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 Page A
Authors: Ishbelle Bee
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arrest him. Kill him.”
“I’m not a vigilante.”
“It will never go trial. He’ll never swing for it. Dearie me. Are you out of your depth, sergeant?” He examined me whimsically. “Yes, you are, aren’t you. You’re a clever chap but you do need assistance with this one. So, let me help you a little. The client list you hold in your hands – they are all involved. Including my late father. But I am not. Who have you got left to visit?”
“In the morning we are going to question Dr Edmund Cherrytree.”
“Ahh, the psychoanalyst. He’s a nasty piece of work. Look at his photographs when you are there, sergeant. Especially the ones in his office. Look carefully.”
“He’s wasting our time, sergeant,” noted Constable Walnut. “I think he’s been on the sherry and possibly the laudanum.”
“Shut up, Walnut. Mr Loveheart, stop playing games with me, just tell me what you know.”
“Just look at the photographs, sergeant. You need to see for yourself. You are entering into something very unusual. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Clarence has hired someone by now to get rid of you.”
“Why are you telling me any of this?”
“Because I don’t care about these people. They are monsters. And I know a great deal about monsters. Maybe I want to see a happy ending. Maybe I have seen too much horror myself. I believe you have. You know where to find me if you have any other questions. I take it you can see yourselves out.” He gestured at the door.
“Wait,” I said.
“Yes?’ replied Mr Loveheart curiously.
“What is happening to the children? I must know.”
Mr Loveheart looked a little sad, then straightened his lacy cuff. “He’s putting them inside the clocks, sergeant.” And off he walked, grinning like a schoolboy, and left us standing there for a moment, dumbfounded.
A s the carriage pulled up outside the headquarters, Constable Walnut stretched out his legs. “Well, it’s been a long night. I could do with a pint.”
There was a commotion and an officer ran up to us. “Sergeant, a body’s been found sir, near Tower Bridge.”
There, the barrel had been washed up against the shore, broken and stinking of something rotting. A small, pale arm hung out of it. A couple of policemen pulled the body of Daphne Withers out.
I’d seen a barrel just like it, in the clockmaker’s cellar.
III: July 1888
Mr Loveheart Visits Albert Chimes
I t was terribly smelly in that part of London. I knocked on the shop door of the clockmaker and waited for him to answer. Rat a tat tat. The door creaked open and we stared at one another.
“Hello, Albert. I am John Loveheart, and you have been a very bad boy.”
He let me in, the silly fish – they always do. He lit an oil lamp and we stood in his little curious shop. His pale eyes watched me carefully. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I’m not shopping for clocks. I’m really not interested in extending my life unnaturally. My life is already far too unnatural. I am a little surprised that a wealthy alchemist like yourself would be living in a shit pit.”
He didn’t reply.
“But,” I continued, “I was curious to meet a man so prominent a part in my father’s life. You fuelled his addiction with your little time contraptions. He never had much time for me as a child.”
Mr Chimes replied, “So your daddy didn’t love you enough. Well maybe you weren’t very lovable. It’s late and I’m tired, what have you come here for?”
“And so you should be tired. I would be too if I were hundreds of years old. Why is it you people are obsessed with living so long on this Earth? Please tell me. I would love to know.”
“You wouldn’t understand. Now get out of my shop.”
“Oh you really are no fun at all. And that detective is so close to catching you. I suppose your little time machines don’t bode too well against the hangman.”
“I can disappear easily enough. I am seven hundred years old. I have killed thousands
“I’m not a vigilante.”
“It will never go trial. He’ll never swing for it. Dearie me. Are you out of your depth, sergeant?” He examined me whimsically. “Yes, you are, aren’t you. You’re a clever chap but you do need assistance with this one. So, let me help you a little. The client list you hold in your hands – they are all involved. Including my late father. But I am not. Who have you got left to visit?”
“In the morning we are going to question Dr Edmund Cherrytree.”
“Ahh, the psychoanalyst. He’s a nasty piece of work. Look at his photographs when you are there, sergeant. Especially the ones in his office. Look carefully.”
“He’s wasting our time, sergeant,” noted Constable Walnut. “I think he’s been on the sherry and possibly the laudanum.”
“Shut up, Walnut. Mr Loveheart, stop playing games with me, just tell me what you know.”
“Just look at the photographs, sergeant. You need to see for yourself. You are entering into something very unusual. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Clarence has hired someone by now to get rid of you.”
“Why are you telling me any of this?”
“Because I don’t care about these people. They are monsters. And I know a great deal about monsters. Maybe I want to see a happy ending. Maybe I have seen too much horror myself. I believe you have. You know where to find me if you have any other questions. I take it you can see yourselves out.” He gestured at the door.
“Wait,” I said.
“Yes?’ replied Mr Loveheart curiously.
“What is happening to the children? I must know.”
Mr Loveheart looked a little sad, then straightened his lacy cuff. “He’s putting them inside the clocks, sergeant.” And off he walked, grinning like a schoolboy, and left us standing there for a moment, dumbfounded.
A s the carriage pulled up outside the headquarters, Constable Walnut stretched out his legs. “Well, it’s been a long night. I could do with a pint.”
There was a commotion and an officer ran up to us. “Sergeant, a body’s been found sir, near Tower Bridge.”
There, the barrel had been washed up against the shore, broken and stinking of something rotting. A small, pale arm hung out of it. A couple of policemen pulled the body of Daphne Withers out.
I’d seen a barrel just like it, in the clockmaker’s cellar.
III: July 1888
Mr Loveheart Visits Albert Chimes
I t was terribly smelly in that part of London. I knocked on the shop door of the clockmaker and waited for him to answer. Rat a tat tat. The door creaked open and we stared at one another.
“Hello, Albert. I am John Loveheart, and you have been a very bad boy.”
He let me in, the silly fish – they always do. He lit an oil lamp and we stood in his little curious shop. His pale eyes watched me carefully. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I’m not shopping for clocks. I’m really not interested in extending my life unnaturally. My life is already far too unnatural. I am a little surprised that a wealthy alchemist like yourself would be living in a shit pit.”
He didn’t reply.
“But,” I continued, “I was curious to meet a man so prominent a part in my father’s life. You fuelled his addiction with your little time contraptions. He never had much time for me as a child.”
Mr Chimes replied, “So your daddy didn’t love you enough. Well maybe you weren’t very lovable. It’s late and I’m tired, what have you come here for?”
“And so you should be tired. I would be too if I were hundreds of years old. Why is it you people are obsessed with living so long on this Earth? Please tell me. I would love to know.”
“You wouldn’t understand. Now get out of my shop.”
“Oh you really are no fun at all. And that detective is so close to catching you. I suppose your little time machines don’t bode too well against the hangman.”
“I can disappear easily enough. I am seven hundred years old. I have killed thousands
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