of Marylebone

London, Year of our Lord 1869 : In which a devious lifestyle is revealed.

1

Springtime had finally warmed the streets of London. Grey stone streets and grey stone walls blended with the smoke of kitchen fires. Sunday morning had dawned with low, pale clouds in a smooth gunmetal sky.

All about the city, eleven o’clock services were drawing to a close. Church congregations had gathered, all starched tight inside their Sunday best. Merchants, gentry and the acceptably laundered sections of the lower class all beseeched Lord God to smile down upon their ventures.

Euston road flowed with a scatter of pedestrians, heads down and all moving somewhat guiltily past Trinity Church. The sound of hymns rose soaring above wet rooves and gleaming streets. In nearby Regent’s Park, a gaggle of ravens answered, their voices croaking loud and clear. The big birds hopped and capered, annoying the horses that stood in harness all up and down the road. Phaetons, carriages, a chaise and shay, and even a dog cart or two stood ready to whisk the congregation away to lunch the instant that devotions were done.

Trinity Church stood in the green and genteel strip of London up above the hoi polloi; a place where ladies and gentlemen took their morning rides, or listened to brass bands playing on a sunny afternoon. Inside the church, the congregation showed all the glorious strengths of England in this Year of Our Lord 1869: There were grand, well dressed men with side whiskers, attended by wives whose misbehaviours were kept behind locked doors. There were mercantile men in long coats as stiff as concrete, and adorable children all kitted out in their Sunday best, with lace and collars pulled so tight their faces had turned red. In the rear rows, not presuming upon their betters, were those lower classes who saw fit to attend – scrubbed painfully clean and standing stiff as though the Lord God were quietly totting up their misdemeanours. There was a clergyman in the pulpit, with snowy robe and surplice: A local dowager with a nose like a nut-hammer played the organ with great energy and no real facility. But the voices of the singers carried up and over each false note, making the tall church rafters ring with song.

In the fifth row, positioned splendidly beside the nave, there was one singer who distinguished herself utterly and entirely. A slender creature with a lively eye, ghost-pale skin and an air of elegánce. She wore a black dress so pure and lustrous that it mesmerised the eye. Brilliana Stetham’s voice was as pure as an angel, and sweet as sin. Each note was sung with delicious, unconscious innocence. It drew her a look of rich approval from the Clergyman in the pulpit up above.

Her bodice clung against a torso that seemed as supple as a willow wand. Black lace gloves shrouded the backs of her hands, and black lace climbed her slender throat. The top hat perched atop her midnight hair was wrapped in mourning crépe. She wore round, scholarly glasses that somehow imparted a deeply knowing air. At her temples, white badger streaks swept backwards – astonishing in a woman apparently so young. With her funereal clothes and scholastic air, it seemed perhaps she walked a path unknown to lesser souls.

Brilliana Stetham: although a harmless historical throwback, her name did seem to evoke a certain air of devious wit. Brilliana – Brill – was decidedly the sort who could cut cards with the devil.

After cucumber sandwiches had been served, of course.

Three pews away, half hidden beside an immense matron with half a dead ostrich in her hat, the local senior constable glowered at Brilliana with great dislike. Far from being cowed, Brilliana positively bloomed, revelling in the psychic daggers being flung at her. The policeman flipped pages in his hymnal with a swift slashing motion of his finger, as though flicking through a list of Brilliana’s sins.

"Praise to the Lord, O let all that is in me adore Him!

All that hath life and breath, come now with praises before Him.

Let the Amen sound from His people again,

Gladly for aye we adore Him."

With the end of the service, the congregation collected hats, bags, cloaks and umbrellas, and eagerly surged out through the doors. Hansom cabs, carriages and carts stood in rows awaiting passengers. Children skipped about, avoiding their parents’ eye. The adults gathered in conversation, filled with the glow of sins forgiven. The grey skies were lifting, and the air held a sharp scent of wet pavement, brown Windsor soup, Sunday mutton and roast potatoes.

Brilliana bid the clergyman good day, and wandered from the church. The joy of music from the morning’s hymns was still welling up within her. The unsung verses of the final hymn rolled deliciously from her tongue.

"Praise to the Lord, Who, when darkness of sin is abounding,

Who, when the godless do triumph, all virtue confounding,

Sheddeth His light, chaseth the horrors of night,

Saints with His mercy surrounding!"

‘Horrors of the night.’ – how wonderfully apt…!

The midday scent of roast beef, pork and lamb were wonderfully tempting. Brilliana felt her stomach growl. She settled her spectacles on her nose, and bid her viscera cease their clamour.

Down! Down, you creature!

The Ostrich Woman was at hand on the steps. She saw Brilliana’s mourning dress, and felt a great matronly urge to sweep forward and offer condolences, advice and sympathies. She failed to notice that the lace trimming Brilliana’s clothing was subtly worked with a pattern of rose blossoms and skulls. Brilliana’s walking cane, topped with a silver fox skull, was dismissed as a mere eccentricity.

Oh my dear! My poor brave dear. Plumes shimmering, the Ostrich Woman folded Brilliana’s hand within her own. My husband was too preoccupied to greet you as we arrived. Please accept our sympathies in your time of loss. The matron laid a plump hand across her heart. For whom do you mourn?

Brilliana made a bow filled with the elegance of another age.

For those who have no one else, ma’am. Brill spoke with wonderful, intelligent sincerity. For those who have no other voice to offer prayer.

The answer was so simple, so inarguably moral, reverent and strange that there was no possible reply. The matron looked at Brilliana in that mix of admiration, guilt and bewilderment reserved for missionaries and evangelists of the nicer kind, and made her excuses.

Brilliana gave an inward, foxy smile. She moved down the church steps, out of the dense smell of furniture polish and old stone, and off amongst the gossiping congregation. Looks came her way – a handsome woman in mourning black was always a source of possibilities. She cruised serenely past Bankers, local Socialites and a swarm of ladies from the Bible Provenance Society. Finally she won her way to the edges of the crowd.

A little girl stood looking at her owlishly from a perch atop a grave slab. The little creature gazed in amazement at Brilliana’s attire.

I say. Has someone died?

Well, we all will eventually. Brilliana leaned upon her cane. I believe it pays to plan ahead…

The little girl became truculent. You are older than I am. You will most certainly die first!

Do you attend school, my dear?

The little girl puffed with self importance. I have a private tutor. A governess!

Brilliana merrily polished her spectacles. How sweet! Well when next you see her, have her teach you about child mortality statistics. It should totally illuminate your day!

The child stared at Brilliana, and then stepped quietly away.

Just outside the ironwork fence, a bent, shabby cab driver was adjusting his coat. He disingenuously kept his eyes on his horses. Brill bent to examine a dandelion that had planted itself right beside the rails. She kept her voice to a low murmur, with her eyes upon the flower.

Are those the ones?

Arr. Tha’s them an’ all. The cabbie, a man largely composed of in-ground dirt and chain moles, spoke with an accent only his mother could love. The tall, florid cove with the blue coat. The round woman with the bird in ‘er ‘at. They’ve been to two spiritualists and a gypsy in a week.

Yes? Brill looked subtly about the crowd, and believed that she spied the pair in question. She slipped the cab driver a shilling. Bill, my sweet – you are a marvel of the age. Have a pint or two of something cold.

The cab driver moved away. Brilliana pulled her bodice straight, set her hat at the best possible angle, and put herself into character. She moved through the gravestones, drifting here and there – a touch on one headstone, a hesitant turn… She wandered abstractedly into the thinning crowd of churchgoers, and passed by a tall gentleman with a florid face and steel blue coat, who kept his wife tight upon his arm. Brilliana moved past – felt the wife’s eyes suddenly find her – and halted.

Brilliana turned her head, as though catching a hint of distant song. Her gaze fell upon the husband and wife: Instantly, her full attention was engaged. Slowly, feeling out the way, she came to them, almost hesitating to approach such clear inner pain.

"You are troubled... Brill looked from one to the other, as though seeing them surrounded by a ghostly mist. She looked at them in sympathy, and then slowly extended one black-laced hand. Forgive me. My name is Stetham. I felt… Oh, it was too, too horrible to be put into mere words! You seemed as though you are both in need of help."

Husband and wife exchanged a look – amazed, fulfilled and satisfied. They had come seeking a miracle, and it had found them out. Brilliana’s wonderfully educated voice, her dress and her demeanour were a sweet balm to their souls. The big man held tightly to his wife.

Miss Stetham. I am Albermarle. Kingdom Albermarle, Q.C. This is the wife, Eugenia. The man bowed over Brill’s hand. Charmed. A pleasure. Yes. He nodded again. Mentioned. Your name was mentioned to us.

Mentioned? Oh yes – I see! Brilliana looked at the man with a searching intelligence, as though feeling something hidden: something rife with pain. She looked to Eugenia Albermarle – a woman with a head like a shrunken apple who did indeed have a stuffed bluebird in her hat.

Brilliana gently took the woman’s hands, sifting through the aura all around her.

You are followed by something. Yes… A presence… Like a shadow...

Mrs Albermarle tuned pale. She swallowed. Oh Miss Stetham! Oh what a miracle to find you here! Dear Mrs Albemarle positively trembled. Please – please can you help us? We are at our wits’ end!

Her heart wrung by their distress, Brilliana gently led them to a quieter, more private shadow.

Here. We can speak here in peace. Now pray, tell me what is wrong?

The Albermarles wore well-tailored clothing, with no expenses spared. But though they were bastions of the upper middle class, the church gave them no comfort. Both of them had a hunted, worried air. Eugenia Albermarle toyed with a charm that hung from her wrist: rock salt inside a crystal vial, no doubt purchased from a mystic. Kingdom Albermarle himself wore no such adornment; he did, however, have Masonic cufflinks. Clearly neither of them subscribed to the ranks of rational atheism.

Brilliana had already searched out all possible information available. The first law of her profession: Research, research, research. She invented other laws as and when they suited her, but the first one remained sacrosanct. The Albermarles were new arrivals in London. They had watched mummy unwrappings at the British Museum, and had attended séances at Mimsey’s salon. The Albemarle’s had money from shipping shares, yet more shipping shares, and guano. Kingdom Albermarle, Queen’s Counsellor, had a burgeoning legal practice in the town.

Brilliana walked with the Albermarles along the flank of the church, watching as the Regent’s Park ravens settled on the tombstones. Albermarle himself remained silent. He allowed his wife to carry the social end of the conversation. The little round woman kept a respectful distance from Brilliana, clearly filled with admiration and awe.

It seems…. reassuring to find you at chapel. Eugenia Albermarle and her hat kept well away from the ravens. You - you attend church regularly, Miss Stetham?

Indeed! I feel my calling must be taken in the light of God’s plan – of Christ’s mercy. Gifts are rarely given. I thank the Lord for what he has granted to me. Brilliana looked solemnly across the graveyard. There is a world around us wider and deeper than most can understand. It must not be challenged unwisely.

Yes. Yes – quite so. Mrs Albermarle flicked a nervous glance towards her husband. "Oh it is good to find someone who understands."

The husband turned a look back towards the thinning congregation. People were starting to disperse towards the scent of Sunday lunch. The tall man cleared his throat.

A problem. With the town house. He coughed and grumbled. We have a problem with the house.

"Oh – oh Miss Stetham! It is dreadful. Dreadful!" Eugenia Albermarle looked at Brilliana as though the woman were her last hope. The haunting is worse night by night, day by day! Our hearts have quite chilled within us. We dare not enter our own home. Oh Miss Stetham – can you help us?

Brilliana reached out to firmly take her hands.

Come. Tell me what troubles you. Brill laid a slim, pale hand – beautifully clad in black, funereal lace – upon the woman’s arm. Tea, I think. Something warm. Then tell me of your affliction.

Albermarle himself scowled, then nodded.

Not tea – oh no, not tea. Too much to tell – too much to tell. The man sank into his whiskers, pondering the dread haunting of his house. Pray join us for lunch. Yes – lunch. Lunch at the Park Square Hotel.

Brilliana’s viscera rubbed metaphorical hands together in glee.

Excellent!

Mister Kingdom Albermarle, Q.C. led the way towards the street. Brill cruised serenely after him with Eugenia Albermarle upon her arm. Brill’s stomach rejoiced within her. The pantry back home held nothing but a hunch of Cheshire cheese – somewhat nibbled – and a brown loaf. Lunch at a hotel for the gentry was a glorious prospect.

The second law to Brilliana’s calling: Never pay for lunch if you can help it. Surviving poverty required well honed skills: acting, deportment, and an immaculate sense of timing.

Eugenia Albermarle clung to Brilliana as they made their way towards the carriages.

You do not mind lunch, my dear? Surely you do not mind? It does not seem too unintellectual, I’m sure?

Never in life, Mrs Albermarle. Did we not quell the brute beast within, there would be no learning.

As they left the churchyard, the remaining parishioners saw them all leaving together. Brill inclined her head as she passed them by, the mourning crépe trailing from her hat like Ophelia’s flowers in the stream. Senior Constable Blackthorne – his uniform stark and humourless – caught sight of her. Brill gave him her most wonderful, demure and foxen smile…

Senior Constable Blackthorne…

The salute was worth it simply for the expression on the dear man’s face: he was in strong danger of suffering an apoplexy. Brill was taken into a luxurious carriage, and driven off and away towards the park, feeling that all was right and well with her world.

Lunch – prawn cocktails, lobster bisque and an heroic turbot for the fish course; then roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes served elegantly from a silver salver by a waiter who wore untold quantities of oil in his hair. A decent sherry before the mains, a good Italian red, then a desert of crème brulée. In the aftermath, Brilliana managed to make several cheeses from the cheeseboard disappear into a pocket under her skirts, where they joined three fine bread rolls and a pot of quince conserve. All in all, it was three hours well spent.

Discourse over dinner revealed the horrors that weighed upon her hosts. It seemed that they had made purchase of a town house – a delightful place in Marylebone, built in the Regency style, newly refurnished and reappointed. It stood on a respectable street, and boasted both a fine collection of paintings and a red brick fireplace in the Tudor style. A fine house, a respectable house –

- and a house that was thoroughly haunted.

Tension: Brilliana typically found it present in most ‘hauntings’. Nervous people under stress in new surroundings. Purchasing the house had drained the family coffers alarmingly. The change from country living to city life, though socially desirable, had greatly jarred Eugenia Albermarle. Her old acquaintances were far away. Isolated in a strange old house, she had begun to listen to tales – and to slowly feel an eerie sense of presence…

Superstitious, nervous people under stress: people who subscribed to current fads for spiritualism and mysticism. It was no wonder they were haunted.

Brilliana took careful, exacting notes inside a notebook bound in jet black leather. Her elegant silver pencil whispered across the carefully ruled lines.

"Now, you say you have felt a presence. Brill made stylish headings on her page. You have both seen it?"

Kingdom Albermarle heaved a breath into his whiskers, and then gave a heavy nod.

Felt it. Like a cold hand.

Felt – not seen… Brilliana showed not the slightest hint of scepticism. She collected evidence with the gravity of a coroner. She looked to Eugenia Albermarle. Confined only to certain areas of the house?

Oh yes! In the main hall – in the master bedroom. And… and the inner gardens.

Mostly at night?

At night. Dawn….

Quiet times, then. When it has your attention… Brilliana underscored a set of notations. Would you describe this presence as malevolent? Or even helpful? Veiled warnings? Messages? A sense of threat?

No – no. But it is there. An icy presence. Watching. Lurking…

"So it is not aggressive. But observant. Insistent…" Brilliana creased her alabaster brows as she wrote. Waiting, perhaps? We shall see…

Eugenia Albermarle now had an audience who was willing to listen. She fairly poured out her woes, lacing her tea with rum (for its medicinal effect).

Oh Miss Stetham! We have had no idea where to turn to. We have had a prayer meeting – a house blessing! A medium came and told us that the house was held by a spirit. I feel it at night, when my husband is away. I dare not walk the passages at night! And my husband has felt it too – in the echoing old hall. A shiver in the garden, like an ice cold hand! We are persecuted. I am ashamed to tell you how terrified I have been! She fairly wrung her hands in distress. Could there be a cause? Can it be something about the house?

Oh – certainly. Brilliana could reel off a dozen reasons out of hand: for one thing, there had once been duelling grounds at Marylebone fields. Tyburn, site of the old gallows, ran along the border. House – or land…

Mister Albermarle slowly stirred his tea, brooding over past mistakes. The old staff. They tried to warn us. The man sank his chin into his jowls. They warned us of the Grey Lady.

A Grey Lady. Brilliana wished she had a shilling for every one of those she had run across. Well – if she charged at least a guinea a day for the current task, she could soon remedy that! Brill scratched out a schedule of inquiries, then closed her notebook with a definitive snap.

Right! Mister and Mrs Albermarle, I must reassure you that you are neither abandoned nor alone. Brill settled her spectacles back up on her nose. Now I will need to interview your staff… I presume many served in the house under the previous owners?

Yes! Yes indeed!

I shall speak to them, and any retired staff - also old local residents and neighbours... And also the previous owners. Have you a forwarding address?

Albermarle straightened his whiskers. We do.

Excellent. Brilliana accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Albermarle. I can begin site research at the parish land offices, and also at the British Museum after documenting the interviews. Records from the last age, medieval diaries… There may be old accounts which will prove extremely useful.

Documents and official research struck a definite note with Kingdom Albemarle. He looked upon Brilliana with great approval.

Site research?

Yes sir. Every foot of ground has had its history recorded. Before your house was yours, it was another’s. Before it was a house, it was a manor, or a field, an abbey or a lane.

You move comfortably within the world of libraries, I find?

I was once a librarian, sir. A research assistant to professors, antiquarians and scholars. Then I found that other gifts had come to me. The two blend together, warp and weft... In her passion, Mrs Albermarle had accidentally confused the cups. Brilliana’s tea was now laced with a considerable charge of rum. Brill drank it up before the mistake could be rectified. "Be comforted. I am not here to play to your fears, nor to soothe them. I am here to deal decisively with an actual problem. This haunting had disturbed your lives, it had caused distress. We shall bring the haunting to an end at last.

These things always have their reasons. There is a solution to every problem. We are not helpless, nor are we alone. Brilliana spoke with firm, comforting competence. "Firstly – we must examine the site. We must find out what feels wrong, and correlate the reports from all of those who have seen this presence. I will research into the history of the house and its site – the history of past residents. You will have a written report of all findings, and I will walk you through them page by page. We shall find the reason for this spirit’s actions, and then we shall deal with it."

Albermarle looked at Brilliana. You can defeat the spirit?

"This may not be a hostile spirit. It has offered you no harm. The spirit is doing something it feels is right – or perhaps it is trapped in a delusion. We must rectify the imbalance that has brought it such unrest. What I will do is research. Research research research. We will identify the problem with scientific exactitude, and then apply the solution. You will be appraised of every step of the journey, and I will take you through all of the results. And with this confidence, we will bring your problems to a satisfying end. Spectacles, notebooks, funereal clothing, competence and scholarly air – Brilliana Stetham’s presence was exactly formulated to provide total comfort. Should I requite the assistance of other experts, you will be consulted beforehand in full. Fees for library use, transport and such will be receipted and provided to you for reimbursement."

Kingdom Albermarle Q.C. approved of well documented business. And your fees?

The self same fees a scientific researcher is given. Two guineas a day, with expenses paid on provision of receipts. I shall provide you with a full contract of my obligations when we meet at the house tomorrow.

Since the fees were those apparently approved for all other scholastic research, they were clearly beyond argument. The meeting seemed to have reached its end. Brilliana arose from the table, gathered up her pencil, book and cane, and was handed to the door by an appreciative Mister Albermarle. Brilliana gave a comforting grip of hands to Eugenia – Mister Albermarle bowed over her glove. Their carriage driver was instructed to take Brilliana safe and sound to her address, and to pick her up in the morning so that she might make her first inspection of the Marylebone house.

Alone at last in the carriage, Brill relaxed back on the leathern seats and bid the driver take a scenic turn about the Park. Dinner had been long and marvellous – she had almost burst her stays. The job was one she could stretch to perhaps three weeks of work – she could bring in an expert consultant and split the fees… All in all, she might wrought the deal to earn herself fifty guineas at least! It was excellent news, considering that Brill’s current fortune ran to eight one-penny pieces and a bent farthing.

She bid the carriage drop her off at Fitzroy Square, where the houses were respectable, well painted and well kept. She laid her hand upon a gate and waved at the driver as he trotted the carriage away. Once the vehicle was well out of sight, Brill heaved a sigh of relief, tucked her cane beneath one arm, and headed off for home.

There were those who called Brilliana Stetham a charlatan: a mere performer practicing upon the credulity of the superstitious. Brilliana however, lived life with a conscience that was as sweet and clear as morning dew! Through crisp, accurate research, visible effort and proper references, she assured her clients that their supernatural problems could be handled and solved. Their imaginary hauntings disappeared with marvellous facility!

Brilliana did indeed provide a valuable service.

She sold her clients peace of mind…

Brilliana headed off down an alley, emerging onto a dear little street filled with strange little homes. Maple Street lay in that no mans land between the booksellers of Tottenham court Road, and the grandeur of Marylebone – far from tenements, town houses, wealth or squalor. It was an odd little island occupied by rag and bone men, odd little shops and stalls. The great splendour of the street – an eccentric public house of noble vintage, spread light and life out onto the cobbled road. The "Stickleback" with its benches and its coach house had stood here in glory for two hundred years, and it was a corner of old Albion in all her glory. Inside the saloon, the local worthies drank and sang. Urchin boys would fetch a cab or carry bags for a penny bit. On benches outside the door, men laughed raucously as they drank. The cab driver from the church saw Brill and lifted his beer glass in salute.

They were her neighbours – her resources: cab drivers galore, all willing to pass news about their customers. There were rag and bone men, flower sellers and a Jewish book merchant who wore the most wonderful old hairy hat. ‘Tempest’, a wonderfully dissolute old actor, welcomed Brill as though she were a Shakespearean hero returned.

Stetham, you are come! Is it in triumph? Are the plebs and senate to be assembled? Are your brows to be with laurel girded? Shall the red of Jove bedeck your face, and shall all quail before the rumbling of your chariot wheels?

The ale had clearly been flowing freely. Brilliana made a regal, cultured bow.

Let the laurels be prepared. Let the fatted calf be slaughtered! She arose to applause. A rather moderate calf. We are on a budget yet. But glory awaits!

Tempest hoisted high his half-filled glass. Are you in luck?

I am in luck! I am in business! Brilliana signed for the landlord. A glass of wine with you, sir! A glass of wine!

Brilliana had but eight pence to her name, and the rent was still in arrears. But today, she had triumphed! Drinks were in order – a certain celebration. She let Tempest kiss her hand, and then took up her favourite table al fresco, underneath the eaves.

The landlord, Geordie Bob, brought her a glass of green ginger wine. He gave Brill the eye, wiping down the table with an emphatic air. Brill bestowed a few pence on the man for wine, drank it off, and called for more.

Rent tomorrow, Geordie my dove! Never fear – never fear!

Talk rattled back and forth amongst the cab drivers. Brilliana was a local marvel – greatly admired, greatly respected, and also viewed with a certain amount of alarm. Left-handed, sharp and steeped in mystery, she was clearly not quite from the mortal world. But she was theirs, and they valued her extremely. Brill filled the local reprobates in upon the adventures of her day, then sat down to organise her notes and snack upon an array of stolen cheese.

Let the games commence!

There would have to be many interviews made and annotated. Heavy going – heavy going indeed. She had laid out a plan of attack, when suddenly a shadow fell across her page: A very expected shadow. Brill continued writing with her left hand and eating brie with the right. She wrote with a firm, elegant hand.

Senior Constable Blackthorne. This is not your usual haunting ground.

Haunting ground. Disgusted by the notion, Blackthorne sat down opposite Brilliana unbidden. You ‘ave been practicing your mumbo jumbo upon your betters yet again.

Brilliana finished writing her final line. "Oddly enough, ‘mumbo jumbo’ comes from a Mandingo phrase, ‘Maamajomboo,’ meaning ‘Magician Who Makes the Spirits of Troubled Ancestors Go Away’".

Shameless. The policeman glowered: they were old adversaries, and the conversation had been repeated many times. Charlatanism, I calls it. Predation.

They believe what they believe! Would you deny that they are troubled souls?

And church! The policeman took a swift pull from a silver flask of gin. They should drum you from the congregation. Darwinist, atheist. You are a black character, Stetham. A black character – and my eye is upon you.

Well, a lady always revels in admirers!

Upon you. Blackthorne nodded to himself. With your books, your bells, your candles. Look me in the eye and tell me you believe in it!

Brilliana lowered her spectacles and looked the policemen in his red-rimmed eyes.

Shall I tell you what I believe in, dear Blackthorne? I believe in libraries. I believe in scientific method. I believe in research, in learning, and in the power of reason. Brilliana waved one black-clad hand at the outer world in general. What I do not believe in is a mass of superstitious claptrap about gods and angels, ghosts, messiahs, miracles, curses, or any other utterly unsubstantiated nonsense. We are children of the nineteenth century, Blackthorne. It is time we behaved as such!

Blackthorne arose. He settled his cap upon his head and gazed balefully down upon Brilliana as she sipped her wine.

You are not as clever as you might think, Stetham. There are laws in the land against confidence tricks. Constable Queeg an’ I are waiting. When complaints against you arrive, we shall ‘ave you for fraud at last.

Fraud? Brilliana seemed quite incensed. My dear Blackthorne! I am contracting with those good people to ensure that their house is devoid of ghosts. And I stand scientifically by my word! The woman arose, one finger held on high. "I invite you to take scholars from the Royal Society, the British Museum – the greatest thinkers of the age – into that house when I am done! I guarantee you that you will be unable to turn up a single ghost! Not one!"

Blackthorne glowered.

Those who dance on a flooring of lies will always face a pitfall at the end. The senior constable leaned inwards, his moustache bristling. And I shall be there when it ‘appens, Stetham my lass! So I shall.

Splendid! Misery always loves company! Brilliana finished the last of her wine, then tipped her fingers to the policeman in salute. Good evening, my dear! And all my best to your family.

Blackthorne took himself, his walking stick and his gin flask away to more favourable climes.

The afternoon was fading, and it was time to be home: It would be a busy day on the morrow. It felt like an evening that would call for a coal fire, cocoa and a decent book. With her cane under her arm, Brill settled her hat at its jauntiest angle, bid actors and carters adieu, and headed off into the tavern’s stable yard.

Her offices stood awaiting her return – a set of converted horse stalls below, with the upstairs hayloft serving as bedroom, kitchen, sitting room and library. There was a lemon tree, a quince tree and a wicked old ivy creeper in the yard. Geordie Bob let her have the place for a few peppercorns in rent. The old stables were no palace – but they were home.

Home.

All in all, there were worse ways to live. Brill had certainly seen far, far harsher days.

A few roses grew in tubs beside her office door. Brill watered them from the horse trough, gratified that the plants were growing at long last. Across the yard, another stable building lay empty. The only signs of life were a black and white hussy cat, and a large garden spider industriously making its web beside the drains. Brilliana caressed the cat, admired the spider, and then made her way indoors. She climbed the stairs, extracted her hat pin and shed her layers of silks, lace and stays. Clad in thread slippers and a disreputable old gown, she flopped back upon a horsehair couch and contemplated her adventures.

Brown bread and cocoa for supper tonight: but a fifty guinea commission in the morning. All in all, a damned successful day!

If only there were someone to really talk to…

2

The New York steamer honked its huge steam whistles as it thundered slowly up the Mersey sound. Liverpool spread vast and wide all along the southern bank, glittering with red brick, with glass and iron work. Countless merchant vessels, steam launches, tugs and ferries criss-crossed the water ways. Great, noble clipper ships filled the sky with sails. The busiest port on earth, Liverpool was a place filled with endless motion and excitement.

Tugboats thrummed as the New York steamer was nudged in towards the docks. All the mighty power of modern engineering came to bear as the SS Winton Stanley’s eleven thousand tons of oak and iron was once again brought home. The Dublin ferry thrashed its paddlewheels as it passed her by, churning the muddy waters to an even uglier shade of brown. The furious splashing only added to the sense of excitement.

Leaning excitedly over the railings and waving to the shore was a buxom, limber girl made mostly out of freckles. She wore a good plain skirt and jacket, riding boots, and a felt slouch hat. She felt the spray from passing paddle wheels against her face, and looked out at the thrilling sights of an alien shore. Liverpool – the ‘second city of Empire’.

A ship’s officer edged behind the passengers, calling out in a thick New England twang. The bustles of women’s dresses made the poor man’s journey into a veritable maze.

Albert Dock! Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would prepare to disembark. Please search your cabins thoroughly for all belongings. Stewards stand ready to assist you. The ship’s officer turned sideways to edge through the throng of passengers crowding at the rails. Ladies and Gentlemen! Albert Docks. Please prepare to disembark…

Annie’s battered alligator-hide satchel was already at her side. Her single suitcase had been packed up long ago. It held all her worldly belongings – jeans and work shirts, one well-darned frock and her Sunday dress. She owned her father’s watch, a looking glass, a clasp knife – and after buying her new good skirt and jacket, she had exactly two pounds to her name – big British bank notes the size of a horse blanket. They only added up to about four dollars in greenbacks. But employment was awaiting Annie just over on the shore.

Liverpool: this was industry and technology on a scale no other nation had ever dreamed. Astonishing steam-powered cranes moved along the dock fronts, hoisting cargo. The place smelled of river water, coal smoke, soot and steel. A chaos of noises filled their air as whistles blew and dockmen called. But it was a different land – an ancient place. England – every part of it filled with stories! The docks were a triumph of the modern age – steam powered machinery taking on the labour, moving cargo with speed and efficiency onto rail wagons that rode right along the docks. Behind these, there stood a layer of modern buildings – all built with a surety, a comfortable imperial grandeur.

It was very, very different from New York. Annie-Louise Franknel, late of Sharpsburg Maryland, had lived all of her life in the rural landscapes of America, amidst the laneways of a small town and the standing fields of corn. But it was a haunted landscape – a place filled with poverty, memories and bones. The Civil war had been fought on Annie-Lou’s doorstep. The most costly battle in American history had turned the fields outside Sharpsburg into a charnel house. Seven years later, and the land had never recovered. The residents at Antietam Creek had died or fled, bankrupted by the war. Lees Confederates had taken every chicken, every head of stock, every horse, every fence rail. The Franknel farm by the banks of the creek had been turned into a wasteland.

Annie Franknel had lost her father, her two brothers and her uncles to the war. At sixteen, she had been forced to learn how to scratch a bare living out of the ruined land and support an ailing mother. At twenty two, with her mother finally living with an aunt in Baltimore, Annie-Lou Franknel was free. Free to break away from farms, small landscapes and small people, and find some adventure in the world. Mister Ezekiel Austin was gathering English Thoroughbred horses, taking them to his Maryland acres to strengthen American racing stock. Annie-Lou had made a good reputation caring for race horses at the tracks. She had been sent a ticket to Liverpool and fifty dollars cash spending money to go to England, meet Mister Austen, and help care for the horses as they were bought and housed. So now Annie-Lou finally would get to see a land of castles – a land of knights and princesses, and all the things that had lived so vividly in the history book she had learned by heart at Mrs Abbot’s grammar school.

A tall figure thrust through to the railings beside Annie-Lou. Dressed in a plain nautical suit with a flat naval cap, the man was slender, tall and had eyes lit with droll delight. His moustache and trim goatee was quite at odds with florid British and American styles. The man was French, but spoke English with absolute perfection. Despite the crowds, he managed a gallant salute: He was the only man to have ever kissed Annie-Lou by the hand.

Miss Franknel! I am relieved! I feared losing you in the crush!

Guy! Annie’s heart always gave a flutter when the French officer took her hand. Running a farm all alone in rural Maryland had left Annie no time for polite conversation, friends or romance. You found me!

Of course! We Sons of Liberty must stay firm against the rapacious old world!

Lieutenant Guy DuMotier had the unique distinction of being the great grandson of General LaFayette – hero of the American Revolution. This therefore made him an honourary guardian to Americans wherever they might be; they were a species that often required a great deal of looking after. He made space for himself beside the rails, and looked out over the huge docks of Liverpool.

Magnificent! Seven years in the fleet, and I never called here!

Should you have?

Forty percent of the world’s trade passes through this port, my dear. It is why England is England, and Empire is Empire.

Annie-Lou fished into the pockets of her jacket. By the by! The steward at the changing booth took my greenbacks and gave me this. Annie-Lou shook her wallet – hand made from bullfrog hide. It held bank notes and a handful of weird coins. What are all these coins? Do you know?

Ah! Guy DuMotier took on the angelic look of someone revelling in an absurdity. The English will tell you that it is simplicity itself. The banknotes there – the size of a napkin – those are one pound notes.

A pound. So that’s about two bucks.

"D’accord! The large copper coin you have there is one penny. The moderate silver piece is a shilling. So - twelve pence make one shilling. Twenty shillings make a pound."

Annie screwed up her freckled nose and peered at her coins in thought. So what’s a guinea?

Ah – a guinea is one pound, one shilling. DuMotier beamed. A pound is also two ten bob notes. A ten bob note is four and a half crowns. A half crown is one florin and sixpence!

Annie scowled at her money. The entire American Revolution has just made sense.

England. DuMotier gave a wave of his hand. A bastion of science. An asylum of the absurd.

Annie weighed her money in her hand. Two pounds: four bucks. Two weeks survival money if she was careful. Very careful… But it was all just fine. Employment was waiting on the shore.

The ship was shoved sideways towards the wharf by the heroic efforts of the tugboats. Mooring lines sailed across to waiting dock hands. Whistles blew – the mighty steamer’s engines suddenly fell silent. Gangplanks rattled out of storage as the stewards and officers prepared to disembark the passengers. Nets filled with steamer trunks and suitcases began to rise up out of the hold. Unencumbered by belongings, Annie-Lou and DuMotier both hefted suitcases and made their way towards the sally ports. Officers wished them a happy arrival. Annie-Lou walked down the jouncing metal gangplank, down, down towards the wharf. She finally planted her boots on British soil, and looked about herself in sheer excitement.

Long tables were manned by Her Majesty’s customs officers. Annie handed over her passport and her work papers, which were immediately deluged by a flurry of stamps, counter stamps and signatures. She managed to duck past members of the Bible Evangelical Society, who were welcoming foreign immigrants with a handshake and a gospel. With a hand on her slouch hat to preserve it in the breeze, Annie cast about until she saw DuMotier emerge from the chaos. Together they ducked forward through the vast arrivals sheds, and out onto a busy dockside street.

A horse-drawn tram had halted by the docks. A painted card declared the vehicle was headed for Liverpool main station – tickets two pence. In the time it took Annie to decipher the coins in her pocket, the tram set off with a lurch. She spilled into a seat – bruised and somewhat bewildered. She forked out for her ticket, and carefully put the ticket away – a treasure she wanted to keep forever.

Liverpool was made of all new buildings – spacious and tall. Customs houses, warehouses and mercantile buildings. Workers in shirtsleeves and very English flat cloth hats were sitting on walls eating their mid day dinner: A red brick tavern advertised meals of hot twopenny scouse. Trams rolled past each other, dinging their bells. A lad standing on a corner called out the daily headlines, waving newspapers. The wide cobbled streets began to throng with springtime crowds. Men in long coats and top hats added more and more dignity to the scene. Women in tasteful dresses strolled, often with dogs on leashes. A fish and chip shop spread delicious scent into the road, with a street vender standing nearby with a can about his neck, selling ’ot peas! ‘ot peas!

Marvellous!

The tram conductor called out the station tram stop loud and clear. Wresting with her bags, Annie-Lou blinked to find a passing gentleman assisting her with her suitcase. She thanked the man brightly, looked about for DuMotier, and was almost run over by another tram. She kept well back from the street with its traffic of hansom cabs, cars and carriages until a policeman brought all to a halt. A great surge of pedestrians headed for the red-brick station. DuMotier bowed the way forward, and led Annie-Lou across the road towards the railway station.

British railways were astounding. This was no mere New York central station, with brick platforms and tin sheds: Here there were tall imposing rooves, with clocks overhead so that one and all could see that British railways deeply honoured punctuality, precision and time. Busy platforms, with painted boards announcing departures and arrivals. DuMotier cast about and found the next train departing for London. There was time to sit at a noisy booth and sample English tea. Still munching ginger biscuits, Annie lugged her own suitcase towards the departure platform, using muscles gained from hoisting hay bales, working pumps and dragging unruly horses about the yard. To DuMotier’s amusement, she hefted both their suitcases up to the baggage van. She wiped her brow, then handed DuMotier up into their carriage. She picked a window seat and stayed with her nose plastered to the glass.

England! England outside the windows. England on a sunny springtime afternoon. Leaving Liverpool behind them, the train rolled off into the shires, racing off across iron trestle bridges, and then out into the emerald countryside. Past lanes and hedges, past fields with dry stone walls – on, on, past villages with whitewashed buildings and churches full of history. Annie plastered herself to the view, drinking in every sight. The colours were different – the light seemed somehow softer than at home. She marvelled at a ruin on a distant hill, or at canal barges towed by shire horses wearing old straw hats.

It was an adventure. She had escaped. Finally she was out and away from home.

The train itself was a marvel – gorgeously painted, and gleaming with polished brass. There was a first class dining carriage, and then, confusingly, third class carriages – but no sign of a second class inbetween. Guy lacked all answers – his democratic core was quite mystified by the British system. Still – it seemed to suit the English perfectly. Any nation that had given the world Parliamentary democracy, Sir Isaac Newton and tea cakes couldn’t be all bad.

As the afternoon ride wore on, Annie-Lou and DuMotier settled themselves down for a snack: ham sandwiches, preserved pears and yet more tea. DuMotier eyed the different décor between the two dining sections, first class and third, and rolled his eyes in disgust.

Classes! The English are obsessed with it. He stirred sugar into his tea. "And so now are the French.