Tirips Shade: Ghost Detective

By Vickie Johnstone

Victorian London’s finest detective, Tirips Shade, 33, hunts a serial killer while investigating his own murder, assisted by his closest friend, Harold Walker.

Whether alive or in spirit, London is a thrilling but dangerous place for everyone.

With a serial killer on the loose, Sarah Ann Bartley, who runs a safehouse for former prostitutes and fights for women’s rights, asks Tirips to help stop the man before more women are murdered.

Tomas Malachide, the owner of the steam-powered Museum of Machinations, finds himself the toast of the city, but the real passion of his life is his fiancé, Elsa, a flower seller.

In the spirit world, a young boy finds himself alone on the city streets, but he just might find a friend in a streetwise girl. Cynical Willie Lynch is given the job of guide for the newly dead, while an older guide, Angelina, has her own sad secrets. Who is the mysterious Abraham Askew whom nearly every spirit seems to fear and what other perils loiter in Victorian London’s graveyards?

REVIEW
By Keithtj on April 26, 2023
"Ms Johnson has a wonderful way of describing situations and times, indeed she paints with words. Managing to evoke images and the atmosphere of the time. The characters are believable to the point you care what happens to them, and the story line is suitably gripping and nicely twisted, catching you out, just when you think you have worked it who the baddie is. A thoroughly wonderful and entertaining read more of Tirips and his world please!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vickie Johnstone
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215433317

Vickie Johnstone

Vickie Johnstone lives in the UK. She has a thing about fluffy cats and also loves reading, writing, films, the sea, art, nature, white chocolate and travelling. Vickie has self-published 23 books since 2011.- Books published in 2011:Kaleidoscope (March) – 119 poems, divided by chapter themes;Travelling Light – a free book of 44 poems;Kiwi in Cat City – the first in a series about a magical cat and her human pals (April);Kiwi and the Missing Magic (June);Kiwi and the Living Nightmare (October).The Kiwi books have illustrations by Nikki McBroom.- Books published in 2012:Day of the Living Pizza – a comedy horror for ages 10 up (May);Life’s Rhythms – 316 haiku (June);3 Heads and a Tail – a romantic comedy with a dog as the hero (June);Kiwi and the Serpent of the Isle (August);Day of the Pesky Shadow (October);Kiwi in the Realm of Ra (November); andKiwi's Christmas Tail (December).- Books published in 2013:The Sea Inside – a fantasy adventure (May); andI Dream of Zombies – a horror set in London in 2013 with a heroine (October).- Books published in 2014:Haven (I Dream of Zombies, 2) (May).- Books published in 2015:Mind-spinning Rainbows – 45 haiku and 109 poems (April).- Books published in 2021:A Poem a Day – 446 poems (July).- Books published in 2023:Tirips Shade – Ghost Detective (April).Ink – poetry (May)Woman – poetry (May)- Books published in 2024:Between the Sky and the Sea – poetry (February)Murals (March)Colouring the Edges (March)Links:Blog: http://vickiejohnstone.blogspot.comTwitter: @vickiejohnstoneWebsite: Kiwiincatcity.comMerchandise: www.zazzle.co.uk/kiwiincatcityFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorVickieJohnstonehttp://www.facebook.com/KiwiinCatCityhttp://www.facebook.com/KaleidoscopePoetryHappy reading and writing :)

Book preview

Part 1

March 28, 1864

Chapter 1

Under the curving arch of the damp, brick tunnel, the detective made his way alongside the black water swirling in the canal. A shadow appeared in front of him and passed by quickly, too swift for him to make out the figure in the night-time fog. Turning, he searched the pathway behind him, but he could see no one. Perhaps he had only imagined it. The day had been long, and he still had one last person to find and hopefully interview at this late hour; the time when the people of the night seemed to wake. He felt at one with them. A night owl. His shoes tapped evenly along the ground, like a guide in the darkness.

A small, barefoot boy, huddled against the wall of the tunnel, raised a dirty palm and the detective flicked a half-penny into it.

Thank-e, sir, a small voice rasped.

The man tipped his hat at the boy before continuing on his way. When he emerged at the end of the tunnel, the dark lifted only the faintest and a waft of perfume greeted him, a mixture of burning wood and roses. Sifting through his memories, he sought to determine its identity when he heard a noise. He was not alone. The thought engaged him in the split second that he discerned a sharp click before a pain like no other ripped through his back, raw like fire.

A woman screamed. Footsteps faded away from him and the ground felt cold beneath his palms. The pain in his back radiated out, sending a cold vice to creep around his heart and squeeze tightly. Shadows passed over him, but he lacked the power to turn his head to the side. Something warm surged out of his mouth and he knew it to be his own blood.

Chapter 2

The flock of mourners gathered like chirping ravens outside the sooty, brick house whose windows were cloaked in black. They waited in the driving rain where they had stood for some hours now, drinking liquor to warm their bellies against the creeping cold. Attired in long, black gowns trimmed with velvet, hats with silk bands and dark gloves, the ‘mutes’ looked suitably melancholy. From the tops of their hats to their feet, two long ends of white Irish linen fell, giving them a regal look of solemnity. Only their persistent drinking struck an incongruous note.

A commotion from inside the building led the mourners to hastily put down their drinks and compose themselves. The doorknob, upon which was tied a wreath of laurel and yew, turned and the door yawned open. Out walked the solemn master of ceremonies, followed by six pallbearers carrying a wooden coffin in which the body was taken head-first, according to custom. All friends of the deceased, they wore black, their heads bare and their expressions drawn. A tall, sandy-haired fellow, who appeared more grief-stricken than the others, led the way. Behind them, the deceased’s relatives and friends spilled out of the house, looking on in silence, the men gripping their hats in their hands.

The pallbearers carefully placed the coffin inside an elegant, dark hearse with misted glass panels, pulled by four beautiful black horses, their heads decorated with black ostrich plumes and their backs donned in velvet. Through the glass, any observer could see a sea of white, pink and red carnations, filling the entire space inside. Behind the hearse, a line of eight decorated carriages stood waiting. In front of it, the pallbearers seated themselves with the two clergymen in the first carriage, which would lead the procession. It was a remarkable sight to behold.

The deceased’s closest relatives entered the second carriage, the more distant family members took the third, and friends and work colleagues filled the remaining four carriages in order of importance. Finally, the mutes took their places alongside the hearse, where they would walk the entire distance to Highgate Cemetery, accompanying the body to its final resting place in as dignified a manner as possible. They knew not the deceased, being only hired men, and so their discordant merriment and somewhat clumsy, drunken gait were only to be expected.

As the procession moved slowly through the dirty, cobbled streets of London, other traffic and pedestrians paused to give way, often mounting the pavements to watch. The rain continued to pelter all the way up to the cemetery.

***

Tirips Shade’s nose prickled. He wriggled it in a feeble attempt to silence the itch, but the sensation escalated, drawing him out of his slumber. The sultry scent of flowers – carnations, he surmised – crept up his nostrils and tickled. He sneezed, neck and body arching with the force of it. Feeling another one coming, he raised his hand to scratch his nose and his knuckles rapped against something hard. Opening his eyes, he found himself to be in absolute darkness. Something soft surrounded his head on all sides, like velvet, but more delicate.

Petals? It would connect with the smell of carnations. Did he go home with a lady the previous night? Tirips was sure he had not, but his memory blurred, to the point that it seemed to have been erased. No images came to mind at all. He made to sit up and banged the top of his head. Irritated, he went to rub the spot and rapped his knuckles once more. Trying to turn was impossible, for the space wasn’t large enough. He appeared to be inside something, and it felt firm.

Hello? he called out, but the sound fell flat around him. No response came. He shouted twice more, to no avail.

Tirips felt around him, guessing the surface to be wood, and hard wood at that, but why? How? Where was he? What the dickens happened last night? Had someone kidnapped him? Was it the case he was investigating? He paused in thought. For the life of him, he couldn’t even remember what case he was working on. His mind resembled cotton wool; empty, but it was never so. He kicked out in fury and the impact echoed. It took three repeats before he realised he was trapped inside a box, enclosed on all sides. He guessed that he wasn’t claustrophobic. He couldn’t remember, but then neither did he feel a wash of panic.

A face materialised in the space in front of him; grey, but clear and oddly transparent, like a detailed sketch come to life. Tirips closed his eyes. Perhaps he was still asleep. The dream had been a strange one, although now he couldn’t remember any of it. He wondered if he had been drunk the evening before, the only possible explanation, or whether someone had drugged him and placed him inside this box, because now he was clearly hallucinating. Resisting the urge to sneeze again, he slowly moved his right hand to push some of the flowers away.

Closin’ ya eyes ain’t gonna help.

Am I speaking to myself now? Is that it? Tirips opened his eyes. The face, still there, smiled at him. A male, hollow-cheeked visage with deep creases set around the eyes and mouth, and a stubbled jawline. His thinning, long white hair was tied with a string of sorts. The thing floated, decapitated from any body that Tirips could see.

It smirked and winked. Ya can see me, can’t ya?

Yes, I am seeing things, Tirips replied, pinching his thigh. It stung.

Ya just woke up?

Tirips nodded, rationalising that he was still dreaming or hallucinating. The experiment interested him.

I hear you kick the wood. No one can hear ya.

You did.

The eyes on the face crinkled. Yeah, I can. Just me, Willie Lynch, at ya service. I came to welcome ya. My turn.

Tirips sighed. I believe I’m still half-rats!

Na, sober as a judge. What ya is is dead, my friend.

You’re not my friend. You’re something dreamed up by my addled brain. I must have banged my head, or the someone who put me in this box hit my head, for I can’t remember anything. And now I’m talking to a floating head!

Willie cackled. Try ta kick again.

Go away! What am I saying? You’re not even here. I need to think.

Willie floated back a little until he seemed to be half inside and half outside the box. Tirips applauded the vividity of his imagination. It was surely something.

Kick it, Willie insisted. Kick it.

Tirips watched the mouth in front of him opening and closing, repeating the words over and over. He squeezed both hands upwards to cover his ears, but the voice became louder until the sound reverberated around the wood. His nerves tensing, Tirips kicked out, but this time his foot failed to make contact with anything. It sailed forwards some distance beyond where he knew the edge of the box to be. He gazed down the length of his body in surprise, squinting in the pitch, but it was impossible to make anything out. What he would give for a lamp. He kicked again as far as he could. This made no sense.

It cos you knows now, cos I told ya so.

Tirips scowled at Willie. Someone gave me opium.

The face shook from side to side and stopped grinning.

Closing his eyes, Tirips focused on remembering the previous night. After a while, he latched on to the image of an alley and an arched bridge. He had been in a hurry, had arranged to meet someone. Who? His clothes were damp. It had been raining. He was dry now though. He carried something in his hand, could feel it, but what? Stench of damp and alcohol, swish of water, a woman’s high voice, firm footsteps behind him, then nothing. His last memory was the footsteps. Whoever it was had obviously hit him and brought him here, but why? Perhaps, when the drug wore off, he would recall more. He couldn’t detect any unusual taste in his mouth though, the smell of carnations being too overwhelming for any other of his senses to penetrate.

Out-thinking it ain’t gonna help.

Tirips opened his eyes.

Willie shook his head. I is sorry to be the one to tell ya. Reallys I am, but it be so. You is dead, but not dead. You is still here, like me.

Scowling, Tirips wriggled back, raised his hand and swiped at the face, back and forth, but it didn’t budge. You’re not here, he repeated and swiped harder. His arm extended naturally, passing beyond the face, which lit up the air immediately around it. Tirips blinked. His arm went through the box. What the blazes?

I told ya so.

Quiet! Disbelieving what he was seeing, Tirips sat up, expecting the impact of the wood to jolt his senses back to normal, but instead he found himself in a sitting position, half inside and half outside what appeared to be a wooden coffin. The engraved breastplate read: Tirips Shade, 33, October 31, 1830 – March 28, 1864. His body jolted. He was moving, moving inside something. In disbelief, he stood, and his gait wobbled, making him stretch out his arms for balance. The coffin lay beneath him, filled with pink, red and white carnations, their perfume overwhelming.

Ya’ll get used to it.

Used to what? yelled Tirips. What is happening?

Smells be bigger, Willie replied. I doesn’t lie. You’re dead, but here, like me. No one can see ya, except others like us, the dead.

No, this is not real, Tirips shouted. Discordant thoughts whirled in his mind. They jarred, sliding and crossing one another until they roared within his skull. He fought the urge to collapse. The thing that was moving, which he was inside, resembled a hearse. Part of him feared he was dead and on the way to his own burial. The other part, the one that had gained him the reputation of being the most brilliant detective of his generation, reasoned that this was insane, beyond rational belief; it simply could not be happening. And yet it was. Tirips knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was not dreaming. This was no hallucination. It felt too real. He bent down to touch the carnations, but his fingers sailed right through them.

He gazed up at Willie. What happened to your body? he asked.

Willie frowned. I no longer has it.

Why?

Long story. I is ‘ere to mak’ sure you understands.

That I’m dead?

Willie nodded.

I’m starting to listen, said Tirips, fighting to suppress the rage hurtling inside him.

Ah, the anger. I had that. Control it cos it don’t leave. Things be diff’ent now. You can’t eat or taste. Ya can smell. Smell is stronger. Ya can walk, walk through things, even people. They can’t sees ya. And ya can’t pick up things. Some can. Some can do those t’ings, but I doesn’t know how. I can’t.

Tirips strode around the hearse, seeking to silence his stream of thoughts. Anxiety surged within him, thumping against his skull, weighing down his shoulders like a dead weight. His limbs felt heavy. Why? he asked. It was a simple question.

Willie looked sorrowful and dipped his eyes. Unfinish business, my guess. We all dies, but not all comes back. You was born on t’ sam’ day as myself, October 31. Samhain, Feast of the Dead.

Highgate Cemetery, said Tirips, glancing out the glass window. I think this is my destination.

Aye, not a bad end, compared t’ some.

***

The mourners gathered around the grave while the hired lingered to the side. The chief superintendent of Scotland Yard’s Detective Branch was present, along with his assistant, other inspectors, sergeants and constables. Members of the aristocracy and Parliament stood by, along with some fancily dressed ladies, but no children, this not being a place for them. All stood speechless between the jagged trees as the pallbearers, led by the tall man with sandy hair, placed the coffin in the grave. There was an outburst of crying from a young girl, standing beside her mother, closest to the grave. As if on cue, the heavens opened once more to pour down on the assembled. A single crow squawked on a neighbouring gravestone before taking to the air.

The man with sandy hair and grey eyes removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Thirty-seven-old Harold Walker, a man of unbendable ethics and high intelligence, was the closest friend of the deceased, the celebrated detective Tirips Shade, murdered only a few days past. At the very back of the group, a red-haired, blue-eyed woman of above average height and in her mid-twenties, wearing a long, black silk dress and matching gloves, hat, veil, cloak and boots stood apart from the others; her apartness lending her an air of mystery. Her gaze drifted across the backs of the other mourners, hovering for a while upon Harold Walker before settling on the hole in the ground. The time Sarah Ann Bartley had known Detective Shade had been short. She sensed that she would be plagued by regret for the rest of her life.

Not too far away, beside an oak tree, a tall, dark-haired man with startling green eyes watched the proceedings with interest. Most of his attention was taken up by the clearly distressed Detective Walker, but now and then his eyes shifted to the lady with the veil. One of the most fascinating women in London; certainly, one of the most well-dressed and beautiful, but her beauty apart, also the only member of the female sex to have ever appeared to be a match for him.

Ya know it’d on’y ‘ave ended in tears, said Willie, to which Tirips only scowled. Ya know I is right. Love is fer bootlickers. He cackled.

Tirips swore beneath his breath and scuffed his brown shoe against the tree. The tip of it disappeared somewhere inside the trunk. Knowing the ridiculous floating head was probably right did nothing to dissipate the anger rising inside his chest, for now he would never find out. As he watched the people he knew well, and a few not so much, mourning his own death, Tirips made a promise to himself that it wasn’t over. Far from it, his body would never rest until he found the man who extinguished the life in him.

Chapter 3

Tirips Shade slipped down an alleyway between two dirty brick houses, dodging the soft swirl from the streetlamp above, careful not to make too much noise or disturb anything until the realisation dawned on him once again that no one could actually see him. It would take some getting used to, this not being alive business. Yet it was better than being dead. Well, he was dead, but it was better than being stone-cold dead with no living-dead situation. He frowned. At least this anxiety couldn’t form into a headache, and he didn’t feel the cold or the particular clamminess of this foggy London evening, so there were the odd benefits. Odd being the key word, he thought, as he came to a window and peered inside his home.

A lit lamp threw a yellow glow over the contents of the room beyond. The memory of warmth filled him, like an echo of a thing once known. It was something he could not feel. Instead, he would experience this overwhelming nothing, the absence of anything.

No use feeling sorry for yourself, old boy, he muttered, making his way towards the back door. He stared at it for the longest moment. What to do? Should he knock? Would he actually be able to make a sound if he tried? The questions raced around his mind. There was only one way to find out, so raising his hand he went to lift the metal contraption, but his fingers passed straight through. Tutting, he rapped the wood with his knuckles and the same thing happened. Behind him, the neighbour’s ginger tom cat mewed loudly, his fur standing on end as if an electrical current had just shot straight through him. Great. Cats could see him, and he’d never been too fond of felines.

Shoo! he hissed, and the cat’s tail wagged briskly as his ears flattened on top of his head. He mewed again, even more loudly.

I said shoo! Tirips repeated, raising his voice and waving his arms at the clearly angry animal. Go on!

As if knowing the thing in front of him couldn’t touch him, the animal took a greater stand, hissed, spat and meowed at the top of his lungs, as if set to mate in the height of summer, while Tirips gesticulated with his arms even more wildly. The back door sprung open, sailed straight through the detective’s back and rattled against the brick wall. Tirips felt for his back instinctively due to the memory of what the door should have felt like.

Get away with yer! yelled Harold Walker, who then halted in mid-sentence with his jaw hung open.

Tirips looked into his eyes and Harold stared back horrified, unable to shift his focus, yet not wanting to sustain it. An icy coldness travelled along the back of his neck and down his spine, sending the hairs along his skin into a tremor. He tried to form a word, but nothing came out. His mouth stuck in the shape of a large O as his mind tried to rationalise what his eyes were seeing.

Can you see me?

Harold stumbled backwards, catching the doorframe with his right hand. He rubbed his temple with the left, closed his eyes, reopened them, rubbed them once more and closed them. He kept them shut, even when he heard the mirage in front of him repeat the question. Meanwhile, the ginger tom encountered profound boredom and slunk away into the night.

You can see me, can’t you? asked Tirips, smiling awkwardly. It’s a miracle! I’m still here, Harold. I have no idea why, but I am.

No, grunted Harold, stepping back and slamming the door.

Astonished, Tirips took a step back himself and glanced around the backyard. It was quiet. Above him the stars shone down in the same way as they had always done. Nothing had changed and yet everything had. His world had shifted on its axis, shaken and spat him out. Nothing could ever be the same again. He sat down, unable to feel the cold that would normally permeate him, and he rested his elbows on his knees. His arms didn’t pass through his own body. To him, his body seemed solid. It was only when he came into contact with other items, inanimate or otherwise, that there were problems. He waited for about ten minutes or so, and then the back door reopened. Thinking it to be for the best, he remained seated.

What did you do, Tirips? How did you do it? asked Harold, a resigned look of disgust on his face.

Do what?

This? Fake your own death? Why? I just went to your funeral!

Tirips glanced down. I know. I’m sorry you had to go through that.

What do you mean, you know?

I was there.

You were there? Harold’s voice rose. You were there? What, in the name of the cruellest… He paused. I am not having this conversation out here. Get inside!

Tirips raised an eyebrow, unused to the authoritative tone being adopted by his friend, who was normally one of the mildest of men, but he must be confused. Then again, he thought, who wasn’t? Rising, he did as he was told and followed inside. While the yellow lamplight looked welcoming, as he had suspected, he could not feel the heat of it. Yet, the smells overwhelmed him. A waft of eggs, tea and freshly baked, buttered bread caught his nostrils, and automatically he recalled their taste, which was just as well, because he would have to live on the memory alone for sustenance.

Harold sat down on the brown chaise longue that they had chosen together when they decided to live in this house. Various emotions flickered across the man’s face and Tirips wondered which one would plunge out first.

So, what do you have to say for yourself? Harold demanded, leaning forward to grasp his knees with trembling hands.

For a second, Tirips thought his friend wanted to hit him and he really wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. I’m not sure what to say.

You better say something before I lose my temper! What are you playing at?

Tirips sighed. I’m not playing. I’m as confused as you are, waking up in my own coffin, talking to a bodiless ghost.

What on earth are you talking about? What has got into you? How could you do this to me, to everyone in the department? Do they know? Did someone put you up to this?

Tirips stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at the floor for a moment. The pattern in the rug swirled. There was no way to explain this. He gave up trying. I’m dead.

"Yes, you’re going to be dead as soon as