Free The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 by Ishbelle Bee Page B
Authors: Ishbelle Bee
what I wondered, ” and I help myself to a refill of whisky and top Waxford up.
“ Why kill Icarus and Grubweed? ”
“ Maybe someone is picking them off, ” I say instinctively, and suddenly feel quite odd.
“ Percival, are you alright? ” Waxford leans forward.
“ Yes. I just had the strangest feeling. ”
The Blue-Flower Institute
I am, I admit, a little drunk after seeing Waxford. He has a more robust constitution for alcohol. I buy some strong coffee and make my way to the reception area of the Blue-Flower Institute, a miserable - looking building. A largely built woman with fierce little eyes examines me at the front desk.
“ My name is Detective Sergeant White and I need to see a resident. A woman named Lucy Dewdoll. It is quite urgent and involves a murder investigation. ”
I am escorted to a cell where Lucy Dewdoll sits at a small table in a long grey dress. Her hair, loose and falling to her waist, is the colour of dirty sand. Her face is like her name: doll-like, perfect skin and round blue eyes. She turns to look at me.
“ Please get me out of here. ”
“ Miss Dewdoll, I understand that you were married to Professor Hummingbird. I am currently investigating a murder and I need to know whatever you can tell me, anything that might give me some insight into his character. ”
“ If I do this, can you get me out of here? I am not mad. I have never been mad. ”
“ I will do everything in my power to help you. ”
“ If you want any power over him, d etective , steal his favourite butterfly. It is his only weakness. ”
“ My dear lady, what happened to you? ” I ask, and then I listen .
“ I was living with my stepsister in Whitstable when I met him. The year was 1886. I was twenty-five and our life was peaceful, unremarkable, until a letter arrived from a solicitor in London called Mr Evening-Star, announcing that I had been left a fortune from my eccentric Uncle Lionel, who was an explorer in Mexico. I had become his heiress, owner of a moated castle on the outskirts of London, as well as inheriting his entire collection of artefacts from his explorations. Well, I nearly fainted on the carpet I was so shocked! Winnie thankfully retrieved the emergency brandy from under the cupboard. ” A slight smile danced across her face at the memory, and then vanished just as quickly. “ The following day I received a visitor, a friend of my Uncle Lionel, who wished to offer his condolences. His name was Professor Gabriel Hummingbird. He was a widower in his fifties and there was something unusual about him, some strange, cool mischief. The way he looked at me – as though he were peering down a microscope, examining my cells, wanting to rearrange them. We talked at length about my uncle ’ s work in Mexico and then finally about his own research. They had worked together for years teaching at the University in London. My uncle had died while camping on an Inca burial site, slipped and fell off a ravine while drunk on chocolate-wine. His body had been buried out there, the service simple, but in accordance with my uncle ’ s wishes, according to Professor Hummingbird.
“ The Professor informed me that he would be staying in Whitstable for a few weeks as a holiday and hoped we should meet again. Apart from the fact that he was too old for me, there was something else about him that made me concerned. There was something mechanical, something calculating about him. I was persuaded he did not desire me; however, I was an heiress now. Perhaps it was my money, perhaps something else I had acquired, and yet despite all these warning signals I agreed to see him again, and again. It was almost as if I could not say the word ‘ No ’ to him. The word just would not form on my lips.
“ We met for tea and sandwiches and walked along the beach, picking up curious shells. I told him about my quiet but happy life, but thinking about my Uncle Lionel, I realised how little I had actually
“ Why kill Icarus and Grubweed? ”
“ Maybe someone is picking them off, ” I say instinctively, and suddenly feel quite odd.
“ Percival, are you alright? ” Waxford leans forward.
“ Yes. I just had the strangest feeling. ”
The Blue-Flower Institute
I am, I admit, a little drunk after seeing Waxford. He has a more robust constitution for alcohol. I buy some strong coffee and make my way to the reception area of the Blue-Flower Institute, a miserable - looking building. A largely built woman with fierce little eyes examines me at the front desk.
“ My name is Detective Sergeant White and I need to see a resident. A woman named Lucy Dewdoll. It is quite urgent and involves a murder investigation. ”
I am escorted to a cell where Lucy Dewdoll sits at a small table in a long grey dress. Her hair, loose and falling to her waist, is the colour of dirty sand. Her face is like her name: doll-like, perfect skin and round blue eyes. She turns to look at me.
“ Please get me out of here. ”
“ Miss Dewdoll, I understand that you were married to Professor Hummingbird. I am currently investigating a murder and I need to know whatever you can tell me, anything that might give me some insight into his character. ”
“ If I do this, can you get me out of here? I am not mad. I have never been mad. ”
“ I will do everything in my power to help you. ”
“ If you want any power over him, d etective , steal his favourite butterfly. It is his only weakness. ”
“ My dear lady, what happened to you? ” I ask, and then I listen .
“ I was living with my stepsister in Whitstable when I met him. The year was 1886. I was twenty-five and our life was peaceful, unremarkable, until a letter arrived from a solicitor in London called Mr Evening-Star, announcing that I had been left a fortune from my eccentric Uncle Lionel, who was an explorer in Mexico. I had become his heiress, owner of a moated castle on the outskirts of London, as well as inheriting his entire collection of artefacts from his explorations. Well, I nearly fainted on the carpet I was so shocked! Winnie thankfully retrieved the emergency brandy from under the cupboard. ” A slight smile danced across her face at the memory, and then vanished just as quickly. “ The following day I received a visitor, a friend of my Uncle Lionel, who wished to offer his condolences. His name was Professor Gabriel Hummingbird. He was a widower in his fifties and there was something unusual about him, some strange, cool mischief. The way he looked at me – as though he were peering down a microscope, examining my cells, wanting to rearrange them. We talked at length about my uncle ’ s work in Mexico and then finally about his own research. They had worked together for years teaching at the University in London. My uncle had died while camping on an Inca burial site, slipped and fell off a ravine while drunk on chocolate-wine. His body had been buried out there, the service simple, but in accordance with my uncle ’ s wishes, according to Professor Hummingbird.
“ The Professor informed me that he would be staying in Whitstable for a few weeks as a holiday and hoped we should meet again. Apart from the fact that he was too old for me, there was something else about him that made me concerned. There was something mechanical, something calculating about him. I was persuaded he did not desire me; however, I was an heiress now. Perhaps it was my money, perhaps something else I had acquired, and yet despite all these warning signals I agreed to see him again, and again. It was almost as if I could not say the word ‘ No ’ to him. The word just would not form on my lips.
“ We met for tea and sandwiches and walked along the beach, picking up curious shells. I told him about my quiet but happy life, but thinking about my Uncle Lionel, I realised how little I had actually
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