Penny Dreadful Adventures: Mysteries of London 2: The Mysteries of London (Exposing the Truth)

  This book is a work of fiction set within a factual historical timeframe. Some names, places, characters and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.

  This work contains excerpts from other materials in the public domain.

  Copyright © 2015 (Hallanish Publishing) thru Smashwords Inc.

  Ian and Alexander are members of Hallanish Publishing.

  ISBN; 9781311650092

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  Read the first in the “Penny Dreadful Adventures”

  Book 1: Varney the Vampyre (My Part in His Success)

  Other vampire novels from Ian Hall…

  The Connecticut Vampire series

  A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur’s Court

  A Connecticut Vampire in Queen Mary’s Court

  Vampires Don’t Cry

  (With April L. Miller)

  (The adventures of vampire cheerleader Mandy Cross)

  Book 1: Vampire High School

  Book 2: The Helsing Diaries

  Book 3: The Rage Wars

  Book 4: Blood Red Roses

  Vampires Don’t Cry

  A Mother’s Curse

  The Penny Dreadful Adventures

  Book 2: The Mysteries of London (Exposing the Truth)

  By Ian Hall (Writing as Alexander M. MacNeill)

  Prologue One Generation to Another

  Foreword Morning after the Night Before

  Chapter 1 Fangs for the Memories

  Chapter 2 Lady Clara Introduces Herself

  Chapter 3 Our Investigation Begins

  Chapter 4 A Letter from Kitty

  Chapter 5 A Change in Direction

  Chapter 6 Getting the Ducks in a Row

  Chapter 7 A Trip to the Country

  Chapter 8 Shades of the Real Varney

  Chapter 9 Count Francesco Varanelli

  Chapter 10 Auld Claithes an’ Porridge

  Chapter 11 Riding Lessons at Euston

  Chapter 12 The Fox and the Hounds

  Chapter 13 The Grand Dawning

  Afterword A List of Characters

  One Generation to Another

  My grandfather, Alexander Mair Hall, was a mining engineer in the collieries of Midlothian, Scotland. He is fondly remembered for both his wit and advice which he sprinkled liberally wherever he went. But it seems he held a great secret; one so awe-inspiring, it is written below, and you are about to learn of it.

  My grandfather died in 1995, but his papers languished undisturbed in four boxes in an attic until my own parent’s demise. Inside the boxes I found a mixture of bound writings, almost a hundred years old, muddled in such a fashion it took me months to bring any kind of order to them. I recognized the handwriting as my grandfathers, and in one short passage it brought a secret to light. These works were not originals, but copied from work dating into the mid 1800’s.

  It seems my grandfather, Alexander Mair Hall, had inherited his own grandfather’s work, Alexander Mair MacNeill, albeit in a terrible state. In an effort to preserve his legacy, he had meticulously copied it for future generations.

  It is with both reverence and trepidation that I publish them in this volume. I include the only passage of my grandfather’s own words; a short dedication of his grandfather MacNeill’s work.

  Ian Hall, 2015.

  To my family, to whom this work will someday fall…

  I found my grand papa’s writings as the Great War began, and as my brothers fought in Flanders, I used my teenage years to copy the stories as best as I could, for the condition of the original paper almost crumbled to powder as I touched it. Four years later, as I welcome one brother home, the work is complete, and my job done.

  Alexander Mair Hall, January, 1919

  Thus continue the words of Alexander M. MacNeill…

  Morning After the Night Before

  I woke with a bad taste in my mouth, conscious that sometime during the night I had been sick. My eyelids felt unnaturally heavy, and it took a herculean effort on my part to open them to merest slits. But it was enough; light streamed in my bedroom window.

  “At least I’m not dead,” I croaked, my throat protesting the small effort.

  I tried to rise, but found myself tied firmly to the bedframe. Raising my head I saw my jacket and waistcoat had been removed, but I still wore the rest of my clothes. Two leather straps bound me to the mattress at the chest and thighs.

  “Help!” I yelled, “Help!”

  To my immediate relief, I heard loud footsteps running up the two flights of stairs. “Alexander!” my heart leapt at the sound of my uncle’s voice. He bounded into my room, closely followed by Thomas Prest, our writing partner. “You’re awake!”

  “Yes, sir,” Segments of the previous evening started to come back, the revelation of my Uncle’s nefarious nightlife at The Dark Africa Society. “I seem to be so,” I motioned my hands at the leather straps. “Can you tell me why I am bound thus?”

  “For your own good, boy,” Prest bent to the side of the bed, and I could feel the strap at my chest tighten, then release. “You were delirious.”

  “The manuscript!” I thrust at my remaining binding. “Varney!”

  Gentle hands pressed at my shoulders. “It is finished.” Uncle James said softly, seemingly trying to sooth me. “You finished it. I sent it by runner to the publisher. It is only Wednesday, you have no work for five days.”

  “Rest,” Prest released the second belt as Thackeray the housekeeper put a cup of cold water to my lips. It soothed my burning throat, taking away the taste of sick, and despite my mind yelling instructions to the contrary, my body fell asleep.

  The Penny Dreadful Adventures

  Book 2: The Mysteries of London (Exposing the Truth)

  By Ian Hall (Writing as Alexander M. MacNeill)

  Fangs for the Memories

  Under supervision from Thackeray, I lay in bed for two days, with meals brought up to me. My uncle appeared only once, a short visit, in which he said very little, perhaps ashamed of my behavior. I read from the myriad of Penny Bloods in my chest of drawers to pass the time, and as I rested I searched my memory for the events of Monday evening.

  I’d been drinking, and had visited Lloyd our publisher. There appeared a huge clue in that fact, but it escaped me. Then the penny dropped.

  “The Mists of Evil!” I gasped out loud, then clamped my mouth shut with my hands. I searched the room for the Penny Dreadful of that name, but to no avail, then remembered I’d put it in my briefcase, which would probably be in the dining room where I’d left it.

  I considered going downstairs, and tested my legs, swinging them off the bed, but the muscles felt weak. I lay back on the bed and considered the evening in question. Mistress Vixen had indeed been in my office, the dining room, on Monday night, but it had been a late hour. Roused from my drunken dreams I remember her condescending smile, her introduc
tion to me… Clara Varney, daughter of Sir Francis Varney… the vampire.

  I shook my head to clear it, putting such nonsense aside. Varney was our Penny Dreadful character from the 1750’s, a hundred years ago, and surely had no place in real life.

  I pushed the following question away, for if Kitty’s aunt Clara was of Varney’s line, then perhaps Kitty herself was somehow involved.

  Again, I slept, and for once the dreams were clear of disturbance.

  On Thursday morning I rose after porridge breakfast and quietly dressed myself, determined to rid my mind of the terror of Monday night, and get back to normality. My calf and thigh muscles protested the effort, but I walked slowly down the two flights of stairs.

  “Master Alexander!” Thackeray cried on hearing the bottom runners creak. “You should be in bed!”

  I moved forward and for the first time, I embraced her. “Dearest Jean, for I know that to your name, look at me.” I pressed myself from her considerable form and gave a small turn. “I have not been ill, I just had too much to drink one night, and that’s all.”

  “Your Uncle gave me instructions…”

  I silenced her with a raised palm and a winning smile. “I’m fine, and certainly don’t need to be mother-henned. I need to get back to my work.”

  “Well, you just remember to Mister Rymer that I protested.”

  “I will.” I said sincerely, then entered the room I increasingly called ‘my office’.

  My handwritten copy of the last Varney chapters lay on the dining room table, and beside it, a neat envelope probably containing the newest Mysteries of London chapter by George Reynolds.

  I stood at the table, feeling particularly fresh, then looked around before starting. The room had been given to me as my workspace, and yet I had altered little in my six or so weeks of its use. With fresh eyes I considered my station. My desk was not fit for the purpose, just a plain dining table; there were no spaces for ink, pens, and suchlike. My chair was not the most comfortable, and my backside spent many hours on it. The only cause for joy was the leather armchair next to the front window, comfort at the highest form.

  I decided I needed a desk and a proper work chair for it.

  I walked to the window to ponder such an undertaking only to notice two young women walking by.

  “Kitty,” I gasped. I had been so involved with vampyres and visions of snarling foxes, I had forgotten to even contact her after the recital. “Any grounds I gained are most-likely lost.”

  I quickly sat at the table, pushing all papers aside apart from one sheet; one plain sheet of paper to write a letter to a woman of standing. I shook my head in considerable shame; I also needed some headed paper. How could I even think to court a girl of such substance if I did not take myself or my position seriously?

  With the logic that any letter was better than none, I sat to write. By the time the insipid document was finished, sixteen crumpled pieces of paper lay on the floor by the fireplace.

  My dearest Katherine

  I so enjoyed our evening together.

  I apologize for my tardy communication, I have been both hard-worked and ill, but now am recovered from both.

  Perhaps you would like to take a walk with me, perhaps at the park.

  Your humble servant,

  Alexander M. MacNeill, 21st May, 1845

  Finally content with the simple wording, I penned the address at the bottom, and sealed it in a small envelope I found in Rymer’s office.

  My first job begun, I walked to the hall to find my hat and coat, and before Thackeray could protest, promptly walked out into the sunshine. It took a short carriage ride to Gloucester Gate and a sixpence gratuity for the driver to deliver the letter to Kitty’s door.

  I watched with a hopeful heart, but to my dismay the driver was turned away after a short conversation. I was already out on the gravel driveway as he returned. “The butler said ‘There is no Miss Katherine at this address’, sir.” The driver looked sufficiently awkward at the situation.

  I took the letter and approached the door myself, determined to find out the truth of the situation. The same butler answered the door quickly.

  “I seek Miss Katherine Fulton,” I said, looking up at the same uniformed man who had helped my alight from the coach at the recital.

  He never flinched. “Not at this address, sir. I have already stated such to your man.”

  “But I met her here,” I implored.

  “That may be the case, sir, but I assure you, she does not live here.”

  “Clara…” My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. “Is there a Clara here, perhaps the lady of the household?”

  The butler cleared his throat, and was obviously holding back his anger. He gently shook his head. “No Clara either, sir. Sir Rodney is the head of the household, sir, and Lady Margaret died just recently, so no, I assure you, there is no lady of the household.” He began to close the door, and his expression threatened violence if I pursued my questioning. “Good day, sir, and good luck with your search.”

  My reluctant feet crunched back to the carriage, and I got inside, my head still reeling.

  “Where to, sir?” the driver asked through his hatch.

  “One moment,” I tried to remember my other errand. Letter, then… furniture! It seemed so irrelevant in the new circumstances, but perhaps existing in the mundane I could fully consider this morning’s events.

  “Where’s the best place to go for second-hand furniture?” I asked.

  The driver considered for a moment, surprised by the question. “Easterbys, if it’s cash you have. They auction every Friday night, and their stuff is pretty good quality. I’ve taken a few gentry there, sir.”

  “Are they open during the day?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” He smiled showing a few spaces in his teeth. “They’ll be showing now, sir. It’s Thursday, the best time to go.”

  I gave a firm nod, then as we drove, settled back to analyze my morning.

  Kitty did not live at Gloucester Gate. I considered the fact for a moment, then a revelation fell upon me; Kitty had never actually said she lived there! I searched my mind for conversations… ‘I live just a moment from Regent’s Park’, and then she gave me the invite. I just assumed she lived at the address of the recital.

  And the arrival of Aunt Clara? Not the mistress of the house, but perhaps an honoured guest! So in actual fact, the world had not fallen all around me, my perceptions had simply moved. I looked out the window of the coach in far better fettle than a few minutes ago. In fact I grinned like a cat that had just got the mouse!

  Easterbys was a large warehouse behind some brickworks about a mile north of home, far more north than I’d ever been in London, and the scenery got greener by the yard. On the way we passed the new wrought iron roof of the Euston Rail Station, the terminus of the London and Birmingham railway, although I witnessed no actual machines on the glistening railway lines. At Easterbys warehouse I was greeted at the door by a very nice elder gentleman who showed me round the various pieces for sale.

  “How much do the desks usually sell for?” I asked.

  “Three or four guineas,” he said, “Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends on their condition, age, history, their provenance.”

  I picked three that looked ideal for my writing, and one came with a comfortable swivel chair; perfect for my needs.

  With Easterbys at 5.00pm firmly in my calendar, I allowed the driver to take me home.

  Thackeray made a fuss at my taking to the streets so early in my recovery, but when I accepted a plate of vegetable broth without protest, she soon left me alone. I looked at the envelope which would surely contain Mysteries of London, Chapter 45, but rummaged in my briefcase for something else first.

  The Mists of Evil was not the page-turner Thomas Prest was involved with now, but it held clues, and I read the three relevant passages many times. I include them here below, I will not append the whole text, for trust me it is not worthy.

>   THE MISTS OF EVIL

  THE ARRIVAL OF THE DEADLY FOG

  HARBINGER OF DEATH

  THE LADY OF THE SHADOWS

  The air stood still on every street corner, and seemed to grow heavier, more difficult to breathe. When the fog came up the Thames, it rolled like sea breakers, tumbling upriver against both flow and tide. Passersby leant on breakwaters and watched, for against the black sky, the grey rolling wall below made a prodigious spectacle.

  I gave it one final look, and headed inland, I had fifteen guineas in my pocket and felt far too vulnerable already. Fog in London brought out the worst in street elements, the pickpockets, muggers and ruffians being the more benign.

  But the mist hid a myriad of ills, and I had seen enough to want to see no more.

  A sailor’s story told of a beautiful woman who lived in the mist, who could transfix you with one gaze. At her heels walked a fox, a scrawny creature who seemed to be continually on the edge of death, such was his predicament.

  I had never witnessed such a scene, but I knew every story had a root in truth, no matter how slight…

  … “Can you not go, father?” I pleaded, but I knew his stance beckoned no argument. I donned my coat again and crept out into the night, my supper still on the range, my stomach pleading for mercy.

  The mist had thickened, even though I would have thought it impossible, but as I crossed Pembroke Street, darting from one alley to another, I swear I caught sight of a shadowy figure farther down the road.

  Her pace was unusual, she moved as if she chased something. My curiosity piqued, I set of in pursuit, making sure the stride of my cork soles made less noise than she. Suddenly out of the mist I spotted her quarry, a man of means, staring at her approach, and yet not fleeing. His mouth opened to scream, but by then she had closed on him, her face perhaps kissing him, her hands on his head, holding it firm.