A chilly grey evening had accompanied Peggy Powler and Officer Jim Eckles to the cluttered streets of Thameston and
passing over a metal bridge that had seen better days, the little Witch peered down at the inky river that flowed through
the metropolis and pondered that she may be out of her depth.
A large baroque church loomed up out of the darkness and trailing in the constable's wake, Peggy made a note that her
usual feeling of being an outsider would be further endorsed by the new religion firmly embedded in this tree-less city of
grey. With stained-glass windows acting as distrustful eyes, the latest visitor to this bleak urban seediness passed beneath
the suspicious gaze of the fashionable doctrine like one of Edward Cartwright's chickens being gauged by a hungry fox.
"Yer bugger...!" the open-mouthed sorceress exclaimed, "...majick lanterns!" as illumination suddenly appeared behind
a glass casing attached to the wall of a house. Jim Eckles looked over his shoulder at the small bare-footed woman and
smiled inwardly at her bumpkin ignorance. "Gas, Ma'am..." he said and quickly buttoning his uniform in case Inspector
Abernethy decided to enjoy some pipe tobacco on the steps of the station, he left the uncivilised hillbilly in the grubby
poncho to her wonderment of how light doesn't always involve a candle.
The soot-smeared exterior of Bishopsgate Police Station hinted at foreboding to the Last Witch of Underhill as the pair
stepped through the grey doors smeared with greasy handprints. George Abernethy was still a mystery to Whyte Chapel's
newly-arrived transient and as Peggy stared around at the dirty-but-brightly-lit lobby, a small voice in her head whispered
the augurer's hope that this was a case of mistaken identity and she could flee back to the land where grass grew under
one's feet.
Constable Eckles passed through a gap in the long counter where an impassive-faced man in the police force's orthodox
dark-blue tunic was putting pen to paper. Assuming she should continue following her young guide, Peggy headed for
the breach in the high wooden barrier and then heard a warning from the Officer with the features that resembled the
spiritless abodes outside.
"No Ma'am, you're not allowed back there" Sergeant Burrows warned without looking up from his scribblings and slowly
removing her hat, the small figure heard her quiet inner-voice strongly suggest she should turn and run from this barren
place, run for the untroubled meadows and the bucolic woods where her own kind enjoy the meaning of organic hues
and live alongside nature.
"Miss Powler, I presume..." boomed a giant with a beard that looked like a briar brush, "...I hope you're the answer to
my prayers" he added blithely and with a sweep of a hand invited the Witch from the countryside into the place where
only those who believe they will always catch their prey, dwell.
.................................................................
"Aye well, yer' writin' and fancy paperwork is all well-n'-good, Mr Abernethy, but the thing yer' seek doesn't play the
same game as yer' self" Peggy announced after the man had finished with his presentation and she'd felt confident
the lamp standing on one of the two desks still necessitated wick. George sighed and closing the meagre dossier
on The Cold Caller, looked over from his roost of a high stool.
"You mean the person that we seek, don't you? We're not out in the boonies now, Miss Powler" he said sarcastically
and cocked an highbrow of light derision at the picayune spellbinder examining the contents of his office. If prompted,
George would have to admit the Witch hadn't aged from the three decades since he'd last seen her.
During his younger years out in environs of Dorfitt Bay, George had accepted the simple principles of his unschooled
parents and neighbours in regards of their mundane lives. If a cow failed to give milk, an ethereal creature was blamed
and age-old remedies bequeathed from ancestors were used to solve the problem. If something was mislaid, a Fae
or some imaginary creature was accused of theft and the profession his inquisitive guest dabbled in was keenly sought.
Peggy turned to look at the big man with a face full of hair, he'd introduced himself as a detector of crime, a hunter for
the truth and a protectorate of those of his parish. The Cold Caller was now revelling on his patch and he'd requested
a spell-binder to help him. Yet, here he was, a man as tall as John Potter from the isles of Murdigon impugning her
reputation for suggesting he might be on the wrong spoor.
"Yer' mentioned yer' were frum' Dorfitt Bay, Sir...?" the little woman burdened with -what looked like, a large empty
canvas bag hanging from her shoulder said sternly. "...Then yer'll ken the dried-out sea-Knucker skin nailed te' the
side of old Jack Bonner's cottage then?" she countered without acknowledgment from her single audience and then
settling an itch from the rear of her short attire, wondered where the lad was with his promise of a brew.
The mocking highbrow joined it's kin in creating a frown on the Inspector's face as he replied to Peggy's obvious
defence of what George had always believed had been a very old scheme abusing rural ignorance. "So I guess
we're now looking for a murderous sea monster wriggling its way through the alleyways of Whyte Chapel then,
eh Miss Powler?" he asked with a note of scorn and believed it may have been a mistake to ask the woman his
late-mother had always had faith in, to come to Bishopsgate Police Station.
Jim Eckles stood at the office doorway with two mugs of tea in his hands and a gaunt look on his face. Sergeant
Burrows was still at his post and emulated the drained features of his younger colleague. "Er, Sir..." the Constable
who'd recently walked under tall trees and stepped in freshly deposited meadow muffins stuttered as he now took
one pace forward into the tobacco-smelling province of debate on theism, "...there's been another one".
passing over a metal bridge that had seen better days, the little Witch peered down at the inky river that flowed through
the metropolis and pondered that she may be out of her depth.
A large baroque church loomed up out of the darkness and trailing in the constable's wake, Peggy made a note that her
usual feeling of being an outsider would be further endorsed by the new religion firmly embedded in this tree-less city of
grey. With stained-glass windows acting as distrustful eyes, the latest visitor to this bleak urban seediness passed beneath
the suspicious gaze of the fashionable doctrine like one of Edward Cartwright's chickens being gauged by a hungry fox.
"Yer bugger...!" the open-mouthed sorceress exclaimed, "...majick lanterns!" as illumination suddenly appeared behind
a glass casing attached to the wall of a house. Jim Eckles looked over his shoulder at the small bare-footed woman and
smiled inwardly at her bumpkin ignorance. "Gas, Ma'am..." he said and quickly buttoning his uniform in case Inspector
Abernethy decided to enjoy some pipe tobacco on the steps of the station, he left the uncivilised hillbilly in the grubby
poncho to her wonderment of how light doesn't always involve a candle.
The soot-smeared exterior of Bishopsgate Police Station hinted at foreboding to the Last Witch of Underhill as the pair
stepped through the grey doors smeared with greasy handprints. George Abernethy was still a mystery to Whyte Chapel's
newly-arrived transient and as Peggy stared around at the dirty-but-brightly-lit lobby, a small voice in her head whispered
the augurer's hope that this was a case of mistaken identity and she could flee back to the land where grass grew under
one's feet.
Constable Eckles passed through a gap in the long counter where an impassive-faced man in the police force's orthodox
dark-blue tunic was putting pen to paper. Assuming she should continue following her young guide, Peggy headed for
the breach in the high wooden barrier and then heard a warning from the Officer with the features that resembled the
spiritless abodes outside.
"No Ma'am, you're not allowed back there" Sergeant Burrows warned without looking up from his scribblings and slowly
removing her hat, the small figure heard her quiet inner-voice strongly suggest she should turn and run from this barren
place, run for the untroubled meadows and the bucolic woods where her own kind enjoy the meaning of organic hues
and live alongside nature.
"Miss Powler, I presume..." boomed a giant with a beard that looked like a briar brush, "...I hope you're the answer to
my prayers" he added blithely and with a sweep of a hand invited the Witch from the countryside into the place where
only those who believe they will always catch their prey, dwell.
.................................................................
"Aye well, yer' writin' and fancy paperwork is all well-n'-good, Mr Abernethy, but the thing yer' seek doesn't play the
same game as yer' self" Peggy announced after the man had finished with his presentation and she'd felt confident
the lamp standing on one of the two desks still necessitated wick. George sighed and closing the meagre dossier
on The Cold Caller, looked over from his roost of a high stool.
"You mean the person that we seek, don't you? We're not out in the boonies now, Miss Powler" he said sarcastically
and cocked an highbrow of light derision at the picayune spellbinder examining the contents of his office. If prompted,
George would have to admit the Witch hadn't aged from the three decades since he'd last seen her.
During his younger years out in environs of Dorfitt Bay, George had accepted the simple principles of his unschooled
parents and neighbours in regards of their mundane lives. If a cow failed to give milk, an ethereal creature was blamed
and age-old remedies bequeathed from ancestors were used to solve the problem. If something was mislaid, a Fae
or some imaginary creature was accused of theft and the profession his inquisitive guest dabbled in was keenly sought.
Peggy turned to look at the big man with a face full of hair, he'd introduced himself as a detector of crime, a hunter for
the truth and a protectorate of those of his parish. The Cold Caller was now revelling on his patch and he'd requested
a spell-binder to help him. Yet, here he was, a man as tall as John Potter from the isles of Murdigon impugning her
reputation for suggesting he might be on the wrong spoor.
"Yer' mentioned yer' were frum' Dorfitt Bay, Sir...?" the little woman burdened with -what looked like, a large empty
canvas bag hanging from her shoulder said sternly. "...Then yer'll ken the dried-out sea-Knucker skin nailed te' the
side of old Jack Bonner's cottage then?" she countered without acknowledgment from her single audience and then
settling an itch from the rear of her short attire, wondered where the lad was with his promise of a brew.
The mocking highbrow joined it's kin in creating a frown on the Inspector's face as he replied to Peggy's obvious
defence of what George had always believed had been a very old scheme abusing rural ignorance. "So I guess
we're now looking for a murderous sea monster wriggling its way through the alleyways of Whyte Chapel then,
eh Miss Powler?" he asked with a note of scorn and believed it may have been a mistake to ask the woman his
late-mother had always had faith in, to come to Bishopsgate Police Station.
Jim Eckles stood at the office doorway with two mugs of tea in his hands and a gaunt look on his face. Sergeant
Burrows was still at his post and emulated the drained features of his younger colleague. "Er, Sir..." the Constable
who'd recently walked under tall trees and stepped in freshly deposited meadow muffins stuttered as he now took
one pace forward into the tobacco-smelling province of debate on theism, "...there's been another one".
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.