The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 (19 page)

Rufus Hazard
’
s London Residence,
“
Dumplings
”
,
Mayfair

Loveheart recovers

Ooh I had a little sleep. Feel much better now. I am lying on a pink sofa being fed buttered tea cakes and Turkish coffee.

“
A man must have his teacake,
”
says Ruf
us stuffing one into his mouth.
“
How are you feeling old boy? Have the drugs worn off yet?
”

My head is a fuzz.

“
I have always had the feeling that the prime minister was an unscrupulous cad!
”
sniff
s
Rufus, and
passes
me a teacake with extra splodge of jam.

I have a fluffy blanket and cushion for my head. Boo Boo is also eating a teacake, and reading Mrs Charm
’
s novel
The Cannibal Bishop of Edinburgh,
which I have heard is a murder mystery set in a sinister Abbey and involves missing monks and a suspicious gigantic shepherds
’
pie.

“
When you feel better, you must
decapitate
that wretch Heap. Give him a good thrashing. Unspeakable bad manners leaving a man with his head in a bowl of trifle.
”

Death
appears with a basket of fruit.
“
Feeling better?
”

“
I have a terrible headache and ghastly flashbacks about spoons,
”
I
say
and bit
e
into the teacake.

Death hands me a banana.
“
Get to St Augustine
’
s Church as soon as possible. Detective White and Constable Walnut are experiencing a premature burial.
”

To the rescue!

S
t Augustine
’
s Church is tiny, decrepit and overrun with weeds. Apart from the dead body of a vagrant lying face down on the path, the only source of activity is a funeral service where two coffins are being lowered into the earth by two large ruffians. A bedraggled vicar is reading a mumbled sermon. He appears to be drunk. I grab Boo Boo
’
s hand.

“
I think we
’
ve found them!
”
We approach the ruffians boldly.

“
Hello, gentlemen,
”
I say.
“
So who are you burying today?
”

The vicar, whose eyes are red and bulging, begins to speak, but belches rather loudly instead, to his own mortification.

“
Never heard of them,
”
I reply.

“
Open the coffins,
”
Boo Boo says, pointing her blades at one of the thugs. He laughs, which is often, I have discovered, a mistake with her. One of her blades embeds itself in his brain and he falls aside like a sack of potatoes. The vicar screams like a little girl.

“
Open the coffins,
”
she repeats to the other thug who obediently does as she requests. She then shoots the other of her blades into his brain like an arrow.

“
Ooooooh, good shot!
”
I cry, clapping my hands.

Constable Walnut and Detective White emerge from their tombs, shaken but steady. I keep an eye on the Vicar.

“
You should be ashamed of yourself.
”

“
I had no idea they were alive,
”
he replies, nervously.

“
Oh really?
”

Walnut wobbles and grips a headstone for balance.

“
Are you alright, Walnut?
”
asks Boo Boo.

“
Not really. I think I
’
m having a little panic attack.
”

“
Breathe deep,
c
onstable!
”
Detective White slaps him hard across the back
.
“
We
’
re alive!
”

“
Thank you
, sir
. I feel like someone
’
s done something funny to my brain.
”
Walnut pokes his skull.
“
Have they?
”

“
I ask myself that same question every day,
”
White replies, and then looks to me,
“
Where
’
s Waxford?
”

“
He
’
s here in London.
”

Boo Boo informs them of naughty Zedock Heap
’
s demonic and cannibalistic persuasion and that he now has possession of the Angel-Eater.

“
Frankly, nothing surprises me anymore,
”
sighs Detective White.

“
Who would have expected that!
”
said Walnut,
“
That our very own prime minister eats people. Well, it
’
s not normal
,
is it?
”

“
Sometimes it amazes me that you
’
ve never been promoted. How many years have you been a
c
onstable
, Walnut?
”
says Detective White.

“
Well, if you include the ten years I spent hanging on a wall, metamorphosed into an insect by a perverted sorcerer, about thirty-two years, sir.
”

“
Walnut, return to Detective Waxford and inform him of what has happened and arrest that dodgy vicar. Boo Boo, Loveheart, you will both come with me.
”

“
Where are we going?
”
asks Boo Boo

“
To extract some information from an undertaker,
”
he replies.

Detective
W
hite extracts butterfly information

We have Mr Poppy tied to a chair in his basement and I punch him in the face and it feels wonderful. He screams, his skull vibrating. Loveheart and Boo Boo stand either side of him, holding an arm each.

“
Let
’
s start again, shall we? What do you know about the Butterfly Club?
”

“
Sod off,
”
Mr Poppy says.

“
Oh, that
’
s charming. Such bad manners,
”
tuts Mr Loveheart.

I punch him again, a good hard slog.
“
I
’
m waiting, Mr Poppy.
”

He starts to laugh rather manically.

Boo Boo impales one of her blades in
his thigh. His scream is ear-drum shattering.

“
This is the last time I am going to ask you, and then I
’
m going to let her chop you up
…
understand?
”

“
I only collect,
”
he says, fearfully.

“
Collect what?
”

“
The women. I collect them.
”

“
Where is the Butterfly Club?
”

“
I don
’
t know. Please, I just pick up the bodies.
”

“
From where?
”

“
By the river. There
’
s an old theatre, the
Dancing Imp
.
They dump the bodies on the stage.
”

“
When are you collecting them next?
”

“
Tomorrow. Midnight.
”

“
Who do you collect the bodies from?
”

“
Mr Cobweb.
”

Mr Loveheart is sitting on the desk, flicking idly through his diary.
“
OoOH on Tuesday he purchased a shovel!
”

Ignoring Mr Loveheart, I continue,
“
Is Zedock Heap the leader of the
B
utterfly
C
lub
?
”

Mr Poppy grits his teeth.
“
I don
’
t know who
’
s the boss.
”

“
Who else is involved?
”

“
I don
’
t know anything else. You
’
ll just have to kill me.
”

Boo Boo slices his head off. It bounces against the wall and rolls out of the room.

“
He might have had some other information, Boo Boo!
”
I scream.

Good fortune smiles on Pedrock

A
fter the wedding massacre I inherited the entire Grubweed fortune and estate as the remaining male relative.

Mr Cedric Evening-Star, the family lawyer who has been working on my behalf, sold the Grubweed family home and helped me arrange the funerals for Grandpa, Aunt Grubweed, Cornelius, Prunella and Estelle. Of course, Mr Wormhole the vicar was unable to perform the services on account of him fleeing the area in fear of his life, so a replacement, called Mr Fishwick, was brought in from a nearby village. He did a very nice job.

Mrs Charm decided to leave the village of Darkwound and is moving to Tintagel in Cornwall to continue the phenomenal success of her Medieval Horrors. She left me several of her chutney recipes and a plot outline for her next novel,
The Severed Leg
.

I left the ship building firm of Winkhood & Son and have bought myself an enormous boat which I have named
Dragonfly.
I intend to sail across the world in it. I have so much time before me and it is all my own. Indigo waters and cotton-wool-cloud skies of nothingness. Miss Penny Seashell and I are to be married at sea this very week. She is my
“
someone
”
to share all this freedom with, all this wonder.

While my sister slices up London in a butterfly dance of blades, I am sailing away into calmness, into an ocean of sleep.

Mr Angelcakes in London

I
am having such fun here. Such fun! I am eating skin and it has made me so much stronger. My rotting skin is no longer rotting. No more brown teeth, green lips and heaps of squashed, mushy intestines.

I can move about London as a gentleman. Strawberry blond hair, ice-cream smile, bright eyes, top hat. I am tall and respectable looking. I am recovered, I am whole again.

But the only thing I can eat are skins. My dietary requirements have made me a serial killer. I catch them at night. Hook them under my arms in back-alleys. Entice them with gold coins. Watch them wriggle, squirm and squeal with horror in the ink-splat darkness.

“
Don
’
t eat that! It
’
s alive!
”

I eat and I wait. I am waiting for Boo Boo to retrieve the Angel-Eater. It will be returned to me. And also, I suppose, I miss her. My little butterfly.

My

l
ittle

butter

f

l

y

Detective White and Constable Walnut in the Romney Marsh

T
he Romney Marshlands are dotted with soft and silver moths that fly round our carriage. One lands on Constable Walnut
’
s hand and sticks itself to him affectionately.

Detective Waxford and Boo Boo are to stay in London and investigate the Dancing Imp Theatre while I and Walnut are here on the marshlands to view the Hummingbird family home and see if we can get any further information regarding the case. Mr Loveheart has taken it upon himself to locate Mr Angelcakes, a man neither Detective Waxford or myself have yet encountered, but who is leaving a trail of corpses throughout London
–
without their skins.

Hummingbird Manor House lies in the remotest part of the marshlands. A tiny church surrounded by plump sheep sits a half mile away from it. As our carriage pulls up to the main gates, a ewe raises her head from grazing and stares at us rather intently, eyeballs like soft boiled eggs.

“
That sheep
’
s looking at me!
”
Walnut says, rather worriedly.

“
Don
’
t encourage her,
”
I sigh, and we step from the carriage.

Hummingbird Manor is a large
sandy
-
coloured house, plain featured but with a large stone butterfly engraved over the main door. An elderly butler appears from the side entrance trundling a suitcase with what appears to be all his belongings.

“
Hello there. I am Detective Sergeant White from Scotland Yard and this is Constable Walnut. I have a warrant to inspect the house.
”

The butler
–
whose face, on closer inspection, resembles a turnip
–
sneers.
“
There be no one to show ye
about the house. The master is dead. Servants gone. I
’
m off too.
”

“
That
’
s fine
. I
f you can just give me the key. It saves Walnut from kicking in the door.
”

T
he butler removes a large rusty-
looking key from his coat pocket and hands it to me.

“
If I may ask you some questions before you leave?
”

“
I don
’
t know noffin,
”
he replies.

“
We
’
ll see. What
’
s your name?
”

“
Thangus Itch.
”

“
Sorry?
”

“
Thangus Itch,
”
he repeats.

“
Unusual. How long have you worked for Ignatius Hummingbird?
”

“
I have been the butler in this house since the boys were born. Nearly sixty years.
”

“
We are currently investigating a case which involves Ignatius Hummingbird and the kidnapping of women for a cult in London. It seems he kept a local woman in a cage in his basement. Do you know anything about this?
”

“
I don
’
t know noffin about that.
”

“
Never seen anything suspicious? Women being dragged into carriages, screaming, him hitting them over the head to knock them unconscious?
”

“
Nope.
”

“
Anything you can tell me about Ignatius at all?
”

“
Master kept himself to himself.
”

“
That
’
s incredibly helpful,
”
I say sourly.
“
Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Club?
”

“
Nope.
”

“
One more thing Mr Itch. I would like to inspect your luggage before you leave the premises.
”

He looks startled.
“
Why?
”

“
You might have nicked something,
”
Walnut interjects.

“
I ain
’
t letting you poke your nose into my stuff.
”
Mr Itch spits on the ground.

“
Walnut, hold him fast while I take a look.
”
Walnut grabs the butler by the scruff of his neck while I open the case. A human foot rests neatly on top of a pile of laundry.

“
Would you like to explain why there is a human foot in your bag?
”

“
Nope.
”

“
Walnut, handcuff him to the carriage while we search the rest of the house.
”

“
With pleasure, sir!
”

I enter the key into the lock and turn it. The door swings gently open to reveal a
sombre
-
looking interior. A huge portrait of Ignatius and Gabriel Hummingbird stands in the hallway glaring down upon me. Behind them is an Aztec temple, surrounded by butterflies. It is a bizarre painting.

Thangus Itch is laughing loudly from outside.

“
Shut it!
”
Walnut shouts.

“
Tick
t
ock!
”
Mr Itch shouts manically back.

I pause.
“
What does he mean, tick tock?
”

“
Bomb,
”
says Walnut.

We run outside. The house explodes, the front door flying off and bouncing against Thangus Itch, flattening him. I am thrown into the gates and Walnut flies past me into the field, landing next to the sheep. The house is an inferno, the air filled with dust spreading out into the marshlands.

When I regain consciousness I wake to see the sheep licking Walnut
’
s face.

“
Are you alright
,
Walnut?
”
I shout.

“
Yes, sir,
”
he replies.

I stand up. There is nothing left of the house. Thangus Itch is dead, squashed by the door. I walk over to Walnut who is sitting next to the insolent lump of a sheep. I extend a hand to him and help him up from the ground.

“
So, what
’
s the plan, sir?
”

I look around us and out at the marshlands.

“
We
’
ll search that church over there,
”
I say, pointing a finger,
“
and then we return to London.
”

The pair of us, half blown up, stroll the half mile over the marshlands through grazing sheep and brown and grey butterflies, which swoop delicately over our heads. The earth is soft under our feet, the squidge and squash of bogland. The church is tiny, painted white, with a huge keyhole in the door. The key to the Hummingbird Manor House is still in my pocket. It fits perfectly into the church lock.

“
As I thought, this church belongs to the Hummingbird family. We may find a clue yet, Walnut.
”

The door swings open.

“
Oh my
G
od
.
”

Walnut faints.
A nearby sheep bleats rather sarcastically.

The church is stuffed to the brim with skeletons and decaying body parts. Green flesh hanging off, leaking eye sockets. The stench is unbearable. It nearly knocks me over. I gag and feel dizzy.

And round the walls of the church are painted butterflies of a thousand different colours, each one glittering with alien beauty. I shut the door and pass out in an undignified heap on the grass.