Naughty Victorian Days

By Bea St. Lea

What could make a woman weep forever?

The inhabitants of the teeming city of Landan are readying for King Victor's jubilee. But, away from the bunting and souvenir tea-towels, a conspiracy is brewing. People are killing themselves for no apparent reason. A man has gone missing. And Vividia Whistful, a rich heiress, is afflicted by a strange magic that has left her crying silently and ceaselessly.

Daniel Gleason and William Bumard, two down-on-their-luck clerks, are drawn into this mess. Joined by streetwise prostitute Sally, and an orphaned servant known as The Boy, the search pulls them into the hidden underbelly of the capital. They will discover dangerous mysteries, and they will all be forced to reveal secrets of their own.

This mystery adventure features graphic sex, queer romance, a touch of fantasy and intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bea St. Lea
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393684190

Book preview

Chapters

Part One

Prologue: Ain't it Grand to be Bloomin' Well Dead

Chapter 1: That’s Work

Chapter 2: Lost, Stolen or Strayed

Chapter 3: Sally in Our Alley

Chapter 4: The Moth and the Flame

Chapter 5: A Night Out

Chapter 6: The Wibbley-Wobbley Walk

Chapter 7: Dreamland

Chapter 8: Hearts and Flowers

Chapter 9: Reflecting on the Past

Chapter 10: Just like the Ivy

Part Two

Chapter 11: Actions

Chapter 12: John Go and Put Your Trousers On

Chapter 13: Don’t Pretend to Be Innocent

Chapter 14: Crash! Bang! I want to go Home

Chapter 15: Suspicions

Chapter 16: I’ve got a Hunch

Chapter 17: It’s Men like You

Chapter 19: Soap and Water

Chapter 20: Frightened to Go to Sleep Again

Chapter 21: You ’ave Made a Nice Old Mess of It

Part Three

Chapter 22: Tweet, Tweet, Tweet, Tweet, Tweet

Chapter 23: Family Secrets

Chapter 24: Co-operation

Chapter 25: Jubilee Baby

Chapter 26: Show Me the Way to Go Home

Chapter 27: Tick! Tick! Tick!

Chapter 28: Gentlemen! The King!

Chapter 29: Getting to the Bottom of It

Chapter 30: Just Before the Battle, Mother

Chapter 31: No Fear

Chapter 32: Conclusions

Epilogue: The End of the Song

PART ONE

Ain't it Grand to be Bloomin' Well Dead

Prologue

NVD%20chapter%20images/00%20-%20Soap.jpg

AT LEAST IT WAS A CLEAN death, said Inspector Plum, and instantly regretted it. One of the men carving the body out of the soap glanced up and shot him a disapproving look.

Pre-mortem, the deceased man had been quite ordinary, with a broad, care-creased face and strong hands. Then he’d fallen into the vat where the workers combined lye and fats. The factory used a hot process, and Plum wasn’t sure whether the unfortunate fellow had drowned or cooked in the molten soap mix. Post mortem, the corpse was encased in a translucent, waxy shell.

No one pushed ’im, said the foreman. The factory production line was working again now they’d fished the body out. They had to keep going; the company had recently changed hands and the new owner wanted to double the batch output. They’d had some special orders for a new luxury line and fulfilling them was crucial. However, a few off-shift colleagues were lurking around out of shock, sympathy or morbid curiosity.

So he tripped? Plum said, extracting his notebook and pencil.

No, he just sort of walked out into it, said another chap.

Just like the others, Plum grunted, scribbling. Beneath the catwalk, the great gas jets were alight again and the unscented soap flowed into a secondary vat where the oils and perfumes were added. The air was lively with citrus and cloves. Better than most death scenes, Plum thought, which tended most often to be flavoured with some combination of piss, shit and blood.

The family must be informed, he said. But I see no evidence of a crime here. Not with two dozen witnesses saying he deliberately climbed up onto the boards and threw himself in.

The foreman held his flat cap in nervously squeezing fingers.

John Thomas was a good ’un, officer. Been with us ten year. One of our best cake-shapers.

Indeed?

We can’t afford to lose any more. The new boss won’t like it.

Plum sucked in his cheeks and lips, which had the effect of pulling his whiskers inward until his lower face resembled a balled-up hedgehog. He frowned and the hedgehog uncurled.

"Was there anything unusual about what happened, apart from a man diving into a tank full of soap?"

The foreman looked uncomfortable.

Well, I saw him just before he went down. He looked, er, glad, sir.

Glad?

"Yes. He ain’t been up to dick for a while, but, before he went in, it were like something had changed. Like a lever got pulled in his mind and all his grumps just went away. He was grinning, guv. And then, plop."

Plum stowed the notebook away and stepped back to allow the giant soap block containing John to be transported down the stairs. It was slippery and difficult to grip.

Soap and suicides. That’s four so far this year, and Candlemas wasn’t that long ago, he said. There’s something queer going on. Very queer indeed.

Chapter 1: That’s Work

Nop

NVD%20chapter%20images/01%20-%20Fish.jpg

IT COULD HAVE BEEN any waiting-room in any law firm in the Shyles. There were three high-backed, polished oak chairs and all were occupied, two by the buttocks of clerks and a third by a dusty top hat with a rim so worn it showed yellow where it should have been black.

A carriage clock ticked. The first clerk studied his battered leather shoes; the other stared at the striped green-and-cream wallpaper with its heavy embossing. A casual observer would have found it impossible to mistake one man for the other. They could have been selected to sit beside each other simply for the sake of contrast. 

The young gent sitting next to the hat had an extruded quality; his arms and legs were lengthy, and so was his face. Dark-haired, dark-eyed and clean-shaven, he had a pronounced chin, sharply defined cheekbones and sulky eyes. It was the sort of face that sometimes recalled a half-moon, inviting unkind comparisons to Mr Punch. From another perspective, his features occasionally commanded a very particular fascination, especially to those with romantic tendencies and a liking for those lurid novels which feature swooning heroines and glowering heroes. Those people, who were not vanishingly rare in Landan, were inclined to mistake the young man’s dourness for the intensity of repressed passion. He was midway through his second decade. His name was William.

It must be a sacking, he said, nervously. He reached for the top hat and played with it, his long fingers moving compulsively. There’s only one reason he’d call us in on a Friday, and that’s a sacking.

No, it’ll be a promotion for us both, said the second man. It had better be, he added, with a shunt of his pugnacious chin. At thirty-and-one years, he had a compact form softened by round edges. In contrast to his neighbour, he was short and dressed elaborately in colours that would have been just on the acceptable side of sartorial extravagance when new but were now somewhat faded. He possessed neat blonde side-whiskers that bushed out from puckered red skin.

If it is a promotion, it’ll probably be just the one and we’ll have to fight for it.

The shorter, thickset man gave his colleague a look of distaste. He didn’t have much time for dolorous catastrophising.

Buck up, chum.

The hat spun in nervous fingers. This did not help its battered state.

I should have bought a newspaper. I wonder what horrors have happened on the Continent this week.

You can enjoy the horrors at elevenses.

There was a curt cough. A senior clerk opened a weighty wooden door. It was Mr Knobgloat.

Mr Gyfford will see you now. Somehow, he managed to pack a peck of loathing into one short sentence.

The clerks trooped into the office.

Messrs Bumard and Gleason, sir, said their escort, and then he left, a brisk blur of crisp efficiency, obsequiousness and cologne.

Sit, said Mr Gyfford. He was a rumbling man with tiger-stripes of grey in his white mane. His fingers pinched the wireframe of his pince-nez and lifted the lenses from his eyes.

William Bumard.

Yes, sir, said the tall, sallow clerk.

And Daniel Gleason?

That’s right, said the short, blonde man. But you can call me Nop. I rather prefer it. Most of my friends do, on account of an incident in prep school, where the head kept a bottle of Old Noppletot in his cabinet, and...

Thank you for the clarification, Mr Gleason, Gyfford said, with a voice like cracking ice. I’ll cut straight to it, gentlemen. We are looking to lose staff.

William’s face drained a whiter shade of pale.

How many, sir?

Two.

Oh, oh, God, sir. No, sir, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost this job, sir. I–

Nop hit his workmate in the knee. He couldn’t abide excessive genuflection.

Mr Gyfford, what my colleague is trying to say is that we have made a life for ourselves in Landan. We must pay for lodgings and hobbies and we both hope for our prospects to improve. They are more likely to do so at an esteemed law firm like Bifkin, Gyfford and Gooch than if we are clerks to some grim usurer or book-keeper.

I understand this, Mr Gleason, but the problem remains. Most of our employees are family men, breadwinners. You two are young bachelors, flexible and lithe. You will adapt.

Sir, perhaps if I explain our situation. William here is the son of a vicar, one of the more prescriptive sects outside the Gnostic tradition, a man who commanded great respect but little capital. His death was a noted tragedy.

In fact, Nop knew full well that his colleague was the son of a clergyman who died in harness; in the pulpit, in fact. He'd fallen with a seizure and his congregation had not intervened, believing the mild vicar had been visited by the Spirit of the Lord, in the ostentatious and unexpected style of the evangelists. In fact, he was having a grand mal and died farting and foaming in front of his flock, much to the embarrassment of everyone. William hadn’t inherited anything from his father except for a sonorous voice and a persistent feeling of mild guilt.

Nop also had a shrewd idea that any admission of impoverishment was unlikely to sway the members of the board, but they had no other weapon.

He continued, We have no savings, no inheritance and no recourse. You are a known philanthropist, sir. Surely you could see it in your heart to keep employing us? We do our work to a satisfactory standard.

A general report indicates you are not entirely incompetent, and some people do hide their light under a bushel. Then again, Mr Knobgloat insists there is rather less to you than meets the eye.

That’s simply not true, sir, said Nop.

Mr Gyfford steepled his fingers.

Thank you, sir, said Nop. He rose to leave but William remained pasted to his chair, his face sagging in misery. Nop nudged him.

Come on, chum. It’s lunchtime. We should fortify ourselves before we set to the challenge.

Let me see... if you, in the space of the next fortnight, can balance the books by either recruiting new clients or reducing the debt owed by our current crop, I may consider extending your contracts. If not, then your employment will be terminated. Your legal exams are already paid for and pending, so you will be expected to sit them. If you make a laudable but unsuccessful attempt at preserving your jobs then you will at least have qualifications and a letter of recommendation when you leave your employment.

Nop, naturally, was drawn to the pub, where he settled his nerves with three pints of ale and a meat pie. He returned to the office to work until 5pm, and upon leaving, he found William moping outside. The lanky young man perched on the wall, morosely watching a hackney cab horse drop comets of steaming dung on the cobbles. Nop thought William’s face would be improved if it lost its persistent hangdog woefulness and the hint of bitter piety.

"Everything’s awful, William moaned, as Nop retrieved a beef and pickle sandwich from a pocket, bit into it and belched. We’re going to lose our jobs. We’re going to go into hock, and I’ll end up rotting in a debtor’s prison. You’ll fetch up at the workhouse, or else you’ll have to pimp my arse until I catch the clap and my bits fall off; then you’ll turn to thieving to fund your beer and whoring and get caught with your hands in a charity box, whereupon the judge will take one look at you, don the black kerchief and we’ll both swing, just because I had the bad luck to be with you when the arrest was made, and eventually some resurrectionist will dig both of us up, the doctors will cut apart our bodies and sew us together and I’ll never be rid of you."

Stop grousing. You’d love to be stuck inside me. Anyway, I know how we can bring our profits up.

Oh?

While you’ve been bashing the books, Willy, I’ve been nobbling the numbers.

Don’t call me Willy.

Our biggest debtor is the Whistful estate, Willy, said Nop, blithely undeterred. Lord Whistful drowned several years ago during a Penny-farthing race and since then we have been trying to sort out his probate. Unfortunately, his daughter is disputing the will, which is lodged with us and guarantees our fees once its contents are disposed of. She’s saying it is out of date. This has delayed the process significantly and we cannot issue a bill until it’s concluded. No doubt our masters Bifkin, Gyfford and Gooch have some debits of their own to sort out in the interval and are making savings to bridge the gap. Our careers are merely collateral damage.

So...?

So we simply have to persuade his daughter to show us the new will, ascertain its veracity and settle her account. Then our fortunes will be secured, for now.

Oh, that’s all, is it?

Yes.

You do know the lady is a well-known invalid and is a most tragic shut-in? That she withdrew from Society? That she communicates with our firm only by letter?

Yes, this is to our advantage.

Why?

Because she must be ripe and throbbing for some good company.

They set off immediately.

There was bustle in the streets, much of it to do with the impending Jubilee. Shopkeepers balanced on stepladders, slicking paint onto storefronts, hoardings and signs, freshening up on the off-chance the royal carriage might roll that way in a few day's time, leading the long-time rulers of the Shyles to cast a royal eye over the humble establishments. Nop enjoyed the febrility. There was something thrilling about the current atmosphere of Landan. It was on a knife-edge between excitement and panic.

The crowds thinned out as they entered the more rarefied districts.

Lady Vividia Whistful lived in a crumbling Gothic pile on the edge of Rantallion Crescent. The house was a dramatic sight, with shattered, slumping turrets, walls of black granite and slim, sky-stretching windows. It sat in a vast, straggling garden that William wandered through in a state of wonder. He gazed, wide-eyed, at tangles of brambles and dark foliage. Nop opened a little wooden gate and as he brushed against one bush, it gave off a heavy perfume. Further in, there was a small pond. Crowns of white lilies sprayed the air with a sweet, funereal scent. Roses with thorny stems clawed at their clothes and snagged their socks, while leaves tickled their ankles.

Stop staring at plants and watch where you’re stepping, said Nop as his colleague tripped over the crazy paving.

Nop knocked on the huge, iron-studded door, using a heavy brass handle cast in the shape of a staring fish.

There was no response.

Let’s go, said William, but Nop wouldn’t have it. He hammered vigorously on the black-painted wood.

Please stop, said William, after a protracted pataflafla against the door. Nop turned to tell his colleague to shut up and continued knocking. He didn’t see the door open. His knuckles came down for another strike and cracked on the butler’s forehead.

Oh, good God, so sorry, said William.

Next time, said the butler, with great dignity, sir might make use of the doorbell.

Then Nop noticed the long chain.

We’re here to see Lady Vividia Whistful, said Nop, unrepentant as usual. Messirs Bumard and Gleason, representing Bifkin...

We have been expecting you, said the butler, once he had straightened his glasses. The lady will receive you in the parlour.

The lady can receive me wherever she likes, said Nop, with a rakish smile.

MEANWHILE, A TALL MAN in a grey coat made his way to Landan in a rattling carriage. He was on his own as the other passengers had, one by one, decided there were better ways to travel that day; ways that did not involve sharing a tight space with him. He reopened the letter, which was of watermarked paper that smelled very faintly of juniper. The message read:

We need to up production. Bringing you in. Use whatever incentives you wish. Destroy this.

The carriage went over a bump and the paper shivered in his fingers. They were long, beautiful fingers, the kind you might find on a professional pianist, except that musicians tend to look after their hands, and these were marred with silvery lines and notches. Casually, he drew out an extremely keen knife, the blade honed to an edge so fine it was painful to look at, and he sliced the letter into tiny pieces.

Chapter 2: Lost, Stolen or Strayed

William

NVD%20chapter%20images/02%20-%20eye.jpg

WILLIAM AND NOP FOLLOWED the butler through a warren of dim corridors and into a parlour. It was dark, with black paper on the walls and a blood red carpet. Lady Vividia Whistful reclined on a chaise longue, artistically framed by velvet drapes. Her skin was sun-starved and wan, her face angular and her hair was white-streaked ebony. A long, slim arm emerged from a tasselled shawl, and a fine veil obscured her eyes and brow.

William fell in love with her immediately.

Mr Gleason and Mr Bumard, madam, said the butler. He retired to an unobtrusive nook.

Do pull up a chair each, said the mistress of her house. Her voice held tones of dark coffee and grey silk. I would rise, but I am, as you know, indisposed.

We’ve come about– Nop blurted. William cut him off with a swift, sharp elbow to the sternum. One of the most infuriating things about Nop was his total disregard for deference and decorum. William, a stickler for hierarchies, thought that if his colleague had a Quality, it was the ability to offend an entire room without trying.

Lady Vividia, William began, but she waved a hand.

I mislike that title. I am more than my father’s daughter. I am the last remaining Whistful and I would prefer to be referred to as such.

Lady Whistful, William said. Thank you so much for meeting with us. We are very grateful. Our hope is we can settle the delicate matter of your father’s will to the mutual satisfaction of all parties.

Her thin, berry-purple lips curved and William almost fainted on the spot. He took off his hat and clutched the rim for comfort.

Of course, she purred. Please, call me Vividia.

Um, said William, with supreme reluctance. If you consider that proper?

I do.

He moved his hat over his crotch.

I have a copy of the disputed documents with me, he said, hoarsely. He used his spare hand to beckon to Nop, who passed the briefcase over. William tried to open it one-handed, juggling the top hat and case. The hat fell to the rug. He lifted the case to cover the straining cloth of his trousers and fumbled with the clasps.

Lady Whistful made a dismissive gesture. She had, he noticed, very eloquent hands.

This concerns me very little.

But...

I have a confession to make, gentlemen. I am unable, for obvious reasons, to conduct enquiries into an issue that much vexes my heart. I require the services of a man, or men, of a resourceful nature. I thought an intelligent lawyer would have the connections and mind I require. I delayed contacting your firm because I wished to see proof of initiative.

We’re not actually– began Nop, who received a second elbow.

What’s the task? said William.

It is rather a delicate matter, said Lady Whistful. She shifted slightly to unhook a necklace and offered William the locket. Inside, there was a miniature of a handsome, sensitive-looking man with a tumble of dark hair, a beauty spot and long eyelashes. William hated him at once.

I believe that this man may know the root and cause of one of my current afflictions.

Your afflictions, my lady? William began.

Bring the light. Come, approach.

William, who felt most comfortable obeying orders, did so. He knelt beside her, holding a candelabra.

She lifted the veil and he saw her eyes. They spilled, tears oozing over the rims of her eyelids. Red threads fractured the whites. The skin around them was raw and scalded. Her eyelashes were crusted with salt. Her face looked as though it was coated in glass.

Oh my, said William. I have a handkerchief somewhere.

There’s no use. I weep regardless of the circumstances. I have cried for nine months without stopping. I am obliged to keep a jug of water by my side at all times, lest I dry out. I endure a mortal craving for salt. It began the last time I set eyes on Mordecai Auslander and has never stopped.

And you want us to...

Find him, yes.

Do you have a Quality? said Nop, tactlessly. William fought the urge to strangle his colleague. One did not discuss Qualities. They were private things, taboo, and as fit for polite conversation as human sewage or sexual congress. The knowledge that some people had a rare and sometimes disadvantageous strangeness was widely shared and unspoken. Nop, however, blathered on.

I know, he said, with the subtlety of trombone solo. If you have a Quality, then that is why you withdrew from society. Rejected and shunned, you drew your curtains, watched the shadows lengthen and let the dust grow thick. That’s why your house is so...

No, Lady Whistful said. I just like it better this way.

Oh.

William twisted with embarrassment. He wondered how many elbowings he would get away with.

Truth be told, I am not inclined to worry unduly about society. I find the parts that hold the most interest tend to come to me. I am not at home to loss and heartbreak, said the admirable Vividia. But I wish to be rid of this infernal, interminable weeping-sickness. Find him, find Mordecai Auslander, and I may find the cure. If he is beyond reach, then I will simply have to learn to live with the condition. Either way, I would rather be in full possession of the facts.

William was torn between refusal and prostrating himself on the floor and declaring he would crawl to the other side of the world for her, if she demanded it. But Nop spoke first.

All we have to do is find him, or show you that he can’t be found, then you’ll release the will and our funds?

Indeed.

That is blackmail.

It’s bargaining, Mr Gleason.

We could sue you for non-payment, especially after this conversation.

But that would take so long, Vividia Whistful drew out the vowels into something close to a growl.

We would never do that, William fawned.

"We might," said Nop.

William seized his colleague’s arm and whisper-hissed, "Suing clients