The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) by Ishbelle Bee
Authors: Ishbelle Bee
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metaphor, you stupid turnip!” cried Obadiah.
I thanked him for his time and left him in the soft darkness, with only the ticking whir of his clock for company.
O ur last visit of the evening was to the Loveheart house on the edge of London. In the carriage Constable Walnut ate his sandwiches. Cheese and pickle. Constable Walnut’s greatest joy in life was food.
We were driving through the estate of Loveheart, which was magnificent. It really was something out of a fairy tale. The drive towards the house was covered in great trees which stretched and twisted, and a carpet of wildflowers lined the path. I could for a moment imagine a prince on a white horse galloping through this landscape, it was so dreamlike.
“This Loveheart chap,” said Constable Walnut, with a mouthful of food. “They say he’s a bit off his head.”
Our carriage pulled up in front of the house, which was white and enormous. We were welcomed by a butler who led us into a hallway, where a spiral staircase coiled to the heavens, with a violent red carpet dotted with hearts. Mr Loveheart greeted us as he descended the staircase, wearing electric blue velvet with heart shapes embroidered on his waistcoat, and his hair was the most shocking colour of yellow. Constable Walnut leaned toward me. “If he wore that down the East End he’d get knifed pretty quickly.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr Loveheart. His voice had a soft, supernatural quality to it. He was really quite strange to look at, but fascinating.
“Good evening, Mr Loveheart. I am–”
“I know who you both are. How can I assist you in your inquiries?”
“You recently sent a grandfather clock to Mr Albert Chimes, the clockmaker. How do you know this man?”
“I do not know him. My father used his services. I returned one of his creations. I’m doing a spot of spring cleaning, getting rid of the clutter.”
I handed him the client list. “Do you know any of these people, sir?”
Mr Loveheart took the list and read it, his eyes peeking up from the paper. “I know of them all. I have met only one of them – Elijah Whistle at the Royal Academy. He’s a donkey of a painter, earns his money flattering the rich, painting them on thrones and such.”
“He hasn’t painted your picture then, sir?”
Mr Loveheart smiled generously. “I would rather stab myself with a fork that let him try that.”
Constable Walnut scribbled down some notes, chuckling to himself.
I handed him the photograph of the girl. “Do you recognize her?”
“No. What has she got to do with Albert Chimes? Has he been a naughty boy and done something terrible to her?”
“Why, do you think he’s capable of such a thing?” I said, staring at him.
“Have you seen his clocks? They are quite remarkable, rather special. My father knew him very well, did a great deal of business with him. He said he was quite a strange man. Unusual people, in my experience, tend to have unusual hobbies.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr Loveheart?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, I am telling you that in my opinion he probably killed her, and many other children too.”
“Do you have proof?”
“No, sadly, but have you asked your list of clients why his clocks are so special? Why they would pay a small fortune to have one?”
“Tell me why,” I demanded.
Mr Loveheart sighed. “I am not going to do your job for you, sergeant.”
“Then stop wasting my time. I cannot arrest a man without evidence. If you know something, tell me. A young girl’s life may be in danger.”
Mr Loveheart was quite taken aback for a moment, and then laughed. “Oh, you’re getting cross with me. I have no evidence. You must find that. As for the girl, I think you are too late.”
“Mr Loveheart! Enough of this nonsense.” I was furious with him. “Give me proof so I can arrest this villain”
“I will give you some advice, Detective Sergeant White,” Loveheart said with a dark seriousness. “Don’t
I thanked him for his time and left him in the soft darkness, with only the ticking whir of his clock for company.
O ur last visit of the evening was to the Loveheart house on the edge of London. In the carriage Constable Walnut ate his sandwiches. Cheese and pickle. Constable Walnut’s greatest joy in life was food.
We were driving through the estate of Loveheart, which was magnificent. It really was something out of a fairy tale. The drive towards the house was covered in great trees which stretched and twisted, and a carpet of wildflowers lined the path. I could for a moment imagine a prince on a white horse galloping through this landscape, it was so dreamlike.
“This Loveheart chap,” said Constable Walnut, with a mouthful of food. “They say he’s a bit off his head.”
Our carriage pulled up in front of the house, which was white and enormous. We were welcomed by a butler who led us into a hallway, where a spiral staircase coiled to the heavens, with a violent red carpet dotted with hearts. Mr Loveheart greeted us as he descended the staircase, wearing electric blue velvet with heart shapes embroidered on his waistcoat, and his hair was the most shocking colour of yellow. Constable Walnut leaned toward me. “If he wore that down the East End he’d get knifed pretty quickly.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr Loveheart. His voice had a soft, supernatural quality to it. He was really quite strange to look at, but fascinating.
“Good evening, Mr Loveheart. I am–”
“I know who you both are. How can I assist you in your inquiries?”
“You recently sent a grandfather clock to Mr Albert Chimes, the clockmaker. How do you know this man?”
“I do not know him. My father used his services. I returned one of his creations. I’m doing a spot of spring cleaning, getting rid of the clutter.”
I handed him the client list. “Do you know any of these people, sir?”
Mr Loveheart took the list and read it, his eyes peeking up from the paper. “I know of them all. I have met only one of them – Elijah Whistle at the Royal Academy. He’s a donkey of a painter, earns his money flattering the rich, painting them on thrones and such.”
“He hasn’t painted your picture then, sir?”
Mr Loveheart smiled generously. “I would rather stab myself with a fork that let him try that.”
Constable Walnut scribbled down some notes, chuckling to himself.
I handed him the photograph of the girl. “Do you recognize her?”
“No. What has she got to do with Albert Chimes? Has he been a naughty boy and done something terrible to her?”
“Why, do you think he’s capable of such a thing?” I said, staring at him.
“Have you seen his clocks? They are quite remarkable, rather special. My father knew him very well, did a great deal of business with him. He said he was quite a strange man. Unusual people, in my experience, tend to have unusual hobbies.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr Loveheart?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, I am telling you that in my opinion he probably killed her, and many other children too.”
“Do you have proof?”
“No, sadly, but have you asked your list of clients why his clocks are so special? Why they would pay a small fortune to have one?”
“Tell me why,” I demanded.
Mr Loveheart sighed. “I am not going to do your job for you, sergeant.”
“Then stop wasting my time. I cannot arrest a man without evidence. If you know something, tell me. A young girl’s life may be in danger.”
Mr Loveheart was quite taken aback for a moment, and then laughed. “Oh, you’re getting cross with me. I have no evidence. You must find that. As for the girl, I think you are too late.”
“Mr Loveheart! Enough of this nonsense.” I was furious with him. “Give me proof so I can arrest this villain”
“I will give you some advice, Detective Sergeant White,” Loveheart said with a dark seriousness. “Don’t
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