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Friday 8th August 1879: London

I have a new philosophy.

My head has been so tangled trying to unravel this mystery simply through thought. As a result, I feel confused, frustrated, and terribly afraid for the Major. By contrast, the gentlemen seem quite unperturbed and seem to rather enjoy the hunt, revelling in each tiny clue whether it be a red herring or a solid lead.

In other words, they look at what is in front of them and decide their next move, where I am in the habit of spiralling into conspiracy after conspiracy, wild imaginings that bear no semblance to the facts.

So, enough. I am resolved to act as Silas and Blackwood do. I too will take only what is presented rather than what is possible. Evidence and events over emotion and speculation.

---

As we prepared to visit Mickey Two Feet, I realised I had neglected to tell the gentlemen of the short epilogues of Simon d’Chartreuse’s surprise visit. I repeated the observation he made regarding our precious Velvet Wraith, declaring it instead a far more common—and far more popular—Blue Raj orchid. “If he’s right and there is a similar or even renamed orchid loose in London we could be in a lot of trouble before too long,” I warned.

“I doubt that, Gideon,” Silas said. “It is far more likely this Blue Raj is a benign cultivar, or indeed simply a lookalike.”

Of course he was right, my worry another example of a lack of rigour in my thought. Even if it did present a danger, the potent serum Chamberlain created had required complicated lab work, something unlikely to be found in the houses of London.

“Another thought occurs to me upon recounting Mr d’Chartreuse’s trance-like monologue,” I continued, reckless, “I think he was offering us a truce of sorts, to join forces to fight a greater evil he sees looming.”

“Was it you or he that mentioned the Kebra Nagast?” Silas asked.

“It was he, amongst a number of examples he gave regarding his ‘true antagonist’.”

“d’Chartreuse is just stirring the pot,” Silas disagreed, “Seeing what reaction he can raise from you.”

“But what if he is right? What if there is a great antagonist, worse even than his own Lucifer? What if we are facing something beyond our imaginings?”

“Gideon, Mr d’Chartreuse is no more evil than you or I. He dons a cloak of mystery and faux spirituality, all the whilst reverting on mundane blackmail to fund his obsessions. Our ‘Simone d’Chartreuse’ is more likely a Mr Simon Charters from West End,” Silas chuckled.

I wasn’t so sure, but there was some truth in that so I let it rest.

---

As we travelled to Islington in a growler, we attempted to articulate our current understanding of events now we had more information to hand. After some back and forth we concluded the likely sequence was as follows.

Mr Rivington-Holmes was kidnapped some five days prior, then tortured until he revealed the location of the sole British edition of the Kebra Nagast (at which point he was murdered). That copy, of course, was with Baron Churchill. The killer then contracted Mrs Pan’s nephews to retrieve the book, an attempt that failed, leading to the death of Sanjeev and the disappearance of the Baron.

The only concrete lead we had was the killer’s name had some relation to Rumpelstiltskin. We also knew Mrs Pan’s boys were due to meet said killer at WH Smith book depository in Thamesmead, and a rare bookseller named Mr Neville might be of use in tracking interested parties in either the Kebra Nagast or the obscure language therein.

It was agreed our next course of action was to identify the killer, or find the Baron.

---

Mickey Two Feet’s establishment in Islington is quite a sight. Hovering on the edge of the ever sprawling industrial district, it stands as a lone brick edifice against an onrushing future.

---

“I warn you that Mickey is no fool, though he plays one often,” I advised. “He’s the fence you go to when you need to move something, and knows everyone in the game. Keep your wits about you.”

We rattled the door and stepped into Mickey’s unique world. The waiting room was stuffed to the rafters with all manner of knick-knacks, from deflated leather footballs to breastplates of shining steel to stuffed mice and birdcages.

Mickey was perched behind his counter, protected by bars to keep the light-handed at bay from the more valuable items. “Miss ‘arrow! What ‘av you got stuffed down your blouse for me today, me lovely!” he beamed.

“Hello Mickey,” I smiled, “Good to see you.”

Mickey was about to reply with more bawdyness when he spotted Mr Blackwood and Silas. “Oh, er, yes Miss Harrow, it is a pleasure. And who might these fine gent’men be?”

“These are my friends, Mickey. Mr Blackwood, and Dr Hawthorne.”

“A Doctor! Well the honour is all mine, sirs. Welcome to my ‘umble shop. What can I find for ye’s?”

Surprisingly, Blackwood responded first. “What is…that?” he pointed. I followed his gaze and saw immediately why he was so engaged. Standing behind Mickey was a tall something covered in a white sheet. And not just any something.

“You ‘av a sharp eye, Mr Blackwood, a sharp eye indeed. Let me reveal me greatest treasure!” Mickey pitched, tearing the sheet away to reveal…

…a Colopinto mirror! And not just any: I was certain this was that belonging to Mr Langbrook!

Blackwood’s hand instinctively reached for his hammer and he paled. “How much?” he said softly.

“Mr Blackwood sir, I would like nothing more than to sell this fine speciman to you but I’m sorry to say it is already accounted for,” Mickey said, dripping regret.

“How much?” Blackwood repeated.

“Sir I can see your keen interest but —”

“Mickey,” I interrupted. “There’s always a price. It’s not out of your shop yet, so it’s still fair game. Who is the current high bidder?”

“Miss ‘arrow you always were a sharp one,” Mickey simpered, “But I can’t reveal my buyers, matter of professional courtesy isn’t it,” he winked.

“Understandable, Mickey. So what’s the price this mysterious buyer has offered?”

“Well ‘e was a foreign gent, and of some means,” Mickey explained apologetically. “So I couldn’t let it go for less than…” he eyed Blackwood for a moment, “Shall we say one hundred pounds neat.”

“One hundred pounds!” I exclaimed in faux horror. “Mickey you’re having a lend. These are my friends and I trust you to do them right. It’s worth no more than fifty, a used mirror like that, fine though it may be.”

“Fifty madam!? They cost that much new and this ‘ere is now a rarity.”

We continued negotiating until finally agreeing on a price of fifty-five pounds. Blackwood peeled off the notes from a ridiculous roll he held in his jacket—it seemed he carried his entire bankroll on his person. Mickey, naturally, was thrilled, eyes boggling at the potential sales.

“Now, Mr Two Feet, please tell us who the other buyer is,” Silas said, laying another five pounds on the counter.

Mickey grinned. “I see no reason not, now we ‘av an agreement. He was a funny fella, with an accent and posh clothes, sir. But there was something queer about him, like ‘e was putting it on.”

“And his name?”

“A foreign name too, sir. One Mr Chartoose.”

Silas smirked at me and I shook my head wryly. Mr d’Chartreuse! Of course it was. Funny that. Well, now we had a mirror he desired, which might give us a negotiating advantage over him at some point. Mickey agreed to deliver the mirror to the Coffee House—“same day express, madam!"—and I turned to the real reason for our visit.

“We’ve paid you handsomely Mickey, so I’d like a little something in return. Nothing of material value, just information.”

“Now now, Miss ‘arrow, you know as well as me that information is more valuable than anyfing—but ‘ow can Mickey ‘elp?”

“What does the name Rumpelstiltskin mean to you?”

“Rumple what now?”

“Rumpel-stilt-skin,” I enunciated. “Most likely a nom de plume, much like yours.”

“Like mine?” Mickey frowned, reddened, and suddenly disappeared behind his counter. A moment later he emerged into the room through a door below the benchtop. The gentlemen stepped back and both, admirably, managed to keep a straight face, for Mickey was, of course, two-feet high if that. I noticed something pass over Silas’s face, as if he’d had a sudden revelation, but now as not the time to question him.

“My name is my name, Madam!” he raged. “No ‘nom de plooms’ ‘ere, just Mickey Two Feet in all ‘is glory.” He stomped back into his cage and jumped atop his wooden stand to glare at me again. “Now. I’ve never ‘eard of your Rumblestilts, means nuffin to me.”

I sighed. “What about a man with rumpled silk skin?”

“Miss ‘arrow if I didn’t know better I’d fink you were pulling me leg.”

I saw he was genuinely confused, unfortunately, which left us as much in the dark as ever.

“Who is this fella, anyways,” Mickey side, eyes narrowing. “‘e a player I should know about?”

“Not a player,” I explained, “Just a person of interest. Might be trying to move some goods, rare books and the like, so not your turf, Mickey.”

“Rare books? Mr Neville might be more ‘is speed then. I’ll see what I can find out, Ms ‘arrow, if we ‘av a new player I’ll need to know. You can trust old Mickey.”

“Thanks Mickey. If it helps, he employed a couple of Chinamen to do a job for him which didn’t pan out,” I added.

Mickey paled, confidence suddenly gone. “Chinamen? Did you say Mrs Pan was involved.”

“Why, Mickey?”

I have never seen Mickey flustered, so this was a first. A pale sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. “Weren’t me, nuffin to do with me,” he stammered.

I leant in. “What’s nothing to do with you?”

“I never sent ‘em, Miss ‘arrow, please tell her that, would you?”

This was getting very interesting indeed. “So you sent them to Mrs Pan, Mickey? She won’t like that, not one bit, after what happened.”

“I never did! I only pointed ‘im in that direction is all,” Mickey whimpered.

“Pointed who?” Silas said, getting involved. “Describe him, if you would.”

“A tall fella, very tall. ‘ad a hunched back, big hunch, and a hooked nose like a barb. Talked posh, like your Mr Chartoose, like ‘e was educated like.”

“Oxford or Cambridge?” Silas pressed.

“Doctor sir I’m sorry but I’m no university man, couldn’t tell you if I fell over one,” Mickey apologised.

“And why did you send him Mrs Pan’s way?” I asked.

“Scared me, ‘e did. Cold as ice, voice the timbre of death,” Mickey said, betraying an active imagination to rival mine. “‘e pressed me for a second-story crew and I wanted rid of ‘im so gave ‘im what he wanted. You’re lucky I didn’t send ‘im your way, Miss ‘arrow.”

“Indeed Mickey, though not lucky for you,” I said as Silas gave me a sidelong look. “So you gave him the name, and he paid you how much?”

“Nuffin.”

Now it was my turn to be shocked. “Nothing? Mickey Two Feet gave out information for free?”

Mickey looked crushed. “Like I said, ‘e scared the bejeesuse out of me.”

Not as much as Mrs Pan scares you, I thought to myself.

“And when was this?” Silas asked.

“Five days, give or take.”

It all added up. We dropped the matter and Mickey slowly recovered himself enough to engage in some further negotiations with Mr Blackwood, who arranged for a purchase of a brace of firearms—“off the record of course, Mr Blackhead”—and a promise to have them delivered post haste.

---

With this new intelligence, we agreed our next stop should be to Mrs Pan, under the guise of Silas checking in our Mr Chee’s progress. I wanted to know if the man who had contacted Mrs Pan was the same hunchbacked figure.

Mrs Pan greeted us and took Silas down to inspect Mr Chee, who lay below in less of an opium stupor than expected. It seemed they had paid attention to Silas’s instruction, and he was in better shape as a result. Silas declared himself pleased with Mr Chee’s progress, redressing the wound and directing a continuation of treatment. In the course of the discussion he bent it to our other purpose.

“Mrs Pan, would you be so kind as to describe again the man who visited you? We have reason to believe we may have found more about this man, but need to confirm his identity.”

Mrs Pan looked displeased. “You know more? I asked that I be told immediately, and you are only telling me now?”

“Mrs Pan,” I jumped in, “This is information has literally only come into our hands in the last hours. We came directly to you once we knew.” This was no lie, thankfully. I was beginning to see why Mickey feared this woman.

“Very well, Ms Harrow.” Checking occasionally with Mr Chee, she proceeded to describe a very plain, very non-descript, very typical Englishman.

“Was he very tall?” Silas asked.

“Your height, Doctor, more or less.”

“And his accent?”

“English, same as you all.”

“So he didn’t have a hunched back, or hooked nose?” I pressed.

“No, Ms Harrow.”

We were left confused. “This is unfortunate news, as it does not match our suspect at all,” Silas explained, “Unless he was heavily disguised.” He went on to describe the man Mickey had spoken of.

“I see. And from whom did you get this information?” Mrs Pan asked.

I hesitated, then: “I would rather not say, Mrs Pan.”

“You are a wise woman, Ms Harrow,” she said to my surprise.

“Mrs Pan,” Silas jumped in, “If you would be so kind, could you also clarify one more thing: as closely as possible, can you repeat how Jimmy said the man who approached you mentioned ‘Rumpelstiltskin’?”

“Very well, Doctor,” Mrs Pan said, and after interrogating Mr Chee she turned back to us. “His words, as precisely as I can say them in English, were as follows: ‘I have a client who is looking for a book. I was recommended to you by a man with rumpled silk skin.’ Jimmy said after that the man thought himself very funny, as if it were a great joke.”

“Thank you, Mrs Pan,” Silas said, eyes glowing as he smiled widely. I glanced at him but he shook his head and mouthed ‘later’.

I shrugged and turned back to Mrs Pan. “We also wanted to let you know that Mr Chee is not safe,” I added, “He life is in great danger.”

Mrs Pan’s tone left me in no doubt. “He is safe here. And we will keep him that way. Now, Ms Harrow, another pipe?”

I thought she would never ask.

But then Silas shook his head violently, and even Mr Blackwood frowned.

“Another time,” I said weakly.

---

As we waited for a growler, Silas explained his earlier excitement when Mrs Pan had translated Mr Chee’s words. “When I saw Mickey Two Feet’s stature I had a thought: if anyone could be described as Rumpelstiltskin, it was him! Rumpelstiltskin was a short fellow, always hunting gold, and that if nothing describes your Mr Two Feet. Then Mrs Pan’s words more of less confirmed it!”

“How do you mean?” I said, confused.

“Jimmy said the man thought himself very clever indeed for describing that he was recommended to Mrs Pan by a man with rumpled silk skin. But what he actually said was indeed Rumpelstiltskin, but Jimmy interpreted it, as best he could, as ‘rumpled silk skin’. The man was describing Mickey! Mickey who had recommended Mrs Pan!”

It was as if a light had been switched on. Silas was right! And it explained why Mickey had never heard of said characters: he was said character! “Bravo, Silas!” I cried, “You have solved it! Poor Mickey, I hope he never works it out,” I chuckled.

We were left with two final clues: WH Smith and Mr Neville. I didn’t fancy a confrontation with the latter—“Hello Mr Neville, what do you know about the Kebra Nagast?"—so we decided to visit Thamesmead instead, though it seemed likely to be a dead end given the time that had passed.

How wrong that thought was.

---

We arrived late afternoon, to find the warehouse in a maze of heavyset buildings all of similar size.

could not find image

Wooden double doors enclosed the building, and there were no windows into which we could peer. Silas discovered an alleyway to one side, which we followed despite my trepidation. “If I recall, Jimmy said they were to meet at the rear of the warehouse, so presumably this leads there,” Silas explained.

We were greeted by the Thames and a rickety wooden plankway that ran over it. We stepped cautiously along the woodwork before I gasped and pointed to a stain outside the rear doorways. “Is that…blood?”

Silas crouched and nodded. “It is. And it runs under the doorway.”

“Mr Kwon’s blood?” I guessed.

“Maybe.”

My heart beat faster as Blackwood retrieved his hammer and Silas shoved the doors open. Inside was a horror-show. An enormous pool of semi-congealed blood covered the floor, seeping through the broken floorboards into the Thames below.

“This is horrible,” I gasped, covering my mouth to stymie the stench.

“It is,” Silas agreed matter-of-factly. “And the amount of blood makes me think this is where Mr Rivington-Holmes was killed.”

“How do you cope with—”

But Silas was already kneeling by the pool, head down close to the wine-dark blood, investigative instincts taking over. My best guess was he coped by enjoying the challenge of unravelling the mystery of a death, shutting off any emotional or human response to the gruesome scenes that confronted him daily.

Blackwood meanwhile was scouting the room and circling the pool. “What are those books?” he said. In my shock I hadn’t noticed, but there were three old books spread in and amongst the pool of blood.

Silas reached for the first which lay on the edge of the horror. He opened it carefully, revealing a strange script that appeared to me to be written backwards. It looked familiar, covered in black and red text. “Is that…our book?” I managed to say.

---

“This is Hebrew,” Silas said quietly, “So not the Kebra Nagast.”

He reached for the second fallen book, also on the periphery of the pool.

---

“And this is Arabic, if I’m not mistaken,” Silas said.

The third and final book lay in the centre of the blood, so Silas had to gingerly lift it free. He paged it open. “I don’t recognise this script,” he said, retrieving the scrap Mr Chee had provided and comparing. “But it’s not a match. Blackwood?”

---

Mr Blackwood took the book and scanned it for a few moments. “Sanskrit,” he said. “The Kebra Nagast was Ge’ez, similar perhaps but not the same.”

“These all look very similar to the Kebra Nagast,” I said, “Without being the actual book. So why are these here? Who would leave them like this? Surely they too are valuable?”

Silas, still standing in the pool, looked down at his feet and frowned. He crouched and reached between the floorboards, picking up something that he wiped clean with a handkerchief. He held it aloft.

---

It was a bronze colour fob chain with a military badge and medallion where the watch would normally be attached. “It says ‘Crimea’", he observed, “Do you know what this is, Blackwood?” he said tossing it over.

Blackwood caught the chain and turned it over in his big paws. “This is Crimean Medal, awarded for service in that campaign,” he said, his face paling, “With an Inkerman clasp.” He swallowed and looked up at us. “The only person I know who has one of these is…Baron Churchill.”

---

Emotion got the better of me. I almost collapsed to the floor, clutching Blackwood for support.

The fob chain pointed to the Major having been captured, tortured like Mr Rivington-Holmes, and dumped unceremoniously into the Thames. A great man met with an ignominious end. How could he be dead? Why had we dilly-dallied so? We could have saved him! What monster kills in such a violent fashion for a book?

I took a deep breath, sat down on a crate, and scribbled down the today’s events as Silas and Blackwood went about their business. Watching them work I realised I had once again failed to adopt to their mindset. They were being thorough, searching and observing, blocking out any thought of what had really happened here. Of the victim, of the suffering.

My new philosophy demanded I look only at the evidence before me. And slowly but surely my sanity returned. And with that clarity, I came to the following conclusions.

---

What are the facts?

Lee Kwon and Jimmy Chee were contracted to steal a copy of the Kebra Nagast from the Major’s mansion. They had a rendezvous agreed with their man at WH Smith upon successful completion of that task. The robbery was bungled and Mr Chee lost his hand, leading Mr Kwon to make a hasty retreat to save Mr Chee’s life. Mr Chee was returned to Mrs Pan’s laundry, and Mr Kwon has not been seen since.

Our investigations led us to believe that the Sanjeev and the Major interrupted the attempted burglary, leading to Sanjeev’s death and the Major’s disappearance. Blackwood and Silas are confident that he escaped unharmed via the hidden basement of his house. Everyone else in the world, Clement included, believe he has been kidnapped. As far as we know there has been no ransom attempt.

Today we discovered that, under duress, Mickey Two Feet sent a balding, hunchbacked, hook-nosed giant to Mrs Pan. The giant was after a second-story crew, which aligns with what Mrs Pan had told us. What doesn’t align is that the man who approached Mrs Pan was a regular Caucasian: Silas’s height, white-skinned, of no particular note. Perhaps the hunchback was a disguise? Or perhaps the second man was a go-between.

We were left with two last dwindling clues: the bookseller, Mr Neville, and the WH Smith rendezvous. Confronting Neville seemed a last resort and one which would force us to play our final hand (ho ho). At WH Smith we discovered the scene described above and before me now.

What conclusion does this lead to?

Our initial reaction was the Major had been killed here in a most gruesome manner. But after some thought, I am relieved to say the facts do not support that conclusion.

Instead, I propose the following. Mr Chee and Mr Kwon rifled through the Baron’s library, looking for the Kebra Nagast. All they had to go on was a scrap of paper torn from said tome, and the language thereon was impossible to decipher. Accordingly, they grabbed anything that came close: the three books strewn about this warehouse floor. Each contained writing that was a close match to that from the scrap, uncommon languages on ancient books, including the distinctive red and black alternates.

They were interrupted by Sanjeev, and soon after by the Baron, who charged down the staircase in a manner we are only too familiar with—it is fortunate for Mrs Pan’s nephews that he must not have had his shotgun handy. In the ensuing scuffle Mr Chee lost his hand, and we can posit Mr Kwon tore the Major’s fob from his person.

With the Major no doubt in a murderous rage, Mr Kwon and the wounded Mr Chee made their escape, Mr Kwon depositing Mr Chee and continuing to the planned rendezvous at the WH Smith warehouse. There he was hoping one of the retrieved books was the Kebra Nagast, allowing him to cash in on the promised reward. He presented the three books, all of which were rejected. He was then killed for his incompetence and dragged into the Thames. The fob either dropped from his person or was a offered as a futile last chance to the killer.

Hence: the Major lives. The killer is on the loose and likely wants to dispatch Mr Chee next. We too must be in danger, for we too know too much.

All of which leaves us with one last clue: Mr Neville of Caliban Books.

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