Like a flittermouse he flew, the night air took the one called The Cold Caller and evaluated him as a aspirant with those
things that defy gravity and found the killer of women wanting. The arm-waving man in the grey coat and his mysterious
advisor plummeted down from the starless sky and no amount of pretentious elocution could help them both. The loud
crashing sound of a collapsing coal-house roof only added to Mister Fawkes' grasp of the reality he inhabited with the
Inspector and the Witch hurrying towards the station of the murderer's leap.
"Aye, yer've git nay oak tree te' jump te'" Peggy Powler mumbled to herself as she glimpsed a dark limping shape flee
through an open gate of the yard and noticing George Abernethy swiftly make his way back to the way they had both
came to the roof, the little sorceress reached into her satchel and hoped the item was there.
"Pandy-whey" she whispered into her cupped hand and released the glowing orb. With only a moment to get its bearings,
the hinkypunk sped off towards the darkened back alley where the soot-covered rascal was making his escape. "Stay wiv'
the him" Peggy hissed and turned to follow the Inspector.
.................................................................
Marjorie Burrows tentatively reached for the wobbly brass doorknob of Mister Fawkes' room and felt the resistance within
the lock mechanism. Up here on the top landing, the cold draught was more substantial and even though the Sergeant's
wife originated from a place where cold air was a seasonal escort in the homes of those who lived off the land, Madge
had noticed the chilled air had already crept down the stairs and into the parlour.
"Mister Fawkes, do you have a window open?" she asked nervously and leaned close to the dirt-smudged portal. Jim
was back at work and her evening reading of the religious book her dead mother had given her had been disturbed by
the winter's frigidness somehow stealing into her home.
The room was silent even when she inquired again and the faint aroma of something putrid seemed to be the only
occupant of the attic. With sniff and a frown, the woman with the aching leg-joints returned to where the comfort of
a gas lamp's lustre and another page of sage counsel that would hopefully subdue her curiosity.
.................................................................
A hunched silhouette lurched under the lamplight of Vinegar Street and sought its fellow penumbra in the hopes of
masking its absconding. If any of Whyte Chapel's late-night drunkards had abandoned the bottom of their respective
tankards and passed by the cobbled thoroughfare, they may have witnessed a panting stranger in pain, a dangerous
outremer who had fallen from his magniloquent roost and now searched for escape from who he deemed was one
of his own.
"We have been bilked from our goal..." the voice growled as Mister Fawkes held his blood-stained hand close to his
face. "...Even now, the lustful slatterns are..." but Fawkes interrupted his invisible confederate with a whistling exhale
of pain from the leg wound. "We need to leave here, we need to find a place to heal" the Cold Killer hissed through
his clenched teeth and scanned the rooftops for his pursuers. The black sky stared back and held its tongue at the
accusation of keeping hunters.
The supernatural advisor of the killer remained silent as his host's ambulatory aimed back towards his lodgings.
Apart from the sporadic grimacing of the lonely man that the parasitic misanthrope had found back in the wilds
around Weathercote, the only sounds were from distant carousers blustering their stunted sentiments into the
chilly air of Whyte Chapel.
.................................................................
Inspector George Abernethy panted at his exertions into the cold air and checked up and down the enclosed
cloister of Miller's Court. "Damn and blast, we missed him" he spat and scratched his beard in irritation, the
gloom mocked his narrow-eyed surveillance. The Last Witch of Underhill finally detrained from the long metal
ladders secured to the back of Jules Moffat's Bakery and with her face aiming upwards, sauntered to where
the frustrated law-enforcer stood at the entrance to where Catherine Strode lost her life.
The front page of this morning's newspaper rode along the deserted alleyway that separated the odd couple's
current location from Vinegar Street and found an impasse at the feet of the big man rummaging in the pockets
of his heavy coat for his issued police whistle. "Divna' be hasty, George..." the unflappable enchanter suggested
and kept her eyes on the darkness beyond the poor effulgence of one of those magical lanterns. "...We have a
friend o' the neet' te' show us the way" she added and pointed a finger into the gloom.
The Inspector's own digits felt the cold metal of his warbler and placing it to his lips, his thoughts were on the
warning Commissioner Bowles had lectured to him a few days ago. However, no exhalation blew life into the
whistle.
George thought for a moment it due to his eyes watering from the cold wind and drew a blur in his eye, maybe
even some dust stirred by the disturbed newspaper was causing the effect he was now witnessing. "wha..."
he began to ask and the shut his mouth with a snap as the soft-glowing ball of light floated gently down into
the waiting hand of the grinning woman called Peggy Powler. Somewhere to the south, a clock chimed the
half-hour and somewhere quite close, a canny spellbinder was listening to a spook-light's tidings on where it
had been.
things that defy gravity and found the killer of women wanting. The arm-waving man in the grey coat and his mysterious
advisor plummeted down from the starless sky and no amount of pretentious elocution could help them both. The loud
crashing sound of a collapsing coal-house roof only added to Mister Fawkes' grasp of the reality he inhabited with the
Inspector and the Witch hurrying towards the station of the murderer's leap.
"Aye, yer've git nay oak tree te' jump te'" Peggy Powler mumbled to herself as she glimpsed a dark limping shape flee
through an open gate of the yard and noticing George Abernethy swiftly make his way back to the way they had both
came to the roof, the little sorceress reached into her satchel and hoped the item was there.
"Pandy-whey" she whispered into her cupped hand and released the glowing orb. With only a moment to get its bearings,
the hinkypunk sped off towards the darkened back alley where the soot-covered rascal was making his escape. "Stay wiv'
the him" Peggy hissed and turned to follow the Inspector.
.................................................................
Marjorie Burrows tentatively reached for the wobbly brass doorknob of Mister Fawkes' room and felt the resistance within
the lock mechanism. Up here on the top landing, the cold draught was more substantial and even though the Sergeant's
wife originated from a place where cold air was a seasonal escort in the homes of those who lived off the land, Madge
had noticed the chilled air had already crept down the stairs and into the parlour.
"Mister Fawkes, do you have a window open?" she asked nervously and leaned close to the dirt-smudged portal. Jim
was back at work and her evening reading of the religious book her dead mother had given her had been disturbed by
the winter's frigidness somehow stealing into her home.
The room was silent even when she inquired again and the faint aroma of something putrid seemed to be the only
occupant of the attic. With sniff and a frown, the woman with the aching leg-joints returned to where the comfort of
a gas lamp's lustre and another page of sage counsel that would hopefully subdue her curiosity.
.................................................................
A hunched silhouette lurched under the lamplight of Vinegar Street and sought its fellow penumbra in the hopes of
masking its absconding. If any of Whyte Chapel's late-night drunkards had abandoned the bottom of their respective
tankards and passed by the cobbled thoroughfare, they may have witnessed a panting stranger in pain, a dangerous
outremer who had fallen from his magniloquent roost and now searched for escape from who he deemed was one
of his own.
"We have been bilked from our goal..." the voice growled as Mister Fawkes held his blood-stained hand close to his
face. "...Even now, the lustful slatterns are..." but Fawkes interrupted his invisible confederate with a whistling exhale
of pain from the leg wound. "We need to leave here, we need to find a place to heal" the Cold Killer hissed through
his clenched teeth and scanned the rooftops for his pursuers. The black sky stared back and held its tongue at the
accusation of keeping hunters.
The supernatural advisor of the killer remained silent as his host's ambulatory aimed back towards his lodgings.
Apart from the sporadic grimacing of the lonely man that the parasitic misanthrope had found back in the wilds
around Weathercote, the only sounds were from distant carousers blustering their stunted sentiments into the
chilly air of Whyte Chapel.
.................................................................
Inspector George Abernethy panted at his exertions into the cold air and checked up and down the enclosed
cloister of Miller's Court. "Damn and blast, we missed him" he spat and scratched his beard in irritation, the
gloom mocked his narrow-eyed surveillance. The Last Witch of Underhill finally detrained from the long metal
ladders secured to the back of Jules Moffat's Bakery and with her face aiming upwards, sauntered to where
the frustrated law-enforcer stood at the entrance to where Catherine Strode lost her life.
The front page of this morning's newspaper rode along the deserted alleyway that separated the odd couple's
current location from Vinegar Street and found an impasse at the feet of the big man rummaging in the pockets
of his heavy coat for his issued police whistle. "Divna' be hasty, George..." the unflappable enchanter suggested
and kept her eyes on the darkness beyond the poor effulgence of one of those magical lanterns. "...We have a
friend o' the neet' te' show us the way" she added and pointed a finger into the gloom.
The Inspector's own digits felt the cold metal of his warbler and placing it to his lips, his thoughts were on the
warning Commissioner Bowles had lectured to him a few days ago. However, no exhalation blew life into the
whistle.
George thought for a moment it due to his eyes watering from the cold wind and drew a blur in his eye, maybe
even some dust stirred by the disturbed newspaper was causing the effect he was now witnessing. "wha..."
he began to ask and the shut his mouth with a snap as the soft-glowing ball of light floated gently down into
the waiting hand of the grinning woman called Peggy Powler. Somewhere to the south, a clock chimed the
half-hour and somewhere quite close, a canny spellbinder was listening to a spook-light's tidings on where it
had been.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.