Peggy By Gaslight.

[BIAD]

Edward Cartwright absently tossed a handful of corn towards the expectant chickens and wondered if today he'd find
the effort to finish the coop he'd half-built before Lillian's disappearance. Tugging closed the embroidered seed bag his
wife had sewn for him when he first bought the birds in Weathercote, he still found it hard to believe that two seasons
had passed since she'd heard one of the hens squawking, stepped out of the kitchen door and vanished.

A small search party was mustered from the nearby hamlet of Weathercote and along with his son Mathew, the wary
party scoured the surrounding woods until darkness demanded they suspended their hunt for the love of Edward's life.
When harvest time came around, the craggy-faced man agreed with the eight villagers who'd combed four leagues in
every direction of his farm that it was time for them to return to their own homes and move on. Edward had watched
the men leave and wondered if he would ever be able to do the same.

They'd married twenty summers ago and it hadn't been long before Mathew and then Marjorie came along to help work
the acreage piece of land he'd bought when Edward realised he loved the young flaxen-haired colleen from Flixton Moor.
A handsome son and a beautiful daughter, both married off to good families and now their father's only companions
were the ten feathered fowl pecking in the dirt around his feet.

"So what happened to her?" Edward murmured vacantly as he turned to return to the cabin he'd built with his own two
hands But the wattle-shaking chickens failed to relate what they'd seen in the dusty yard on that life-changing day and
continued to focus on probing for their breakfast. In a small copse only a decent stroll from the village of Weathercote,
the remains of a woman's mutilated body lay beneath a large growth of Hosta.
Mrs Cartwright had been the first victim of The Cold Caller.
.................................................................

To the small woman in the big hat, the wet Timothy grass lining the wheelbarrow-wide track out of the fishing village
of Shellport was a symbolic representation of how she felt as it washed away the faint whiff of standing water from
her bare feet. It wasn't much, but the cool feeling around her toes was a welcomed tonic that went a long way to clear
the doldrums she'd been mired in since her encounter with the malodorous bogie who'd stolen Daisy Manning.

The rain had eased and the scudding grey clouds coming inland seemed to have unloaded the majority of their cargo
just before they came ashore. With her trusty canvas satchel tapping lightly on her thigh, she mentally agreed with
herself that this rarely-used trail up among the overgrown dunes and out towards Calder's Way would provide enough
time to repair her sullied spirit after the recent undertaking of removing of the distasteful Mistle-Hob from the swaying
bed of reeds below.

The picayune figure paused for a moment at the apex of the hill and tugging the rim of her headwear, sucked in the
chilly salty breeze and forced a smile on her little face that failed to reach her eyes. The troubling calvary was behind
her now and heading for a more contemporary type of highway, the travelling artisan of old-style majick known as
Peggy Powler silently rejoiced that she was exiting away the coastal community during the winter weather.

The little Witch's satisfaction of leaving was no reflection on the quiet harbour village or its affable residents, it was
simply that Peggy had always believed the shores of the Great Sea were for warmer times, not when storms lashed
the seaboard on a daily basis. Although -Peggy had to admit to her  bleak surroundings, bodily wrestling the girl from
the ditch-Goblin was a strong component to helping her departure.

The remnants of the altercation with the iniquitous bog spirit and the eventual recovery of Daisy Manning had taken
it out of her. Even now, peering down at the undulating stretch of green-blue reeds that seemed to be creeping ever
closer to the Manning residence, the subdued bare-footed half-Fae made a silent pledge that once a quiet place
appeared beside the well-trodden turnpike, Peggy would spend some time repairing her flagging spirits by means of
some much-needed shut-eye and tad of self-reflection.
.................................................................

As the driving rain continued to beat its tattoo on the scabrous bark of the hollow willow tree, Peggy leaned forward
in the darkness of the willow's cavity and gently abetted a bohemian draught to draw life into some foraged kindling.
Wisps of smoke from the weak campfire sought escape from the deciduous husk and found dilution in the night's
tempest outside. "Come on yer' bugger, give me a flame" the shivering sibyl murmured to the sputtering fuel as she
ruminated on the last couple of days.

It had been only after the pair of exhausted females had scrambled out of the foul-smelling reedbed that a memory
from Peggy's past had surfaced just like the stinking oily substance that materialised in the water around her ankles
as she throttled the last breath out of the young girl's captor. It was the question an old man had warned of when
she was still losing her yearning for the Carnival and her aunt's devil-may-care commentary.

Many of the concerned maritime members of Shellport had been waiting on the nearest point of the harbour and
seeing Peggy and Daisy's appearance from the man-high sedges, apron-flapping women with warpaint of flour
on their faces and hand-calloused piscators of lobsters had raced down into the mud to retrieve one of their own.

Of course, afterwards during the many toasts in the village's only tavern, Peggy Powler's name was celebrated in
gratitude and the drained necromancer had accepted the pummels on her back and politely refused the requests
to refill her flagon. Round ruddy-faced women loomed into the tired Witch's view with promises that she'd never
go hungry during her travels and the pile of wax paper-wrapped foods next to the unwanted beer were testament
to those affirmations.

Stealthily creeping out of the cacophonous inn, Peggy breathed in deeply as she stared at the indifferent winter
moon above and just like the pedestrian click of the Deathwatch Beetle, she posed the question that Myrddin the
greatest of all Wizards had once told her she would have to ask herself during her journeys across the land.
She knew it was there to be confronted.

During the battle for Daisy Manning, the Mistle-Hob had inadvertently hit a nerve by suggesting Peggy's reason
for meeting the loathsome Imp holding the terrified girl by the hair was because she was an outsider like himself.
After several fruitless attempts with majick to weaken the laughing kobold's grip on the half-conscious lassie, the
immediate situation had required Peggy to physically attack the bugbear and get it to loosen its choking grasp.

It was a fight she knew she couldn't win and only when a large rock has suddenly swooped in over her shoulder
and pounded the creature into obliviousness, did the gasping and soaked augurer realise it was Daisy who had
saved them both. Yes, there'd been failures to oust the multitude of monsters Peggy had waged war with and
in many of those occasions, assistance from human and Fae-alike had been a major contributing factor.

But as she plunged the senseless Swamp-Goblin's head into the putrid brackish water and watched the last of
the bubbles break the surface, Peggy felt another type of vapour had been released, a breath carrying a question
born not of a need to know, but from doubt. Daisy had saved the day, the youngster who cavorts around drying
lobster pots and pleased old-timers by listening to their tales of the Great Sea, she was the one who's tankard
should be brimming. The cold moon looked back and its silence was condemning.

Coaxing the dank tinder to ignite, the little wandering Witch mused on the idea that maybe she had become an
albatross to those who she believed once needed her help and Myrddin's warning had truly surfaced just like the
dead Mistle-Hob's battered face had done from its final baptism. But resisting the need to return to her earlier
doldrums, Peggy's mind sought other reasons to explain a possible need for retirement.

The flourishing of the new religion was also a factor to be deliberated when surveying the possible abandonment
of her vocation. Churches to the voguish denomination were cropping up in many of villages Peggy had visited
lately and even though a cool taciturnity existed between the clergymen and herself, Peggy had often wondered
when the tides would shift and the old ways become obsolete.

Gazing around at the disintegrating version of a Witch's chancel and her aches from dealing with the dyke-roaming
brigand of Shellport, maybe that time had finally arrived to call it a day and hang up her satchel for good. With the
fragile fire slowly coming to life, the lonely woman in the rotted willow leaned back into the moving shadows and
allowed sleep to soothe her worries.

[BIAD]

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.

[BIAD]

Constable Jim Eckles mentally agreed with the donkey borrowed from the grocer next-door to Bishopsgate Police Station
that his quest to find this mysterious woman was a waste of time. The animal had related its opinion with its eyes as it
watched the young man in the unbuttoned uniform resting against a dry-stone wall and waiting for feeling to come back
to his rump. Even though he'd left Blackfriars back when summer was just beginning and seemed to be getting on with
Inspector Abernethy and his motley crew, Jim wondered if this fool's errand was some sort of rite of passage.

It had been two days since he had left Thameston on this useless mission and now sat staring at a junction where
Calder's Way allowed its occasional traveller of the sea-cobbled highway to wander down a muddy track to another
God forsaken bunch of hayseeds. Grey rainclouds huddled together in the east and the leafless surroundings implied
better weather was still a long way off. "Waste of time" he reiterated with a whisper and groaned to Mister Pincher's
half-asleep beast of burden as he rose from the damp grass, one more village and that was it he thought to himself.

The now-familiar aroma of woodsmoke and fresh manure greeted the young policeman leading his donkey into the
small community of Rollright. It was early afternoon and Jim suspected the lowbrow residents would be out in the
fields ploughing or whatever these bumpkins do to pass the day. It was then he saw the blood and a furrow in the
damp earth that looked something -or someone, had been injured and then dragged away.
.................................................................

Peggy Powler rubbed her aching shoulder and gazing around at the grave faces watching from outside the ring of moss
-strewn standing stones, she wondered if they were now wishing they'd called for Reverend Bigelow. The foul-smelling
River Worm was dead and even though one of the villager's pitchfork was sticking out of its tail, the little Witch hoped
the open-mouthed people of Rollright would realise it had been majick that had brought the slimy beast's demise.

"Ah' be on me-way now..." Peggy said quietly after a few moments of silence in the chilly clearing, the men and women
seemed to have become like the ancient waist-high megaliths that gave their neighbourhood its name and remained silent.
"...Fair travels te' yer' and if yer' need me agin', tell one of the Midnight Mail men" she added lamely and bowed slightly
to the old menhirs before leaving.

They'd been quite chatty when the diminutive necromancer had first arrived and their woes regarding the river-serpent
and its nasty antics had come in a cascade of voices. All in earnest and all with a tone that smacked of desperation,
now just stony faces and only a far-off cawing rook offered any indication that their saviour hadn't gone deaf.
"Aye" Peggy mumbled her assumption at their mute gratitude and walked back to the village square alone.
.................................................................

The lad who'd only ever known pavement beneath his feet, the little Witch in the big hat sat beneath a large oak tree
and waited out the latest downpour. The grocer's donkey stood with one hind-leg pitched to indicate another siesta
was being performed. Peggy rummaged in her satchel and after finding what she was looking for, offered Jim Eckles
a wrapped hoagie kindly donated by the fisherwomen of Shellport.

"So yer' gaffer sent fur' me, yer' say?..." the crouching sorceress said as she prepared her own sandwich for eating
and realising the donkey was watching them both with edacious eyes, produced a carrot from her always-faithful
tote. "...Are yer' sure yer' got the right person, cos Ah've never heard of anyone called George Abernethy?" she added
around a mouthful of bread and mutton.

Peering down at the dried-out fare, Jim wondered if they'd remember him fondly back at Bishopsgate after he'd died
of food-poisoning. "The Inspector was adamant that you could possibly assist him in our current crime and along with
your name, described you..." he answered with a baleful eye at the necromancer's soil-covered feet. "...He said you
are the Last Witch of Underhill and could be found helping others with certain problems rarely conducive with the
average police issues" he supplemented and bit down on the sandwich with a leap of faith.

The half-Fae-half-human's eyes narrowed as she flicked through her memories again, the name meant nothing to her
as the hundreds of folk she'd interacted with often never told her who they were and more often, her vocation didn't
require such information. "Well, what seems te' be the problem wiv' this Mister Abernethy?" Peggy asked jovially as she
passed over a half-full canteen of water to the semi-handsome young man in the indigo tunic. "It concerns a phantom
that is wreaking havoc in Thameston..." he answered during his mastication "... he's known as The Cold Caller"
.................................................................

To the small-in-stature poncho-wearing woman with the strange accent, Calder's Way had always been an villatic
thoroughfare, a quiet roadway in the countryside that occasionally offered scenic glimpses through agrestal trees
of more countryside. As the trio walked down this sea-stoned turnpike, Peggy Powler realised what she had taken
for granted was slowly slipping away in favour of something she'd have preferred to steer clear of. Myrddin had
once told her about such places during their wanderings, he had called it 'a Metropolis' and described it as a site
where people such as herself should avoid. "That is where..." the venerable Wizard had warned his young pupil
walking beside him down a leafy lane of long-ago "...is where the true monsters live"

"So that is Thameston?" Jim Eckles' companion asked as the trees and arable fell away to offer a dearth of what
the little Witch had grown accustomed to. As a child in the Carnival, she had witnessed large communities, but
nothing that compared to what now she was seeing. High chimneys spewed out smoke into the sky and created
a dirty haze above the grey slated roofs and the whole tableau of tall buildings looked like it been painted with
grime. "Yep, somewhere in there The Cold Caller is currently doing his killing" the Constable replied as he urged
the donkey to follow them in.

Peggy glanced at the lad from Blackfriars, but kept her silence. Officer Eckles had explained the situation during
their two-day trek to where he and his law-enforcers were stationed, but the bare-footed woman with her weird
ways had heard of this mysterious malefactor before. In fact, she was at the scene of his first killing.

[BIAD]

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".

[BIAD]

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.

[Bally002]

I'm enjoying your insight into the policing aspect if I may put it that way.  Identifying with those characters.  There is something that rings true to my memories.  I also enjoyed that series 'Heartbeat'.

Kind regards,

Bally)

[BIAD]

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.

[BIAD]

The figure standing in the shadows of the cobweb-adorned attic sighed the lament of the damned as he slid the thick
grey coat onto his broad shoulders and set his hat in the manner to hide his eyes. With his concoction solidified and
carefully stored in its cool confine, he looked towards the panelled door to make sure the key was still in the lock and
the chair was set properly beneath the handle.

The smell of stale urine mixed with sodium chloride was pungent in the small space beneath the cold slate tiles of
the Burrows abode, but the lodger knew that the night air would soon steal it from its confines and quickly exchange
it for a fouler aroma of the metropolis outside. "It will soon be time to make them bemoan their iniquity" said a voice
that nobody could hear and the lone shape scanned the cramped flop for any tell-tale sign of his intent.

He was a long way from the inception of his cathartic odyssey and his unwavering wake had been a bloody one,
but here in Thameston, he had accepted that this urban slough was rife with the Machiavellian harlots who beguiled
and corrupted the innocent. Moving his heavy-lidded eyes over to where the desiccated bodies of moths dangled from
silvery strands of their mummification, Madge and Jim Burrows' tenant picked up a strange fist-sized box and the pretty
pheasant-feather quill from the dirt-grained table and placed them into his coat pocket.

Thameston's current distemper was a symptom of poor breeding and the crossing over from the old ways, he thought
to himself as he treaded softly on the bare boards of the attic towards the window that would bring him onto the apex
of his temporary accommodation. There'd been a time when people feared the night and watched for chittering Goblins
snatching their children or mephitic Imps abusing their livestock just as the flittermouse came out to feed.

He had travelled many leagues and found many a boastful colleen deficient in the knowledge of what their ancestors
mewled to their children every winter's evening in front of a roaring fire-hearth. Hamlets, lonely farmhouses and even
those hip-swaying courtesans who travelled Calder's Way, all had become infected by the profane New Religion.

Just as the cryptic voice had stated and who'd roamed the land with Mister Fawkes on his crusade, he would once
again remind these fallen women of the icy warnings their parents had muttered and will weep for the diminishing
old days when morality meant something. Pushing open the rotting casement bedecked with neglected spider food,
this admonisher of the sinful climbed out into the night air to purge Thameston of the malady that had befallen it.

His true name wasn't Fawkes, of course, nor the callow moniker that the puerile ink-slingers had branded him. The
label his parents had given him was now lost to the winds of time and interred under the two grass-covered graves
on a forgotten plot of land outside of a village he couldn't -or didn't want to, recall.

"Do you have your provisions?" the voice asked and Mister Fawkes nodded into the cold fog that was rolling quietly
in from Thameston's polluted river, it's creeping chilliness was akin to the temperature of the special container in
his pocket. One shadow set off across the roofs of Whyte Chapel, but it was a brace of impassioned hatred for the
new Priests and their contaminated females that headed for the hunting grounds of The Cold Caller.
.................................................................

As Bishopsgate Police Station went about it's daily activities and Inspector George Abernethy repeated his browsing
of the files piled high on his desk. Whyte Chapel's other visitor continued her style of study in what she could recall
from past. The ancient woman from Weathercote had said her name was Gertrude and if one ignored the the faint
smell of days-old urine pulsing off the toothless crone, the tale about how the Weathercote was presently short of
men was interesting enough for Peggy Powler to ask for directions to the median for the whereabouts.

A babbling brook with kingfishers snatching minnows from its gurgling waters, a startling of two courting pheasants
and a thicket of larches surrounding a large clump of disturbed Hosta were components to the little Witch's journey
to the Cartwright residence, and all under a warm sun.

It was a small wooden cabin with the usual external furnishings that a small rustic freehold required to raise a family.
A few chickens scurried around the proverbial chopping-block and a half-built refuge to house the clucking fowl stood
next to the dwelling of someone who's wife had gone missing. "Fair travels Miss, can I help yer'?" someone asked
from behind a mule-less cart parked beside a neat stack of firewood.

He was a handsome man, a well-built young man who introduced himself as Mathew Cartwright and added that his
mother was missing. Peggy offered a half-curtsy and copied his greeting. "Me-heart goes out te' yer, me-lad..." the
little Witch said kindly, "...the woods can be confusin' sometimes" she offered lamely.

The rest of day found the barefooted visitor watching men come and go to the small farm and by the look on their
faces, they returned without results. Peggy caught sight of the young man's father a couple of times and after a
while, Edward Cartwright approached the small stranger in the grubby poncho to politely refused assistance from
the weird woman who still believed in outdated concepts.

Such a conundrum wouldn't appear again until a few days later when Peggy arrived in the fishing bay of Durridge.
Some woman called Connie Drake had left her house along the harbour to take her husband a pack of sandwiches
he'd forgotten for his trawling out to the Greater Banks and had never reached the jetty.

Maybe old malodorous Gertrude was right when she suggested to Peggy that a passing cold-caller may've taken
to stealing a woman of the Cartwright family and later added to his compilation with a fisherman's wife? Leaving
the concerned residents of Durridge to their scouring of the cliffs and wind-stunted woodlands for Mrs Drake, the
young necromancer set her bare feet back onto Calder's Way and out of the haunt of the stranger they'd one day
call The Cold Caller.

[BIAD]

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.

[BIAD]

The night lay before Mister Fawkes and the strumpets awaited his deliverance of reformation. In his coat pocket lay the
special reminder of the cold continuance that lay ahead in the fire and brimstone for the fallen women if they continued
their wretched ways. An inked plume also lay beside the container of ice, a quill to illustrate the sorrow they would endure
for eternity. The occasional slate tile clicked beneath his feet as he traversed the rooftops towards his place of ambuscade
and a chilly breeze accompanied the Cold Caller's passage.

"We have hunters on our spoor..." said the voice and the man who'd cleansed villages across the land of these wanton
women peered around at the silhouettes of indifferent chimneys and saw nothing. "...It is the woman who sees beyond
the shroud and a man of the laws" Fawkes' companion warned just as he spotted the two hunched shapes huddled
beside the tallest of the brick vents. The lodger of Sergeant Jim Burrows and his wife who lost her mother to The Cold
Caller's hands became a statue and waited for the dark figures to make the first move, the crepuscular heavens above
them all tarried too.

"The lady I do not fear for she is an ally in seeking a resurrection of the old ways..." Mister Fawkes hissed to the orator
in his head as he absently reached for the long blade beneath his coat. "...But the bluecoat is incapable of fathoming
the reasons why we must continue in our quest" he added. The stand-off continued as the Whyte Chapel's mysterious
antiseptic weighed his options on what to do next. He had no intention of withdrawal, but at the same time, slaying the
lawman and warlock would bring its own problems.
.................................................................

Inspector Abernethy breathed slowly through his nose as he appreciated the situation. Here he was, witnessing the
prowl of the famous Cold Caller and yet, he had heeded the words of the little so-called sorceress beside him to
remain in the shadow of the Baker's chimney. "He's right in front of us, woman... we've got him" George whispered
and felt all his muscles flinch and caper in his urgency to catch the murderous monster. Peggy Powler was aware
of her companion's jitters to do his job, but placing a hand on his forearm, she hushed "let the bugger stew in his
own head fur' a while, besides... he knaws' we're here".

George shot the bare-footed shaman a look of incredulity and failed to see what her plan could possibly be. They
were here, alone and without any defence against a determined killer and the Last Witch of Underhill certainly
didn't give-off the aura of someone capable of tackling such a tenacious predator.
.................................................................

"There's a building for storing coal and a outside water closet just below..." the voice volunteered after waiting for
his host to initiate a plan of action. "...We could bypass this botheration by dropping down from the guttering and
continue our campaign". Mister Fawkes moved his eyes from the doublet of ambushers and peered down at the
blackness beyond the sloping roof. It would be quite a leap of faith, but his need to expurgate this site of squalor
demanded he should progress and save those who wallow in the hollow words from the those of the new religion.
.................................................................

Peggy estimated they only had two shakes of a badger's tail before The Cold Caller would make his next move
and her mind raced with what type of spell would be appropriate. The motionless figure had a secret, something
surpassing the trivial need to kill women.

She'd felt it before when she'd ambled into Palmer's Corner where a young woman with a strange tattoo scrawled
across her face and her neck sliced open had been found and the angry crowd were demanding from each other
some sort of retribution for the slaying. The pandemonium was at odds with the quietness the little Witch had just
come from and standing next to the village's water-pump, Peggy suddenly felt a need to peer over the noisy crowd.

Several great oaks abetted the swathe of trees around Palmers Green and a good Summer had urged their foliage
to hang heavy on their branches above its riotous residents. Well into the cloak of greenery, something caught the
eye of the poncho-wearing wanderer, a movement high up, a shape adjusting its position. Squinting to garner any
further clues from the unusual sight above the brouhaha, Peggy saw a doubling of the figure that wasn't an effect
of her vision.

There were two of them only for a instant and the slower-moving one offered features of realisation to the startled
woman standing outside of the mayhem. Not for being seen by the keen-eyed witness visiting Palmer's Green,
but due to recognition of a kindred spirit, a disciple of the old ways.

Now, that same invisible sycophant and its accommodator were transfixed on the roof before her and time was
tapping its foot. "Nema Kayet fae..." Peggy began and then the unthinkable happened. The Cold Caller jumped.

[BIAD]

Like a flittermouse he flew, the night air took the one called The Cold Caller and evaluated him as a aspirant with those
things that defy gravity and found the killer of women wanting. The arm-waving man in the grey coat and his mysterious
advisor plummeted down from the starless sky and no amount of pretentious elocution could help them both. The loud
crashing sound of a collapsing coal-house roof only added to Mister Fawkes' grasp of the reality he inhabited with the
Inspector and the Witch hurrying towards the station of the murderer's leap.

"Aye, yer've git nay oak tree te' jump te'" Peggy Powler mumbled to herself as she glimpsed a dark limping shape flee
through an open gate of the yard and noticing George Abernethy swiftly make his way back to the way they had both
came to the roof, the little sorceress reached into her satchel and hoped the item was there.

"Pandy-whey" she whispered into her cupped hand and released the glowing orb. With only a moment to get its bearings,
the hinkypunk sped off towards the darkened back alley where the soot-covered rascal was making his escape. "Stay wiv'
the him" Peggy hissed and turned to follow the Inspector.
.................................................................

Marjorie Burrows tentatively reached for the wobbly brass doorknob of Mister Fawkes' room and felt the resistance within
the lock mechanism. Up here on the top landing, the cold draught was more substantial and even though the Sergeant's
wife originated from a place where cold air was a seasonal escort in the homes of those who lived off the land, Madge
had noticed the chilled air had already crept down the stairs and into the parlour.

"Mister Fawkes, do you have a window open?" she asked nervously and leaned close to the dirt-smudged portal. Jim
was back at work and her evening reading of the religious book her dead mother had given her had been disturbed by
the winter's frigidness somehow stealing into her home.

The room was silent even when she inquired again and the faint aroma of something putrid seemed to be the only
occupant of the attic. With sniff and a frown, the woman with the aching leg-joints returned to where the comfort of
a gas lamp's lustre and another page of sage counsel that would hopefully subdue her curiosity.
.................................................................

A hunched silhouette lurched under the lamplight of Vinegar Street and sought its fellow penumbra in the hopes of
masking its absconding. If any of Whyte Chapel's late-night drunkards had abandoned the bottom of their respective
tankards and passed by the cobbled thoroughfare, they may have witnessed a panting stranger in pain, a dangerous
outremer who had fallen from his magniloquent roost and now searched for escape from who he deemed was one
of his own.

"We have been bilked from our goal..." the voice growled as Mister Fawkes held his blood-stained hand close to his
face. "...Even now, the lustful slatterns are..." but Fawkes interrupted his invisible confederate with a whistling exhale
of pain from the leg wound. "We need to leave here, we need to find a place to heal" the Cold Killer hissed through
his clenched teeth and scanned the rooftops for his pursuers. The black sky stared back and held its tongue at the
accusation of keeping hunters.

The supernatural advisor of the killer remained silent as his host's ambulatory aimed back towards his lodgings.
Apart from the sporadic grimacing of the lonely man that the parasitic misanthrope had found back in the wilds
around Weathercote, the only sounds were from distant carousers blustering their stunted sentiments into the
chilly air of Whyte Chapel.
.................................................................

Inspector George Abernethy panted at his exertions into the cold air and checked up and down the enclosed
cloister of Miller's Court. "Damn and blast, we missed him" he spat and scratched his beard in irritation, the
gloom mocked his narrow-eyed surveillance. The Last Witch of Underhill finally detrained from the long metal
ladders secured to the back of Jules Moffat's Bakery and with her face aiming upwards, sauntered to where
the frustrated law-enforcer stood at the entrance to where Catherine Strode lost her life.

The front page of this morning's newspaper rode along the deserted alleyway that separated the odd couple's
current location from Vinegar Street and found an impasse at the feet of the big man rummaging in the pockets
of his heavy coat for his issued police whistle. "Divna' be hasty, George..." the unflappable enchanter suggested
and kept her eyes on the darkness beyond the poor effulgence of one of those magical lanterns. "...We have a
friend o' the neet' te' show us the way" she added and pointed a finger into the gloom.

The Inspector's own digits felt the cold metal of his warbler and placing it to his lips, his thoughts were on the
warning Commissioner Bowles had lectured to him a few days ago. However, no exhalation blew life into the
whistle.

George thought for a moment it due to his eyes watering from the cold wind and drew a blur in his eye, maybe
even some dust stirred by the disturbed newspaper was causing the effect he was now witnessing. "wha..."
he began to ask and the shut his mouth with a snap as the soft-glowing ball of light floated gently down into
the waiting hand of the grinning woman called Peggy Powler. Somewhere to the south, a clock chimed the
half-hour and somewhere quite close, a canny spellbinder was listening to a spook-light's tidings on where it
had been.

[BIAD]

Sergeant Jim Burrows finished locking the front door and then renewed his curious look at his wife standing in the gloom
at the bottom of their stairs. "What is it?" he mouthed as he unbuttoned his dark-blue tunic and immediately felt ashamed
that he felt the need to keep his words silent. Madge stared over her shoulder at her husband arriving home from his night
duties and her anxious features betrayed the uneasy confusion she had been experiencing. Without verbally replying, she
pointed her finger towards the shadows at the top of the stairway and endorsed her concerns by licking her lips.

With the parlour door closed, Jim led his wife over to far side of the room and like a pair of conspiratorial plotters, they
leaned close to each other and the whispering began. "It was during the night, Jim... the house has been cold... I heard
a loud bump and a groan... then these voices -two of them" Madge divulged in an intonation slightly higher than her usual
timbre. The man who usually offered a countenance of indifference to most instances in his life, listened intently and felt
his partner's disquiet about what was happening under their roof.
Ironic really, considering what had been transpiring above those grimy slate shingles.

The curtains were still drawn in their den of hushed words and just as Jim was about to calm Madge with an embrace
before he raced up to confront this Mister Fawkes-character and give him a piece of his mind, two profiles appeared
at the shrouded window and the Bishopsgate Station's Sergeant recognised the taller silhouette at once. "Wait here"
he said and with a glance towards the sombre space at the top his stairs, he walked briskly to meet their early morning
visitors.

Inspector George Abernethy looked puzzled as his fellow-policeman placed a finger to his lips and gestured to the big
bearded man to come in. The smaller companion -following George's act of removing his hat, doffed her own headgear
and stepped over the threshold without her usual habit of checking for certain items that can disarm a Witch. "Ah thank
yer' and all who live here" Peggy Powler said softly as she passed their uneasy host and followed the Inspector into a
little room only illuminated by a candle-lantern the little sorceress felt more at home with.
.................................................................

Peggy had nodded politely during Marjorie Burrow's explanation and reached for her hand when she related the part of
hearing two different voices speaking in their attic. This piece of information caused George to glance at the diminutive
half-Fae as he'd already been informed about what was happening between a injured Mister Fawkes and the malignant
spirit known as The Cold Caller.

"The crafty bugger will be lookin' fur' someone else te' infect..." the Last Witch of Underhill had informed the wide-eyed
giant after the Hinkypunk had relayed its knowledge of Mister Fawkes' escape route. "...This one is brawkken' and the
hellion will already be tryin' te' distance itself frum' his host" she'd added as they both set off in the direction Peggy had
pointed. "I want both of them" the Inspector had declared without looking down at his fellow investigator and the hurrying
augurer at his side silently wondered if that would be possible.

"Yer' look in a state Ma'am -if Ah' may, and Ah'd strongly suggest yer' just go about yer' normal mornin' habits..." Peggy
said to the breathless woman consolingly. "...Ah think a nice cup of tea will turn yer' round" the whispering necromancer
appended as she helped Jim's wife to a wooden chair near the window and gave the Sergeant a look that said everything.

"Thank you Miss Powler and you know, I have a strange feeling we've met before?" Madge grunted as she grimaced from
the pains in her knees. Peggy's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the woman's face and quickly checked her memory for
any recall. "Whey' Ah' get all over in me-task te' deal wiv' bother" she responded good-humouredly and prepared to bring
her attention to the real problem at hand.

As Jim Burrows returned with a large chipped cup of his version of hot tea, George and Peggy stepped towards the nadir
of the stairs to begin their capture of The Cold Caller. "Have you ever visited Weathercote, Miss Powler?" Madge asked
and the query stopped the bare-footed warlock in her tracks.

[BIAD]

"Well, I have to say that's the most cuckoo idea I've ever heard..." Jim Burrows breathed sharply as he finished listening
to the Witch in the grubby poncho. "...You mean to suggest that Madge goes up there where that demented killer is and
put herself in danger because she happened to come from the same village as him?" he asked with a tone of sarcasm.

Peggy Powler peered over to where the Sergeant's superior was gazing out of the window at the wakening morning and
wondered if he'd go for her scheme or just send Burrows down to the station to fetch some blue-coated back-up. "Aye,
Ah' knaw it sounds daft" the necromancer murmured and gently squeezed the shoulder of the woman in question.

The brutal murderer upstairs in the attic was now at his weakest and after Marjorie Burrows' revelation that she'd spent
her early life on the outskirts of Weathercote, Peggy had finally released the truth about what drove the man who killed
those he believed were fallen women. Just as she finished her chronicle of The Cold Caller, a muffled voice above them
said something indistinguishable and the soft-toned sorceress' small audience looked up at the ceiling. "That's the other
one speaking" Jim's wife whispered without emotion and the house was silent once more.
.................................................................

"It begins with a friendless boy distorting what he saw during his ambles through the woodland around Weathercote..."

Jasper Windle heard the laughter first and then the stewards of the mirth came into view as he parted a breach in the
tall harebells he'd been laying in. Back on the other side of the village, Martin and Charlotte Windle were cleaning out
the hog-pen after one of the sows had come down with a rash around her mouth. Jasper was never one for such tasks,
a failing his Pa had whupped him for many times and along with the thrashings, a fine reason to keep away from the
small cabin beside a body of water known to the locals as Pasher's pond.

A little girl giggled and the wiry lad prone among the nodding cobalt-washed flowers dragged his wandering thoughts
back to the children messing about with the chickens in the yard of their home. For some, it was a refreshing scene
where any other ten-summers-old boy may have got to his feet, walked over and joined in their game of hen-tag, but
Jasper had been informed he was made of different stuff and besides, he had already found a friend to play with.

"Heed your thoughts, the bumpkins yonder are beneath you..." the Nixiehob reported softly from behind the leaf
-heavy oak tree near to where Jasper lay. "...The amusement you truly seek awaits within these woods". Smiling
at the familiar indifferent resonance, the boy scrambled backwards from his concealment and hunkered down until
he reached where he believed his invisible consort was waiting...

With wide eyes displaying their concentration of the tale, the Last Witch of Underhill spoke of cruelty among the
shadows of that woodland. An educator of wickedness and a willing pupil to perform his despicable lessons from
an evil spirit that despised humans for their dominating position on the land.

Madge squinted during the Witch's telling as she vaguely recalled overhearing her father once telling her mother as
she fed the poultry to keep an eye on the children, something about finding dead animals in the woods strangely
arranged in unnatural patterns. However, what her satchel-carrying guest disclosed next, ensured her fear for the
thing upstairs would transform into something that would certainly distract the Sergeant's spouse from her current
discomfort.

...Jasper's secret world had grown darker as he'd grown older and when his aging mother had proposed that her only
offspring should browse a book a wandering priest had given her, a late-night conversation with his elusive tutor of
the forest brought the conclusion that would change Jasper's life forever.

That winter was a bad one in Weathercote and just beyond the freezing treeline where snow banked up against the
giant roots of the Nixiehob's haunt, a young man with the vacant look in his eyes agreed with his unearthly hidden
ally that his father's dalliance with a woman called Lillian should draw to a close. The glittering blanket of whiteness
advertised Jasper's passage back to the shanty he once called home and with a frenzy only the Nixiehob would ever
appreciate, the young man drowned his parents in the frozen pond nearby

After the horrendous act, it was the hidden voice beyond the snow-bound bushes who commended the shivering
and weeping last of the Windle household. "Be naught of sorrow, for your kith wandered from the old ways and
wallowing in the new religion, it would only be a short jaunt to an abandoned mater and a boasting debaucher..."
the cunning Nixiehob consoled its anguished surrogate.

Numb in body and spirit, Jasper had then followed the forest fiend's advice to leave the run-down home in a manner
contrasting of parricide. As a blizzard blew around Weathercote and lanterns glowed in the windows of those who
still cleaved to cherishing their loved-ones, a woebegone shape in the biting squall shovelled dirt over the sodden
frost-kissed bodies of his only kin and absently tossing the religious book onto the waterlogged breast of his frigid
mother, buried the last of his selfdom in the same grave.

It was only when the exhausted young man slumped to the mud-smeared snow and begin to weep again, did the
foul Nixiehob make its move and embed his ethereal talons into the shoulder of its victim.
Right there, The Cold Caller was born and the long season of killing began.
.................................................................

"So yer' see, Marjorie..." Peggy continued after allowing a short pregnant pause to exist after her story, "...there's
a destiny that brought the bugger upstairs te' yer' door and Ah' think yer've a part yet te' play in it". Inspector George
Abernethy breathed in deeply as he ruminated on what the little Witch had said and felt all his prudence wobble
in the realm of betwixt and between. Being with Amos Chambers' daughter would surely be a better place to be
right now he thought and waited for what would happen next.

[BIAD]

She was calling him, he without acquaintances, he who walked alone. The smiling girl in the home-made dress was
gesturing for him to return to his own. It was a designation he'd entombed in the overgrown lea so long ago next to Pa...
the name escaped him for a moment and then it came, Pasher's Pond. Yes -that's it, there were water lilies and a pair
of glowing eyes watching him from beneath the... No, that wasn't right, he was laid among breeze-nodding bluebells
and the straw-haired lassie was still waving for him to join in on their game.

The warm sun was dappling the place where he lay, his Pa had gone to the village again and his mother had told him
that today she was making an apple pie. He was Jasper Windle and far away from the gruesome deeds and the wily
voice back there in the forest.

"Steel your mind from this illusion..." the vague hump hissed from across the dark attic and watched for the door handle
beginning to turn. "...You are the manumitter of those who fawn around the new church and allow their desires to exude
upon the innocent". The deteriorating Nixiehob faded for a moment and then releasing a gasp of exertion, became almost
solid again. For a few quiet moments during the fevered delusions from the man on the blood-stained mattress, the water
-incubus hunkered in the shadowy loft felt felt a rare pang of fear. There was a design afoot to halt the creature's grody
purpose by unknown actors and the Nixiehob needed to escape.

Windle's body was useless to him now, it was true that the spiteful creature that had watched the inculpable lad from its
fetid bottle-green haunt and with tentative guile, had steered him into a world where power was obtained by blunt violence
and the promise of harrowing dread. But the fever-wracked vehicle that had served the Nixiehob for all those seasons was
now profitless to serve its purpose and any future appropriate conveyance seemed precarious right now.

Thameston's river wasn't too far away and from there, the vital waters of the Great Sea. But in his present state, the true
instigator of the Cold Caller's killings knew it was too weak to get their via his own horsepower. The stale aroma of body
waste was pungent in this small room and with the bottled saline life-blood the Nixiehob required was dwindling, another
healthier host would be preferable around now. The paling creature had endured the stinking duckpond until it had found
an ideal candidate for its murdering lust, but saltwater was its true element.

"We've been ran to earth..." the voice croaked faintly in the gloom, but the once warden of Jasper Windle was too weak
to finish his advice. The room became quiet once more.
.................................................................

Madge Burrows looked fearfully at her husband, George Abernethy and the little unshod woman before turning her gaze
back to the lair of their lodger. Gathering herself, Madge called the name again and this time, followed the spellbinder's
instructions to mention Weathercote. Whatever horror lay beyond the paint-peeled barrier kept its own counsel and said
nothing.

It had been some time since Peggy Powler had laid out the reality of what was lurking in the space at the top of the
Burrows' residence and Madge's mind was still reeling with what the little wandering Witch had explained. It could well
be that the man on the other side of this door had killed her mother all those seasons ago, but Peggy had enlarged on
the Cold Caller's motive with a confusing account of some type of water-demon that liked salt being the true murderer.

Peggy Powler now nodded her approval at the words of the frightened woman and then nudged the sizable Inspector
breathing heavily beside her, "tis thy turn now, George" she whispered. Scraping his top teeth against the hair beneath
his bottom lip, he nodded at Jim Burrows and both men raised a booted foot in unison.

With a backdrop of a chair skidding across an uncarpeted floor, the wood of the door splintered loudly and the precious
lock that had kept the world out of Mister Fawkes' temporary sanctum became nothing but a carapace of tarnished brass
and a quartet of twisted flying screws. "You are under arrest" Inspector Abernethy boomed and with his Sergeant beside
him, rushed into the gloomy and foul-smelling attic.

Unlabeled bottles lay strewn across a gouged and grease-stained table, the chair that had once seconded no entry to the
tenant and his urine-contaminated alchemy now lay like a dead dog beneath the dormer window and a heavily-breathing
man on the untidy bed stared up at the cobwebs of the ceiling with a faint smile on his face. "Yes Marjorie" he wheezed
to the dust-sprinkled moths long dead among the fibres.

But it was the shuddering shape on the far-side of the filthy room that Peggy was more interested in, the killer from
Weathercote was badly injured and the Last Witch of Underhill glimpsed that whatever the damage he was dealing
with, the carriage of the Nixiehob was enduring it alone. "Take him downstairs and keep an eye on him" Inspector
Abernethy growled at Jim Burrows and pointed to the sweat-coated figure mumbling to himself on the sagging cot.

"Ah' think it'd be a grand idea te' follow him..." the bantam sorceress advised the tall Policeman without taking her
eyes of the vaporous form avoiding the daylight in the corner. "...Ah've got business te' do that would be better done
alone" she supplemented and reached into the canvas bag hanging from her shoulder. George didn't move as he
repeated the words said -what seemed to the Inspector, like a thousand summers ago. "I want both of them".
.................................................................

A light-of-foot Commissioner Bowles left Bishopsgate Police Station and believed dinner at The Savoy was in order.
The wintry day was already waning and Whyte Chapel's proletariat will be soon out on the streets in search of their
nightly intoxication. The cheery Head of the new Constabulary felt his euphoria shrink for a moment as he recalled
the Doctor's decision to have the butcher known as The Cold Caller transferred to Hammersmith Asylum. But since
the senseless and drooling man slumped on the floor of his cell seemed to be away with the fairies, Jason Bowles
felt little of importance would be gleaned from their incarcerated killer.

The borough of Whyte Chapel could breathe easier again thanks to his men and musing on what the newspapers
will be begrudgingly publishing tomorrow, the spring in Commissioner Bowles' step returned as he briskly strode
off to a better side of Thameston.
.................................................................

Epilogue.

"It's getting late, me-girl..." the merry Inspector said good-humouredly as he topped the sorceress' tankard up with
more ale. "...You can spend the night here before young Eckles will take you back to the boondocks" he advised
and amiably ruffled the hair of the Constable recently from Blackfriars. The Police Station was quiet as it seemed
the cold wind outside strongly recommended the sots, streetwalkers and visiting thaumaturges of the metropolis
to go about their nightly business indoors.

Peggy Powler offered a dispassionate face to George Abernethy from under her wide-rimmed hat and then with
a nod, acknowledged Jim Eckles' willingness to take her back to the realms she missed. "Me-bones are nay a
friend te' the elements, but they're clickin' te' get on their way" she replied calmly and with a hint of glumness.

To capture the Nixiehob had been the spell-worker's goal for coming to the dirty streets Thameston and if not for
a simple distraction, the dastardly water-demon would be safely contained in a special jar and awaiting Peggy's
interrogation. The badly-injured hysterical man called Windle had tried to escape the parlour of the Burrows and
in the all the commotion, the little Witch had let her guard down.

With incantations, the weak hater of humans had been easily subdued and taken. Inspector Abernethy had been
the one to hold the container and quickly incarcerated the parasitic demon into its cramped glass prison. During
this act and not realised until later, George's obsidian beard took on two wide streaks of white. The diminutive
half-Fae's objective was achieved until the scuffling pandemonium downstairs allowed the Fates to bring their
own kind of confiscation to take place.

Taking a sip of her beer, Peggy could only guess that Madge Burrows must have been waiting somewhere in
the shadows of the attic to make her play. When George had hurried down the stairs to assist in thwarting the
delirious man's limping escape, the little Witch had stepped to the door to hear what was going on.

Within just a few shakes of a Badger's tail, the daughter of a woman forever bound in the roots of a woodland
Hosta stepped over to the large salt-encrusted vessel holding the agent of her mother's killing and dumped a
small sack of sugar onto its pulsing contents.

"Yer' knaw' Ah think Ah'll empty this brew..." the wandering Witch notified her small audience with a sigh and
winked at the young man in the unbuttoned tunic. "...Then we'll gan' and see if awld' man Pincher has a donkey
who likes a midnight ride, eh?" she furthered and gulping down a large draught of her beverage, Peggy recalled
the hissed words of the woman with the aching joints and an empty pouch in her hand.
"Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven...Amen".

The End.

[VioletDove]

Well done @"BIAD"#7!!! I hope you never stop sharing these with us!