Silhouette

Marlowe Hapworth spent the majority of his last afternoon at the Frost Fair. There was a bite in the January air and he could feel the tingle of frost forming at the edges of his moustache. The snow crunched pleasantly beneath his feet. He laughed as a snowball whistled past his ear, waving encouragement to the urchin who had hurled it at a friend.

He stood for a moment on the Embankment, watching the skaters on the frozen river describing curved shapes on the ice before the Palace of Westminster. He blew out a stream of misty breath, letting it hang in the air as he listened to the laughter and reflected on the joys of being young. How pleasant to be carefree, at least for a while. An afternoon away from his studies, and then back to work in the morning, Hapworth decided.

Further along the river, he found the Frost Fair. It sprawled along the bank of the Thames and out onto the ice. Tents and stalls, sideshows and attractions.
Hapworth hurled wooden balls at coconuts that he suspected were fixed to their poles. Not that he minded in the least. He watched a man on stilts, surefooted in the snow, juggling first with skittles and then with burning torches. He ate chestnuts so hot they scalded the roof of his mouth.

And at the end of a line of stalls selling everything from carved wooden animals to muffins, from brittle toffee to lace kerchiefs, he found a sign pointing him to the Carnival of Curiosities. Set slightly apart from the rest of the Frost Fair, the ‘Carnival’ seemed to be a combination of circus, fair, and exhibition. Hapworth paid a penny for admission to the lad at the gate, and then wandered fascinated through the carnival.

A strongman, stripped to the waist, his upper body covered in tattoos juggled with medicine balls laughing all the while. A gypsy woman sat at a table, peering into a crystal ball. Various tents advertised their contents as ‘The Amazing Bearded Woman’, ‘A Genuine Wolf Boy’, ‘Never-Creatures – animals not of Nature’ and other intriguing and enticing attractions. He paid more pennies to laugh and cringe and marvel at them all.

Most fascinating was the Shadowplay. From his time in India and the Far East, Hapworth had an appreciation of the art of shadow puppets. He experienced a moment’s apprehension as he stepped inside the large tent – would this be a pale imitation
of the artistry he remembered, an inept aping of the skills he had so admired in his younger days? He took his seat between a snotty-nosed girl and man who reeked of ale and was already snoring. But after a few moments, he noticed neither of them …

The ringing was so sustained and insistent that Carlisle assumed it must be either a creditor or a constable. It was therefore with some surprise that he found his master standing on the doorstep. Carlisle had rarely seen Mr Hapworth so distracted. He stood silhouetted against the pale glow of the snow-reflected moonlight, breathless and agitated.

‘Thank you,’ he muttered as he pushed past Carlisle and into the hallway.

‘Are you quite well, sir?’ the manservant felt compelled to ask.

‘Well? Oh yes. But I have seen …’ Hapworth shook his head. ‘Things you could not countenance. What to do?’ he wondered. ‘Whatever to do?’

Hapworth lapsed into silence, standing at the foot of the stairs, as if uncertain whether to proceed up or not.

‘There are some messages, sir,’ Carlisle ventured, hoping to break Hapworth out of his unsettling reverie.

‘Messages,’ his master echoed. ‘Yes, of course. A message. I must send a message at once and tell her
what I have witnessed.’

‘Sir?’

‘Pen and ink.’ Hapworth nodded vehemently. ‘In my study. I shall set down exactly what has happened this afternoon, and then you must bear the epistle. At once.’

‘Of course, sir. May I ask to whom this message must be delivered?’

Hapworth was already hurrying through to his study. Carlisle followed him into the large room. Each wall was lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by a large window on one wall and the gas lamps that jutted out from between the shelves and cast a gentle luminance across the room. In the middle of the room was a large globe. To one side, Hapworth’s desk. On the other, a small table bearing a decanter and glasses. Hapworth made straight for the desk, pulling a sheet of writing paper from a tray and setting it squarely on the blotter before reaching into a drawer for pen and ink.

‘Sir,’ Carlisle prompted. ‘The letter you wish me to deliver? Who is it for?’

Hapworth glanced up. His eyes were shadowed, his cheeks hollow, his fingers trembling as he held the pen. ‘Why, to the Great Detective, of course. To Madame Vastra.’

Carlisle shivered despite himself. He had been to Paternoster Row before. Hapworth was acquainted
with Madame Vastra, and she had called upon his learning and knowledge on several occasions. Carlisle found the veiled woman cold and not a little unsettling.

‘Now I must set this down at once,’ Hapworth insisted. ‘Leave me. I shall ring for you when I am done.’

As he spoke, Hapworth put down his pen and got to his feet, following Carlisle to the door. As soon as the manservant was out in the hall, Hapworth pulled the door shut. A moment later, Carlisle heard the scrape of the key turning in the lock. Only then did it occur to Carlisle that his master was utterly terrified.

Inside the study, Hapworth closed and barred the shutters on the window, then drew the curtains across. He took a moment to adjust the gas, turning up the lamps as he fought to get his nerves under control.

At his desk, he paused before sitting. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the globe. The last flecks of snow had melted, but a tiny patch of white was visible. Something poking out of the coat pocket. Hapworth lifted the coat to reach inside, and drew out the ticket he had been given when he entered the Carnival of Curiosities. It was damp and stained. As he pulled it from the coat pocket, several other, smaller pieces of paper came with it and scattered
across the polished wooden floorboards. He bent to pick them up.

Three pieces of paper, snow white, each folded into the shape of a stylised bird. It was expertly done, all the more impressive as the birds were so small – only a couple of inches across. Hapworth dropped the paper birds, together with the Carnival ticket, beside the ornate letter-opener on his desk and sat down, gathering his thoughts before committing them to the paper in front of him.

A faint breeze ruffled the folded paper, giving the illusion for a moment that the wings of the birds were stirring into life. Hapworth glanced across at the window – only to see that, of course, it was closed, the shutters and curtains drawn. He frowned.

Outside the door, Carlisle waited, unsure quite what to do. He had no idea how long Mr Hapworth would be, but equally he did not want to venture too far away. His master might need him at any moment.

The scream echoed round the hallway, barely muffled by the heavy study door. It seemed to go on for ever, before it was choked off into a rasp of pain.

‘Sir?’ Carlisle called. ‘Mr Hapworth?’

The door was still locked. Carlisle put his shoulder to it, and with a strength borne of fear and urgency he managed to break it open on his third attempt. He stumbled into the room, accompanied by the sound
of splintering wood as the doorframe gave way.

Hapworth was still at his desk, but sprawled forward across it, his body twisted onto its side. One hand was stretched out desperately across the surface, fingers curled into a gnarled claw. His eyes were open, staring wide, fearful, and lifeless at Carlisle standing in the shattered doorway.

On the paper before him, Hapworth had written just two words: ‘Madame Vastra’. The paper was flecked with red.

Carlisle looked round, appalled. But apart from him and Hapworth’s body, the room was empty. The window was locked and shuttered. He had broken through the only door to get inside.

Blood continued to seep out from the sharp metal letter-opener that jutted from between Hapworth’s shoulder blades. It dripped to the desk, soaked up by the crimson-stained blotter.

The pub was crowded. People stood so close together that they were almost on each other’s toes, except for at one end of the bar, where two stocky figures stood alone. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that no one else should get too close to them.

Everything about Rick Bellamy was angry. His face was a permanent scowl, his hands – except when lifting his pint glass – knotted into fists, his stance pugilistic and intimidating. His tone was no exception.

‘A penny!’ He spat the word across the bar in front of him. ‘Well, I thought, there must be something good in here, then. But no, it was just the usual rubbish for the punters. More stalls and sideshows and the like. Freaks and exhibits. Oh, interesting enough I s’pose. But a
penny
. Carnival of Curiosities? More like a rip-off.’

‘Your anger does you credit,’ Bellamy’s companion said. ‘I imagine you laid waste the entire area and demanded restitution.’

Bellamy drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar. ‘Well no, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Though I did give them a piece of my mind. Told them what I thought. Made it clear how angry it made me. Then I put it down to experience and came here for a drink. You ready for another one, Mr Strax?’

‘Allow me.’ Mr Strax finished his own pint. Rather than set down the empty glass, he crushed it casually between his large fingers until it exploded into a satisfying spray of shards and fragments. ‘Boy!’ he called across the bar. ‘Two more pints.’

The serving girl sighed, left the customer she was serving, and pulled the beers.

‘You not working tonight, Mr Strax?’ Bellamy asked as they waited for their drinks.

‘My mistress was called away. I declined to join her. A swift strategic assessment suggested you would be here.’