Inspector George Abernethy followed his finger as he read the chicken-tracks of an Officer's witness accounts from the
Strode murder and unknowing endorsed his Sergeant's belief that any clue residing in the rudimentary statements would
be a miracle.
'...A fellow prostitute stated that Strode left a common lodging house in Marpole Street at five in the morning
and proceeded to the Homer Bakery, where the proprietor -a Mr Isaac Homer, often donated unwanted breads
to those in want...'
'...Catherine Strode was seen by Mathew Tuppence outside the Three Bells Tavern looking worse for wear and
staggering unsurely towards Miller's Court. Tuppence estimated the time to be just before midnight due to he
later heard the Bow bells chime twelve as he turned into Clark's Yard on his way home...'
"I'll take this Tuppence character didn't transform into a narrow alleyway named after the leather-worker who resides
there?" George mumbled through his woolly beard and peered across to where Peggy Powler was sitting bedhind the
second desk with her dangling feet swaying rhythmically.
"There's nothing..." the Inspector growled "... nothing in here that hints at another person -your sea-knucker or not, that
gives us a clue on how he approaches his victim or is seen waiting to enact his attack" he appended. The little sorceress
nodded vaguely, but seemed preoccupied with her own, with her hat resting on the battered bureau in front of her, Peggy
was gazing up at the corner of the room.
A small spider had spent the morning preparing it's snare for any resilient insect that could endure the cold winter and
watching the fabrication of the sticky trap, the Last Witch of Underhill percolated on a web of her own. Not recalling the
exact date, Peggy mentally travelled back in time to the day she arrived in Weathercote.
.............................................................
It had been warm then and with an expectation that a few palms would be asked to be read, she felt that an easy day
was well-deserved in a village that exhibited all the hallmarks of being a sedate one. The familiar thatched cottages
huddled around the customary hand-drawn well and clucking poultry wandered in their eternal pursuit of of food in the
dust. However, the routine sounds of a Blacksmith and women going about their daily business were absent around
the place where gossip was as valuable as a cord of wood or a sack of good-sized potatoes.
"Fair Travels..." an old crone rasped from a doorway Peggy had just passed, "if'n yer lookin' fur' a man te' warm yer
cold bed, they're all out at the Cartwright farmstead" she joked good-naturedly. The diminutive necromancer smiled
and turned to see who had already hinted that no foul beastie or loathsome fiend was causing Weathercote a problem.
But it turned out, Peggy was wrong.
.............................................................
James Burrows loosened the top button of his uniform and opened the paint-peeling door of his home. Once again
and only for a moment, he caught the faint fragrance that had accompanied the furtive lodger he had never seen.
Madge had told her husband that Mister Fawkes had arrived on their doorstep with the hopes of renting a spare
room and the weak-limbed woman had happily informed the stranger with the large grey gripsack that he'd chosen
the right door to knock on.
He'd taken the room that was really an attic for five frollis-a-week and the tall gent in a long coat and wide-rimmed
hat that matched his single item of baggage, accepted the terms with a smile that seemed to glow in the shadow
of his headwear. When he'd returned home from his shift that afternoon, the stoic Sergeant of Bishopsgate's Police
station had initially asked his wife if that exorbitant rent included a meal, to which she shook her head and replied
that Mister Fawkes just wanted peace and quiet to write a book about Thameston and its environs.
"So he's an author?" Jim had exclaimed with a slight note of pride and chewing on something boiled that Madge had
managed to conjure-up during her usual day of aches and pains, he was surprised that such a man of the literary world
would venture into these squalid slums of Whyte Chapel. "He's refined, Jim and he was content with the room..." Madge
had said in a cautioning tone. "Besides, he doesn't make a noise and he we need the money" she added and treated
herself to another spoonful of potatoes.
Now entering, the narrow badly wallpapered passageway that led to the stairs and what was generously called a
parlour, the jaded law-officer wondered what positives could be mined in Whyte Chapel to enhance a book about
the killing-ground of the enigma that the newspapers keep calling The Cold Caller. That tenuous smell came again
and the Sergeant just couldn't place it. Madge sometimes boiled cabbage and this aroma reminded Jim of those
days, but he knew he wasn't quite right with his hunch.
Touching the phial of pills from Moses' Apothecary, he called "Madge, how are you feeling today?" to the woman
he'd wed back in the place she'd been raised in. A younger and more carefree Jim Burrows had been following the
seasons then, when farm work meant sleeping in barns and moving on from village to village. The young woman
who'd caught his eye and his heart had been quite a catch for the charming man with the sun-burnt neck and with
a convincing tongue for her father to believe.
The gloom of the unlit house and a faint sound of snoring answered the weary Policeman reminiscing on the day
Madge Cartwright had taken the surname Burrows and and Jim Burrows had taken Madge out of Weathercote.
Strode murder and unknowing endorsed his Sergeant's belief that any clue residing in the rudimentary statements would
be a miracle.
'...A fellow prostitute stated that Strode left a common lodging house in Marpole Street at five in the morning
and proceeded to the Homer Bakery, where the proprietor -a Mr Isaac Homer, often donated unwanted breads
to those in want...'
'...Catherine Strode was seen by Mathew Tuppence outside the Three Bells Tavern looking worse for wear and
staggering unsurely towards Miller's Court. Tuppence estimated the time to be just before midnight due to he
later heard the Bow bells chime twelve as he turned into Clark's Yard on his way home...'
"I'll take this Tuppence character didn't transform into a narrow alleyway named after the leather-worker who resides
there?" George mumbled through his woolly beard and peered across to where Peggy Powler was sitting bedhind the
second desk with her dangling feet swaying rhythmically.
"There's nothing..." the Inspector growled "... nothing in here that hints at another person -your sea-knucker or not, that
gives us a clue on how he approaches his victim or is seen waiting to enact his attack" he appended. The little sorceress
nodded vaguely, but seemed preoccupied with her own, with her hat resting on the battered bureau in front of her, Peggy
was gazing up at the corner of the room.
A small spider had spent the morning preparing it's snare for any resilient insect that could endure the cold winter and
watching the fabrication of the sticky trap, the Last Witch of Underhill percolated on a web of her own. Not recalling the
exact date, Peggy mentally travelled back in time to the day she arrived in Weathercote.
.............................................................
It had been warm then and with an expectation that a few palms would be asked to be read, she felt that an easy day
was well-deserved in a village that exhibited all the hallmarks of being a sedate one. The familiar thatched cottages
huddled around the customary hand-drawn well and clucking poultry wandered in their eternal pursuit of of food in the
dust. However, the routine sounds of a Blacksmith and women going about their daily business were absent around
the place where gossip was as valuable as a cord of wood or a sack of good-sized potatoes.
"Fair Travels..." an old crone rasped from a doorway Peggy had just passed, "if'n yer lookin' fur' a man te' warm yer
cold bed, they're all out at the Cartwright farmstead" she joked good-naturedly. The diminutive necromancer smiled
and turned to see who had already hinted that no foul beastie or loathsome fiend was causing Weathercote a problem.
But it turned out, Peggy was wrong.
.............................................................
James Burrows loosened the top button of his uniform and opened the paint-peeling door of his home. Once again
and only for a moment, he caught the faint fragrance that had accompanied the furtive lodger he had never seen.
Madge had told her husband that Mister Fawkes had arrived on their doorstep with the hopes of renting a spare
room and the weak-limbed woman had happily informed the stranger with the large grey gripsack that he'd chosen
the right door to knock on.
He'd taken the room that was really an attic for five frollis-a-week and the tall gent in a long coat and wide-rimmed
hat that matched his single item of baggage, accepted the terms with a smile that seemed to glow in the shadow
of his headwear. When he'd returned home from his shift that afternoon, the stoic Sergeant of Bishopsgate's Police
station had initially asked his wife if that exorbitant rent included a meal, to which she shook her head and replied
that Mister Fawkes just wanted peace and quiet to write a book about Thameston and its environs.
"So he's an author?" Jim had exclaimed with a slight note of pride and chewing on something boiled that Madge had
managed to conjure-up during her usual day of aches and pains, he was surprised that such a man of the literary world
would venture into these squalid slums of Whyte Chapel. "He's refined, Jim and he was content with the room..." Madge
had said in a cautioning tone. "Besides, he doesn't make a noise and he we need the money" she added and treated
herself to another spoonful of potatoes.
Now entering, the narrow badly wallpapered passageway that led to the stairs and what was generously called a
parlour, the jaded law-officer wondered what positives could be mined in Whyte Chapel to enhance a book about
the killing-ground of the enigma that the newspapers keep calling The Cold Caller. That tenuous smell came again
and the Sergeant just couldn't place it. Madge sometimes boiled cabbage and this aroma reminded Jim of those
days, but he knew he wasn't quite right with his hunch.
Touching the phial of pills from Moses' Apothecary, he called "Madge, how are you feeling today?" to the woman
he'd wed back in the place she'd been raised in. A younger and more carefree Jim Burrows had been following the
seasons then, when farm work meant sleeping in barns and moving on from village to village. The young woman
who'd caught his eye and his heart had been quite a catch for the charming man with the sun-burnt neck and with
a convincing tongue for her father to believe.
The gloom of the unlit house and a faint sound of snoring answered the weary Policeman reminiscing on the day
Madge Cartwright had taken the surname Burrows and and Jim Burrows had taken Madge out of Weathercote.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.