The monotonous day of what -in Peggy Powler's opinion was investigating-by-proxy, passed quickly and for the bantam
-sized thaumaturge of the countryside, she counted the haste as one of Herne's blessings. The wasteful use of paper
was something that made her inwardly shake her head and wonder how anything practical was accomplished in this
environment where a new noun to her -bureaucracy, was the watchword.
"Me-auld nose tells me the bugger'll be out-and-about te'neet..." the Last Witch of Underhill said when she tugged at
seated Inspector's sleeve reading some more files. "...He's nay one fur' resting his heels". George Abernethy pulled his
eyes away from Constable Swallow's report on an early morning Baker reckoning he heard someone clattering about
on his roof not long after Catherine Strode's throat was slit and stared vacantly at the little woman he'd asked to help
him find The Cold Caller.
George blinked twice to surface from his reverie and for a moment, noticed Peggy was wiggling her little finger. After
that -if asked to write it down in one of his useless reports, the big bearded man who once hailed from Dorfitt Bay
would have to admit that everything seemed as indistinct as the docks when the fog rolls in. "Aye" he murmured
peculiarly and rose up from his chair. The wily Witch was always hesitant to use one of her spells, but this regular
act of sitting around and reading had never been a favoured disposition of the woman now walking towards the
where the large counter and Sergeant Burrows resided. A mesmerised Inspector Abernethy followed in her wake.
"Yer' might be interested te' knaw Ah' first came across the nickname 'Cauld Caller' in a village a long way frum'
here..." Peggy said to the captivated hulk plodding behind her. Jim Burrows glanced up from scribbling in his daily
log-book and realised the visitor wasn't speaking to him. George Abernethy remained silent as the pair passed
through the gap in the long wooden bench and headed for the sombre streets of Whyte Chapel. "... Aye, it was
a when Ah' wuz' younger and the days were a lot warmer" she added genially.
The Inspector vaguely nodded and they both passed over the threshold of Bishopsgate Police Station, Jim Burrows
would later swear his oath to his wife that he thought he heard the strange guest of his superior announce the title
of the village in question in her leaving. Weathercote.
.................................................................
The gaslights glowed eerily in the gloom of Thameston's eternal twilight and to Peggy, the dark streets seemed to
have absorbed the misery and woes of their travellers. Dank water dripped from where broken gutters spilled their
contents from the slated gambrels above and dirt-tinged moss jostled for niches in the crumbling brickwork with
emaciated ferns. The sorceress and her charmed audience moved without another word and the smaller of the
two believed the effect of their surroundings was the reason for their stealthy attitude. Then, she remembered
that the Inspector was under one if her spells. "Oh bugger...!" she whispered to herself and wiggled her finger
with words to bring George back to the real world. "...Sorry aboot' that" Peggy offered with a dainty smile.
Constable George Abernethy had been riding on one of those saddle-broken ponies Arthur Lott occasionally
brought into Dorfitt Bay for auction. The new organisation of Law Enforcement slowly developing across the
realm would sometimes purchase such mounts, but more often-than-not, rent the wind-swept animals taken
from the moors. Today, George was heading to meet Ruth Chambers with the goal to asking her father for
her hand in marriage. The young Officer was resolute on his mission and nothing could stop...
"Sorry aboot' that" said the little woman who didn't wear shoes and the sun-kissed track to Amos Chambers'
sheep farm transformed into a dark world of wet surfaces and fitful pools of dirty-orange light. "Yer' must've
been daydreamin' me-love..." Peggy said grinning up at the man now surfacing from a better place. "But now
we need yer' wits aboot' yer' fur where we're ganin' next" she advised with a wink.
.................................................................
The night sky above Whyte Chapel and the pair of unusual detectives failed to display any sign of stuff
Peggy had once taken for granted, namely starlight. Standing beside the chimney of the Baker from the
earlier record of Constable Swallow, the man daring to scratch his beard with one hand whilst clutching
the pastry-maker's chimney pots with his other, was still wondering how he'd arrived in this chilly position
above those he was supposed to protect and beneath the stygian heavens that regularly heard his curses
at failing to do so.
The forest of brick smokestacks were vacant of their usual plumes of coal-infused vapour at this hour as many
of the occupants of the tenements below were either farting and snoring in their cots or out-and-about with a
certain kind of amour on their minds. Ladies of the night were a frollis-a-dozen down there in the grimy streets
and Peggy and the Inspector were in accord that they were also prime bait for The Cold Caller.
A cold wintery breeze reminded them that they were alive and exposed to whatever this time of the year still
had its saddlebag of weather. With a couple drops of rain, Peggy squatted down onto the stained ridge and
pulled her poncho over her legs. "He'll be a while yet, George..." she hushed at the giant holding onto the
brick flue of the Bakery like his life depended on it, "...best te' make yer' self comfortable" she advised and
watched the Inspector gingerly settle beside the pint-sized spellbinder.
A far-off church bell announced the Witching hour and for Whyte Chapel, it merely meant another hour had
passed of their depressed and depraved lives when the sun goes down. Some raised voices hinted that a
Publican had grown weary of certain imbibing patrons, an ear-piercing scream from a woman brought both
roof-dwellers from their state of meditation, but the following drunken cackle of laughter told the Witch and
her associate that somewhere down there, lewd witticism was abound.
"Yer' knaw, Ah' could never fathom how this bugger could move around so well wiv'out leavin' any trace..."
Peggy imparted to the shivering Inspector beside her. "...Then Ah' figured it out, the bounder wuz' usin' the
trees" she added with enthusiasm to the glum face beneath the rim of the derby hat as the final peal of a
distant chantry's bell ended.
The bronze clarion-maker in its far-away home of the new religion would still be trembling from its final
bulletin of the day as a dark shape stealthily manoeuvred across the slippery rooftops and into the line of
sight of those who sought him. "Yer' little bugger!" the pint-sized enchanter hissed and tugged again on
George's sleeve.
-sized thaumaturge of the countryside, she counted the haste as one of Herne's blessings. The wasteful use of paper
was something that made her inwardly shake her head and wonder how anything practical was accomplished in this
environment where a new noun to her -bureaucracy, was the watchword.
"Me-auld nose tells me the bugger'll be out-and-about te'neet..." the Last Witch of Underhill said when she tugged at
seated Inspector's sleeve reading some more files. "...He's nay one fur' resting his heels". George Abernethy pulled his
eyes away from Constable Swallow's report on an early morning Baker reckoning he heard someone clattering about
on his roof not long after Catherine Strode's throat was slit and stared vacantly at the little woman he'd asked to help
him find The Cold Caller.
George blinked twice to surface from his reverie and for a moment, noticed Peggy was wiggling her little finger. After
that -if asked to write it down in one of his useless reports, the big bearded man who once hailed from Dorfitt Bay
would have to admit that everything seemed as indistinct as the docks when the fog rolls in. "Aye" he murmured
peculiarly and rose up from his chair. The wily Witch was always hesitant to use one of her spells, but this regular
act of sitting around and reading had never been a favoured disposition of the woman now walking towards the
where the large counter and Sergeant Burrows resided. A mesmerised Inspector Abernethy followed in her wake.
"Yer' might be interested te' knaw Ah' first came across the nickname 'Cauld Caller' in a village a long way frum'
here..." Peggy said to the captivated hulk plodding behind her. Jim Burrows glanced up from scribbling in his daily
log-book and realised the visitor wasn't speaking to him. George Abernethy remained silent as the pair passed
through the gap in the long wooden bench and headed for the sombre streets of Whyte Chapel. "... Aye, it was
a when Ah' wuz' younger and the days were a lot warmer" she added genially.
The Inspector vaguely nodded and they both passed over the threshold of Bishopsgate Police Station, Jim Burrows
would later swear his oath to his wife that he thought he heard the strange guest of his superior announce the title
of the village in question in her leaving. Weathercote.
.................................................................
The gaslights glowed eerily in the gloom of Thameston's eternal twilight and to Peggy, the dark streets seemed to
have absorbed the misery and woes of their travellers. Dank water dripped from where broken gutters spilled their
contents from the slated gambrels above and dirt-tinged moss jostled for niches in the crumbling brickwork with
emaciated ferns. The sorceress and her charmed audience moved without another word and the smaller of the
two believed the effect of their surroundings was the reason for their stealthy attitude. Then, she remembered
that the Inspector was under one if her spells. "Oh bugger...!" she whispered to herself and wiggled her finger
with words to bring George back to the real world. "...Sorry aboot' that" Peggy offered with a dainty smile.
Constable George Abernethy had been riding on one of those saddle-broken ponies Arthur Lott occasionally
brought into Dorfitt Bay for auction. The new organisation of Law Enforcement slowly developing across the
realm would sometimes purchase such mounts, but more often-than-not, rent the wind-swept animals taken
from the moors. Today, George was heading to meet Ruth Chambers with the goal to asking her father for
her hand in marriage. The young Officer was resolute on his mission and nothing could stop...
"Sorry aboot' that" said the little woman who didn't wear shoes and the sun-kissed track to Amos Chambers'
sheep farm transformed into a dark world of wet surfaces and fitful pools of dirty-orange light. "Yer' must've
been daydreamin' me-love..." Peggy said grinning up at the man now surfacing from a better place. "But now
we need yer' wits aboot' yer' fur where we're ganin' next" she advised with a wink.
.................................................................
The night sky above Whyte Chapel and the pair of unusual detectives failed to display any sign of stuff
Peggy had once taken for granted, namely starlight. Standing beside the chimney of the Baker from the
earlier record of Constable Swallow, the man daring to scratch his beard with one hand whilst clutching
the pastry-maker's chimney pots with his other, was still wondering how he'd arrived in this chilly position
above those he was supposed to protect and beneath the stygian heavens that regularly heard his curses
at failing to do so.
The forest of brick smokestacks were vacant of their usual plumes of coal-infused vapour at this hour as many
of the occupants of the tenements below were either farting and snoring in their cots or out-and-about with a
certain kind of amour on their minds. Ladies of the night were a frollis-a-dozen down there in the grimy streets
and Peggy and the Inspector were in accord that they were also prime bait for The Cold Caller.
A cold wintery breeze reminded them that they were alive and exposed to whatever this time of the year still
had its saddlebag of weather. With a couple drops of rain, Peggy squatted down onto the stained ridge and
pulled her poncho over her legs. "He'll be a while yet, George..." she hushed at the giant holding onto the
brick flue of the Bakery like his life depended on it, "...best te' make yer' self comfortable" she advised and
watched the Inspector gingerly settle beside the pint-sized spellbinder.
A far-off church bell announced the Witching hour and for Whyte Chapel, it merely meant another hour had
passed of their depressed and depraved lives when the sun goes down. Some raised voices hinted that a
Publican had grown weary of certain imbibing patrons, an ear-piercing scream from a woman brought both
roof-dwellers from their state of meditation, but the following drunken cackle of laughter told the Witch and
her associate that somewhere down there, lewd witticism was abound.
"Yer' knaw, Ah' could never fathom how this bugger could move around so well wiv'out leavin' any trace..."
Peggy imparted to the shivering Inspector beside her. "...Then Ah' figured it out, the bounder wuz' usin' the
trees" she added with enthusiasm to the glum face beneath the rim of the derby hat as the final peal of a
distant chantry's bell ended.
The bronze clarion-maker in its far-away home of the new religion would still be trembling from its final
bulletin of the day as a dark shape stealthily manoeuvred across the slippery rooftops and into the line of
sight of those who sought him. "Yer' little bugger!" the pint-sized enchanter hissed and tugged again on
George's sleeve.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.