The recent wonders of the technological age, such as the steam powered cycling cape, the rubberised horse dirigible and the breech-loading cathedral have firmly placed Britain and it’s Empire at the vanguard of the civilised world. But perhaps the most intriguing new ‘invention’ has been the Police Detective. A wise-eyed sleuth who’s quick wits and diligence in duty strikes fear into the very core of Londons criminal fraternity. ‘A Penny dreadful tale of wonder’ is very proud to introduce our readers to one such man..
Hello ladies and gentlemen, my name is Detective Winstanley Mott – ‘Mott of the yard’ as some have wit to call me. I am proud to be one of the thin streak of Police Detectives duty bound to protect the public from the miscreants and misdoings of the thieves, vagabonds, fraudsters and just plain shits of this city, London.
Our beat is known as Smithyfield Gap, and it is a foul and most odorous area of the metropolis. Squatting between Hampstead heath and the Lambeth district, this 12 mile stain of ale houses, out-houses, whore houses, and work-houses provides shelter and sustenance for the vile criminal underclasses that fester therein. It also provides fertile working ground for a man such as me. You may remember reading in other publications about crimes such as ‘The case of the chapped knapsack’, or ‘The mysterious theft of the bronzed Humbug, or indeed ‘The seven floating skulls of Moist-clap Street.’ Well all of these famous cases began their dark life in the back-alleys of Smithyfield, and it was on a day, not too long ago, while investigating an unrelated crime involving a Parson kicking a squirrel into a fountain, that I found myself introduced to the ‘The gouging phantasm of Smithyfield Gap!’
Constables Morgan, O’Keef and I had arrived at the abode of the man who had claimed to have seen the Parson commit the act. The Constables were gathering their notes while I was employing one of the latest marvels of the science age, ‘an microscope’. This device utilises a brass tubular shaft wherein two finely ground lenses are affixed, these lenses are then framed by a variety of cogs and pistons that allow the lenses to be drawn very slightly apart or closer together. When one has dug the necessary ‘observations trench’, stoked the devices boiler, built the rudimentary drainage ditch and cleared a safety ‘blast zone’ around the area one is easily able to peer down the uppermost lense and view the smallest scrap of evidence with incredible clarity! It is my solemn belief that one day in the future EVERY police force in the land shall have ‘an microscope’! To be sure, the ‘an microscopes’ of the future may be more compact, quieter and less likely to explode in a shower of molten metal, but the inherent principle shall remain the same. I was allowing the three main magnification chamber fires to dwindle and cool before ordering the device to be drawn away by the horses when I heard a blood curdling scream! A ladies scream, I surmised, and nearby to boot!
Constable O’Keef placated the now hysterical female with a series of calming and amiable punches and kicks to the head and neck, as we are trained to do in such delicate circumstances. I and Constable Morgan examined this twisted mire of torn cloth and bloodied chunks that some short time ago had been a Mr Martin Cul-de-sac – Fruit and Veg. Trader.
‘’E’s been made a right mess of, and no mistakin’ remarked Morgan, slowly pulling back tattered pant cloth to reveal a series of deep and precise gouges into the victims legs and buttocks.
‘Indeed he has..’ remarked I, ‘..and what do you make of these wounds Constable.. inch or so wide, inch or so deep..some 30 or 40 in number..’
‘Herons Sir.’ Came the emphatic and sadly inevitable reply. Constable Morgan is a fine man, and a credit to the service, but his criminal deductions had inexplicably centred around wild foul ever since a traumatic and unsavoury incident on the banks of the Thames some months hence.
‘Certain of it Sir, Herons…man like this, with fruit and vegetables to hand, near the river Sir. Clearly some lust driven, whorish Heron pounced on the poor gentleman as he placed his stall away for the night.’
Constable Morgan let a satisfied smile bloom across his face as he straightened up from examining the scene. I was not so easily satisfied, and stated so.
‘Firstly Constable.. animals such as Heron have little interest in fruit and vegetables, their diet is mainly fish and the like.. secondly even a Titan of a bird could not over power a fully grown man, certainly not a burly street vendor such as Mr Cul-de-sac here.. and thirdly the wounds have evidently been produced by some machine tool or device…and not the beak of an angered bird! Which would no doubt produce a more frenzied and irregular pattern!’
Morgan looked downcast. I believe he muttered something under his breath about a ‘Spoonbill slut..’ but I cannot be sure.
Deep in the examination chambers underneath the Yard Doctor Haskit examined the body using the latest modern techniques. Grisly as these methods may be to some folks they are vital in giving us a fuller picture of the crime. Doctor Haskit stepped away from the cadaver, tossed a spleen into a nearby bucket, and with a solemn expression addressed me. ‘It’s not pretty Detective.. it appears this poor soul has had a sharpened scoop applied to him repeatedly.. effectively taking neat chunks of flesh from his body. The trauma and loss of blood did for him in my opinion.’ I was intrigued. What kind of tool could have done such a job, and what kind of mind what have conceived of it? As if reading my thoughts the Doctor continued.
‘It’s a guess Detective, but the closest instrument I can associate with such a wound would be.. well.. a melon baller.’ ‘A melon baller?’ I blurted out, stunned.
‘Yes Detective. This man was balled to death!’
Allowing my mind to digest the theorem I walked slowly to the frosted glass window at the other end of the dark room. Melon ballers had only recently been introduced from the Americas after several people had choked trying to consume the Melons whole. This method of portioning out neat spheres of the sweet fruit flesh had become popular, and indeed a fad among the rich of London. Clubs and eateries had grown around the sensation. It was not unusual to see ‘Melon Clubs’ or ‘Balling Bordellos,’ as they had been come to be called, on any well to do street.
I had little time to ponder on the development before Constable O’Keef burst into the room, his face ashen with fear.
‘There’s been another one Sir… near the fruit market on Splodwallop Street, right mess Sir! Two of um.. had their legs ground off!..nothing but sticky stumps left behind Sir! As God is my witness I nearly puked up my lungs when I saw um so I did Sir!’
The scene was indeed as gruesome as O’Keef had suggested. The two men, identified later as two Prussian fruit merchants in Smithyfield Gap that day to deliver a cargo of Guava halves and Mango pips from the Congo, had seemingly been set upon as they moored their vessel at the docks. The merciless assailant had overpowered the men, bound the two and proceeded to ‘grate’ their lower limbs into an obscene shredded mess upon the pier side. A more heinous crime I had never encountered. Upon reaching the scene of the evisceration I was struck by the vim and vigour with which the criminal had committed the foul deeds. This madman was driven, he had a clear motivation in his sick mind. A motivation I was duty bound to unpick. Upon closer examination of the scene I noted the men had been bound with waxed string.. and at some point had had a small muslin sack containing sage, bay leaves and an onion forcibly inserted into their trouser cavity. Did this sickness know no bounds?
The two Constables and I needed time to let these foul deeds steep in our minds, so we adjoined to ‘Mr Mullins butchery and cafeterium’ for some mid-morning repast.
It was after our slap-up meal of fried owls heart, pickled badger trotters and beef tea that we aired our thoughts on the matter.
Constable Morgan was very much of the opinion that some large billed bird was at the root of the matter, possibly having attacked the pair due to their proximity to a nest or mating ground. His immediate, and very forcibly argued, call to action was to sweep the nearby river bank, then take any large fowl into custody, where he would personally examine each bird until, ‘every fold and crevice has been expunged..’ I thanked the Constable for his suggestion, but reminded him of my doubts to his initial bird related theorem.
Constable O’Keef had heard rumours from the mongers of Smithyfield that there were Ottoman revolutionaries stirring up trouble by publishing pamphlets suggesting that Queen Victoria’s voluminous gowns hid a crew of naked Armenians giggling and twanging her knicker elastic in time to ‘Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles’. But I debunked this notion by recalling to him the infamous ‘gusset’ incident during a Royal visit to a very windy Trafalgar, wherein her majesties garment was inadvertently raised to show nothing more sinister than two page boys strapped to each leg, massaging linseed oil into the Royal calves, as is customary on such occasions. No, these crimes were off a different mind.
I took this moment to report back into the Yard, and inform them of our findings at the dock and the possible enquires required by Mr Mullins suggestions. But we did not hail a Hansom cab dear reader. Here again we utilised one of the marvels of this wonderous age. The ‘telephonograph’. By the simple application of electric pulses down connected wiring, one can hold conversations, as if you were in the same room, even though you may be the other side of the street! Once you have entered the ‘telephonographic’ lead-lined booth, it is a simple task to engage in the winding of the electro-magnetic coil stanchion, thus generate the initial ‘pulse’ for the commencement of the ‘ringing’ procedure.
When this ‘ringing’ process has begun the small crew of boys can then begin their journey through the main communication ducts along to the gas conduits, carrying with them as they go the positive and negative bell jars which are needed to combust the ‘telephonographic’ exchange. While it is true such devices are not as yet refined, or indeed legal, they do present a positive boon to the efficient working practise of a modern police force. It should also be noted that it is my true desire that a less volatile accelerant than petroleum vapour be used in the future. Not only is it a poor conductor of sound waves, but it does give way to occasional ignition, which tends to largely incinerate any boys in the pipes, and gives off an awful stench upon venting of the machinery. Something cleaner such as coal or phosphorous can, I’m sure, be used when the great minds of British industry turn to it.
I had only just formed the initial vocal connection exchange with the Yard when I was dealt a terrible blow. I was informed of another murder. This time back at the market where we had begun this grim fandango! My Constables and I raced through the cobbled streets. Turning into the square we pushed our way through the crowds to be struck by the horrifying sight of a peeled man!
The poor soul, a pumpkin trader while alive, had apparently been set upon as he cleared away his stall for the day. Evidently throttled then set upon with a razor, his skin and man-rind had been cleaved from his twitching torso. But the murderer had been disturbed before he could finish his grisly job! Laying near the body on the scarlet stained flagstones, almost obscured by the victim chips that lay all around, was an apron! Torn in the initial struggle no doubt! As my Constables held back the horrified crowd my mind was afire! The victims, the methods, the clues at the scenes. I was of one mind! ‘To Tottlemoor Cathedral m’lads!’ I exclaimed, and made haste to the nearby place of worship.
I raised a finger to my lips and continued on into the eerie building, making my way slowly down the darkened aisle, the nearby clamour of the streets muffled by the rough hewn stone all around us. Suddenly O’Keef called out ‘Oh my Lord!’ Morgan and myself dashed to where the shaken Constable was pointing. There, resting on a nearside pew was the body of the Bishop of Tottlemoor Cathedral, Sir Thomas Manx. His head and feet had been cut clean off. Such an affront to Gods house I had not seen since that horse had become Pope!
‘I see you’ve found the good Bishop Detective!’ Came the sneering voice from out the black. ‘He got in the way of my plans..such a pity you and your poor Constables shall have to meet the same fate…’ The darkness at the front of the pulpit split to reveal non other than Mr Mullins the butcher himself!
‘Heavens above!’ exclaimed O’Keef.
‘I still think it was a Heron!’ retorted Morgan.
‘So Detective.. what gave me away?..’
I eyed the man cautiously. I saw no immediate weapons, but a butcher is not called a butcher for no reason.
‘All the victims were involved in the fruit or vegetables trade.. the arch enemy of all meat stuffs. The butchers string and the Bouquet garni left at the second crime scene.. the torn butchers apron at the third. You were sloppy Mullins. Now give yourself up and come with us now!’
‘Never Detective! You see I am on a mission.. a mission to eradicate stinking fruit and vegetables forever! This is a meat eating country, there’s no place for seeds or pulp! Do you know that last year over 12 pieces of fruit were sold in this city gentlemen!’
Constable Morgan gasped, leaning heavily on a nearby font.
‘Yes.. and it is my fear Sirs that in years to come every single household in this land will have a piece of fruit! And then what! Madness! Insanity! Lesbianism! Perhaps people will even eschew meat altogether and only eat fruit and vegetables!’
‘Never’ said I.
‘It is against God!’ roared O’Keef.
‘Oh mark my words gentlemen.. it is possible. So I turned to murder to keep these streets clean of banana peels and Satsuma peelings.. I used the preparation of the fruits against them!’
I stepped forward.. closing in inexorably towards Mullins as he foamed and ranted.
‘Hence your method of murder.. balled, grated, peeling.. and.. um.. what’s the Bishop exactly?’
Mullins looked visibly annoyed.
‘It’s a rondel! It’s popular in continental Europe..’
‘Oh I see..now come on Mullins..’ I said coolly,
‘If you just come down to the station we can talk all about it.. come on lad, this is no way for you to waste your brisket acumen.’
‘Never!’ Screamed Mullins. I dashed for him in the hope of wrestling him to the ground but he was quick! He darted from my grip and made for a staircase that would bring him to the gantry below the huge stained glass window, depicting the emulsification of St Alonsos, some 20 feet above us. ‘You’ll never take me alive!’
Morgan lunged for Mullins, but was tripped by my prostate form. By now Mullins had made it to the first few stairs, but so had O’Keef. The pair struggled, Mullins pushing back onto the Constable as he tried to free one hand to draw his truncheon. Balance was against the Constable though as with a flick of his leg Mullins sent O’Keef tumbling down the half dozen stairs, his body clattering heavily into the fonts sturdy base. Mullins, laughing like an opium fuelled hyena leapt up the stairs two at a time, making his way onto the wooden gantry. By now Morgan had regained his composure and headed for the stairs, I was not far behind him.
‘One day I shall be a martyr to meat lovers! Remember my name Detective! I shall live forever!!’ With one last maniacal cackle Mullins leapt from the gantry and into the stained glass window, crashing through it in a thunderous cacophony of coloured glass! His trailing scream could be heard as he plummeted to his death! Then suddenly a dull mournful thud.
‘Look Sir, look!’ Cried Morgan as he leaned carefully through the jagged glass and out into the open air. I soon joined him, and saw with my own two eyes the sickening sight of Mullins body, skewered wholly through his torso on an ornate spire on the corner of the transept below. The wrought iron spike spiralling through his twitching corpse and up to the heavens.
Constable O’Keef picked his way through the shards of glass at the windows base and joined us, taking a moment to take in the tragic sight. By now a shocked crowd had begun to gather, and the shrieks and exclamations of the women were plain to hear.
‘Ironic Detective..isn’t it?’ said O’Keef rubbing his bruised ribs and casting a rueful smile towards the former Mr Mullins.
‘How so?’ I enquired.
‘Well Sir.. his lifes dream was to turn society against fruit and vegetables..for the well worn British path of the chop, the ham, tripe and the pie to go on forever.. yet in his death he represents, perhaps the future…’
O’Keef spied our quizzical looks.
‘The Shish-kebab Sir. There is Mr Mullins skewered like that.. representing in some twisted fashion the fusion of meat and vegetable that is the shish-kebab. A gastronomical example of unity and tolerance…ironic Sir.’
‘Perhaps in some way you’re right O’Keef..perhaps there can be a way for fruit, vegetables and meat to sit in harmony on our plate..’ I mused.
‘Come on lads, who fancies a pie down at Old Mrs Poltroons pie emporium?
‘Ham AND mushroom Sir?’ quipped Morgan.
‘Ham AND mushroom if you wish lad!’
‘Hold on Sir.. how did you know to look for Mullins at the cathedral?’
‘Aah!’ Said I. ‘In the usual way.’
We shared a chuckle, meandered back out into the days light, and went about our day. And so the case of the gouging phantasm of Smithfield gap is closed. But the story for us did not end there…
My actions merited a promotion to Chief Inspector in the following summer, and O’Keef was also given an Inspectors position. Sadly Constable Morgan was to be relived of duty shortly after due to his involvement in the ‘Guineafowl whorehouse’ arrests of 1879.
Thank you for your time, and look sharp now. Goodbye.
The End
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