Effectuators: Book 3 - "To Foreign Shores"

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 1870!

Brilliana's quests leads the Effectuators off onto the contnent, there to seek out secrets hidden long, long in the past.

But as war breaks out between Prussia and France, the Effectuators fon themselves caught between massive armies - and holding information that men will kill for....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Kidd
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310426384

Book preview

Effectuators!

Book 3 –

To Foreign Shores

Being in the main the adventures of Miss Brilliana Stetham, Paranormal Investigator, and Resolver of all Problems Supernatural – her companions, trials and adventures.

A novel by Paul Kidd

© Copyright 2012 Paul Kidd

[e-mail]

Dedication:

For Brin! For whom I does the happy dance.

Effectuators! Book 3:

To Foreign Shores

© Copyright 2012 Paul Kidd

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-0-9870878-9-8

Published via Lulu.com

This is a work of fiction. All events and characters portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in part or in whole in any form.

The world at large: a travel planner for 1870.

Africa

Highest concentration of large predators per square mile on earth.

USA

Indian wars currently raging: the Comanche wars, the Yuma war, the Chiricahua war, Black Hawk’s war, the Yavapai war, the Hualapai war. But we hear New England is nice!

South America

Paraguayan war still rages. Paraguay has lost 90% of its population, making this the most nationally destructive war in modern history.

Europe

*France: the repressive Imperial government has banned philosophy, political science, democracy, the free press and free speech. Bon appetite!

*Germany: German states are now utterly under the sway of Prussia. This gives the King of Prussia 1.2 Million soldiers – twice as many as France. But why worry?

*Italy: reunification wars still in progress.

*Spain: political furore and assassination

*Russia: the Tsars oversee the most massive slave labour camps in history.

Asia

In the wake of the titanic Taiping rebellion (c. 20 million dead), Muslim rebellions rage in the Western provinces.

Britain

The International Football Association holds its first match (Scotland vs England). The score is a 1-1 draw.

Part One:

The Rookery Shadow.

England, Spring 1870 : In which clouds begin to gather…

1

A cold wind swept across the Salisbury downs, rippling through the weeds about an unkempt farm. It was a dark place, overgrown and long-abandoned. There were small white snails in the long grasses. Thistles and thick green nettles scraped against the walls of wooden sheds. Rusting farm equipment stood tangled in the yard.

Night came swiftly, bringing with it a sighing, starless cold. In the overgrown drive, jet black horses harnessed to a glittering black coach stamped, still hot from the long trip south. The driver stayed hunched beneath a mantled coat, face hidden deep inside a scarf. A second carriage stood just beyond – grey horses, their heads hunched against the chill.

There had been rain earlier in the day. The smell of it was still fresh upon the chalkland grass. Lord Bimmington breathed in, feeling it cleansing him: cold, sharp and clear, like a tonic clearing out an encumbered, shackled soul.

Liberating.

Utterly liberating.

Lord Bimmington walked forward, wet grass caressing his trouser legs. His long coat clung against him, blown by the ever present wind. With one hand upon an immaculate silk top hat, he walked past the buildings and stood in silence, gazing upon the prize.

Two men - well chosen for their skills – stood guard, their eyes ever watchful. Bimmington was well used to hiring such men: he had the pick of the very best. Men known for skills not commonly found. Men of stark efficiency and unquestioning obedience.

There were also other men – men shackled to Bimmington by stark ambition. Men of means – and of political ability. Men from the shadows, who dreamed of shattering the old regime so they might feast upon the spoils.

Winds shivered through the tall, wet grass, as a small man came walking from the buildings, joining Lord Bimmington side by side. A grey haired man in a grey coat, with pale cold-blue eyes. A believer. Bimmington continued gazing out across the grass – past the weeds and off toward the ancient prize.

It is done?

The grey man held a folder – leather bound against the damp.

It is done. The Antrobus Estate has sold the land in full. He tucked the folder up beneath his arm. The land has been fallow for some time. The agricultural sheds will be useful.

They will. The site was screened from the road by a line of old wooden sheds and barns. Yes – excellent. Excellent.

They walked together for a while, strolling through the damp, stiff grass. Out on the downs, other men moved slowly in the dark – men equipped with transmographied goggles. Here and there a stake was planted, marking yet another point beneath the earth that sparked with negative charge.

The site was everything that Bimmington could have ever wished.

Beyond the sheds, the field stretched off towards vast black shapes that loomed against the sunset. Dark, massive sarsen stones – some upright, some tumbled: huge monoliths that stood in a great, cold ring. Steeped in negative charge – coursing with ancient, hidden energies. A monument almost as old as time that simply stood here waiting – watching…

Waiting for the arrival of an intellect - an mind that would be worthy of its gifts.

Stonehenge – left here to slumber for millennia. And now, finally, it was in the hands of men who understood – who knew…

England – sweet Albion: a land of possibilities.

Only in England could such a thing be found so readily – so perfectly attuned. Waiting – just waiting to fulfil itself. The old guardians had faded away. The watchmen were long dead and gone. There were no chains to bind Bimmington now. He had the Dark Grimoire – the book of the Severed Lord. And now he could finally begin the work that would place a nation in his hands.

To seize a kingdom – to dare, where others had only ever dreamed…

Bimmington looked out over the great stone ring. Above him, clouds slowly smothered the moon.

The site must be prepared, Perkins. Carefully. No speed. That is where others have always failed. He saw the survey teams walking from the fields, where they had found relics of past attempts – of failed bargains and dead fools. The charge must be augmented slowly, and all in accordance with the pattern. Negative items, in the proper sequence, in perfect balance. One – iota – at – a – time…

It will take a year.

Then it will take a year. Bimmington watched the night as it swallowed up the downs. We are patient men – and there is no one to stop us. The Brotherhood of Paracelsus is dead. The guardians are but a few old men who have forgotten what they guard.

The grey man stroked his beard with one hand – a hand scarred and disfigured by terrible old burns. We will need sacrifices. We will need them soon.

We will find them. Bimmington turned back to his coach. England was ever filled with those who will not be missed.

They walked together, back towards the coaches.

The coaches rolled back out onto the old, thin road. Men departed – out, off to make their long, patient preparations. The site lay as it always had – standing stark beneath a vast, cold sky.

The great work had begun. And England – unsuspecting England – slept on…

***

On a cold and starless night, the spring rains drifted over London’s Drury Lane.

A slow, soft drizzle drifted through the dark. Cluttered rooves along the lane dripped and trickled streams into the street. The old gutters ran with currents here and there – in other places, oily puddles formed. There were no animals upon the street – no cats, no dogs. The people had all disappeared – some into their rented rooms, while others slept in miserable shelter in the alleys and the eaves.

There were no gas lights, no door lights, and no patrolling police. At three AM the streets were quite deserted. Drury Lane was a place of cheap houses and struggling shops – a bulwark against the sheer unremitting poverty of St Giles. The St Giles rookery loomed ever present with its stench and misery, while to the north, the world became more modern, more middle class – and oh so much more acceptable. Here and there along the lane were odd little islands of respectability. J Sainsbury’s new general store had windows stocked with modest goods and bargains: the houses thereabout had well scrubbed thresholds and new painted doors. And yet, there was something chill and fearful hanging in the air.

Dark streets – black alleyways, and the relentless drip and drizzle of the gutters. Drury Lane slept a cold uneasy sleep, aware that all was not well in the world.

An alley led off along the side of Sainsbury’s store, and out into the border of St Giles. Here, a final dark, rain-sodden lane stood like a moat, keeping back the forces of sheer, hopeless poverty. On the far side lay nothing but a black tangle of lanes – a place of tenements, crowded rooms and reeking cellars, of crime, desperate missionaries and the omnipresent poor.

The back lanes here were dotted with shapeless mounds and masses – refuse cast aside by the uncaring world. Old shattered crates, rags, rubble, stink and slime. Here and there, boards and stone had been fashioned into shelters – crude hovels hung with sacking as shelter against the weather.

Life lurked in the darkness. Here and there, figures huddled in scant, dripping shelter. A cough echoed down the laneways, driven by diseased and weakened lungs. Somewhere in the night, a baby cried. But the endless drip-drip-dripping of the rain soon numbed the ear. The small movements of the lost and poor were swallowed by the dark.

Far off down an alleyway, a silent something stirred.

The rain seemed to still – chilled into a subtle, lifeless silence. Slowly, oh so slowly, the night air froze. A fog of crystals clattered slightly as they formed against old brick and stone.

Frost slowly spread along an old, wet wall.

The frost and mist outlined a shape that moved quietly in the dark – a hunched and ragged thing, seen only as an eddy in the frozen air. Ice slowly spread about the apparition’s footsteps – the puddles freezing, runnels of rain crackling with a stark, unearthly chill. It crept forward slowly, softly turning this way and that. It drifted closer to some of the sleeping homeless and poised above them, crouching, gloating… as though pondering just where and when to strike.

Icy claw marks scratched softly down the walls…

A weak, hacking cough came from an alleyway – a tired sound, thin and full of hurt. The invisible presence in the frost turned – and seemed to slowly grin.

It crackled slowly down the lane – savouring the broken, painful cough. Step by step it came toward a slight figure curled up within an alley. Paused above its prey, it gave a hiss of joy.

A figure lay huddled in a doorway, sheltered beneath a nest of rags. A few small possessions were close nearby – a stick, a bag, an empty bottle. This one was weak – this one coughed and struggled. The unseen presence crept closer, knowing its prey was near to death – knowing that it could feed upon the dying energies – suck at the fading life until the mortal lay stiff and cold.

Frost seethed as the creature loomed over its victim. Frozen rain outlined the monster’s nightmarish shape – crabbed like an ancient crone, a vast broad head crammed with teeth. With invisible, smoking fingers, it reached down to seize its prize.

Suddenly the pauper drew away its shroud of rags. A white face decked out with goggles looked up at the creature. The face gave a malicious vulpine grin.

Sorry old trout – shop’s closed!

A long, elegant sword blade jammed into the monster’s chest. A brilliant arc of power cracked and sizzled down the blade, searing deep into its heart. The creature reared – absurdly tall and jointed like a mantis. It staggered, the blade pulling free of its torso. Sparking and crackling, the creature blundered back into the lane.

Brilliana Stetham – rags cast aside and sword in hand – leapt forward in pursuit. She levelled her blade, gave a great Hey la! – and skipped forward in a perfect fleche to run the monster through. Her backpack – stuffed with a first edition Dickens - surged with power as she triggered her capacitors. The shockwave slammed through wires, down her sword into the creature, sending it leaping and staggering back against the wall.

To add insult to injury, a black and white collie dog suddenly exploded out of cover just nearby. The animal - part springbok, part buzz saw – wore goggles and a backpack of his own. He lunged forward and bit the monster square upon the heel.

The monster whirled, hurtling Brilliana and the dog aside. It screamed at them, its shark face full of rage, then sprang wildly for the nearest wall.

With horrifying agility, the creature climbed, scrabbling clean up the corner of a house and onto the eaves. But as it reached the roof, something flashed through the darkness. The monster jerked aside as a crossbow bolt sparked from the brickwork mere inches away, trailing wires in its wake. The creature gaped its mouth – insanely, impossibly wide – and gave a piercing, shuddering scream of rage.

Another sudden flash streaked as a bolt pierced the creature from the opposite direction, sinking deep. An instant later, a blinding surge of power flashed along insulated wires, through the dart and deep into the monster’s heart. The charge burned on and on. Arching and screaming, already starting to disintegrate, the creature fell burning – slamming into the ground and slowly dissolving into ectoplasmic goo.

Ooooh! Goo!

Brilliana was instantly on hand with her thoroughly useful valise. She rummaged inside and came up with a huge old bell mouthed jar. Eagerly scraping up ectoplasm, she made sounds of deep and effervescent satisfaction. Fang the dog crowded in beside her, tongue lolling in delight as she showered the beast with praise.

The house door beside her opened and a horrified resident peered out into the road. Heavily armed and dressed utterly in black – black pantaloons, black scarf, gloves and goggles, Brilliana waved her jar and gave the man a smile.

I do beg your pardon. Paranormal Effectuators – predator control!

The door slammed as the poor man swiftly disappeared.

From behind a distant nest of boxes, a tall man appeared. He wore a long blue great coat, goggles and a naval cap. A beautifully fashioned crossbow lay cradled in his arms – the weapon fitted with a sturdy fishing reel. He reeled in an inordinate amount of copper wire that trailed off along the street.

The beast is down? Guy DuMotier’s voice perhaps betrayed more tension that he would have liked. Did I hit it?

Sterling stuff! Caught the blighter on the rise! Well done! Well done indeed! Brilliana managed to collect three large jars full of priceless ectoplasm from the remains of her erstwhile foe. A capital shot. Last of the Mohicans ain’t in it!

Guy fixed Brilliana with a jaundiced eye.

I missed it, didn’t I.

Well yes – but I do like you to think you’re doing well! Brilliana capped her last jar, then happily removed her rubber gloves. The entire laneway was now a tangle of fine copper wires. Never mind! The principal of the weapon is extremely sound!

From atop the opposite roof, Annie-Lou’s head appeared – well swathed in goggles, scarf and her old cavalry slouch hat. She peered down at her friends in the street below.

Is it dead? Did we get goo?

Three pints! Brilliana was most pleased: the new ectoplasm looked utterly first rate. And high time, too. We were running a little low.

Well stop using it in experiments! Annie’s accent – pure Maryland USA – was filled with patience.

Stop my experiments? Never in life! We are pioneers! We are travellers upon a strange new sward! Brilliana tried extracting herself from the copper wires that now tangled in the lane. Can we perhaps reel in our lines, dears? You’re upsetting the dog.

Fang – belying this statement – was already off and nosing about the lane, back tracking the monster’s footsteps. Brilliana cursed as she felt first one set of wires and then another tug at her. Guy and Annie wound at their respective crossbow reels, tightening the wires and making matters worse. Annoyed, Annie drew a hefty Bowie knife from her belt - a design best suited to decapitating Mississippi gamblers or dispatching alligators. Brilliana stopped her before she could hack into the wires.

Ut tut tut tut tut! What are you doing?

Annie brandished her knife like a mad mother-in-law. It’s tangled! We have to cut the wires!

With copper wire at ha’penny a fathom? Brill tried to extract herself from the tangle. Never in life! It just takes a little patience!

Well – it’s kind of a design flaw.

Until we can make miniature batteries and artefacts, it will have to do! Brilliana was quite put out: the new crossbows were a perfectly splendid idea. Fang! Do leave that alone – it’s not hygienic.

Guy – far more patient than his companions – managed to solve the mystery of the wires. He passed his crossbow around and around a nest of tangles, freeing Brilliana from her snare.

La! I believe this shall solve it… He passed Annie’s crossbow bolt through a tangle of wires and carefully disentangled the knots. Quite suddenly, chaos became order. Here we are! Annie, if you would reel in, I believe we are done.

Weapons were retrieved and stored. Brilliana packed up her thoroughly useful valise – a bag that could support small wars or unleash countless homicides. She whistled for the dog, who came bounding merrily to her side. Brill ruffled the animal’s thick soft fur.

Guy used his goggles to examine the last fading remains of the dead monster.

So – a breath stealer... What is the term… a hag?

Oh yes indeed! Just like our very first one – remarkably similar in habits and structure. Brilliana wiped clean her antique sword, then slid it home into its sheath, once again transforming it into her fox-skull headed walking cane. The similarities were remarkable. It’s a shame we couldn’t have secured a photographic record.

We were otherwise occupied.

Grumbling and fussing, Annie made her way down the rickety wooden ladder that led down from the roof. She leapt clumsily outward from the building to avoid something unsavoury lying beneath her in the street. The landing stung her feet.

Well, so much for the monster. Can we back track it to the rift?

Although the beast itself had been destroyed, the rift – its entry point into the mundane realm – was still something of a mystery. Brilliana gazed back along the lane with the air of someone contemplating a great deal of very necessary work.

Rookery. It must be in the rookery.

Rifts were born through violent trauma, or through sustained horror, pain and fear. Unfortunately, the rookery of St Giles could easily boast a hundred potential sites, and none would be either obvious or accessible. They would most certainly not be attainable at three o’clock in the morning. Guy turned to consider the jet-black alleyways that led back into St Giles.

Do you think we can trail it?

The damned rain seems to be washing away the ice. Brilliana looked to Annie-Lou. What direction did it come from?

Came from inside the rookery. Annie pushed her hat to the rear of her head. The rookery’s east rim was a great mass of fallen masonry and decayed old rooves. Crept out through the ruins.

Brilliana flicked the drip and drizzle away out of her eyes. The night was cold, it was wet, and a cup of tea was very much in order. The three adventurers and their dog gathered their equipment, then gave one last look back towards the slums. The place seemed a single black mass of oppression – a shadow cut through by weeping babies, starving waifs and disease.

Brill pushed up her goggles. She made a dissatisfied expression.

Daylight. We shall have to wait for daylight.

It was the only sensible thing to do. Reluctantly, the group turned and headed back to Drury Lane.

The St Giles Childrens’ Mission had reported a steep increase in child tuberculosis. Oddly enough, these same victims had recovered almost entirely once they spent a week or so far away from St Giles. Brilliana, who had a connection with the Missions she was reluctant to expand upon, had immediately divined an otherworldly connection. Sure enough, a breath stealer had been lurking in the fringes of the rookery.

It was hardly a paid commission – but then again, it had paid rather well in ectoplasmic goo. Despite being freezing cold, rain sodden, and resulting in some unmentionable chafing, Brilliana and her companions could at least bear away a sense of moral triumph. They trudged up the lane, side by side. The rain had ceased at last, and the first distant life began to stir in London town.

Fang barked. In a shadowed doorway ahead, a pair of footpads awaited, koshes in hand. Brilliana called out to her would-be assailants with a weary sigh and waved her titanic four-barrelled pistol.

Oh do try not to be absurd! Go on – be off with you! As the criminals sped away, she had a sudden change of heart. Oh! Have you chaps found any cold spots here lately? Swift drops in temperature? Feelings of dread…?

It was too late. The footpads had fled. Brilliana heaved an irritated sigh.

Some nights it just seems that nobody can be bothered helping out an exorcist.

A mere two blocks up the road, the British Museum spread out its hallowed halls. Sitting in the drive, watched over by the museum’s watchmen, was a gorgeous, shimmering black steam car. Brilliana greeted the watchmen, slipping them a shilling, then busied herself at the firebox, feeding it with methylene. They set the boiler to heating while wearily stowing gear and shaking themselves dry.

A flask of whiskey passed from hand to hand, while Annie-Lou dried Fang with a ragged old towel. The boiler – already fairly hot – soon began to simmer. Brilliana tapped at a gauge, made a satisfied noise and swung herself up into the driver’s seat. She tested a few levers, and then released a jet of steam.

Ah! Excellent! All aboard for Maple Street. She tipped a salute to the watchmen. Gerald – George! You are gentlemen and scholars, sirs! Gentlemen and scholars!

Fang had taken pride of place on the seat beside his mistress. Annie-Lou and Guy mounted the rear bench. With a gorgeous, silky motion, the steam car cruised off into the night, chuffing merrily towards Tottenham Court Road.

Guy leaned past Fang to call forward into Brilliana’s ear.

This really is a conspicuous vehicle, Mademoiselle. Are you certain it is suitable for our operations?

What – our dear little chuff chuff? It’s quite the thing! I dote on it entirely! Brilliana steered her merry way along the empty, pitch-black streets. Far better for this sort of thing than horses! Never could abide a horse!

The elegant French machine was now doing thirty miles an hour. Annie-Lou clamped her hat tight onto her head.

Shouldn’t we have a flag man ahead of us?

Good heavens no! At thirty miles and hour? We’d run the poor beast ragged!

No – I mean, aren’t we breaking the law? Annie tried to keep a watch along the street. What if we’re caught by the police?

Well they can’t go thirty either! I’ve clocked them! The mad enthusiast waved her hand. No no – the wee hours is the perfect time for a run! Hold onto your hats, I’ll soon have us home.

And so they rolled smoothly on, up along the gleaming, rain-washed road. On, on to Maple Street, to tea, to hearth and home.

2

Maple Street! An odd little slice of merry Albion, with its pub and its book sellers, its knick-knack shop and bakery. The two most notable features of the street were its amiable liveliness, and a gorgeous old half-timbered inn that served to soothe the local thirst. The inn itself – the Stickleback – was owned and run by a laughing, swag-bellied gentleman of northern extraction, ‘Geordie Bob’, who commanded the services of a rather well upholstered barmaid and an irritable Welsh cook. It was the primary gathering place for the taxi drivers of the upper West End, and thus a row of hansom cabs and four-wheeled growlers always lined the street.

The most remarkable feature of the inn was its wide old coach yard. The yard itself was now given over to a neat, eclectic garden of herbs and odd venomous plants, while the stables served as workshops. The coach house itself now served as the residence and offices of one of the oddest businesses ever spawned upon the earth. A sign upon the gate merrily proclaimed it’s identity:

"Stetham, Franknel and DuMotier –

Paranormal Effectuators

(Kindly step within)

(Please beware of ectoplasm)"

Within the stables, there were static generators, a small steam engine, and the gleaming new black steam car. Three brass-helmeted leather pressure suits stood beside an array of hefty oxygen tanks. A few rather well groomed, well mannered rats were in residence, pottering mildly about their own affairs. A green bellied spider of prodigious size had successfully brought off a new brood in the herb garden, where she kept house amidst a riot of flowers. All in all, the place seemed a haven of peace – making it all the more odd that the region was viewed with such dread and terror by the local wayward boys.

Within the residence itself, Brilliana Stetham was arrayed in high state amidst the remains of breakfast. A long night had led to a late awakening, but she had at last roused herself from slumber. Now, swathed in her disreputable old woollen robe, she sat deep within a nest of cups, plates and saucers. Restorative bacon – crisped into an unholy martyrdom – toast with lemon butter and a vast pot of tea had cleared her faculties and steeled her sinews for the day ahead. She dithered amongst the ginger biscuits, adrift in a wilderness of crumbs. Before her lay a map to the St Giles rookery: a map accurate only at its western periphery, and with the entire eastern edge marked simply as ‘condemned’. The areas outside of the rookery once haunted by the breath stealer had been carefully annotated in red ink.

Fang enjoyed himself with bacon rinds and an old slipper. Over in the kitchen, the household’s hedgehog slept peacefully inside his hutch. All was well with the world – if one forgave the thick black smoke still eddying from the kitchen. Brilliana thoughtfully examined the map, looking for a nexus or a pattern.

The breath stealer had operated in several zones, quite widely spaced, just outside of the rookery. Had it been deliberately operating far afield from its rift? If so – why?

It was disturbing evidence of intelligence. Disturbing indeed… Brilliana wondered more and more at the nature of her enemy. Of the bestial denizens of the otherworld, and of the terrifying entities beyond the green gates beyond: the beings of Golyotha.

She had been puzzling over the ancient John Dee volume given to her by Bimmington. Dee – the arch Hermeticist of the Elizabethan age – had been obsessed with discovering the ‘language of angels’, with which he hoped to communicate with supernatural beings. His book seemed to be written entirely in this language, using glyphs and symbols entirely of Dee’s own invention. The damned thing was merest gobbledygook: careful cryptography was yielding almost nothing. But there was a constant hint, a feeling, that the book was trying to impart some urgent, dreadful secret…

Oh, there were tantalising clues, of course. In mirror writing here and there, there were little snatches of Aramaic. Dee had been nothing if not a scholar, and a very esoteric one. The book ended while three quarters of the pages remained blank – the neat writing and records seemed more and more hurried and haphazard as the book wore on.

Three pages from the end of the tome, a ragged couplet was scribbled in a margin. Aramaic – and an obscure dialect at that. But Brilliana had been raised (in a desultory sense) by an Egyptologist, a Biblical scholar: she had learned her Hebrew and her Aramaic at the same time she had begun her first Latin histories, before she was ten. She had written out the couplet upon a slip of paper that now lay there upon the table at her side.

Do not draw the gaze of the guardians. Do not raise the eternal chorus.

Interesting. Intriguing. Possibly chilling… And decidedly not of help. Had Dee still been existent on this side of the sod, Brilliana would have gladly kicked him in the shins.

The door to the parlour swung open as Annie appeared, fresh from the bath, pink and in a resplendence of freckle. She halted the instant she encountered the thick, charred smell of Brilliana’s breakfast.

Annie would normally have intervened to keep Brill far from such dangerous implements as frying pans and stoves: Brill’s talents, while ranging deep and wide, did not traverse the heady slopes of domesticity. Annie sighed, and settled herself beside a plate heaped with deeply charred and desiccated bacon.

Have you seen my left slipper? The thing’s gone missing again.

Fang desisted with his chewing. He radiated guilt from every fibre of his being – the poor beast had no talent for guile. Brilliana covered for him by immediately serving Annie with ginger biscuits, toast and tea.

Oh it will turn up, I’m sure! Never let it chafe your heart She used her foot to edge the gnawed slipper away from the dog and off into hiding. Are you feeling recovered after last night? That was a most excellent crossbow shot, by the way. William Tell ain’t in it!

Oh – well thank you! Annie’s foot touched the wet, gnawed slipper under the table. She eyed the slipper, then the guilt-ridden dog, and the blandly innocent Brilliana. She decided to let the matter lie. Is Guy up and about?

No sign of him yet. He doubtless is still taking the waters at the Stickleback.

What time do you want to be off?

Oh – we’ll never manage it before midday. Even with the best will in the world, it would take Brilliana half an hour to dress, check weapons and prepare. Yes – let us aim for the stroke of twelve.

Annie made herself a sandwich with two pieces of toast and charred bacon. And we’ll need a cab. Let’s go find Bill Butley.

By all means, let it be the intrepid William! Brilliana arose, dusting herself with crumbs at the cost of showering them over the dog. If we can just expose him to a few more monsters, then perhaps he will no longer mind them so. T’will all be for his own good in the long run!

You’re an altruist. Annie-Lou munched into her odd sandwich and headed for her room. Stir yourself girl. Into your satins and bows. Time’s a-wasting!

To be entirely fair, Brilliana was rather swift at dressing, and the results were always well worth waiting for. Though she could never have been called vain – not deeply and entirely so – she did take enormous joy in her funereal ensemble. So when she finally appeared, it was in jet black unstayed satin that fitted like a lustrous sausage skin. Her skirts formed a neat, small bustle at her rear; long black lace gloves covered her hands, and a satin top hat trailed an elegancy of black lace behind. She completed her attire with her sword cane and thoroughly useful valise. Her Lancaster pistol – one of the last, truly great dinosaur hunting weapons – slid into a holster beneath her bustle with all four barrels loaded with meteoric iron.

Just another working day in Spring!

Annie – rather more sensibly attired, rattled the dog’s lead. Fang exploded from beneath the table in a great confusion of legs. He was decked out with goggles hanging securely about his neck and a backpack that contained a well charged artefact – a lovers’ locket that had turned up in a rather pleasant little knick-knack shop. They locked up shop, bid the garden spider a good day, then swanned across the yard towards the Stickleback.

Inside the pub, lunchtime business was clearly expected. Geordie Bob hauled large jars of pickled eggs up from his cellar, while the barmaid came racing in from Maple Street, tying on an apron and running late. Working men were arriving for their midday drink – taxi drivers, rag and bone men, and the booksellers from the lane. Old Tempest – a Shakespearean actor enjoying a new renaissance in his career – stood at the bar, bombastically swapping tales with all and sundry. He saluted Brilliana’s appearance with a great wave of his hand – like explorers meeting in strange climes. Brilliana returned the salute, then collared a tall, scaly creature who was supping on gin behind the umbrella stand. She slapped the man between the shoulder blades.

Bill! Bill, my hero! How good of you to be about. We’d appreciate a lift to St Giles, as soon as you’re free.

Bill Butley was a tall man mostly manufactured from spare elbow skin. Filled with doom and gloom, the man shook the horrible object he used as a head. St Giles? St Giles, she says, in that there dress? He rolled eyed made of woe. My life! Be like tossin’ a lamb chop into a cage, it will. They’ll be on yer like a pack of wolves.

Oh Bill Butley! You’re concerned for us! How very touching in you! Brill held one hand over her heart. Never you worry for us in life! Never in life. I have my ways and means. She dusted the man’s coat – a new coat she had bought for him herself. Something lurks down in the rookery, Bill. And an Effectuator follows the trail wherever it may lead. She straightened his lapels. I say – the coat suits you entirely! Fits quite genteel!

Bill Butley positively preened. He extracted himself, and returned to his grumbling ways. Well we’m must ask ol’ Geordie to put you up some sammiches, and a flask or three of ginger beer. Bill shambled off towards the bar. You don’t want to go eatin’ or imbibin’ nothin’ you find down in St Giles. Might be parson pie for all you’ll warrant.

Yes – I’m trying to keep off anthropophagy. It wreaks havoc with the figure. Brill let the man escape. If he has any of that excellent corned beef, I should love it of all things…!

The rearmost nook of the Stickleback frequently served as the Effectuators’ place of business. It was hung about with framed pages from distant papers and the Illustrated London News – many of them showing artist’s impressions of alarming monsters and astounding sights. It was here that Brilliana and Annie-Lou discovered Guy, who had eaten his late breakfast and remained ensconced with the morning papers. He spied them approaching, and rose from his seat, waving The Times about in a high state of indignation.

France! Cradle of western culture! Embracer of the arts! His accent – usually quite subtle, became decidedly more pronounced. Have you now seen this? Have you seen it? That cochon Napoleon. Have you seen it? A letter sent to the Germans, declaring that he intends to invade and annexe Belgium as and when the opportunity appears! The Times has secured and published a copy of the letter! He batted the page with the back of his hand. The Belgian army is now on full war footing, all fortresses manned. Britain will stand by Belgium with arms if need be. Guy, descended from that great patron of Democracy, Lafayette, loathed the French Imperial regime. He waved his copy of the paper in disgust. Fifty six years of peace between England and France, and that cut-price despot hurtles away it all in a single afternoon!

The final months of Guy’s time as a French naval officer were shrouded in a haze of mystery: it was a Mexican Republic naval cap that he wore. Brilliana, who loved a story more than she loved life itself, had chosen never to directly ask – although she had trailed a hopeful net or three. Guy had refused to take the hint, and remained quite silent upon the subject.

Thoroughly incensed against despots, Guy slapped a hand at an engraving of Napoleon III on his paper.

Did you know that he closed the schools of philosophy? That he has forbidden teaching the history of the Athenian democracy? Of Socrates? Of Plato?

Annie blinked. Why would he do that?

Because people who learn to think learn to ask difficult questions… Guy’s mood was growing dire. Tearing at the soul of Mexico was not enough. Now he longs for European glory. For European war…

Annie eased the paper out of Guy’s hands.

Oh no one’s going to war over anything as silly as a letter. It’s just another of those damn stories the papers throw around. She helped to bring order to Guy’s equipment – the thermometers, backpack and goggles needed for the day. Let’s contemplate revenge and revolution another day. Come on – there’s work to do.

Guy had left his late breakfast largely untouched – a fried egg still lay on the plate. The dog slyly made off with this forgotten treasure, making all vanish in a trice. He was sitting innocently at Brilliana’s feet as Guy arose and gathered up his equipment.

I am prepared. Shall we go?

Let’s shall. Brilliana took him by the hands and kissed his cheeks. Damn sir, you are an admirable beast. Now let’s be off before Bill smokes that we’re taking him off into monster country!

They pushed off into the tap room. Brilliana used her cane to part the crowds before them – a veritable Moses at the Red Sea. Never trouble yourself about the perniciousness of kings, dear Guy. We are scholars! It is we who get to laugh most heartily as they fall. She led the way off towards the outer world. Now let us see about closing this rift in St Giles, and we can go back to planning our little expedition to the continent.

Recent events had fixed the attention of Brilliana and her companions upon the wild Baltic coast of Prussia: most specifically, upon the isolated and mysterious isle of Usedom and the village of Peenemunde. A murderous cabal seemed to be congregating at Peenedmunde – a cabal that had summoned up the powers of the otherworld, and of something far, far more sinister.

It decidedy required investigation. These sort of shenanigans had to be stopped.

They exited into the thronging world. Maple Street was brisk and bright with the noonday sun. A crate had fallen from a fishmonger’s cart, and every cat in Christendom was racing in to enjoy the bounty. A trio of sly boys pranced after an old man who wore an absurdly tall hat – but all three sped off in terror the instant they spied Brilliana. Their terrified flight spilled oranges from a fruiterer’s stand all across the road. Brill stood with her friends at her side, enjoying the sunlight and the chaos. Bill Butley’s cab appeared – a gleaming object pulled by a most wonderfully hairy horse. The Effectuators loaded up backpacks, ectoplasmic probes and a case of thermometers, and then clambered aboard. Brill leaned her head out of the window, and called merrily up to their driver on his perch above.

The Childrens’ Mission at St Giles, dear Bill! Just at the south east of St Giles’s yard.

I knows it, I knows it! Bill grumbled and set his horse into motion. Which as we’ve been there afore, ain’t we.

William, your infallible memory is a triumph for Britain! Brill slapped the side of the cab. On! Like Achilles unto Troy. Run, chariot. Run!

Run, she sez – with lunchtime traffic three carts deep an’ all… Bill Butley shook his head and zigzagged the cab off into the chaos of the Tottenham Court Road. Let’s get her up here, and see how much she likes it…

Ignoring the muttered tirade, Brilliana settled herself down amidst the leather seats to enjoy the ride. Her valise was well packed with weird decoctations and devices, she was armed and deadly - and there were sandwiches for lunch. It promised to be a rather good day.

On the bench across from Fang and Brill, Guy checked that his pinfire revolver was loaded, then slipped it into the shoulder holster beneath his coat. He looked out of a window towards the dark, stained rooves to the east.

So –where should we begin? Were the attacks centred in any way?

Evenly distributed outside the rookery, far as can be told. Brilliana leaned upon her sword cane. Nothing for it! We shall have to make search and inquiries, street by street.

Of the rookery? Guy looked pained. Surely… the denizens of such a place will be suspicious and hostile?

Oh – positively tribal! Hideous. Hottentots ain’t in it! Brill gave an airy wave of her hand. Never fret, never fret. I am a wellspring of resources! I have my contacts – my ways and means. Brill wagged a finger. Now - we will have been noted speaking with the people at the Childrens’ Mission. The important thing, mind – utmost importance – is not to have it seem that we are allied with or associated with the police.

Guy wisely kept his silence, but nodded in agreement. Brilliana turned to gaze thoughtfully upon him.

You may have noticed that I do perhaps have a slight aversion to the constabulary?

Guy made an understanding face and waved the mere thought of it all away. Non non non. Surely not! Merely an – ah – an intuitive caution.

Yes – well, I confess I do have a bit of a teeth-clench for the blighters, and it is well and deeply founded. Brill settled herself inside her immaculate, unique and costly dress. In the rookeries, you’re either one of us, or one of them. We must make sure we are not perceived as one of them… She settled her hat. Given the nature of my contacts, we will have to be most careful.

The nature? Guy made a wise and knowing face. Aaah – I see. A few dark waters. I quite understand.

Something of that ilk.

Brilliana rarely ever alluded to her early days. They were painful – too painful entirely. Annie gently moved the conversation away from such things, looking instead at the strange, blank map of the rookery.

Annie tapped thoughtfully at Childrens’ Mission – a place delineated carefully in red ink.

Brill… How are these people paying us again?

With some much needed assistance. Invaluable for our jaunt to the German wilds! Brilliana adjusted her gloves. The point of the thing will be subtlety – slipping in and out of the German states almost unseen. The patron of the Childrens’ Mission can help it go so much more smoothly.

Cain’t Lord Bimmington help with that? Surely the intelligence people can get us visas or a ship or what have you?

Part of the point is to ensure that no one knows where we are, or where we’ve gone. Brilliana stroked the silver fox skull that headed her cane: she seemed slightly concerned. Bimmington’s department has had one too many brushes with these Germans. I think it’s best if we keep our affairs very much to ourselves. Brilliana’s heart was slightly troubled. She pushed her thoughts away from dwelling upon Bimmington. We shall muddle on.

The growler cab crossed Oxford Street, and moved onwards – past the drab white spire of St Giles in the Field. Here the rookery soared high its cold, terrible tenements - a place rife with prostitution, misery and crime. Seven Dials – almost no better – lurked just beyond. With a sharp eye on the streets, Bill brought his cab around along the churchyard wall. Figures sat in doorways, or slouched collected in groups and clumps – drinking, arguing, or simply staring at the road.

The air held a mephitic reek of urine and unending poverty.

An old warehouse near the churchyard served as the Childrens’ Mission – a place where a few score orphans had been rescued from the streets. With its steps swept conspicuously clean, and incongruous potted shrubs flanking the door, the Mission was a jarring little oasis of cleanliness and colour.

The yard beside the warehouse was thronging with street children, for soup and a slice of bread were provided for any who would agree to run through the alphabet and say their prayers. A hefty doorman watched the gate, making sure that no gin-soaked adults send forth children and then relieved them of their meal. The cab clattered to a halt, and Brilliana peered out – selected a portion of the road that was relatively clean – and stepped carefully down.

Right! Bill my dear – we need you to be back here at the stroke of seven pm.

What – here? Bill looked about himself, wide eyed as an owl – albeit a somewhat scabrous owl wearing a most excellent coat. Oh Miss Brill! I dursen’t! I dursen’t! This ‘ere is the ‘eart of criminality!

Lord, man! If I survived it, then you can! Brilliana jerked a thumb towards the vast grey-faced warden at the courtyard gates. Higgins will watch over you. Capital stuff. He’s sheer doom personified! She waved her hand. I’m certain you will feel at home. Come now. Surely there’s a little of the criminal in all of us?

Annie-Lou leapt down into the roadway, all freckles, boots and practicality. Guy emerged, tall and calm. He squared his cap then hoisted the heavy ectoplasmic probes down onto the road.

Brill strolled across the lane and touched her elegant hat in salute to the warden at the door.

Mister Higgins! Good afternoon!

The gargantuan Higgins – not the most communicative of men – merely gave a nod. Brilliana sallied indoors, concentrating upon business. Annie and Guy looked about themselves, then carried in the heavy gear. The dog – ever on the watch for fun – bounded in past Brilliana and allowed the children to adore and fuss with him.

Within the Mission building, there were many neat rows of cots along the walls, as well as benches and tables used for school. Babies – not one of Brilliana’s favourite things on earth – squealed and wailed from the nursery at the back. Female volunteers all dressed in sad-coloured clothing bustled here and there, trying to make order out of chaos. An embroidered banner with the words Suffer the little children to come unto me. hung proudly up above.

The titular head of the Mission, Deacon Trebble, was flapping about and trying to ensure that the lunch platters were washed and stored, the kitchens cleaned and the children set to their lessons. He recognised the arrival of visitors, but was far too a-flutter to deal with the situation.

A quiet, mousey woman wearing reading glasses looked up from a table at which she led three well scrubbed, bewildered children through their copy books. She bid the eldest to lead the reading, and swiftly arose, straightening her skirts with ink-stained fingers.

Miss Stetham! She had a timid voice – forever surprised at the world. Miss Franknel, Mister DuMotier. I ‘ope I sees you well?

It was a cockney accent, somewhat tinged with book-learning. Brilliana warmly took the woman’s hands. Heather, my dear! How good to see you! You look blooming – positively blooming!

And you… The small woman nervously shook Annie by the hand. Are you… Some of them children came in this morning. Said there’d been a stoush last night. Somethin’ up by Drury lane. Miss Heather looked a little pale. She leaned in to murmur in Annie’s ear. There was a whisper. Some spicers out on the stalk last night said they almost got beefed by three odd coves, up on the north side.

Annie looked to Brilliana for help.

Brill?

Some footpads saw us last night, and thought we were going to kill them. Brilliana waved her hand, disparaging the notion. What pale, fainting creatures they must be! We only wished to speak with them.

Well they was scared right pale. Heather led the way over to the school tables. So – did you… did you get business advanced last night?

Guy emerged from greeting enthusiastic children. We did, Mademoiselle! The core of your problem is, we think, dealt with.

The woman slipped a timid glance, making certain that the children could not overhear. It was... it was a thing?

Mademoiselle, it was a... well, let us term it a hag. A stealer of breath. Guy pulled on his heavy capacitor pack, adjusting the straps. But now, we must locate the creature’s lair.

Lair?

Yes… Brilliana spread out her sketch map of the rookery; much of it was guesswork, particularly to the south and east, where the slums became a shanty town. It will have a gateway somewhere fairly close. They fear the sun, you see – it won’t have roved too far… Brilliana tapped at the map. It will be an isolated spot – a place where pain, horror or terror has occurred. And the place will be devilishly cold. She stroked her cane in thought. Does anywhere spring to mind? Are there rumours? Hint and whispers?

Heather rubbed her arms, feeling chill. Her voice dropped to a murmur.

The east side, where them fallen buildings are. That’s no place for a Christian. She looked to Brilliana. It’s worse than it used to be. All rubble there now. Just holes and walls – and them: the folks as live there. The scavengers... The woman shivered. They said there was typhus there last year.

Brilliana tapped her cane.

But there have been no massacres there? No activity?

Nothin’. Nothin’ moves there at all. Heather just shook her head. No – it’s been abandoned for years.

Brilliana looked out towards the street and pondered. "Have there been any whispers