The chilly night waited patiently with the few shivering gawkers standing at the end of Miller's Court and its obscurity
silently fought against the gas-fuelled lanterns that sputtered and spat above the scene of the latest murder. A couple
of constables walked in front of the small crowd and eventually discovered the dead woman's name, information that
was quickly passed to the bearded Inspector standing beside the bare-footed stranger in the wide-brimmed hat.
"She's Catherine Strode and she worked this area" George Abernethy growled as he stared down at the latest victim
of The Cold Caller. Peggy Powler breathed in deeply and gave the impression she was alarmed at the ghastly sight.
Strode's throat had been cut and she'd been left with the familiar brand that the killer had had given his ten previous
sacrifices, an inked circle around the left eye arranged to look like a tear-drop at its lowest point and a piece of ice
deposited on or near the body. The woman's clothes were still intact and there was no sign that the attack held a
sexual connotation.
Of course, the little sorceress had seen worse. Fighting demons, slaying Werewolves and Vampires would always
bring gore and mutilation to most of Peggy's encounters. Death fed well wherever the Last Witch of Underhill tread
and the tragic sight of Catherine Strode was barely another milestone on her journey of cleansing the land of things
that do more than just bump in the night.
"Why de' yer' think he does that...?" Abernethy's smaller companion asked as she carefully knelt down and scanned
the deceased female laid where the only alleyway of Miller's Court led away to a row of more run-down houses of
Whyte Chapel. The cobblestones gleamed with the colour of urine as the lamplights of Vinegar Street offered some
of its poor illumination to crouching conjurer examining Catherine's left hand. The small chunk of ice that supported
the killer's epithet had almost melted, but its salty consistency -aided by the cold weather, hinted that the murder
had only occurred a little while ago.
"...And where does he get the ice from?" Peggy mumbled to herself and peering up the filthy alley, felt that whoever
this ghost was, he'd left the scene that way and blended into the darkness of Vinegar Street. That was another itch
that bothered the wandering Witch, The Cold Caller's knowledge of the layout of where he visits. Inspector George
Abernethy knelt beside his invited guest and assured Peggy these were the questions she'd been brought here to
Whyte Chapel to answer. Eyeing the egg-size piece of hail in Catherine Strode's lifeless hand, he growled that he'd
hit a dead-end with how to catch this elusive killer and softly added "If you would pardon the play on words".
Arriving back at her full height, Peggy peered at the looming structures that made up Miller's Court and wondered
why nobody had seen anything unusual. Dark windows stared back and replied back to the little necromancer that
this urban indigence struggled to get through each day and casualties to the impoverished existence were inevitable.
"What are yer' doin' here Mister Caller...?" she breathed to the invisible slayer of women, "...why would yer' leave
the easy huntin' grounds of the lonely villages?"
.................................................................
James Burrows leaned slightly back from his usual position at the reception counter and admitted to himself that
the satchel hanging up in Inspector Abernethy's office sounded like it was snoring. His night-shift in charge of the
Station's foyer was nearly over and stifling a yawn, reckoned he'd be glad when he saw young Eckles coming
through the front door. They may have the same first name, but the kid still had the enthusiasm as a policeman
that the Sergeant had lost many seasons ago. Now being at Bishopsgate was just a job, a way of paying the bills
and making sure Madge got her medicine.
Jim glanced up from the daily work-log he was obliged to write out and scanned at the written statements of last
night's murder that his fellow Officers had left piled on the end of the counter. The Sergeant knew these documents
will be mulled over as he slept and the stone-faced man made a wager that little would be gleaned from the penciled
comments to catch this brutal bounder who held the gift to vanish at will.
"Get yourself Home, Sergeant..." Constable Eckles said amiably as he stepped up into the Reception Area and with
a swift backwards kick, absently swung the door closed behind him. "...Madge'll be wondering if you've got another
woman!" he added with that winning grin he always carried. Jim Burrows shrugged his shoulder to imply the lad
couldn't be sure if he was incorrect and turned to get his coat from the row of hooks in the Inspector's office.
"It's a cold one out there this morning, Jim..." Eckles warned as he disrobed down to his uniform, "...wrap up well".
The mysterious canvas bag moved a little as he approached and snatching his heavy garment from its mooring,
Burrows resisted the need to poke it with his finger and decided his own business held more interest. He wondered
if Victor Moses' Apothecary would be open yet and donning his coat, felt in the pocket for the piece of paper naming
the required drug. "I'll be off then" he muttered to the youngster scanning the pile of statements on the long counter
and left without another word.
Maybe old Moses will have a cure for Jim's wife's ailment and she could get back to working down in the offices
on the dockside. The wages were good there and then he and Madge could have a chat about asking that creepy
guy renting their upstairs room to leave.
silently fought against the gas-fuelled lanterns that sputtered and spat above the scene of the latest murder. A couple
of constables walked in front of the small crowd and eventually discovered the dead woman's name, information that
was quickly passed to the bearded Inspector standing beside the bare-footed stranger in the wide-brimmed hat.
"She's Catherine Strode and she worked this area" George Abernethy growled as he stared down at the latest victim
of The Cold Caller. Peggy Powler breathed in deeply and gave the impression she was alarmed at the ghastly sight.
Strode's throat had been cut and she'd been left with the familiar brand that the killer had had given his ten previous
sacrifices, an inked circle around the left eye arranged to look like a tear-drop at its lowest point and a piece of ice
deposited on or near the body. The woman's clothes were still intact and there was no sign that the attack held a
sexual connotation.
Of course, the little sorceress had seen worse. Fighting demons, slaying Werewolves and Vampires would always
bring gore and mutilation to most of Peggy's encounters. Death fed well wherever the Last Witch of Underhill tread
and the tragic sight of Catherine Strode was barely another milestone on her journey of cleansing the land of things
that do more than just bump in the night.
"Why de' yer' think he does that...?" Abernethy's smaller companion asked as she carefully knelt down and scanned
the deceased female laid where the only alleyway of Miller's Court led away to a row of more run-down houses of
Whyte Chapel. The cobblestones gleamed with the colour of urine as the lamplights of Vinegar Street offered some
of its poor illumination to crouching conjurer examining Catherine's left hand. The small chunk of ice that supported
the killer's epithet had almost melted, but its salty consistency -aided by the cold weather, hinted that the murder
had only occurred a little while ago.
"...And where does he get the ice from?" Peggy mumbled to herself and peering up the filthy alley, felt that whoever
this ghost was, he'd left the scene that way and blended into the darkness of Vinegar Street. That was another itch
that bothered the wandering Witch, The Cold Caller's knowledge of the layout of where he visits. Inspector George
Abernethy knelt beside his invited guest and assured Peggy these were the questions she'd been brought here to
Whyte Chapel to answer. Eyeing the egg-size piece of hail in Catherine Strode's lifeless hand, he growled that he'd
hit a dead-end with how to catch this elusive killer and softly added "If you would pardon the play on words".
Arriving back at her full height, Peggy peered at the looming structures that made up Miller's Court and wondered
why nobody had seen anything unusual. Dark windows stared back and replied back to the little necromancer that
this urban indigence struggled to get through each day and casualties to the impoverished existence were inevitable.
"What are yer' doin' here Mister Caller...?" she breathed to the invisible slayer of women, "...why would yer' leave
the easy huntin' grounds of the lonely villages?"
.................................................................
James Burrows leaned slightly back from his usual position at the reception counter and admitted to himself that
the satchel hanging up in Inspector Abernethy's office sounded like it was snoring. His night-shift in charge of the
Station's foyer was nearly over and stifling a yawn, reckoned he'd be glad when he saw young Eckles coming
through the front door. They may have the same first name, but the kid still had the enthusiasm as a policeman
that the Sergeant had lost many seasons ago. Now being at Bishopsgate was just a job, a way of paying the bills
and making sure Madge got her medicine.
Jim glanced up from the daily work-log he was obliged to write out and scanned at the written statements of last
night's murder that his fellow Officers had left piled on the end of the counter. The Sergeant knew these documents
will be mulled over as he slept and the stone-faced man made a wager that little would be gleaned from the penciled
comments to catch this brutal bounder who held the gift to vanish at will.
"Get yourself Home, Sergeant..." Constable Eckles said amiably as he stepped up into the Reception Area and with
a swift backwards kick, absently swung the door closed behind him. "...Madge'll be wondering if you've got another
woman!" he added with that winning grin he always carried. Jim Burrows shrugged his shoulder to imply the lad
couldn't be sure if he was incorrect and turned to get his coat from the row of hooks in the Inspector's office.
"It's a cold one out there this morning, Jim..." Eckles warned as he disrobed down to his uniform, "...wrap up well".
The mysterious canvas bag moved a little as he approached and snatching his heavy garment from its mooring,
Burrows resisted the need to poke it with his finger and decided his own business held more interest. He wondered
if Victor Moses' Apothecary would be open yet and donning his coat, felt in the pocket for the piece of paper naming
the required drug. "I'll be off then" he muttered to the youngster scanning the pile of statements on the long counter
and left without another word.
Maybe old Moses will have a cure for Jim's wife's ailment and she could get back to working down in the offices
on the dockside. The wages were good there and then he and Madge could have a chat about asking that creepy
guy renting their upstairs room to leave.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.