The Petticoat Katie Trilogy

By Vita Tugwell

Behold the world of Petticoat Katie and Sledgehammer Girl!

In a parallel universe, this is how 1908 would look – eccentric inventors, militant Suffragettes, cute little airships zipping across England and a hundred monkeys jammed into an office in Piccadilly typing Penny Dreadfuls by the dozen.

Petticoat Katie, outrageous flirt and hopeless with numbers, fumbles her way through romantic entanglements and dodgy adventures like a poodle with a hangover looking for its next biscuit.

Sledgehammer Girl – substantial, imposing, blunt as a rubber mallet – prefers gadgets over people and takes no nonsense from either, especially when they get between her and a decent cup of tea.

Together, the two housemates and their equally-loveable friends face the perils of outrageous fortune-tellers, midnight gardeners, flamboyant performers in the Cabinet of Curiosities, exploding bicycles, the most potent peppermint creams in London and the Wickedest Man In The World.

The first three Petticoat Katie novels in one giant volume. All titles available separately - MAIDEN FLIGHT, BOOM TOWN, MONKEY BUSINESS.

Silly steampunk at its finest!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee McAulay
• Release date: Aug 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005788032

Vita Tugwell

Vita Tugwell is a 21st Century Suffragette. She lives in England in spite of its dreadful weather and light romantic comedies and partakes, often, of High Tea. She wishes ill fortune upon the person or persons unknown who have stolen her bicycle.Yes, she is currently working on the third novel in the Petticoat Katie & Sledgehammer Girl series, in between chocolate bourbons.

Book preview

Chapter One

Petticoat Katie stood in the Tea Room of the Royal Society, teacup and saucer in hand and a tiny biscuit perched on the edge of the china, at the end of the Edison Lecture. Her dark hair hung down her back in lazy ringlets, tied back with a green ribbon from a box of peppermint creams, and her loose dress gave her a bohemian air that her stout boots could not dispel, no matter how tightly she laced them.

She glanced around trying to spot her housemates.

The redoubtable Miss Victoria Templeman, otherwise known as Sledgehammer Girl on account of her manners and bearing, and Mr Darius Fitzgerald – a dapper chap of less-than-average height and build and with matinee idol looks of the sort described by the popular press as swarthy – were nowhere to be seen.

Katie tutted. Their enthusiasm was the only reason she’d agreed to attend the dratted event – all right, their enthusiasm and the promise of Free Refreshments – and for them to have abandoned her in the Tea Room surrounded by strangers was A Bit Off.

The members of the Royal Society stood chatting with each other and Thomas Edison stood off to the side of the impromptu stage with a group of admirers jostling each other in their eagerness to engage him in conversation. The crowd were mainly male, mainly engineers, and mainly ignoring her.

This was not a situation to which Katie was accustomed.

She had, however, learned not to expect much more from the Royal Society lectures, Free Refreshments or otherwise. Her horror of mathematics ran so deep that she preferred being ignored if the alternative was talking about squiggles and Greek.

Normally the sort of woman who stood around waiting to be noticed, she knew from past experience that amongst the inventors and bodgers assembled in the halls of the Royal Society she might wait a considerable while for a conversation unless she initiated it herself.

She gravitated to the cake stand and helped herself to tea. From that vantage point, Katie sidled up to the only other member of the esteemed community she recognised. Mr Bazalgette, I presume?

Beside her the large bulk of Otto Bazalgette, who had blotted out her view of the podium earlier in the evening, swayed a little, and the face of the Wiltshire inventor beamed down at her through an immense beard, which had not been quite so immense the last time the pair had met. Miss Fellowes, he said with a voice that rattled the windows. How delightful! Are you here on your own?

She shook her head. I was about to ask you the same question.

He balanced his own teacup in the palm of one hand while he patted his pockets with the other, as if searching for something. Alas, yes, he said. The Sibyl has limited room for passengers, as you know.

He withdrew a small silver teaspoon from one pocket - its business end mostly flat and pierced in an unusual pattern - and stirred his tea with an elaborate swirling motion, no doubt the result of hours of study to devise the most efficient manner of dispersing the sugar into the liquid.

Otto was that kind of man. He was an Inventor. His out-of-season tweed three-piece always looked a little too small and slightly crumpled, even if his shirt-collars were immaculate and his pockets filled with spanners.

You travelled here by airship? said Katie, her mind picturing the rather natty little vessel with which she had been acquainted the previous autumn. Her straw bonnet had still not recovered from the trip to Wiltshire to investigate peculiar weather patterns.

He nodded.

I thought it - the Sibyl, you say? - she was quite roomy. There was room enough for Victoria, at least, without the rest of us suffering. And you too, Mr B, she thought as she glanced up at him.

For a brief moment, she pictured herself in flagrante with Otto Bazalgette - as was her habitual practice upon making the acquaintance of a new man in her social circle, Katie being nothing more than a flirt with an eye for adventures of her own - and she was immediately put in mind of the mahouts at Mr Camembert’s circus, those wiry Burmese perched atop the performing elephants as they danced around the ring in tutus, balancing on their hind legs with a rubber ball beneath them. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.

Otto Bazalgette beamed. I’ve made some adjustments since then, I’m afraid. Is - is Miss Templeman with you? He paused just a little too long before adding, And your other housemate whose name I’ve forgotten - Mario?

Darius, she corrected him. Darius Fitzgerald. He’s over there talking to Michael Faraday. Her mind had hooked onto that little pause that Otto had inserted before he asked about Darius. It’s as if he’s covering something up, she thought, her Fortean senses always looking for the unusual. She had a good idea what it was.

Ah, yes, he said, craning his neck, although there was no need. He towered over Katie, a slender bear of a man, his jacket bulging as if he hid enthusiasm in the seams. A small flicker of interest lit up his eyes for a brief moment, then was suppressed and replaced with thinly-disguised dismay.

Ping! A light-bulb went on in Katie’s head. She followed his gaze surreptitiously as she bit into the little biscuit - it turned out to be a wafer of the Belgian sort, and not entirely as crisp as it ought to have been - to see Sledgehammer Girl engaged in conversation with a man not much smaller than Otto. Who’s that with Victoria? she asked, and masked her sly grin with another nibble of the biscuit.

Otto shook himself, not quite convincingly enough, and made a show of looking over at the pair. I believe it’s Mr Edison’s assistant, he said, his voice brittle.

So it is, said Katie. Mr Bruce.

Is that his name? Otto almost hissed. He stared over at the pair on the other side of the room. His fingers curled around the edge of the saucer that rested in his palm.

Katie feared for its survival. Bruce Bruce, she said with a smile, and patted him on the arm. Shame his parents couldn’t afford another name for him, don’t you think?

She glanced over once more to where Victoria stood talking to Bruce Bruce. The American stood a little back from her substantial friend and Katie recognised the overwhelming vigour Victoria brought to a conversation in which she was enthusiastically engaged.

Victoria’s straw boater, perched on her up-bunned hair, bobbed its little serge ribbon the way a duck flaps its tail. Her broad shoulders heaved under her second-best blouse, almost tugging the hem out of the waistband of her long black skirt. The larger woman’s gestures filled the space between her and the American, as expansive as a semaphore operator signalling for urgent aid while holding a teacup and a carpet-bag.

Something more awkward than usual in Victoria’s stance set Katie’s Fortean senses twitching like a Galvanised frog.

She turned to Otto with a simpering glance which she usually employed to either save a few minutes in her ongoing engagement with a new male acquaintance or gain a few minutes worth of thinking time. Mr Bazalgette, do tell - what have you done to the Sibyl since last we parted?

Otto blinked and shook his head as if distracted. He smiled down at her, his eyes dark and hooded and still ringed with the impression of his flying-goggles. You’ll think me an awful bore, he said, If I start banging on about airships and suchlike.

Not at all, Mr Bazalgette. I only wish Victoria were here to discuss the tribulations of the Sibyl with us. I’m sure she’d be fascinated.

Otto rumbled on about brass trimmings and gas tanks and air bags and altitude, while Katie made appreciative noises at appropriate pauses in the conversation and sipped her tea, using the movement to watch Victoria and Bruce Bruce interact on the other side of the room.

Victoria, acting entirely out of character, was also living up to her nickname in spectacular fashion. Mr Bruce, she gushed in a tone that surprised and irritated her while she spoke, That was a simply fascinating lecture. Will you tell Mr Edison as much, on my behalf?

Certainly, ma’am, drawled the American. His face was square with a little blond beard that barely broke the surface of his skin, and he scanned the room with his eyes while he talked, as if constantly expecting someone more interesting to appear and interrupt the conversation in which he was currently involved, no matter whether he was talking to someone he found intensely fascinating or an utter bore. He was doing it now. Who shall I say is interested? he said with the briefest of glances in her direction.

Victoria found her breath caught in her substantial chest, somewhere between her foundation garment and her most recent chocolate bourbon. Hold this, she said and handed him her teacup as if she’d been doing it for years while she popped open her carpet bag with both hands. I’ve got my card somewhere. She put one hand in and rummaged, but gave up in frustration. Too much junk in here, she smiled, shrugging, and rather annoyed with her own helplessness.

She started to empty the bag. Out came a shifting spanner which she tucked under one arm, then a suite of tiny screwdrivers in a case that fitted behind her left ear, and then with a blush she brought out the Derringer which Darius had once made her carry on a surprise trip to Inverness the previous year. Ah-hah! she said, spotting a slim packet of visiting cards at the bottom of the bag.

At a loss to where to put the Derringer that she might reach into the bag for the cards, she gripped it between her teeth. She fished out the cards and replaced everything in the bag.

Only then did she notice the hush that had fallen over the room. The only noise in the Royal Society Tea Room was the hiss of the tea-kettle over on the stand with the Free Refreshments.

Over on the other side of the room, Katie stood with her face buried in a gloved hand.

Victoria, the Derringer still between her teeth, glanced around. Everyone else was staring at her.

Including the man next to Katie, whom Victoria was certain she recognised even at that distance.

Miss Templeman, said the voice of Bruce Bruce beside her, his hand gently pressing her arm.

Mmph? she said, distracted, and removed the Derringer from her mouth. Here’s my card. For some reason she felt flushed, even as the room began to murmur again and the conversation’s warm buzz surrounded her once more.

She held out her calling-card to Mr Bruce, who plucked it from her fingers without making contact.

That’s quite a firearm for a little lady, he said with a twinkle in his room-scanning eyes.

Victoria felt herself blushing even as she bristled at his description of her. It was partly true, because next to him she supposed she was little, but there was hardly anyone else in the room she didn’t overwhelm. Except that man who’s over there with Katie, she thought, peering again at the bearded giant on the other side of the room.

Can you handle it?

What?

Bruce Bruce took her by the elbow, a gentle pinching manoeuvre that steered her gently away from the podium and any opportunity she might have of talking to Mr Edison. I was given the impression that handguns are not popular in Britain - far less than required, at any rate. Yet here I am in the centre of London, the world’s most civilised city, in the company of a young lady who has a Derringer in her handbag. He smiled, a dazzling array of expensive dentistry gleaming while his eyes refused to join in. I find that rather intriguing.

Oh really? she gushed, her momentary embarrassment vanishing under the power of his praise. It’s just something a - friend - gave me. She packed the gun away in her bag and replaced the spanner and miniature screwdriver set on top of it.

Bruce Bruce handed back her cup-and-saucer with an amused look on his face. I’m impressed. Would you care to come out with me to the ranges for practice tomorrow?

Me? she thought. Her blunt approach to life’s challenges surfaced once more from an unfamiliar puddle of girlishness and broke for air. Certainly, she said, her recent fluster forgotten under a deluge of common sense. You can show me how to use it.

I’d be delighted, he said, and tucked her visiting card into his wallet. For Mr Edison, he said with a wink. He took that opportunity to excuse himself from the conversation, leaving her on her own with a cold cup of tea in one hand and the incriminating carpet-bag dangling from the other.

She jutted her chin out and straightened her shoulders and sipped the tea nonetheless as she watched Bruce Bruce work the crowd away from her. She was irritated by his abrupt departure, but a small part of her was confused and disappointed and also strangely exhilarated when she remembered his invitation.

On the other side of the room, Katie peeked out from behind her hand. What is she doing now? she asked Otto. Can I look yet?

It’s fine, he said, a hint of tetchiness in his voice. She’s put it away.

What was she thinking? she asked under her breath.

Otto replied with a distracted, sullen silence, his mouth set in a thin crimson line amongst his bushy black beard. She really is rather remarkable, in her own way, isn’t she?

Katie glanced up at him. She felt no threat from his demeanour, more a gentle pity now she’d worked out why he was so glum. I suppose Mr Bruce thought she might be a Suffragette, she said, attempting to make light of the event.

A Suffragette? he asked, turning towards her sharply. And why not, indeed?

Oh, you know, she said quickly, The popular press would have us believe that all the women of Britain are dangerous and subversive and desperate to pervert the Houses of Parliament.

I should think so too, he said in a firm voice, although it was barely a whisper. It’s what they need. And women like Miss Templeman ought not to be ashamed of it, if such are their political convictions.

Mr Bazalgette, you surprise me, she said, touching his arm in a gesture of affection. I’m sure Victoria would be pleased to hear such sentiments.

Really?

I’m sure of it, she replied, amused. Is he really bouncing on his toes? she thought.

A little voice in her head replied, Yes.

Shortly followed by, Well, well.

Once more she was reminded of the elephants in Mr Camembert’s circus, the wiry Burmese mahouts perched on top of the prancing pachyderms in much the same way as a monkey sat on an organ-grinder’s barrel. The image was not a romantic one, but it served to remind her of Mr Camembert, the man with more nipples than normal, and her mouth tingled with remembrance of their previous meeting in his Cabinet Of Curiosities when she and Victoria were investigating the Missing Mermaid of Scipio Jones.

Mr Camembert she certainly could picture herself perched on top of, his extra nipples be damned.

Excuse me, she said to Otto, and went off in search of an eclair with which to refresh her memory of the occasion.

The lady in the queue ahead of Katie was dressed entirely in the New Black, which is to say top-to-toe, from her slender feathered hat to her slender-slippered shoes and all between sheathed in black taffeta tailoring so sharp it would have your eye out as soon as look at you. A three-foot length of what looked like blueprints rolled into a scroll under one spiky elbow, the woman was so slender she had no right to eat cream buns like the normal population.

From under her folded hat a cropped halo of golden curls escaped, no doubt formed with the latest of fashionable hair-tongs. The bright electric lights of the Royal Society Tea Room rendered the coiffure incandescent. The effect was breathtaking.

Not quite so breathtaking, in Katie’s consideration, as the motion the woman made towards the last chocolate eclair on the cake stand. I say, said Katie, tapping her on one angular elbow in the hope of diverting her from the refreshments, Wasn’t that a fascinating lecture?

The woman turned sharply, her face as angular as the rest of her. Pardon?

I said, wasn’t that fascinating?

I suppose so, said the woman with a curt laugh, and turned back towards the eclair. She levered it mercilessly onto a little plate with the aid of a pair of silver tongs in the shape of a frog which she dropped back onto the cake stand amongst the custard slices .

That’s mine, thought Katie spitefully. Get your hands off it!

I did think he went on a bit much, though, said the other woman with a brittle smile. In her gloved hand the cake-plate tilted at an alarming angle, the eclair only clinging to the surface with the aid of a dribble of sticky icing.

Katherine Fellowes, said Katie, holding out her hand in introduction. I’m always pleased to make the acquaintance of another member of the fair sex at these events. It was a fib, but she didn’t care. She was more concerned with the plate in the other woman’s hand and the gentle glide of the eclair towards the lip.

Ethel Fitch, said the lady, her handshake like a wet cloth. I suppose.

Was that the last eclair? said Katie in what she hoped sounded like a dismayed tone, and not the irked one she actually felt.

Looks like it, said Ethel with a tiny smirk of triumph. I’m going to enjoy this, if you know what I mean.

You and I are ladies of the world, Ms Fitch, said Katie, trying hard to smile.

Verily, said Ethel, her teeth already tugging at the fingertips of her right-hand glove, that she might tackle the bun bare-handed. Her eyes had a determined gleam and she licked her lips. Excuse me, she said with a nod of her head in acknowledgement, another smirk directed towards Katie’s empty little plate, and turned to go.

Katie waved goodbye to the eclair with a sigh.

Ethel! Darling!, cried a man’s voice just behind her in the queue, and a man’s hand snaked out towards the angular woman. He plucked the bun from Ethel’s plate, the rest of him followed the hand and the voice into view, and his face enveloped the eclair in two swift bites.

Ditto! You rascal! Ethel Fitch whirled round and slapped the man on the top of his greasy head.

Katie half expected her hand to shatter. She glanced at the newcomer and realised, with a nauseous lurch of her stomach, that she recognised him.

His tight grey curls receding across his pink forehead as if ashamed to be seen with him, his spectacles grubby and his down-at-heel clothing patched at the elbows - all indicative of the nature of the man whom she and Victoria had encountered in Piccadilly in a sordid little tale of publishing and exploitation. She had unappealing memories of the man, and here he was at the Royal Society, stealing a chocolate eclair which was rightfully hers and reminding her of his existence.

Dr Sloth! said Katie, unable to disguise her disgust. All thoughts of cream buns soured as he turned towards her, his thin pink tongue searching on his chin for stray cream that might have escaped the onslaught of his gluttony.

You! he said with a greedy grin. Well, well, well.

You know each other? asked Ethel, reaching once more for the cream buns on the table behind her, apparently not at all disappointed by the rogue theft of her eclair - not as disappointed as Katie, at any rate.

Dr Sloth shrugged. His jacket might have creaked under the effort. A yellow stain around the collar of his shirt indicated it needed a good wash. He had a banana in his top pocket where an ordinary man would keep a handkerchief, and a line of pale stubble shadowed his cheeks. We’ve met, he said to Ethel with a louche grin as he slipped the rolled-up blueprints from under her elbow. She’s another satisfied customer of Sloth Enterprises.

Ethel giggled and slapped him playfully on the shoulder, her sharp eyes never leaving Katie’s face.

Katie’s appetite had retreated beyond the bounds of the conversation. She had only met the man once before, at his offices in Piccadilly, when she had returned to him a trashy novelette published by his outfit and discovered his authors were all monkeys, chained to typewriters, in an airless room above a Chinese sweatshop. She cleared her throat. Are you still publishing those awful novelettes, Dr Sloth?

He leered at her. Are you still buying them?

She had no reply ready. She pursed her lips in disapproval.

Ditto Sloth unrolled the blueprints a few inches, nodded and tucked the papers under his own arm like a sergeant-major’s baton. I’m always delighted, he said in a voice oozing oily charm, To meet a member of the public with such a keen interest in my work.

Katie bristled. Your business is an outrage to all who care about literature – and liberty!

Think you can do better? He laughed, a harsh sound with no humour in it, licked the corner of his mouth with undue wetness and waltzed off into the crowd with Ethel Fitch, smirking over his shoulder, his hand on the tall woman’s bony hip. Remember Miss Fuscata? he called, causing others nearby to stare first at him, then at her.

She felt quite queasy all of a sudden. Miss Fuscata was the author of the novelette she’d thrown back at him in displeasure, and he’d shown her the monkey’s mummified head in a case behind his desk, side by side with a dozen others, their little lips stitched together to prevent one last complaint.

Katie withdrew from the queue for cream buns and went in search of Victoria and Darius, that they might take the last omnibus home together. Right now she felt the need for company.

Chapter Two

Four days later, Sledgehammer Girl sat in the parlour of 36a Centaur Street with a look on her face which Petticoat Katie had never seen before, did not like, and did not want to see again.

What’s up? asked Katie as she removed her outdoor clothing in the hallway. It had rained on her way home from the bank where she had deposited that month’s rent payment - split three ways, equitably, of course - and her coat and boots were soaked. Ironically, by the time she got off the omnibus at the end of the street the sun was out again.

Victoria said nothing. The look continued.

It was not directed at anything that Katie could see, only the empty occasional table in front of the settee. It wasn’t even directed at her crochet-bag, the usual target for such looks of vile distaste. But this one was stronger, more fierce, and after such a long silence that the tap in the kitchenette dripped, and nobody said anything, Katie began to feel just a tad concerned. She crept downstairs to the cellar and knocked on the sheet-metal door.

After a few moments, the roar of the blowtorch inside subsided and she heard Darius step off his high stool, then his light footsteps tapped across the floor and the latch on the inside of the door flipped with a gentle, well-oiled click. It swung open and his perky little face poked out. What’s up? he asked, in mirror of her question to Victoria.

I was about to ask you the same question, said Katie. May I come in?

He nodded and stood to one side to let her through the door. He closed it behind her but did not lock it.

Katie peered around her. The cellar was bright, its skylight open to the street and an additional arc light cast by one of Darius’s inventions which she decided she need know nothing further about. He cleared a second stool of its detritus – some kind of clockwork mechanism that pinged and tock-tocked as he picked it up – to allow her somewhere to sit.

It’s Victoria.

Yes, he said. His dark eyes were downcast but not dismayed. With his sallow complexion, it gave him an air of seriousness that was not merited by his character. Almost as delicate of form as Katie, his constitution was nonetheless strong and his arms had the wiry muscles of the hands-on inventor. While they spoke he patted the pockets of his brown canvas dust-coat as if searching for some forgotten tool or instrument which, when it was located, might just as easily turn out to be not what was required for the task after all. Yes, it’s Victoria.

What, then? Katie perched on the stool most carefully. The cellar workshop was a small space, made smaller by countless gadgets and tools and springy clockwork items of dubious intent. She had also not forgotten the safety-related incident of the previous year which resulted in a temporary change in Victoria’s appearance.

He nodded towards a plain wooden box on the worktop. That, he said.

Katie recognised it, although there was no pattern on it and the shape was reminiscent of a cigar-box from one of the finer Estates. The Derringer?

He nodded.

She pursed her lips and crossed her slender arms across her ribcage. Tell me, then.

Mr Edison’s assistant took Victoria out to the firing range, he said. She’s never fired the Derringer, and thought she might have a shot, if you’ll pardon the pun. He grinned.

Never fired it? she asked. I thought she took it with us to Scotland when we investigated all those missing lake monsters.

She did. I think it was more for bravado than anything else. She’d never actually thought about using it.

And this afternoon she did.

Darius nodded again. He poked his index finger into a pencil-pocket on the breast of his lab coat and winced. When he withdrew the finger it brought a stubby pencil with it, tucked under the nail.

I’m going to guess that she did not enjoy the experience.

You’ll be right.

So now what?

She asked me to destroy it, said Darius breezily. I said no.

Katie refused to ask him why. She was uneasy at the prospect of having a firearm in the house, but Darius had no such qualms, and she wasn’t interested in an argument that morning. Is that why she’s sitting in the parlour staring violent death at the occasional table? It’s as if she wants it to sprout legs and leap at her so she can tear its throat out.

Darius grinned. He removed the pencil stub from under his fingernail, sucked the pain out of the digit and tucked the stub behind his right ear. Maybe she’s thinking.

About murdering the furniture? I doubt it, she said. But I don’t feel safe in there with her.

Oh, I should think you’ll be fine, said Darius. She was so shaken by the experience I don’t think she’s spoken since she got back.

Katie drew a deep breath to reply. She was interrupted by the sound of movement in the room upstairs, closely followed by the front door being slammed and heavy footsteps receding down the front steps and along the pavement outside. She glanced at Darius, rushed out of the cellar and up the stairs. Victoria? she called as she ran.

There was no reply.

When Katie entered the parlour it was empty - relatively speaking, there being no occupants, although the furniture was still intact and her crochet bag and stash of peppermint creams had not been sabotaged in the slightest. She heard Darius start up the stairs, then turn around and retreat to the cellar. The door down there closed firmly in its frame and the lock slithered shut.

She picked up a peppermint cream and let it dissolve, slowly, on her tongue in a most uncharacteristic manner, while she pondered the mood of her substantial friend. Victoria, she asked herself, puzzled, What’s got into you?

Later that evening – very much later - Darius retired to bed leaving Katie alone in the parlour with yet another racy novelette of the sort of which she was so fond. Shallow of plot and stuffed with equally shallow characters, the paperback teemed with plenty of what the publishers called action and the popular press was wont to label smut, which distinction bothered Katie not in the slightest. She believed that what one got up to in the privacy of one’s own home was nobody’s business but one’s own, with a nod of propriety towards one’s housemates.

She had almost finished both the novelette and the bag of peppermint creams when the front door opened, and from the hallway came the sound of something large and unwieldy being forced through the door-frame.

Katie listened to a whole series of sighs and grunts and puffings, accompanied by the scraping of something mechanical along the skirting-board at the side of the hallway closest to the parlour. She winced as she thought of the damage that might be wrought upon the paintwork and prayed for the safety of the stained-glass panel in the front door. She resisted the urge to assist.

Being tiny of frame and loath to exert herself for anything that did not involve handsome men in compromising situations, she figured that, if Victoria was having trouble manoeuvring whatever-it-was into the house, nothing that Katie might offer in the way of assistance was likely to be of any use. And from the alarming behaviour of earlier that day, Katie judged it wiser to let her large friend approach any conversation on her own terms.

So she let Victoria wrestle whatever-it-was into the house alone, and waited. The tension was even more exciting than page 93 of her Penny Dreadful, her place in the book held with a crocheted marker. She scoffed another peppermint cream and tucked her feet under the hem of her dress.

To judge by the slow deliberations and mild curses being muttered in the hallway Katie surmised that her substantial friend was in a better mood than when she’d departed. Victoria had a natural tendency to grumpiness and very few pastimes brightened that demeanour, mainly involving hammers and steam. Probably three hours in the Working Men’s Free Library reading ‘Amateur Airship’ magazine, thought Katie with a gentle smile.

She heard the door to the cellar stairs being popped open and then, with further exertions, the sounds of Victoria descending to the subterranean chamber with the new addition to the household gadgets, slowly, one step at a time.

Katie rose from the chair and listened at the parlour door. When she was certain that Victoria had reached the final obstacle - the cellar’s steel door - she crept into the tiny kitchenette that lay behind a curtain in the parlour, put the kettle on to heat and brewed up a pot of chamomile tea. She poured a cup for herself and left the lights on before stealing away to bed.

From the security of her room on the upper floor Katie heard Victoria’s grumpy complaint when she returned to the hallway, somewhat lightened of burden, at whoever had been so lazy as to leave the lights on in the parlour. Shortly followed by a silence, the pouring of tea into a china cup and the chink of a Garibaldi biscuit being removed from a plate.

Katie listened as Victoria locked up the house, switched off the lights and made her way up the stairs. The solid footsteps paused on the landing, just outside Katie’s door, then hurried along the corridor to Victoria’s room.

Followed, not quite fast enough to be concealed, by a large, stifled sob.

Chapter Three

The following morning Katie arrived in the parlour fresh from her ablutions to find Darius tiptoeing around the breakfast table in dressing-gown and slippers.

Victoria, in her full work clothes and her hair bunned as tight as humanly possible, sulked in a corner sucking the butter off a piece of toast. She scowled at the table in front of her.

Still, the air of menace which had pervaded the place on the previous evening had lessened somewhat.

Avast, me hearties! said Katie in a cheery voice, attempting to channel the spirit of September 19. Her effort fell flat, dead, in the middle of the room, neither of her housemates rising to the challenge. She glanced at the clock on the wall, noted that it had yet to reach eight, and tried again, this time with less enthusiasm. Good morning.

Morning, said Darius in a quiet voice. He caught her eye and winked, then handed her a teacup with a slice of lemon in. He disappeared into the small kitchenette at the back of the parlour and could be heard scraping what sounded like a butter-knife across what sounded like toast.

Victoria made a grumphing noise in the back of her throat and peered up from the morning paper. Her eyes were red and sticky, a sure sign that she’d been crying, although probably not recently.

What’s the news? Katie continued with a determination that the air of despond in the parlour would lift by sheer force of will. There was no way she could face breakfast with a dank atmosphere of gloom lapping about her ankles. She poured tea over the slice of lemon and topped it with three spoons of sugar. Is that the morning paper?

Mm, said Victoria, and pushed it across the table. She went back to staring into the depths of her own milky tea in silence.

Katie gathered the folds of her dress around her slender form, tucked herself into her favourite spot on the settee and unfurled the newspaper across her knees. She glanced at the headlines and ignored the sports section before turning to the astrology column for the day. Its nonsense never failed to cheer her up, the usual platitudes and warnings almost like the weather forecast and just as accurate.

Darius returned to the parlour with a boiled egg and soldiers which he proceeded to eat noisily, although a properly-prepared boiled-egg-and-soldiers meal is impossible to eat in any other way.

Katie sipped her lemon tea and fanned through the society pages. It looks like Mr Edison’s lecture raised a few eyebrows the other night, she said without lifting her head.

It certainly did, said Darius. A hint of mischief crept out in his voice. I’ve already had invitations to three symposiums next month to dispute his assertions on a number of subjects.

Victoria said nothing, just stared at her tea.

Victoria, Katie said in a cautious tone, flipping the paper to the News From Our Foreign Correspondents, Didn’t you have a long conversation with Mr Edison’s assistant that night? Did he mention anything untoward?

No.

Katie judged from the tone of that single-word response - as curt as her usual standards - that while Victoria was unsettled, the larger woman was in a better mood that morning. She decided to risk her next question. Didn’t you go out with him yesterday?

Yes, said Victoria, and stormed out of the parlour. Her footsteps thudded up the stairs to her room.

Darius tutted at Katie and shook his head in reproach.

Sorry, said Katie with a grin of apology. I forget you share a workshop.

I’ll have to put up with flying hammers and all sorts this morning now, thank you. He mopped his plate with the last of his toasted soldiers and cleared his breakfast things into the little kitchenette. Katie heard him washing up, and when he reappeared, drying his hands on the dishtowel - which she hated, and he knew so - his wiry shoulders were bunched up. I’m off down to the cellar once I’m dressed, he said. If Victoria reappears before lunch, can you tell her I’m using the pillar drill?

If I see her, said Katie. And if I remember. She had no idea what he meant by pillar drill and had no interest in finding out, and assumed that Victoria would know if she mentioned it.

Darius skipped out of the parlour and up the stairs to his room, leaving Katie alone in the parlour. She got up and poured herself another cup of tea - not hot enough, and stewed into ferocity - to which she added a fresh slice of lemon and two sugars to make it palatable. She curled up in her favourite spot again and sipped at the tea while she read the rest of the paper, balancing it on one arm of the chair.

A curious little segment caught her eye just as she heard Victoria stamping around on the upper floor. Katie glanced up and waited while the heavy footsteps brought her friend downstairs and back into the parlour.

Good morning, said Victoria, her voice a little choked. I’m sorry for my temper.

We all are, dearie, thought Katie with a smile, and turned back to the small article in the paper which had piqued her Fortean interests. Apparently, she began, The ghost of Anne Boleyn has gone missing from the Tower of London.

Really? said Victoria, and resumed her seat at the table in front of the cup of tea she had left behind a few minutes previously. In the intervening time a thin skin had formed on the surface, which wrinkled when she pushed at it with a spoon. Is Darius down in the cellar?

Katie nodded. He said something about a pillar drill before he went.

Victoria pursed her lips. I suppose it’s his turn, she said, and rose from the table. Fancy a teacake?

Katie nodded again and smiled at her friend. Food normally cheered up both of them; it was a common denominator in their friendship, along with an interest in Fortean mysteries and an appreciation of the contribution made by revolving doors to female emancipation and universal suffrage. She poured the remainder of her lemon tea - which was quite disgusting, having been past its prime when it was created in the first place - back into the teapot and edged herself into the kitchenette behind the curtain alongside Victoria to make a fresh brew.

Teacakes, toasting under the stove’s little grill, filled the tiny room with the aromas of cinnamon and charcoal. Victoria held a blunt knife in one hand, the butter-dish in the other, chewing her lower lip and not quite watching the progress of naked flame towards bun-crust.

You aren’t quite your usual self, Victoria, Katie said, watching her friend’s reaction with cautious reserve.

Victoria sighed. No. She jerked the grill tray out just as one of the buns caught fire and dropped the buttery knife on the floor.

It’s the Derringer, isn’t it?

Victoria turned towards her with a flaming teacake in one hand and a grim look across her lips. Mr Bruce, Katie, is a scoundrel of the highest water. She glanced down at the teacake and shook it to extinguish the small flame that issued from a prominent currant on its rim. Oops.

That one’s yours, said Katie with a wry smile. Scoundrel, eh? she thought, and took the teapot back into the parlour. Sounds like my sort of man.

Victoria followed shortly afterwards with the teacakes. I’ve never fired a gun before, Katie, she said as she settled herself behind the table, Have you?

Katie shook her head. Don’t like the things. To be honest, I don’t even like you having the Derringer in the house.

I’m going to get rid of it.

It’s a useful thing to have, mind you, said Katie. If we go off on any more of these dangerous Fortean investigations.

Victoria nodded. I know. But I’m sure I need a license or something from the police authorities. She began to butter the burnt bun with a clean knife. That sounds expensive. There’s only so much a bicycle technician’s wages will carry.

Katie nodded in sympathy and poured the tea. What will you do? she asked, hoping to draw out a response from the other woman.

I don’t know. I had a few ideas last night, but I don’t have the wherewithal to lay them all out before I decide. I’d need a bigger workshop.

Katie opened her mouth to say something, but stopped as a smile began to creep down from her cheeks.

I don’t mean that I want to move house, Katie, Victoria said quickly. It’s just that the workshop downstairs, with Darius in it as well, just isn’t big enough. I need somewhere else.

Katie stuck her tongue between her lips as she worked out how to make a discreet suggestion, and withdrew it before she spoke. What about Mr Bazalgette’s workshop? Would that be large enough?

Victoria sat with her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. Probably, she said after a few moments. What made you think of that?

He was at the lecture the other night.

He was?

I was talking to him, said Katie, and stopped herself with a bite of teacake before she could add while you were being charmed by Bruce Bruce. He asked after your health, in fact.

Really? said Victoria, in a way which was intended to sound entirely, artlessly, carelessly casual.

It had the opposite effect, of course, especially on Katie, whose awareness had been honed by constant exposure to popular novels and a lifetime subscription to Fortean Times. Any hint of suspicious activity had her senses tingling. Really, she insisted. I think he’d be delighted if we went to visit him. It can’t be all fun and games down in darkest Wiltshire. There’s only so much sport a man can have with a solo dirigible.

The Sibyl? said Victoria, her face brightening at the mention of the airship. Did he bring it up to London? Fascinating! Her brow darkened again. But I suppose you didn’t bother to ask, did you?

Katie shrugged and polished off the last morsel of teacake. I’m sure he’d let you borrow his workshop, Victoria. He seems to have a genuine nature, and whatever you wanted to do, I expect he’d be more than happy to help.

Victoria’s ample chest swelling with a deep sigh of approval, she raised her eyes towards the pelmet above the parlour window, although it was clear that she was focused on some spot far distant, beyond the confines of the lodgings at 36a Centaur Street, and possibly even beyond the municipality of Waterloo within which the lodgings lay. It is an amazing workshop, Katie, she said breathlessly.

If you say so, said Katie. Mr Bazalgette is an inventor, after all. She hesitated, judging the mood of the morning to have lightened by some degree with the introduction of the airship into the conversation. Anyway, she went on, What happened with Mr Bruce?

Victoria snapped out of her reverie immediately. She bent low over the table, the last crumbs on her plate brushed onto the tablecloth by the front of her blouse where it crested her substantial bosom as she leaned forward. He took liberties with my person, Katie.

Katie raised her eyebrows.

Victoria stared off to one side, blushing with evident embarrassment. Honestly, Katie, it was like being force-fed a hot angry whelk!

Katie raised her eyebrows even further. What are you talking about, Victoria? she asked, mildly amused. Mr Edison’s assistant wasn’t that sort of a man, surely?

Victoria turned back and hissed, He kissed me.

The snake! said Katie, hiding a smile behind her hand. She’d imagined much worse liberties had been taken, given the seriousness of Victoria’s demeanour.

Victoria, having laid the accusation into the conversation, retreated behind her raised teacup and resumed a frozen stance with her shoulders firm. It was most unexpected, she said in a prim voice.

Katie’s smile of amusement faded, to be replaced with a one of sympathy. In all their years of friendship she had never known the other woman to have any obvious romantic adventures. She’d assumed that something went on behind the cellar’s steel-lined door when her two housemates were locked inside.

Now she realised, in surprise, that whatever happened down there between the pair of them, the chances of it being more than a few simple experiments - and half-baked mechanical inventions - were exceedingly slim. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Well, she said, Why don’t we go to Wiltshire for a few days and see if you can make any headway in Mr Bazalgette’s workshop?

Victoria nodded, her face brightening. I’ll write, she said breezily. It will have to be at the weekend, of course. I have four bicycles to mend for Mr Ansible’s shop by Friday. She drained her teacup and almost skipped from the room. Shortly afterwards her heavy footsteps bounced down the stairs and out of the front door, no doubt heading off to the post box with the aforementioned letter.

Katie sat in the parlour on her own for some time, relieved by the change in her large friend’s demeanour. She thought about offering to search for the missing ghost of Anne Boleyn in her capacity as Fortean investigator. The prospect was intriguing, but there was no mention of a reward, and she had no private funds to go haring off around London chasing ghost-hunters. Her usual sponsors - Mr Scipio Jones, in fact - took no interest in ghosts, missing or otherwise. She removed the slice of lemon from her tea and sucked at it.

She was even less enthused by the prospect of a weekend in deepest Wiltshire, with a trio of mechanical engineers ensconced in a subterranean workshop and a pair of under-exercised basset hounds her only companions. Good manners suggested she refrain from drinking herself into a stupor to survive the ordeal, but she was not going to spend her time in the country training the dogs back to the peak of physical fitness or bounding between moss-crusted trees in semi-darkness while she looked for stray tennis balls abandoned mid-romp.

No, she decided with a shake of her head; something altogether less substantial was required if she were to go to the country with the others. She needed the help of a dozen Penny Dreadfuls.

Chapter Four

The depths of darkest Wiltshire are not to be penetrated by those with a hatred of boredom and pastoral solitude.

In Savernake Forest, even the birds go about their daily business in silence, the treetops punctuated by silent birdsong, the occasional blackbird or sparrow whose enthusiasm gets the better of him being silenced into silence by the angry silences of his fellow birds. The deer tiptoe through the undergrowth like thieves. Foxes slither along the woodland paths and take their prey in unsuspecting silence with the polite snatch of a cut-purse.

People do not picnic in Savernake; they do not gambol, or skip, or frolic.

No, thought Petticoat Katie as she considered the forthcoming visit to Otto Bazalgette, I do not want to be in Savernake without a good book.

She briefly cast her mind back to her previous visit.

She frowned at the memory of the Bazalgette household library, a room of tall bookcases packed to the rafters with volumes which had been published long before anyone living had been born and never been opened since. Of the newer books, most were devoted to the internal combustion engine or the mechanics of dirigible flight. With the exception of a few outdated copies of the Thompson’s Railway Timetable of Europe and a hardback of Moby Dick, there were none she might consider appropriate.

No, she thought again, decisively this time. I do not want to be in Savernake without a trashy book. Preferably two - three, maybe. She considered the company she would keep, Victoria and Darius and Otto Bazalgette. One of those three was enough to send her rummaging for a Penny Dreadful. Better make it a good round dozen.

She fixed her hat on her head and set off for the Fortean bookseller on Charing Cross Road who had been so helpful the previous Christmas when Mr Scipio Jones had somehow found himself in command of a litter of unusual puppies.

Mornin’, Miss Fellowes, said the bookseller as she walked in the door. Got a new crate of ‘em Penny Dreadfuls, fresh in, if you’re interested.

I’ll have a look, Mr Sutin, she said brightly. The prospect of a new batch of racy novelettes always whetted her appetite in a way that good literature simply couldn’t match. Where are they from this time?

Sloth’s, he said. Somewhere in Piccadilly, if I recall rightly.

That’s the one, said Katie, her heart sinking. They’re execrable. You know he has a chamber full of monkeys typing away for him day and night in a miserable room above a tailor’s sweatshop?

The bookseller shook his head with a chuckle. Publishers, eh? he said, and turned to a small stack of hardbacks on the counter. He lifted a handful and began to file them away on the shop shelves. Anyhow, they’re over there on the chair. He nodded towards the aforementioned chair whereupon rested a large cardboard box, its sides stamped with the words ‘Sloth Enterprises, Limited’ in large black letters.

There was an unmistakable scent of banana-skins about the box. Katie took one of her utility crochet-hooks out of the tin spectacles-case in her bag and undid the coarse twine that held the cardboard flaps closed. The box flopped open to reveal, as promised by the bookseller, a newly-minted batch of Dr Sloth’s awful novelettes.

She picked up one of the books and glanced at the cover. A badly-drawn woman sagged in the clutches of a badly-drawn man, both of them slightly more hirsute than one would normally expect to see on the front of a supposedly-popular publication. She began to wonder whether Dr Sloth was using yet more monkeys to draw the art he put on his book covers.

She turned the volume over. It was so slim it had no spine. The blurb on the back cover was equally unpromising, in spite of its promising: ‘The Latest In The Best-Selling Series’ and ‘Bodice-Ripping Frenzy!’.

Whoever wrote that has obviously never tried to rip a bodice, frenzy or otherwise, Katie thought as she idly flipped through the pages. Badly spelled and poorly typeset, as if the words themselves were trying to crawl off the paper in shame, each volume was as atrocious as the next. She sighed and placed the books back in the box and spotted a slender envelope tucked down the side of the books.

Do you want the delivery note?

I’ve got it, thanks, said Mr Sutin, without looking up from his filing. He wandered away from the front counter and headed deep into the bookshop with his arms half-full of hardbacks, placing them on shelves as he passed and leaving her alone in the front shop.

She pursed her lips and pulled out the crisp white envelope from its hiding place. Unlike the novelettes, the envelope was good-quality paper with a lawyerly look about it - the crest on the flap was a dead giveaway.

The letter was addressed to her, care of Mr Sutin’s bookshop, Charing Cross Road, London.

She frowned. Is this some sort of joke? she thought. For a moment she fanned herself with the envelope as she considered her options, which really boiled down to two: put the envelope back in the box and deny to whichever trickster had planned the jape the denouement he or she no doubt ardently hoped for; or open the envelope.

Being Katie, she opted for the latter.

There was a short, hand-written note inside:

To whomever it may concern: The entire operation of Sloth Enterprises Limited is hereby transferred to the ownership of Miss Katherine Fellowes, in wholesale and without prejudice, under the provisions of English Common Law.

It was written on yet more of the lawyerly paper and signed: Ditto Sloth, Doctor, with another signature as witness.

The rat! said Katie out loud. What does he think he’s doing?

Mr Sutin glanced up from his task, an unimportant hardback in one hand. Somethin’ the matter?

I’ve just been given a hundred monkeys, she said in a dazed tone.

Lucky you, said the bookseller, stifling a grin as he turned back to the bookshelves.

She folded her arms in irritation, then unfolded them again and read the note a second time. It still said the same thing. She still felt the same reaction. A hundred typing monkeys, she said aloud. What am I going to do with a hundred monkeys?

Mr Sutin glanced over towards her again, realised that now was probably not the best time to tell her what he thought, and resumed his book-filing. So, he said to the shelf of books in front of him, Will you be wantin’ any books, then?

She blew out her breath up towards her hair. I suppose I’d better, Mr Sutin, she said with a shrug. I’ll have half a dozen of the latest Mabel Slater, if you please, and a Clapham Strangler.

He collected the novelettes she requested and piled them up on the counter at the front of the shop in a neat little stack. Anythin’ else? he asked.

She shook her head. No, thank you. She stared in dismay at the box of Sloth Enterprises books, a horrid sinking feeling in her stomach. I suppose I’m responsible for this slush, she said, waving the envelope at the box of paperback atrocities.

Never mind, said Mr Sutin as he tied up her order with string, At least you don’t have to read them any more.

Good point, she said, although that brightened her mood only slightly. How did he know I’d find this, though? That’s what puzzles me. It’s as if he knew I buy my books here. The thought that Ditto Sloth had been watching her and quite possibly tracking her purchasing habits was rather unsettling. What if he knows of my other interests? she thought. At least he doesn’t know where I live - or he’d have sent the letter there. For once she was pleased that her name did not appear on the Electoral Roll for, being female, she was not - yet - entitled to the vote.

Maybe he put one in every box, just on the off-chance, said Mr Sutin.

He knows I read his books, she said. I confronted him over their lack of quality at one point.

That was brave of you, he said, and put the stack of paperbacks to one side of the counter while she counted out her payment in coins. You have to watch yourself with that sort of thing.

Really? she said, still distracted by the gift of a hundred typing monkeys. I took Victoria with me.

Miss Templeman? he asked. That reminds me. He ducked under the counter and brought out a thick ledger which was marked to the current page by a large grosgrain ribbon with a bulldog clip on the loose end. He heaved the ledger open and ran his finger down the column on the left-hand page until he found the entry he was looking for. She placed an order a couple of days ago. Can you let her know it won’t arrive until Monday?

She nodded. Monday, she said, tapping the envelope against her lower lip. A hundred monkeys.

That’s a lot of monkeys, he said. It’ll cost a fortune in vet’s bills.

It’s the bananas that bother me. All those discarded banana skins need to be got rid of somehow. Her train of monkey-feeding thoughts carried on down the tracks, entered a tunnel and came out the other end. Rather much like a banana once it has been consumed by a monkey. Multiplied a hundred times. Katie suddenly put her hands up to her face. Oh no, she said in dismay. Oh please no.

Mr Sutin put his hands in his waistcoat pockets and raised his eyebrows in enquiry. Might I ask the reason for your concern now? he asked. Or is that not a good idea?

Katie shook her head. Definitely not a good idea. The mind boggles. Well, my mind, in any case, and it is well and truly boggling like it has never boggled before. I should suggest it take up boggling for a profession if this goes on much longer.

Now you’ve a hundred monkeys to look after, you won’t have time for that, will you?

I don’t see how someone can just leave me in charge of a hundred monkeys, she said, frustrated. I mean, you couldn’t just leave your bookshop to a complete stranger, could you?

Mr Sutin shook his head. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket as if he were unwrapping a bag of boiled sweets in secret.

You’d have to sign contracts, and affidavits, and there would be legal fees and signature witnesses and things like that, wouldn’t there?

Mr Sutin nodded.

And wouldn’t I have to agree to the handover? At some point? Beforehand?

I reckon, said Mr Sutin. His manner had the calmness of a man who has not recently been gifted the upkeep of a hundred monkeys, typists or otherwise, and was grateful for the fact.

And what do the monkeys think of all this?

Mr Sutin decided at this point to keep his thoughts to himself on the matter of monkeys and their personal beliefs, being of the opinion that he enjoyed a quiet life in the bookshop and did not need to provoke one of his most profitable customers further into the depths of a mood which she seemed intent on exploring under her own steam. Might be a good idea to talk to a legal expert, he said instead. Once one side of a deal has lawyers involved, it’s best for the other side to hire another one and let ‘em fight it out between ‘em. That’s what my old Pa used to tell me. Never failed me yet.

She glanced up at him and sighed. You’re right, Mr Sutin, of course. I’m not thinking straight. It’s just -

A hundred monkeys, he interrupted. I know. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small paper bag of the sort used to house boiled sweets, and offered her an Everton mint from its interior.

She declined. Not my favourite, she smiled in apology, picked up her parcel of Mabel Slaters with the Clapham Strangler prominently displayed on the top, and made her farewells. As she left the bookshop on the way to find a good lawyer she couldn’t shift the memory of a hundred hungry monkeys typing out trashy novelettes in a banana-filled room in Piccadilly.

Chapter Five

When all was said and done, only the two women of the Centaur Street household travelled to Savernake to visit Otto Bazalgette. Darius pleaded insanity, which when challenged turned out to be his excuse for a weekend of mechanical repairs on Mr Ansible’s latest steam-driven contraption bound for the London-to-Brighton Road Race.

Paid work always trumps a weekend in Savernake, he said when Sledgehammer Girl pressed him.

While she wanted to disagree, she had to admit he