George Abernethy broke from his wool-gathering as the new lad from Blackfriars carefully took a mug of tea from the
top of the pile of reports he was balancing and placed it on his weary superior's desk. "Sergeant Burrows reckons this
is the lot for the night, Sir..." Jim Eckles informed the baffled Chief Inspector scratching his beard in frustration "...and
it seems it's all quiet out there now".
Winter had returned to Thameston and with it, the reappearance of the mysterious fiend that the contemptible media
were fond of calling 'The Cold Caller'. Six women destroyed and left in Liberty Park for all to see as the public took in
the fresh morning air or watch their children scamper around on th acres of open grass. From the dirty streets of Whyte
Chapel, through Kenslayton and all the way across to Hammersmith, The Cold Caller had brought the chilly nights of
Thameston to a halt with his maleficent conduct.
The young constable glanced towards the long oaken counter that separated the great unwashed of Whyte Chapel from
those who were supposed to protect them. George followed Eckles' gaze and saw Ma Clitheroe was whining on about
her lodger again and his inability to pay this month's rent, Burrows' famous stoic features were on full display as she
grumbled on about her favourite topic and George noticed Jim's moving pencil wasn't really writing anything.
An old drunkard who went under the dubious title of Sebastian Porter was slumped near the entryway to Bishopsgate
Police Station and as the young constable had remarked, the seasoned bacchanal's snoring endorsed his words that
tonight had all the makings of being a quiet evening. And maybe -George hoped as he sipped his brew, the sporadic
flurries of rain would stifle the ghostly bounder's pursuit of rebarbative behaviour.
It had been hectic earlier when two well-dressed alleged acquaintances of the Lord Mayor barged into the station foyer,
shouting at the top of their lungs for George's small cadre of unqualified Constables to do something at once about the
disgraceful hellion that was prowling the streets seemingly without fear of reprisal and threatening the servants in their
employ. It had taken all of George's abilities as peace-broker to calm the rowdy pair and composedly escort them from
the premises.
It was only afterwards as he perused the poorly-written reports from his men that he mused on whether he'd get a visit
from those deemed wiser than himself and more advice on how to apprehend the invisible killer of ladies who practiced
their trade under the gas-fuelled lamps of Whyte Chapel.
George sighed at the dozing old alcoholic on the stool and recalled his better days back in Dorfitt Bay. Mary Abernethy's
son been the first official Policeman in the whole county and at nineteen, moving along such occasional urine-smelling
drunkards slumped against someone's front-gate had been the only highlight of his nightly rounds.
From Dorfitt Bay, he'd been recruited to a regional faction outfitted with horses and a uniform. From there and with his
Blacksmith father's work ethic, he had propelled himself upwards in the expanding development of law enforcement
and finally arrived in the busy metropolis of Thameston.
That was thirty years-ago and a long way from where he sat tonight -George ruminated and went back to scouring the
unintelligible reports of his men. Someone must've seen something he speculated and ran his finger along the lines
of hardly-intelligible scrawl from those who'd been drafted in to assist in the search of the murdering desperado.
'...Mrs Darla Powlter of Spitalsfield reported observing a stranger acting suspiciously at the entrance of Osborne Street...'
Constable Withers had scribbled and for a brief moment in pulling away from the remnants of his nostalgic trip to more
halcyon times, a face floated into his mind that George struggled to name.
.................................................................
It was something to do with a rural family -the reason for this immediate reason of his recollection was that the eldest
daughter was beautiful and the look of warning her father gave him assured the young constable that he was aware of
this distracting factor. Arriving on a moor-pony he'd named Tornado from Dorfitt Bay to investigate the reported problem,
George had hauled his cognition away from long eyelashes and ambrosial lips to a serious and mature homesteader
dealing with the loss of livestock.
The sheep-herder was having his flock slain by -what he'd informed George, was a huge wolf standing upright and the
young Officer had done well to keep a straight face during the shepherd's sombre account. After inspecting the gory
scene of the killings and taking down separate details from the family members -she was called Ruth and her eyes
were blue, George then spoke again with the frowning head of the household in private.
It was during that discussion that a woman of short stature and without shoes had appeared and without any appreciation
for law enforcement, assured the herdsman she could eliminate the pastoralist's problem. The fairly-attractive waist-high
female -George estimated, was around twenty-five summers of age and held the demeanour of someone ill-suited to a
communal setting. She wore odd attire and a large hat covered her head and she sported a weathered bag that young
Abernethy believed was large enough for her to sleep in.
The father of the pretty girl who flirted from the cottage doorway had moved his attention away from the whippersnapper
in the dark-blue uniform to this strange individual with a rustic accent. "Thes' knaw's me, Amos Chambers..." she'd stated
with a sharp-eyed surveillance of the blood-stained meadow behind the cottage, "...yer' problem'll be needin' a smidgen
of majick and a sliver of that pie Darla made fur' yer' yesterday" she added as she removed her hat. Officer Abernethy
had left then, believing a previous meeting had taken place with this scruffy woman and the herder before he's arrived
due to the comment regarding a recently baked pastry.
Feeling the same sensation as when lightning is in the air, Ruth and her youngest sister escorted George back to where
his horse was tethered to sign on Calder's Way showing the direction to his village beside the Great Sea. "Well, I hope
the lady can help your pater with his misfortune..." he said swinging up into the saddle like a handsome knight of yore.
"...But I will come by again in a week or so just to check in on you" he supplemented and made sure his gaze indicated
who he really meant. Ruth had blushed for a moment and replied...
The man who'd been dragooned over from Islington due to the Cold Caller killings squeezed his eyes shut tightly in
concentration, the name alluded him until imagined the pretty face of the girl he'd fallen in love with and who had
lived only a league away from Dorfitt Bay. "...Oh Sir, everyone knows Peggy Powler around these parts..." those
kissable-lips had uttered "...and she's always dealt with those things from beyond the veil".
.................................................................
It was close to midnight when George's boss arrived in attire best suited for one of those fancy get-togethers they have
up at the Mayor's mansion and warned him that any future he believed he might have in Thameston was seriously in
jeopardy. The Cold Caller's arrest was now the Inspector's only target, Commissioner Bowles had said loudly enough
for Eckles and Burrows to hear and theatrically moving his chipped mug of tea to one side, leaned over George's
file-strewn desk and quietly encouraged his subordinate to use whatever means possible.
"Whyte Chapel might well be a squalid place brimming with squalid people..." the frowning Bowles had hissed before
he left, "...but it was only a matter of time before this police force becomes the object of ridicule in the newspapers".
The Commissioner's final words were in regards of a certain Inspector's career would then be in peril and George didn't
need his skill as a detective to discover who that barb was aimed at.
The atmosphere in Bishopsgate Police station aped the temperature outside for some time after Commissioner Bowles
had left and recovering from his castigation, a tired George Abernethy reached for his lukewarm brew and suddenly
recalled the name of the woman who Amos Chambers had put more faith in than himself all those years ago.
Jim Burrows gently placed two coins on the counter and Ma Clitheroe silently ambled out into the cold darkness without
another word. Sebastian Porter slept on in his dreamless world of inebriation and George Abernethy wished the country
-roaming woman called Peggy Powler was here to solve this mystery.
top of the pile of reports he was balancing and placed it on his weary superior's desk. "Sergeant Burrows reckons this
is the lot for the night, Sir..." Jim Eckles informed the baffled Chief Inspector scratching his beard in frustration "...and
it seems it's all quiet out there now".
Winter had returned to Thameston and with it, the reappearance of the mysterious fiend that the contemptible media
were fond of calling 'The Cold Caller'. Six women destroyed and left in Liberty Park for all to see as the public took in
the fresh morning air or watch their children scamper around on th acres of open grass. From the dirty streets of Whyte
Chapel, through Kenslayton and all the way across to Hammersmith, The Cold Caller had brought the chilly nights of
Thameston to a halt with his maleficent conduct.
The young constable glanced towards the long oaken counter that separated the great unwashed of Whyte Chapel from
those who were supposed to protect them. George followed Eckles' gaze and saw Ma Clitheroe was whining on about
her lodger again and his inability to pay this month's rent, Burrows' famous stoic features were on full display as she
grumbled on about her favourite topic and George noticed Jim's moving pencil wasn't really writing anything.
An old drunkard who went under the dubious title of Sebastian Porter was slumped near the entryway to Bishopsgate
Police Station and as the young constable had remarked, the seasoned bacchanal's snoring endorsed his words that
tonight had all the makings of being a quiet evening. And maybe -George hoped as he sipped his brew, the sporadic
flurries of rain would stifle the ghostly bounder's pursuit of rebarbative behaviour.
It had been hectic earlier when two well-dressed alleged acquaintances of the Lord Mayor barged into the station foyer,
shouting at the top of their lungs for George's small cadre of unqualified Constables to do something at once about the
disgraceful hellion that was prowling the streets seemingly without fear of reprisal and threatening the servants in their
employ. It had taken all of George's abilities as peace-broker to calm the rowdy pair and composedly escort them from
the premises.
It was only afterwards as he perused the poorly-written reports from his men that he mused on whether he'd get a visit
from those deemed wiser than himself and more advice on how to apprehend the invisible killer of ladies who practiced
their trade under the gas-fuelled lamps of Whyte Chapel.
George sighed at the dozing old alcoholic on the stool and recalled his better days back in Dorfitt Bay. Mary Abernethy's
son been the first official Policeman in the whole county and at nineteen, moving along such occasional urine-smelling
drunkards slumped against someone's front-gate had been the only highlight of his nightly rounds.
From Dorfitt Bay, he'd been recruited to a regional faction outfitted with horses and a uniform. From there and with his
Blacksmith father's work ethic, he had propelled himself upwards in the expanding development of law enforcement
and finally arrived in the busy metropolis of Thameston.
That was thirty years-ago and a long way from where he sat tonight -George ruminated and went back to scouring the
unintelligible reports of his men. Someone must've seen something he speculated and ran his finger along the lines
of hardly-intelligible scrawl from those who'd been drafted in to assist in the search of the murdering desperado.
'...Mrs Darla Powlter of Spitalsfield reported observing a stranger acting suspiciously at the entrance of Osborne Street...'
Constable Withers had scribbled and for a brief moment in pulling away from the remnants of his nostalgic trip to more
halcyon times, a face floated into his mind that George struggled to name.
.................................................................
It was something to do with a rural family -the reason for this immediate reason of his recollection was that the eldest
daughter was beautiful and the look of warning her father gave him assured the young constable that he was aware of
this distracting factor. Arriving on a moor-pony he'd named Tornado from Dorfitt Bay to investigate the reported problem,
George had hauled his cognition away from long eyelashes and ambrosial lips to a serious and mature homesteader
dealing with the loss of livestock.
The sheep-herder was having his flock slain by -what he'd informed George, was a huge wolf standing upright and the
young Officer had done well to keep a straight face during the shepherd's sombre account. After inspecting the gory
scene of the killings and taking down separate details from the family members -she was called Ruth and her eyes
were blue, George then spoke again with the frowning head of the household in private.
It was during that discussion that a woman of short stature and without shoes had appeared and without any appreciation
for law enforcement, assured the herdsman she could eliminate the pastoralist's problem. The fairly-attractive waist-high
female -George estimated, was around twenty-five summers of age and held the demeanour of someone ill-suited to a
communal setting. She wore odd attire and a large hat covered her head and she sported a weathered bag that young
Abernethy believed was large enough for her to sleep in.
The father of the pretty girl who flirted from the cottage doorway had moved his attention away from the whippersnapper
in the dark-blue uniform to this strange individual with a rustic accent. "Thes' knaw's me, Amos Chambers..." she'd stated
with a sharp-eyed surveillance of the blood-stained meadow behind the cottage, "...yer' problem'll be needin' a smidgen
of majick and a sliver of that pie Darla made fur' yer' yesterday" she added as she removed her hat. Officer Abernethy
had left then, believing a previous meeting had taken place with this scruffy woman and the herder before he's arrived
due to the comment regarding a recently baked pastry.
Feeling the same sensation as when lightning is in the air, Ruth and her youngest sister escorted George back to where
his horse was tethered to sign on Calder's Way showing the direction to his village beside the Great Sea. "Well, I hope
the lady can help your pater with his misfortune..." he said swinging up into the saddle like a handsome knight of yore.
"...But I will come by again in a week or so just to check in on you" he supplemented and made sure his gaze indicated
who he really meant. Ruth had blushed for a moment and replied...
The man who'd been dragooned over from Islington due to the Cold Caller killings squeezed his eyes shut tightly in
concentration, the name alluded him until imagined the pretty face of the girl he'd fallen in love with and who had
lived only a league away from Dorfitt Bay. "...Oh Sir, everyone knows Peggy Powler around these parts..." those
kissable-lips had uttered "...and she's always dealt with those things from beyond the veil".
.................................................................
It was close to midnight when George's boss arrived in attire best suited for one of those fancy get-togethers they have
up at the Mayor's mansion and warned him that any future he believed he might have in Thameston was seriously in
jeopardy. The Cold Caller's arrest was now the Inspector's only target, Commissioner Bowles had said loudly enough
for Eckles and Burrows to hear and theatrically moving his chipped mug of tea to one side, leaned over George's
file-strewn desk and quietly encouraged his subordinate to use whatever means possible.
"Whyte Chapel might well be a squalid place brimming with squalid people..." the frowning Bowles had hissed before
he left, "...but it was only a matter of time before this police force becomes the object of ridicule in the newspapers".
The Commissioner's final words were in regards of a certain Inspector's career would then be in peril and George didn't
need his skill as a detective to discover who that barb was aimed at.
The atmosphere in Bishopsgate Police station aped the temperature outside for some time after Commissioner Bowles
had left and recovering from his castigation, a tired George Abernethy reached for his lukewarm brew and suddenly
recalled the name of the woman who Amos Chambers had put more faith in than himself all those years ago.
Jim Burrows gently placed two coins on the counter and Ma Clitheroe silently ambled out into the cold darkness without
another word. Sebastian Porter slept on in his dreamless world of inebriation and George Abernethy wished the country
-roaming woman called Peggy Powler was here to solve this mystery.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.