Mistress Of Death 3m4j6u

MISTRESS OF DEATH

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by Annette Siketa

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Copyright © 2021 Annette Siketa.

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No part of this book may be manipulated, transmitted, or altered by any method or manner whatsoever. All rights reserved. Please respect the authors’ rights. Only through honesty can the insidious practice of illegal copying be curbed.

Also by Annette Siketa

The Ghosts of Camals College A Good Deed Chameleon - The Death of Sherlock Holmes The Failures of Sherlock Holmes Mistress of Death The Sisterhood - Catthy's Kin The Sisterhood - Curse Of Abbot Hewitt Those Ghostly Victorians Those Wicked Women The Gift Written in Fire The Favour

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Also By Annette Siketa

Prologue.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

Extracts. | From ‘Chameleon – The Death of Sherlock Holmes.

From ‘The Ghosts of Camals College’. | Chapter 1. The Problem Child.

Chapter 2. The Solution...Well, Sort of.

Other Books & Freebies.

About Me.

The X Factor

Further Reading: The Sisterhood - Curse Of Abbot Hewitt

Prologue.

Constable JOHN HAYDEN walked with measured steps. Ships and freighters swayed in the gentle swell, the water lazily lapping the hulls. The air was mild and the sky was clear. Indeed, it was a perfect night for a stroll with a lover. And yet Hayden was uneasy. He had long learned to trust his ‘copper’s’ instinct, and something about the docks did not ‘feel’ right. He glanced up the deserted street. Deep dark shadows lay between the street lamps, and tall warehouses reared up like monolithic monsters. His eyes rested on the opening to an alley. He had gone down it hundreds of times, and yet tonight he was hesitant. He shrugged his shoulders and silently berated himself for his cowardice. Even so, as he entered the alley, he kept a firm hold on the torch in his pocket and an even tighter grip on his truncheon. A few steps later he stopped. He had ‘sensed’ rather than ‘seen’ a movement. He pulled out his torch and switched it on. The light danced over scummy cobblestones, broken and up-ended wooden crates, and piles of stinking refuse. And then the beam caught a heavy-soled boot and the hem of a tro. Cautiously, almost reluctantly, Hayden approached. The body lay face down in filth, one arm flung forward, the hand clutching the handle of a truncheon. “Oh my gawd!” As Haden squatted beside his fallen comrade, a faint, exotic tang assailed his nostrils. But, barely had he ed the smell when his blood literally froze. The dead man’s hand was dark brown and shrivelled, the fingernails black as though dipped in tar. Hayden touched the discoloured hand. The skin ‘crackled’ like dry leaves in autumn. Then, as the word ‘mummified’ flashed into his mind, his own skin began to prickle. There was somebody else in the alley.

Hayden pointed the torch straight ahead. Barely six feet away, two brown rats were staring hungrily at the corpse. Hayden picked up what he hoped was a stone and threw it at the vermin. As they scuttled away, he saw there was nobody else in the alley, and yet he was absolutely sure he was being watched. This time he did not hesitate. However, as he shifted position to extract his whistle, his foot caught the head of the corpse, turning it onto its side. It was a ghastly sight. Like the hand, the face was also brown and shrivelled, with the cheeks abnormally sunk. The lips were pulled back in a snarl, and the tip of the nose was almost gone. But it was the eyes that almost caused Hayden to scream, for they resembled two white marbles. Fighting nausea, he blew three long blasts on the whistle. Seconds later, the sound of footsteps echoed in the alley. Hayden jumped to his feet and whirled around, the torch shining on a man and a woman. The woman was respectably if shabbily dressed, a red shawl covering her head. “Is anything wrong?” she asked in a sweet though concerned sounding voice. Hayden held up a hand. “Do not come any closer. There’s been...erm...an accident.” “Oh, how terrible. Is there anything we can do?” Hayden knew it was vital that the crime scene be protected. He was about to answer ‘no’ when a thought struck him. “Yes. I just blew my whistle, but with all the ageways and back streets, my colleagues might not find me easily. Would you mind standing in the street and telling them where I am?” The woman smiled as she replied, “Actually, I would mind,” at which she produced a gun-shaped object. Before Hayden could react, his head was shrouded in a cloud of black smoke. His skin tightened as if his skull had suddenly grown too big. Excruciating pain shot through his body, and when he tried to breathe it was like drawing in fire. The woman laughed as she and her companion hurriedly left the alley, leaving behind two corpses who in appearance, had been dead over a hundred years.

I.

Captain Stratton frowned as he approached ‘The Black Swan’ public house. Apart from a few vagabonds and prostitutes, the only people he’d seen on the streets were policemen patrolling in pairs. He was even more perplexed when he opened the door to the pub, for instead of the usual noise and smell of tobacco, the place was virtually empty. A thin man wearing a stained green shirt, rushed towards the door, a gun in his hand. Stratton backed away. “Whoa, Joe!” he said, holding up his hands. “It’s me, Daniel Stratton, Captain of the ‘Norwegian Lass’.” Recognition dawned on the barman's face. He lowered the gun and looked extremely relieved. "Sorry, Captain Stratton, but you can’t be too careful nowadays. What can I get you?" “Whiskey with a beer chaser.” The drinks duly arrived. Stratton downed the whiskey in one. "Lousy as usual," he grunted. “Now, why the hardware? You expecting a visit from ‘Benny the Bouncer’?” This was the name of a well-known hood. The sobriquet came from his habit of jumping on peoples heads if they didn’t give in to his demands. Before answering, Joe’s eyes wandered to a table in the corner, where two men were playing dominoes. "Benny won’t be bouncing anyone again,” he said quietly. “He's six feet under." Stratton straightened up, surprise showing in his handsome, weather-beaten face. "Who got him? The police or a rival?" “Take ya pick. Somebody slit his throat.” "So, why the gun?” “Ain’t you heard?” replied Joe, wiping the mahogany bar with a cloth. “The

newspapers ‘ave been full of it.” “We’ve just docked. Came down from the Arctic Circle and haven’t seen a newspaper in weeks.” “You ain’t heard about the mummy deaths?" Stratton laughed. "The what?” "Been going on for two weeks now. Police officers mainly. All dried up like a mummy. I saw one of ‘em and chucked my guts up. Do you Constable Ned O’Flannery? Him who arrested Ratty Patty when he tried to steal your wallet?” “I certainly the fight when I caught him.” Stratton rubbed his jaw as if he could still feel the bruise. “What about him?” "About a week ago, he was at the side door having a quick half pint when a woman comes up and says, ‘Constable, I’ve just seen a man lying in the hallway in the boarding house across the road. I think he's dead’. We couldn’t see her face cos she was wearing a veiled hat, but she spoke like a lady. "’More like dead drunk’, says Ned, grinning at me. He downs his drink and gives me the glass. I saw them cross the road and enter the house. I was about to turn away when I heard a scream.” Joe crossed himself. “May I go to my grave never hearing another scream like it.” “What did you do?” asked Stratton, keenly interested. “I was too scared to do anything at first, but then I ran across the road. Ned was lying on the floor, legs kicking and face literally crumbling to dust." "And the other man?” “There weren’t no other man and the woman had scarpered.” “A trap?” “Of course it was. What else could it be?”

Stratton took a drink of beer before saying, "You said this mummy death is aimed at the police. If this is so, why is everyone scared?" "Gees, Captain, don't you get it? An officer is walking the beat when someone shouts for help. Now, eight times out of ten the call is genuine, but since the killings began...well, if I was a copper, I know what I’d do." “Are you saying that the police aren’t responding to crime?” "Let’s just say it’s open season for burglars. I heard of two banks who had their safes blown open. The police didn’t arrive till long after the smoke had cleared.” Joe snorted contemptuously as he added, “Law & order has become a joke around here.”

II.

The ‘Norwegian Lass’ was a rather odd looking ship. Built in Oslo, her bow had been reinforced to plough through the pack ice surrounding the Arctic Circle. Her primary function was to deliver supplies to research stations and isolated communities, and her crew, though small in number, were very experienced and completely loyal to Stratton. Three days after talking to the barman, Stratton received orders for another voyage. The weather in the north was on the wain, and this would be the last run before gales and mountainous seas battered the Greenland coast. Night was falling when Stratton decided to go to ‘The Black Swan’ for a final drink. During a voyage, the only alcohol he allowed on board was a bottle of brandy, and even then only for medicinal purposes. He had also caught up on his reading, and now knew everything possible about the ‘mummy murders’. Rounding the corner, he saw two policemen walking towards him in the near distance, one on either side of the street. Both were keeping to the edge of the pavement, well away from the shadows of doorways and a fence surrounding a chandler’s yard. One of the constables looked directly at Stratton. The captain stopped and patted his jacket. He was looking for the certified copy of his master’s license, which he would need if challenged. He was just extracting an oilskin pouch when a big black car shot past him. Screeching to a stop on the left side of the street, a man in the rear wound down the window and shouted, “Here! Officer! We need your help!” The constable approached and stood with one foot on the running board. “What’s the matter, sir?” Black smoke belched out of the window, enveloping the constable’s head. He managed to utter a cry of alarm before collapsing on the ground. His colleague ran to the side of the car to render assistance. He too was blasted in the face.

Stratton ran down the street and leapt onto the roof. With nothing to grab hold of, he slid sideways and almost fell off as the car picked up speed. The wind whistled ed his ears as his legs dangled over the side. Then, as the car slowed to turn a corner, his hand found the frame of the still open window. Clinging to the car for dear life, he caught a glimpse of the driver in the rapidly ing lampposts. It was a woman. She had reddish-brown hair and large grey eyes. Her nose and mouth were hidden by a gauzy scarf, but the hands clutching the wheel were white and delicate. “We have an unwanted enger,” said the man in a sneering voice. “Is he a copper?” “No.” “Then don’t shoot him.” "You can't let him go - he’ll squeal.” "Who said anything about letting him go?” The woman hit the brake so hard that Stratton fell off, and when he picked himself up, he found himself staring at the strangest gun he’d ever seen. Grey and rather short, the barrel was at least two inches in diameter. "You!” she snapped. “Get into the car or Pete will blast you.” There was no choice but to comply. Stratton opened the door and climbed into the enger seat. He was immediately grabbed from behind by Pete, who used a handkerchief as a blindfold. Stratton hoped it was clean. The woman removed the scarf from her face and tossed it to Pete. “Tie his hands with that. If he even looks like moving, shoot him.” There was silence for several minutes as the car headed away from the docks. Then, without taking her eyes off the road, the woman slid a hand along Stratton’s thigh and up to the opening of his jacket. The movement was more sensuous than threatening.

"No gun,” she announced. She pulled out the oilskin pouch and tossed it to Pete. “Check it.” There was the sound of rustling paper and then Pete said, "So, you’re Captain Daniel Stratton of the ‘Norwegian Lass’." "Yes," he answered coldly. “What type of ship is it?” "A seventy-five-foot freighter.” “How many crew?” asked the woman. "Four, not including myself." “When are you due to sail?” “In the morning.” “Where?” “The first port is Nova Scotia.” Pete snorted. "Too bad you won't be sailing with her. You know too much." “I know nothing. You have nothing to fear from me.” “You’ve seen our faces and that’s enough. Margo, we must get rid of him - and now.” "I suppose so,” she replied with a sigh, and steered the car away from London.

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The track was rough and lined on either side with trees and hedges. Margo drove a hundred yards or so and then stopped the car. “This will do. Pete, get

him out.” She was so composed that she might have been ordering dinner at a restaurant. “Now, look here,” Stratton began, but her vicious slap silenced his protest. The door was opened and Pete pulled him out of the car. Bound and blind, Stratton’s foot caught in the running board, whereupon he fell face down in a patch of slimy mud. Margo laughed as he was hauled to his feet. Stratton tried to speak but nothing came out. Standing in the clear night air, he started to shiver. He heard the far-off hoot of a train, and wondered how many of the engers would read about his death in the newspapers. "Remove his blindfold," said Margo coolly. “I want to see his eyes as he dies.” Stratton blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The first thing he saw was Margo sitting sideways on the seat, the car’s interior light turning the colour of her hair to burnished gold. She smiled, her white teeth gleaming between ruby lips. "Walk a few paces ahead.” Stratton did not move. This was insane, unreal. It seemed impossible that a very attractive woman was ordering his death. Could she really watch with indifference as he was turned into a mummy? "Get going,” growled Pete, brandishing the weapon. “Is it some sort of gas-gun?” asked Stratton, trying to buy some time. “Yeah, and the cylinder’s got your name on it. Now, move!” Stratton started to walk away, his mind desperately thinking of what to do. Perhaps he could make a run for it and roll under the hedge. But, what would be the point? Whereas a shot from a normal gun might miss him, the other weapon would belch its deadly cloud before he reached safety. Besides, why should he make sport for the vicious ‘cat’ in the car? His thoughts were interrupted by a groan from behind. He spun around, and it was not until much later that he put the pieces together. Pete had been about to

fire when he fell to the ground. Margo, now out of the car, caught the gas-gun as it slid out of his hand. But this was not her only weapon. In her other hand was a short, silver stiletto. “Can you drive?” she demanded. “Yes.” “Good. Then I’ll give you a choice. Either take the wheel or die where you stand. Make no mistake, Captain Stratton, I have no scruples about killing. Now, make your mind up. I have an appointment that I must keep.” Relieved, Stratton walked towards the car, and as Margo’s features became clearer, he saw a cruel smile on her face. She was quite obviously mad, but why had he been spared? With release but a moment away, he was not about to argue the point. "I can't drive with my hands tied behind my back." She gestured for him to turn around. He heard the ‘swish’ of the blade as it cut through the fabric. “Thanks,” he murmured, rubbing his wrists. “Save it. I didn’t do it for you.” She pointed to Pete. “Drag him under the hedge. He’s a dog and deserves nothing better.” Stratton duly complied, surreptitiously checking the body for a gun or some other form of weapon. Even a humble penknife might prove useful, but there was nothing. He wiped his hands on the grass before entering the car. There was blood on the back of Pete’s jacket where Margo had stabbed him. Stratton adjusted the seat and then asked, “Where to?” Margo pointed the gas-gun at his ribs. "Straight ahead and don’t speed. We’re still quite close to the road, and the last thing I want is to attract attention.” Stratton nodded and put the car in gear. Trees and bushes seemed to jump out of the darkness as the headlights flashed past. He scanned the surroundings as best he could, looking for a house or a familiar landmark. Such was his concentration, that he ‘jumped’ when Margo ordered him to turn left.

The opening was so narrow that it was barely visible. Leaves and twigs scraped the side of the car as Stratton headed towards a cottage. Then, as Margo leaned across and flashed the headlights twice, the track widened into a rough courtyard. A man was standing in the doorway of the cottage, a shotgun balanced on his arm. “You took your time,” he snarled when the car came to a stop. Margo climbed out and walked round to the driver’s side. Stratton stayed put. He was not taking any chances. “We had a problem,” she said, indicating the captain. “Who the hell is he?” Margo kissed his cheek. “Somebody you’ll never know,” and fired the gas-gun into his face. Stratton reacted instinctively. He shut the window and leaned sideways, his head almost touching the enger seat. Meanwhile, Margo had backed away, a handkerchief covering her mouth. After a moment or two, she removed the handkerchief and laughed. “What a pity I don’t have time to visit certain female friends.” She raised the gun and adjusted a horizontal dial near the top of the handle. “I’m sure their husbands will appreciate what I have to offer. At least it will give them an excuse to justify their unfaithfulness.” The statement was loaded with meaning, but Stratton was not interested in dissecting it. He had sat up, looked at the man on the ground, and felt ill. He ed what Joe had said about ‘chucking up’, and fought to control his stomach. "You didn't give him a chance to defend himself!" Margo laughed again. "It was no more than the rat deserved, and all vermin must be destroyed.” Stratton wondered if she was referring to policemen or men in general. He thought about asking her, but when she pointed the gun at his head, he kept his mouth shut.

“Go into the cottage,” she ordered. “Any tricks and you’ll get the same as the others.” Stratton nodded to show that he understood. There was no doubt he was at the mercy of a woman who had a lust for killing.

III.

The condition of the cottage clearly indicated that it had been deserted for some time. Margo led the way to a kitchen and closed the door, plunging the room into utter darkness. Stratton heard her step towards him, and the next moment, he felt her arms round his neck, her lips trying to find his own. His body reacted instinctively, and yet as he moved to embrace her, he ed that she was a cold-blooded killer. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, disentangling her arms. “I like my women to be sane.” Margo stepped away, her light laugh echoing in the darkness. “I wanted to kiss you the moment you got into the car.” “Do you always kiss strange men?” “Only those who appeal to me.” “And those who don’t?” Had it not been for the underlying threat, her voice might have been charming as she replied, “You already know the answer to that.” Stratton now posed the question he had wanted to ask earlier. “Do you hate all men?” “No. Only the ambitious ones.” “And what about ambitious women?” “There’s no such thing. Women can only do what men permit them to do.” “You seem independent enough.” “Do I?” There was enquiry in her voice, and Stratton realised that somehow he’d ‘struck a chord’. Even so, he had no idea how to take advantage of it.

Once again he played for time. He withdrew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, being careful not to rattle the box of matches. “Got a light?” “You don’t have time to smoke.” She went to the door and switched on the light. The single bulb cast dingy light over damp-stained walls and an uneven bare floor. The window was covered with a black cloth, and on a wooden table was a plate, half a loaf, and some ham wrapped in wax paper. Stratton wondered if the food was literally the dead man’s last meal. Margo indicated a chair with the gun, and as Stratton sat down, she walked backwards to a side wall, the gun now pointed at his heart. Feeling behind her, a in the wall slid open, revealing a low metal box about two-feet long. It looked uncannily like a baby’s coffin. "Take it to the car and be quick about it. I don’t have much time." The box was heavier than it looked. Stratton balanced it on his shoulder and made his way to the car. His face was imive as thoughts flashed through his mind. What was she planning? Twice she had referred to a shortage of time. What was so urgent, and more pertinently, what would she do when he was no longer needed? Hearing her footsteps behind him, he considered dropping the box and taking a chance on his right fist. But, no. It would be suicide to try anything while her finger was on the trigger. He would bide his time until a better opportunity arose. He put the box on the back seat. Then, as he was backing out, her hands slid around his waste. He felt her breasts against his back as she said, "Drive to your ship." Stratton twisted around, a look of incredulity on his face. He had effectively been kidnapped and forced to watch men die, but he would not sacrifice his ship and his crew to her evil machinations. "Not on your life,” he said vehemently. She placed the barrel of the gun over his heart. So stony was her face that it

might have been carved from marble. Only her eyes were alive, and they were speaking volumes. “On the contrary, Captain, it’s your life that’s at stake, not mine. Either take me to your ship or I’ll go there alone. I know enough about you to fool your crew. I’m sure they’re of the pathetic kind that will help a lady in distress without asking questions.” Stratton could not argue. What she had said was perfectly true. "Alright," he said through gritted teeth, and got into the car.

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The dock was virtually deserted, and the ‘Norwegian Lass’ barely moved in the gentle swell. The first mate, James Keegan, was standing at the railing when the car stopped at the gangplank. “Is that you, Captain Stratton?” he asked in surprise. “Yes, Keegan. Send down a man to collect some luggage. We have a guest.” He turned to Margo and quickly whispered, “You might have that gun but this is my ship, and if you interfere in the running of it, I’ll personally throw you overboard, no matter if it costs me my life. Do you understand?” For the first time that night, Margo looked uncertain. Then, suavely, she snaked an arm through his and said in a raised voice, “Of course, darling. Whatever you say.” Keegan grinned as he moved away from the railing. The ship had conveyed several engers in the past, but none of them women. In his opinion, the captain had acquired quite a different kind of ‘first mate’. The boatswain, Billy Halliday, a veteran of the seas, collected the so-called luggage and followed his captain and Margo to the bridge. Located at the rear of

the ship, it afforded a full view of the deck, the lifeboats, and all the hatchways. Meanwhile, Stratton was reviewing his position. His crew were well trained and quick witted, and any change in routine was bound to raise an eyebrow or two. Moreover, once the ship was at sea, Margo had nowhere to go. Had the shedevil outsmarted herself? Halliday stood panting a little. “Where do you want me to put it?” he asked, resting the box on a solid metal chart table. Stratton pointed to the door of his cabin, which was partially obscured by a stanchion. If he and Margo were supposed to be lovers, then so be it. What price his reputation if it saved his life, and indeed, the lives of others? There was a dull thud as the box hit the floor. “Thanks, Billy. Is all secure below?” “Tighter than a fish’s...” Billy broke off and gave an embarrassed cough. He had momentarily forgotten that there was a lady present. “Yes, sir,” he amended.

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For the next half hour or so, Stratton was busy issuing instructions and clearing the dock. Margo could not help but be impressed. “Nicely done, Captain. See how well we work together? But, I have an instruction of my own. Once we’re in open water, head for Portugal.” “Impossible.” She raised an eyebrow. “Why? You’re the Captain. You can go anywhere you like.” “Not without paperwork, and at least a dozen people know we’re sailing to Nova Scotia.” She laughed unpleasantly. “Do you really think a piece of paper will stop me?

Now, how long before we clear England?” “If you mean English territory, then a couple of hours.” “I’m going into your cabin to rest. I also want something to eat and a glass of champagne. I’ll be keeping the door open, so no tricks.” Stratton rounded on her. He was the ‘master’ and he would have no ‘mistress’. “Where the hell do you think you are? The Ritz? You’ll get a mug of tea and a sandwich and like it. And by the way, this is a dry ship, and so you can forget any idea about getting my crew drunk.” “I need clothes,” she added sulkily. “You should have thought about that earlier. Not very organised, are you? Who was the brains of the outfit – Pete, or the man at the cottage?” Her response was to march into the cabin and slam the door. Stratton heaved a huge if silent sigh of relief. So far, the battle was even. However, he could do no more until she made her next move.

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The ‘Norwegian Lass’ began to pitch as her bow cut through the choppy water. The wind had picked up, and except for the lights in the Channel, the darkness was practically impenetrable. Halliday was at the wheel, and Stratton was studying a chart. He looked up when he felt a touch on his arm. "Where are we, darling?” Stratton pointed to the right. “Ireland is about eight hundred miles in that direction.” "Good. Come into the cabin. I want to talk to you." "Keep on present course?" posed Halliday.

“No. Turn south and head for Cherbourg.” Stratton walked towards his cabin. He knew full well that Halliday was too loyal to question orders. Even so, once he left the bridge, he would no doubt tell the crew about the sudden change of direction. But Margo did not follow. The binnacle-lamp illuminated one side of her face, and Stratton saw that she was looking at the helmsman with strange, hungry eyes. Comprehension came too late as black smoke shot out of the weapon. Halliday clutched his head and fell to the floor. Stratton was speechless with horror as he stared at the rapidly distorting face. Margo spun around. "Take the wheel or you’re next.” Stratton did not move. “Now!” she screeched. Blood pounded in his temples as he gripped the wheel. “Why did you do it?" he asked through gritted teeth. "You know the old saying - ‘two’s company, three’s a crowd’.” Stratton kept his gaze straight ahead, fury coursing through his veins. He should have tackled her back at the cottage. He had been weak and it had cost a man his life. Well, not again. The only way to save his crew was to play her at her own game. He steadied his nerve as he said, “You did me a favour. After this voyage, I was going to retire him, though not as permanently.” She moved closer and pressed her body against him. “Tell the truth,” she said, her free hand stroking his neck, “you got a thrill out of it, didn’t you?” For answer, he removed his right hand from the wheel and encircled her waist. She giggled like a schoolgirl. He forced himself to look at her. Her eyes were alive with desire. “Do you know what’s in the box?” she asked, her fingers running down his spine. “Your chastity belt?”

She flicked his ear. “Silly boy. No, there’s a fortune in stocks & bonds.” A recent comment flashed into his mind. “Did you and your...erm...friends, rob a bank?” “Two, actually.” She stroked his arm. “Once we arrive in Portugal, we’ll live in the lap of luxury.” “I’m not the marrying kind.” “As I said earlier, do you think a piece of paper will stop me? There’s no law that says we can’t practise the honeymoon indefinitely.” “I like the sound of that,” he said, and leaned closer as if to kiss her. Next second, a huge push sent her reeling across the bridge, the gas-gun literally jumping into Stratton’s hand. Margo grasped the chart table to stop the momentum. Then, twisting around, she sprang like a panther. At the same moment, Stratton slammed his hand on the foghorn button. The melancholy hoot rang into the night, and yet the weather conditions did not warrant it. It was a ‘call to arms’, and Stratton desperately hoped that one of the crew would respond. He stumbled backwards as Margo attacked, and when she tried to gouge his eyes out, he knew that the time for reasoning had ed. He reversed the weapon and used the butt as a cosh. She fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, blood trickling from her scalp. Tossing the gun onto the table, Stratton leaned against the wheel and caught his breath. He also sounded the foghorn again. Margo was unconscious, and she needed to be imprisoned before reaching the nearest port. But, where to put her? The ship had no brig, and there were few conventional doors. And then he realised that the engines had stopped. The ship was dead in the water. He lifted a speaking tube that connected with the engine room. "Tom! Tom – are you there? What's happening?" He called several times but there was no answer. He crossed the bridge and opened the door. “Keegan! Tom! Cookie!” The only response was the sound of the sea against the hull. Stratton felt his skin crawl. Where was his crew?

His gaze fell upon the hatch to the engine room. It was open. He exited the bridge and ran along the deck. He shouted down the dimly lit hatch. The smell of grease and hot oil assailed his senses, as did the sound of a soft ‘thump’. Stratton scuttled down the ladder. His feet touched a lumpy object just before the bottom rung. It was Keegan, and he was dead, a blood smeared wrench near his head.

IV.

He stared at the first mate. Who had attacked him, and more to the point, why? Stratton peered into the dimness. Nothing seemed amiss, and yet he had the eerie feeling of being watched. He cautiously walked forward and around a corner. Light threaded through pipes and pistons, and Stratton saw the engineer at once. Tom was curled up near a safety rail, his eyes turned towards the ceiling. He would never answer a speaking tube again. Stratton suddenly turned his head. A slight but distinct scraping noise had come from behind the wall to his left. Somebody was in the cargo hold. He silently approached the access door and pressed his ear against it. Apart from the creaking of the ship, all seemed quiet. He opened the door. The hold was in darkness. He then realised that, with the light behind him, his features were not distinguishable. Silently cursing that he had not brought a weapon, he raised an arm and simulated pointing a gun. "Come out! I've got you covered." At the other end of the hold where the hull narrowed to form the bow, a male voice said tauntingly, "Come and get me." “Who are you?” The response was an evil chuckle. And then it occurred to Stratton that, while he had faked holding a gun, his quarry might have a real one. Using a foot he shut the door, plunging the hold into darkness. “Evening the odds, eh, Captain?” “Why don’t you come out so we can talk?” As he spoke, Stratton realised that he had the advantage. The ‘Norwegian Lass’ was his ship, and every inch of her was etched into his brain. Feeling his way

with his feet and fingertips, he began to skirt the hold. The intruder was to his right, and what he, Stratton, was seeking, was to his left. He took advantage of any noise to mask his movements. And then his hand touched a ladder, and seconds later he was on deck again, the hatch cover crashing down behind him. He locked it down as though preparing for a storm. The only other way out of the hold was via the engine room hatch, but as he turned to face it, he caught sight of a figure standing on the bridge. It was Margo. He ran along the deck and dashed through the door, desperately hoping she had not spied the weapon. But one glance at the table supplied the answer. “Listen,” he said in a rush, “there’s somebody on the ship who...” "You!" Margo backed away, her eyes wide with terror. Stratton could not understand her attitude. And then someone struck him from behind. As Stratton sank to one knee, fighting to remain conscious, he turned his head and recognised his assailant. It was Pete - the man he had left dead under a hedge. His lips were drawn back in a bestial snarl, and he was pointing the gasgun at Margo. "Hello, Pete," she said, trying to sound calm. "Where did you come from?" "Thought you got rid of me, eh? Not as clever as you think you are. After you left me in that ditch to die, I made my way to the cottage and hid in the trunk of the car. I decided that if I was going to hell, I would not be going alone.” “And did you also decide to go empty handed?” Margo laughed as she indicated the cabin. “The box is in there. Once we’re on land, we’ll split the contents." "There won’t be any splitting. Call me fussy, but I have a strange aversion to being stabbed and double-crossed. You're through, Margo, and the ocean is a great repository of secrets.” "Wait!” Margo moved a little closer, her eyes fixed on his. She reached up and removed several pins from her hair. It cascaded over her shoulders like a redgold waterfall, highlighting her sensuality even more. "Do you really want to destroy this body?” she purred, “the body you have worshipped for so long?”

“Stop it!” Pete stood inert, his face betraying the battle between lust and revenge. "You'll double-cross me again," he growled. "I won't.” She reached out and caressed the hand holding the gun. "Keep your head and we can both have what we want. Of course, if you really don’t want me, then pull the trigger, but you’ll have to live with the memory that I died with your name on my lips." "God help me but I can’t do it,” he groaned, and as he dropped his head, Margo grabbed the gun. She stepped back, every part of her seeming to quiver with suppressed ion. “I did a bad job with the knife, but I won't fail again." "No!” His voice was desperate. “We can work it out. We’ll go to another city – Paris perhaps, where there’s rich pickings. We’ll be a great team and..." The black cloud engulfed his head. Pete screamed as he fell to the floor, his face aging rapidly. Stratton, who was still on one knee, launched himself at Margo like a sprinter. His fist connected with her jaw. She stumbled backwards, her head striking the chart table with a sickening thud. The gun spun across the floor, ironically coming to rest near Halliday’s withered, outstretched hand. Stratton knelt beside her. She tried to raise an arm to pull him close. Her face was white and her eyes had the blank stare of the blind. “I could have loved you,” she whispered. "Kiss me, just once," but she was dead before she parted her lips. “Captain?” Stratton jumped to his feet. In all the mayhem, he had completely forgotten about Cookie. Relief and a sense of the absurd caused him to speak harshly. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “In the galley – where else?” From ‘Wicked Women’. See Other Books and Freebies for details.

Extracts.

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From ‘Chameleon – The Death of Sherlock Holmes.

“Your modesty is delightful,” said Lestrade. “You present the facts as if they were a matter of course. If I had waited another twenty-four hours, the trunk would have been shipped to the Transvaal, and goodness only knows if the mystery would ever have been solved.” “But it isn’t solved,” said Sherlock Holmes sharply. “For one thing, we don’t know how he died.” Lestrade grinned. “We do now. The autopsy revealed a small bullet wound at the base of the spine. The body had also been pumped with a mixture of motor oil and sulphate of zinc to stop it from smelling. I saw the oil at the base of his throat, but according to the landlady - and believe me she’s the type of old biddy who’d know, Gurn did not own a car.” Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “Which raises some interesting questions. Was Lord Maddox killed in the Flat or somewhere else? The perpetrator - and there is still no proof that Gurn is the culprit, would have needed time to perform the embalming. Whilst I do not recall anyone in Maddox’s background having a knowledge of chemistry, all it would take is a little subterfuge to obtain the information.” “Subterfuge?” queried Lestrade. “Let us assume that, like most people, the murderer has little or no knowledge of either putrefaction or embalming. Where best to find the information he needs? There are two obvious sources, the first being a morgue. He pays a visit under the pretext of looking for a lost relative. He gives the attendant a vague description, and whilst being shown corpses, extracts the information. On the other hand, he could simply go to a library and look it up.” Lestrade rubbed his forehead. “You stagger me, Mr Holmes, you really do.” Holmes smiled as he asked, “Have you had any news of the real Charles Lidell?” “No. It was a neat trick to exchange his clothes with a tramp and then fill the pockets with rocks so that the body would sink. I’ve seen some terrible sights in my time, but nothing like that. What kind of a person could do that to another person?”

“Not Charles Lidell. His character does not match the savagery. The murder of Lady Halifax is never far from my thoughts. I have certain ideas on the subject but they are vague at best. It is therefore imperative that we speak to Lidell as soon as possible. I also have a strong suspicion that he’s in London, so much so that I have asked a friend to try and find him.” I almost said for the Inspector’s benefit, ‘the younger Mr Scaggs’, but thought better of it. Holmes would not have thanked me for revealing a valuable and secret resource. Indeed, if Lestrade was curious as to the identity of the ‘friend’, he gave no indication as he quipped, “Huh, I wish you’d send somebody to find this Chameleon character.” “A most singular fellow,” commented Holmes, and for the next half an hour or so, Lestrade supplied all the particulars of the two robberies, eventually producing the supposed blank visiting card. Holmes pressed it between his palms until the name Chameleon started to appear. “And you say he gave this to the Princess?” “Shoved it into her hand before leaving the room.” “Fingerprints?” inquired Holmes, handing me the card for my inspection. “No,” answered Lestrade. “If there were, the Princess obliterated them. She was holding the card the entire time, and apart from the incident in the bathroom, the robber was careful not to touch anything.” “Did Mrs Van Rosen also receive a card?” “No. Her robbery occurred while she was out. It was only later when the Princess was raising merry hell that the theft of the necklace was discovered.” “Curious,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “It suggests that the Van Rosen robbery was a blind.” Lestrade stared at him. “How so?” “Because there is one incontrovertible connecting fact, namely, that both items

of jewellery were rare. Now, I think you would agree that the chances of two separate robbers committing the same act on the same night and in the same place, are extremely remote. “The Princess’s robbery was brazen, and what’s more...” he pointed to the card which I was just returning to the Inspector, “...he wanted everyone to know who did it. By contrast, the Van Rosen robbery appeared opportunistic, thereby throwing suspicion on someone else, perhaps a member of staff. And yet in both cases, the thefts were meticulously planned.” The Inspector looked a little embarrassed as he itted, “I don’t understand.” Holmes lit his first pipe of the day before answering, “Think about when he asked the Princess to escort him to the door. Firstly, his fingerprints would not be on the handle. You said yourself that he didn’t touch anything. Secondly, the Princess reacted instinctively, in that she ran to the telephone to summon help. Chameleon knew she would do this. In fact, he was counting on it, because he needed those few seconds in order to change his appearance. “Now, in such an emergency, is the summoned help likely to take the stairs? Of course not. Once again Chameleon relied on normal reaction. He hurried down the stairs, slowed his pace at the bottom, and calmly walked out the hotel. I also suspect that upon reaching the first floor, he deliberately summoned the lift from the third floor, thereby inconveniencing the concierge. A childish trick, but it afforded Chameleon a few extra minutes to escape.” “Alright,” said Lestrade somewhat grudgingly, “I accept your hypothesis as far as it goes, but what about Mrs Van Rosen?” “Chameleon would have acquainted himself with the routines of the Princess and Mrs Van Rosen, perhaps he even knows them personally. It was simply a question of affixing a time and date. Mrs Van Rosen was the first to be robbed. Chameleon then stepped out onto her balcony, perhaps smoked a cigarette, and then entered the Princess’s suite via the bathroom. I believe you said during your explanation that in addition to a bath, there was a shower cubicle with a long curtain. Would I be right in assuming that there’s a frosted window inside the cubicle?” “Good Lord! So there is.” Lestrade suddenly frowned. “But wait a moment, Holmes. What about the maid, Irene?”

“He probably intended to overpower her. A piece of chord to tie her hands and a gag would have been enough to subdue her. But the Princess returned earlier than expected, hence why he was hiding in the shower when she was in the bath. Chameleon might be an expert in psychology, but there is no calculating the foibles of a woman. It was his only mistake.” “What if the Princess had gone straight to bed?” “It would not have made any difference. In fact, she unwillingly aided him by dismissing her maid. It played right into his hands.” “It was unfortunate that the Princess withdrew £20,000 earlier,” said I. “An added bonus for Chameleon,” remarked Holmes. “The Korvaski diamond was the undoubted target. The Van Rosen necklace will probably find its way to Antwerp where it’ll be broken up, but a diamond half the size of a plum is another matter.” “Perhaps it was stolen-to-order,” I suggested. Holmes did not respond. There was a glint in his eye that I knew only too well. Something had suggested itself. “What is it?” I prompted. “Fragments,” he replied absently. “Twisted threads entangled with knots.” I glanced at Lestrade, whose puzzled expression reflected my own. Presently, Holmes began checking off points on his long, narrow fingers, though he spoke more to himself than to us. “Chameleon uses invisible ink on his cards, and Lord Maddox was pumped full of chemicals. Lady Halifax was murdered and yet nothing was stolen. Michael Gurn knew the Maddox’s’ in South Africa, and a tramp exchanged clothes with Charles Lidell.” He suddenly stood up and hurried towards the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to go to my room.” I tried not to show my disappointment, for I knew what he was about to do. I indicated to Lestrade that it would be pointless for him to remain, and more for my own purpose than politeness, walked with him part of the way to Scotland Yard. It had been some time since Holmes had used cocaine, and I did not want to witness the resumption of the habit.

From ‘The Ghosts of Camals College’.

Chapter 1. The Problem Child.

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It was late afternoon when Professor Lution stood in her office and absently gazed out of the window. The gloomy weather and overcast sky were a perfect match for her mood. She had an awkward situation on her hands, and in spite of a wealth of resources at her disposal, only she could solve the problem of Grace Darling. Professor Lution was short and slender with expressive brown eyes and an aquiline nose. Her kind, matronly smile, coupled with a pair of silver framed glasses, conveyed wisdom, efficiency, and confidence. She always wore her iron-grey hair in a bun on the top of her head, and although she appeared to be in her late 50’s, her real age was considerably older. Always smartly dressed, she might have been mistaken for a Bank Manager or an ant, perhaps even a Doctor or some sort of executive. But the truth was that her job was literally ‘out of this world’. She was the Chancellor of the College of Customs and Myths and Legends, or Camals for short, and she had met more famous people than a colony of Blue-Bearded Throgwash Grubs have eyes. Still standing at the window, the professor’s hands were wrapped around a mug of Hackleberry’s Roast Hazelnut Coffee. The picture on the mug depicted a man looking dazed and confused. One eye was apparently spinning in its socket, whilst the other was blackened as though it had been punched. The caption above the picture read - ‘Never argue with anything you can’t see’. Stranger still was the coffee itself, for according to the manufacturer, the hazelnuts were collected and ground by real mortal squirrels. Suddenly, everything outside the window, including the sky, turned black. There were a few seconds of dead silence, and then as lights began appearing in houses in the distance, a stream of protests and what sounded like a herd of charging

rhynax, rang through out the building. The professor’s only reaction was to sigh in a, ‘oh not again’, sort of way. “Midnight at four in the afternoon?” said a voice behind her. “I’ve told you before, Professor, this electricaby thing is dangerous. Running lights and radar and all that other navigational stuff – Bah! Why, in my ship, The Golden Hind, I could sail anywhere in the world and not get lost.” Professor Lution glanced in the direction of the voice. “Most commendable, Sir Francis, but I think you’ll find the darkness has less to do with electricity and more to do with Doctor Ambit. No doubt he’s teaching at the moment.” Sir Francis Drake mumbled something unpleasant under his breath. However, his words were drowned out by a woman with a strong Italian accent. “Would you like me to light a candle?” she asked. The professor smiled. “No, thank you, Mona. I’m sure the mistake will be corrected presently.” No sooner had she spoken when the dull light and overcast sky returned. “Pity he didn’t make the sun come out,” remarked the professor. “Which reminds me, I must put in an order for balmy weather for the Polynesian feast on Saturday evening. After the last fiasco, I really hope he gets it right this time. Perhaps I should speak to him about retiring. At 226 years of age, I’m sure he’d like a rest.” And then her view was obscured for a second time. A cluster of pink bubbles appeared outside the window. About the size of a football, the cluster rolled from side-to-side as though cleaning the glass, which in point of fact, it was. The professor paid scant attention to the bubbles. It was vital that she find a solution to the ‘sticky’ problem plaguing the college. Moreover, the answer – whatever it might be, must leave no room for doubt. A few weeks earlier, news had leaked out that Grace Darling might be attending the college after the Christmas holidays. The problem was not Grace herself, but rather, her controversial grandfather. To some, Digby Darling was a lovable eccentric whose head was crammed with unusual facts. Indeed, his knowledge of the supernatural, especially its darker side, made for some very interesting conversations. But to others, he was a senile old man who should have been

locked up years ago. Uncertainty and even fear had caused the college to become fractious. Arguments and fights had broken out in the corridors and cafeteria, whilst up in the dormitories, some students received a nasty surprise. Rusty ‘possessed’ nails had been used to attach the sheets to the bed, and the only way to remove the nail was to stroke it and tell it how beautiful it was...and then give it a kiss. The latter had to be done with extreme care, for the nails had a tendency to shoot-out like a bullet the moment they were caressed. The professor sighed again, this time in lament. “Oh, Percival, what is the best thing to do? Grace knows nothing of our world, and yet by the laws of the college, I cannot deny her entry.” The remark had been made to a gold salamander brooch resting on the lapel of her jacket. The tiny creature raised its head and blinked its ruby eyes. It then gave the professor a look that seemed to say, ‘what did you wake me up for?’ and scuttled up the front of the jacket, disappearing somewhere under the collar. “Ugh! I don’t like rodents,” said Mona with a shudder. “They should be transported en masse to Venice and drowned in the canals.” The walls of the office were lined with copies of famous paintings, but unlike their mortal counterparts, the pictures were haunted by the people portrayed. A figure could move freely in its frame but only its spirit could leave. It was also not uncommon for aspects of the pictures to change. Today, Van Gogh’s vase of ‘Sunflowers’ was sporting a bunch of bright pink roses, which also smelt, while a portrait of the explorer, Captain James Cook, was studying a London A to Z. Mona Lisa had long ditched her dowdy black dress in favour of vibrant colours. Today it was an eye-watering yellow concoction of laces and frills and dangling gold earrings. Always ready with advice or a comment – whether it was wanted or not, her ‘sunny’ mood vanished when she noticed the professor’s expression. “Oh, no,” cried Mona in a jittery voice, her elegant pink hands twisting like snakes. “Please don’t tell me there’s been...activity.”

Camals was home to some of the greatest people who had ever lived, and it was not uncommon to see teachers such as Arthur Pendragon and Robin Hood wandering through the corridors. Another favourite was Leonardo Da Vinci. However, instead of wielding a paintbrush and creating another masterpiece, he was more likely to be holding a bar of chocolate. But the college was also home to some of history’s nastier characters, and not all of them ‘human’. Evil and dangerous, they were securely hidden behind enchanted gates, where their familiar surroundings or native habitats had been painstakingly reproduced. For example, every night Jack the Ripper would wander the streets of 19th century London in search of a new female victim. Nobody was actually killed though as the women were already ghosts. Nevertheless, even a hint of anything untoward behind a gate was enough to set nerves on edge. “No, no activity.” Professor Lution pointed to a report on her desk. “It’s that.”

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The arrival of ghosts and spirits and other entities in Zanterus was, as the saying went, in ‘the lap of the gods’. The selection of prospective mortal students however, was entirely at the discretion of the college. The selection criteria was to say the least, unusual. Firstly, any prior academic qualifications or the lack thereof, played absolutely no part. Secondly, the candidate, no matter the age, had to have a strong connection to the world of the spirit, such as being descended from a witch doctor or a creditable clairvoyant, or indeed, possess some mystic ability of their own. Once lineage was established – and there was an entire Department of the GGG or General Ghostly Government dedicated to the process, the candidate was then subjected to the scrutiny of an Infospec. These were entities who had been specially trained to ‘blend’ into the mortal world. A television or a light bulb could contain more than filaments and chips. Objects such as gas meters and cans of deodorant were usually avoided. The former because they are not a good observation post, and the latter because the Infospec could inadvertently be

squirted out of the can. The Infospec watched the candidate and made notes. Should this scrutiny prove inconclusive, there were other methods for assessing suitability, such as the Squeamish Meter, whereby a candidate’s level of fright was recorded after receiving a ‘ghostly’ shock. There was also the Mind’s Eye Probe, but this was rarely used as it tended to make a mortal giddy and sick. The entire exercise was conducted in secret, and it was only after the data was collected that Camals, or more particularly, Professor Lution, received a report on a candidate. Fortunately for all those involved, the lengthy though necessary vetting process only occurred once a year.

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Mona waved a hand dismissively. Now that the ‘activity’ subject had been settled, she was back to her usual self. “Bah! Documents and papers. You should get out more, perhaps ride in a gondola along the Zanterus river and be serenaded by mandolins. Ahh, so romantico. “You should also eat lots of spaghetti. A large bowl of spaghetti will cure just about anything, and I have it on reliable authority that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.” In this instance, the ‘reliable authority’ was the reputed poisoner Lucrezia Borgia, who was best friends with alleged axe-murderer Lizzie Borden. Though Mona knew them well, it had seemingly never occurred to her that the two notorious women had the same initials. “Quite right, Madam,” said Sir Isaac Newton in a breathless voice. His portrait had just sprung to life, and it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. Ordinarily, his static figure was resplendent in a black frock coat, starched lace cravat, and an impeccably powdered grey wig. Now however, his coat was unevenly buttoned, his cravat was rumpled, and his wig was hanging over his

right ear. Ghosts - whether a pearly white ethereal or a full colour apparition, could be very touchy about their appearance. Therefore, in order to spare the famous inventor’s feelings, Professor Lution spoke as if nothing was amiss. “Any problems?” she asked. Sir Isaac mopped his brow and straightened his wig. “My dear lady, anyone who has the misfortune to encounter Edmund Hawkins will always have a problem. During my 30 years of service at the Royal Mint, never did I witness such shameful behaviour. He is the type of fellow who gives spirits a bad name.” Sensing that an interesting if not amusing story was about to be told, all the figures in the paintings stopped what they were doing. Edmund Hawkins was a notorious rogue spirit, and the opportunity to hear a first-hand of his antics was too good to miss. Sir Isaac poured a glass of claret from a decanter painted in his picture. “Your health, Madam,” he toasted. He drank deeply and then continued, “I was successful in correcting the newly minted coins. Fancy changing the date to 007 - such childish behaviour. The problem occurred when I attempted to remove him from the stamping machine. He slipped out the back and floated into a tearoom.” “A what?” screeched the portrait of ‘Whistler’s Mother’. “Speak up, man, can’t hear you.” “Use your ear trumpet,” said Professor Lution in a rather loud voice. “What for? I’m not deaf. It’s him - he mumbles. I’ve never heard of a searoom.” There was a ripple of laughter as the professor patiently explained, “In the mortal world, Mother, a tearoom is a common eating area.” “A what? Oh, you mean a kitchen! Why didn’t he say that in the first place? All these new fangled names for old things. I can’t keep up!” The old woman was still grumbling as Sir Isaac resumed his story. “I was in the

process of extracting Edmund from a tea urn when, most regrettably, a female employee entered the room. Not only did the unconscionable devil make himself visible, but he pulled his head off and rolled it across the floor. Not surprisingly, the woman fainted in terror.” Every figure in every painting howled with laughter. The mirth was infectious, for dogs barked, horses neighed, and several cows had ‘accidents’. To the delight of a group of 18th century soldiers dressed in bright red uniforms, the noise caused three chickens and a duck to lay eggs. “Yay!” cried one of the soldiers. “Omelettes for tea!” Professor Lution held up a hand for silence. Though also amused, she was more concerned with the outcome at the Mint. “Did you alter the woman’s memory?” Sir Isaac sounded a little offended as he replied, “Of course I did. She now thinks she slipped on a slice of cheese that fell out of a sandwich.” In the ensuing fresh outburst of laughter, nobody heard the professor’s sigh of relief. The last thing she needed was another problem. “I suppose we shouldn’t blame Edmund too much,” she said, trying to sound reasonable. “After all, he was falsely accused of stealing from the Mint and executed in 1888. Where is he now?” Sir Isaac tugged at his cravat nervously. “In the mayhem that followed he...um...departed.” “You lost him!” cried Whistler’s Mother, sounding inordinately if unfairly pleased. She didn’t much like Sir Isaac, whose inventions she regarded as ‘over rated’. “Some genius you are!” The situation was ripe for more jibes and jokes, and even Sir Isaac was now chuckling. But, as she still had a very important matter to consider, the professor regretted that she must end the hilarity. “That’s enough,” she said firmly. Such was her respect that the portraits instantly fell silent. “It was not Sir Isaac’s fault. Edmund is, to use a mortal expression, a slippery customer, and I’ve no doubt we’ll be hearing about him again very soon.”

“That, Madam,” said Sir Isaac stiffly, “is not a prospect I shall anticipate with joy. Now, if you would excuse me, I wish to bathe and change.” He bowed graciously and was about to leave when he pointed to the window. “I believe you’re wanted,” he said, and as his spirit exited the portrait, his original painted figure snapped into position. Outside the window, the bubbles were bobbing wildly to attract attention. Professor Lution turned to see that, instead of bright and pink, the cluster was now dull and gray. “Ah, sparkling as usual,” she praised. She would have made the same comment even if the glass had been streaked, for there were some creatures in Zanterus that were too cute or innocent to offend. Very few employees of the Bubble & Squeak Corporation had the ability to talk. Consequently, the cluster of bubbles broke apart, re-assembled in the shape of a tick, and then ‘popped’ out of sight. Professor Lution suddenly frowned. “Now, I wonder...” She hurried to her desk and read the Infospec report again. Thanks to the bubbles, an idea had come to her that might solve the vexing question of Grace Darling. But even as the professor picked up a pen and began to make notes, two major problems immediately became apparent. Firstly, that the solution was extremely rare, and secondly, that it would involve a great deal of organisation in a short space of time.

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Half an hour later, the professor put down her pen and picked up the mug of coffee. It was stone cold. Undaunted, she opened a drawer and removed a short stout stick about a hand’s span long. A moment later, steam was rising from the coffee as if it had just been made.

Chapter 2. The Solution...Well, Sort of.

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Darkness had fallen in earnest when red streaks of light flashed across the inky sky. Unlike the earlier mistake instigated by the good but somewhat bungling Doctor Ambit, this climatic display was perfectly natural. Flaming Fandangos were renowned for their luminescent feathers, and they were simply doing what most birds did at night - going home to roost. Professor Lution watched the display for a moment, her hands resting lightly on her desk. Even though her mind was a little less troubled than before, she wanted to speak to two particular men before committing herself to her daunting plan. She reached across and switched on a desk lamp, the light instantly shining on a magnificent crystal bell. About the size of a milk bottle, the bell had symbols and markings etched into the glass, and although inert, the refracted light cast moving splotches of colour on the ceiling. The desk lamp also illuminated a strange dark blue carpet. Patterned with planets, moons, and constellations, every image appeared to be either revolving or twinkling. She touched a symbol on the bell, and less than a minute later, a gnome materialised in the room. Dressed in an emerald green jacket and red and gold striped tros, his nose was the size and shape of a ping-pong ball, and his black, almond-shaped eyes, were deeply set under thick, knobbly brows. Due to his tall, hairy pointed ears, a battered ‘pork-pie’ hat which he rarely removed, sat abnormally high on his oval-shaped head. “Bryan,” said Professor Lution, a note of impatience in her voice, “how many times have I told you? If you want to enter a room then use the door.” “Tell that to all the arrogant ghosts around here,” he grumbled, his mouth almost obscured by his long white beard. Even though it was tied in several knots, the

tip still needed to be stuffed into the waistband of his tros. “That Quaker fellow, Amos what’s-his-name, walked right through my room the other day. Came out of one wall and went straight through the other. Nearly gave me a heart attack,” and to emphasise his point, Bryan adopted a pained expression and pretended to clutch his chest. At first, the professor paid no attention to the outburst. Bryan had been her assistant for many years, and rarely had a day ed without a whinge or a complaint. But then she saw that, instead of being perched on top of his ears, his hat was now much closer to his head, and anyone who had studied even the basics of Gnomish society - and the professor was an expert on the subject, knew that the lowering or drooping of a gnome’s ears was a sure sign of trouble.

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There were two types of gnomes in Zanterus – domesticated, and native, or as the gnomes insultingly referred to each other, Picklebuts and Grimesters. Native gnomes lived in villages with names such as Martins Muckpuss, Strawberry Muckhill, and Hamlin-In-The-Muckhole, but being hidden within the vast Zanterus forest, the locations were not easy to find. For the main part, Native gnomes abided by their own laws and customs. Indeed, they considered the picking of their long curled toenails after dinner, the height of good manners. They also had their own television network, the current favourite programme being ‘Wheel of Misfortune’, hosted by the cheeky and charming Skimp Implee. Domesticated gnomes lived outside the forest and abided by the laws of Zanterus. Even so, very few forgot their heritage, and those gnomes who lived and worked at Camals - and there were quite a few of them, had created a vague representation of their home village by adding several tons of soil to their room. As the saying went, ‘You can take the gnome out of the muck but you can’t take the muck out of the gnome’. Native gnomes considered Domesticated gnomes, traitors, and so great was the divide that some families had not exchanged a word in centuries. There was a

way for an ‘outcast’ to re- its native village, but it involved a painful sacrifice. For a male, it was to have two thirds of his beard cut off. This was a recent development, for only a hundred years ago the beard would have been removed completely. For a female, it was to keep her floor length hair – of which she was inordinately vain, in plats for a year. But whether Domesticated or Native, all gnomes possessed a common trait – tantrums, the severity of which was indicated by the height of the ears. A few months earlier, a contestant on Wheel of Misfortune had insisted that the word ‘dog’ was spelt ‘dawg’. When informed that he was incorrect, his ears had flattened to such a degree that they seemed to melt into his head. Such was the ferocity of his tantrum that the studio was practically destroyed. A tantrum was also responsible for a mortal disaster. According to Gnomish history, The Gnome Rebellion of 1666, which was sparked by an argument over a slice of toast, spilt into the mortal world and caused The Great Fire of London.

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Recognising the imminent danger, Professor Lution employed the only known method for reducing and even averting a tantrum - flattery. “Why, Bryan, what an excellent piece of acting. I didn’t know you were so talented. Have you ever considered ing the ZADS?” The gnome looked horrified. “The ZADS! What would I want with a bunch of namby-pamby actors?” “The Zanterus Amateur Dramatic Society is comprised of some of the greatest actors, actresses, and playwrights who ever lived, and judging from the performance you’ve just given, you would fit right in.” “No chance,” he said tartly, his hat starting to rise. “You’ll never see me in a tutu.” Satisfied that she’d avoided a major tantrum, Professor Lution went on, “If Amos’s sudden appearances are disturbing you, I’ll have a word with him, but

don’t try and hoodwink me by distorting the fact that you Arched into my office.” “But what’s the point of running up and down stairs and opening and closing doors when I can just Arch?” “Because Arching is only to be used under certain circumstances, and receiving a general summons is not one of them. Please don’t do it again.” As Bryan removed his hat and swept her a bow, Professor Lution saw that his ears were almost back to normal. She quietly breathed a sigh of relief and continued, “Now, please ask Abacus Miller and King Arthur to come to my office.” “Kingy? I thought he was on holiday.” “He was, but he returned a short time ago. You’ll probably find Mr Miller in his laboratory in the dungeon, and King Arthur will be somewhere in the Department of Parties. Oh, wait a minute, I keep forgetting that since Doctor Inoot arrived and modernised certain areas, it’s now called The Faculty of Ceremonial Observances. Anyway, the King will be with either Doctor Downer or the ZADS. Apparently, Shakespeare has written his 556th play.” Bryan groaned. “Oh no, not another one. What is it this time?” “I believe it’s called Justin and Tracy. Apparently, it’s a modern day adaptation of Troilus and Cressida.” Professor Lution paused then added mischievously, “Perhaps while you’re at the ZADS, you could ask Miss Shorestump about acting classes. Now off you go, and Bryan...” SLAM “...don’t slam the door on your way out.” Some ten minutes later, a death mask hanging on the wall by the door, opened its mouth and announced, “King Arthur and Mr Miller are approaching.” Professor Lution patted her hair and smoothed her skirt. For some obscure reason, Abacus Miller always made her feel slightly uncomfortable. He was the Deputy Head of Alchemy, and even for a full colour ghost he looked ‘creepy’. Short, pasty faced, and running to fat, his greasy thinning hair was styled in a comb-over, and nobody had ever seen him dressed in anything other than a pale blue Safari suit. A childhood injury had set his top lip in a permanent curl, which made it very difficult to determine whether he was snarling or smiling. He was also very secretive, never mixed socially, and rarely allowed anyone into

his private laboratory in the dungeon. By contrast, King Arthur was affable and jolly and impeccably dressed as usual. His green velvet tunic sparkled with jewels, and perched on top of his thick, shoulder length white hair, which was so stiffly groomed that it might have been a wig, was a magnificent gold pointed crown.

*****

Grace was so numb with cold that her lungs felt like two blocks of ice. Even when her feet finally touched solid ground, the feeling did not immediately . Indeed, for one heart-stopping moment she thought the bird had dropped her. Shivering violently and gasping for breath, she staggered to her feet and looked around. Lined with tree trunks, mud, and leaves, the courtyard of the castle resembled a gigantic bird’s nest. Grace had barely got her breath back when a sulphurous stench caught in her throat. Coughing and spluttering, she turned her head to see several birds sharpening their beaks and claws on a grindstone. (I might not have a nose, but even I feel ill!) Jurda hopped over and swept a wing around the courtyard. “Well, what do you think of my little house? Cute isn’t it?” Trying to sound unimpressed, which was difficult given that she was ready to throw up, Grace said casually, “It’s okay I suppose.” Jurda was literally hopping mad. “Okay?” he screeched. “Just okay? Have you any idea how long it took me to build it?” Grace pointed to the other birds, who were all watching her with their black beady eyes. “You mean your minions don't you?” “Yes, yes,” he said irritably. “Now, don’t touch anything and follow me.” “Only if we can walk,” she muttered, her stomach only now catching up with the

rest of her.

Other Books & Freebies.

The following are some of my works available from Smashwords (preferred) and other online outlets. https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/viKtor44. * denotes that the item is available in print by request from www.digitalprintaustralia.com

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A Good Deed: Ghost. A Point of View: Humour. Bait: Female intrigue. Chameleon – The Death of Sherlock Holmes: Classic Crime*. Mistress of Death: Female Crime. The Failures of Sherlock Holmes: Classic Crime*. The Favour: Ghost/Romance. The Ghosts of Camals College: Smelly pirates and charging rhinoceros - Grace Darling is very good at inventing games, but when supernatural forces take her prisoner, she soon learns that some games can be very dangerous...even deadly. Why was she taken to such a strange and spooky place, and what is the connection to her family? Children’s Adventure/Mystery*. The Great Bacon Scandal: Crime. The Great Brown-Pericord Motor: Crime.

The Other Conan Doyle: Anthology. The Sisterhood – Curse of Abbot Hewitt: Who said all the of a covenant were the best of friends? Adult Horror/Historical*. (Note: Due to breach of contract for the non-payment of royalties, Sinister Grin Press of Austin, Texas, is no longer authorised to sell and distribute this book. Any copy marked with their name, including print and kindle versions, should be regarded as illegal.) The Sisterhood – Cathy’s Kin: Sequel to Curse of Abbot Hewitt*. The Swedish Furrier: Crime. Those Ghostly Victorians: We are all as great as our daydreams...or our nightmares. Anthology. Those Wicked Women: Adult Anthology, (not x-rated.) Written in Fire: Demonic, (may not be suitable for family reading.)

About Me.

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you, there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way. Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories. So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-tospeech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.com On the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before - even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now, is it? By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, let your imagination compensate for the lack of visualization. This will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

The X Factor

By Annette Siketa

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Picture this – a searing Australian summer sun - roads melting, birds dropping out of the sky, an over excited thirty-six year old daughter, and me – her mum, trying to keep cool in every respect. And the reason for said daughter’s excitement? A private meeting with David Duchovny. David was on a whirlwind concert tour of Australia and New Zealand. Yes, he sings! Unfortunately, the reviews out of NZ were less than complimentary. But, it didn’t matter to Boos, (said daughter’s nickname.) David could have sung like Donald Duck and she wouldn’t have cared. She had been an X-Files fan since the first episode, and whilst she has met Gillian Anderson several times, she had never met David. Now, after a twenty-two year wait, he was literally at her fingertips. We thought it would be nice to give him a gift from Oz. But, what do you give a television legend? In my case the answer was simple – copies of some of my books. This was perhaps a little pretentious, but it was better than some touristy stuffed kangaroo or fluffy koala – both made in China. But there was a hitch. One of the said books was not due to be released for another month. Fortunately, a grovelling phone call to my publisher secured a proof copy. The big day duly arrived, and considering he was about to go on stage, Mr D was very generous with his time. Poor Boos. She was so awe-struck and tongue-tied that she could barely tell him her name. Mama to the rescue! I presented David with my books, and he was fascinated as to how I had carved

out a career as an author. You see, I am totally blind. So, how do I do it? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use a computer, including navigating the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.com

Being accustomed to the program’s electronic voice, I have no difficulty understanding what it says. Others however, can’t understand a single word. Nor is the program infallible. By design, it reads whatever is on the screen. Regrettably, in the case of web pages, this includes all the annoying adverts. Speaking of ads, I made the following point to Mr D. “Companies spend millions on advertising – the super bowl being a prime example, and yet if the ad only consists of music or doesn’t actually name the product, then all that money is lost on blind and visually impaired people.” Nor can Jaws interpret graphics. For example, it won’t announce, “This is a picture of a girl about to be executed with an axe,” or, “The man in the silver spacesuit is about to fire a ray gun at a green entity with nine appendages.” Instead, it only says the specifications as defined by the webpage’s encoding. “Ray death.jpg 150 by 250 pixels.” Pretty boring, eh? And yet when it comes to writing, Jaws does give me one huge advantage, namely, cadence. Just as a song has melody and lilt, so should a sentence ‘sing’. For example, “It can’t be done,” is smooth and even, but if you change it to, “It cannot be done,” the cadence is broken because the word ‘cannot’ contains a syllable, thus rendering the rhythm of the sentence uneven. And now for the creative side, which is a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what, where, & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before such as the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now, is it? You’re probably going bonkers with frustration. Heh heh – welcome to my world! But, do not remove the blindfold. Instead, give your imagination free

reign and create the people or characters in your head – the faces, the clothing, the injuries, anything they might be holding or consuming. Does the person/people look sad, happy, elated, worried, concerned, angry? Is the hair black, brown, green, pink, blue, purple? Do they have one, two, or three eyes? Are they standing in an office, a medieval banqueting hall, or on top of a plasma bomb that’s about to explode? As I said to Mr D, “Sometimes the episodes were so bizarre that I had to ask Boos to explain it to me.” “I’m not surprised,” said he. “Even I didn’t understand them sometimes.” There are points of reference of course. I mean, the design of the Brooklyn Bridge or the Eiffel Tower is never likely to change. But, if you place the tower in a futuristic setting, (think Planet of the Apes), then this should give you an idea of how I create scenes and stories. In effect, I construct a sort of movie in my head and then write it all down. Oh if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind! One final point. Touch is very important to a blind person. It is usually the only method for discerning the shape of an object. Without sounding fanciful, we literally ‘see’ through our fingers, and the same premise applies to faces. Mr D did not hesitate when I asked if I could ‘feel his face’, and photos of it later appeared on his official website. I dare not repeat the comments he made, but I’ll tell you this much, they were very un-Mulder like! I wish there was room to give you a full report. I did write one, but it was only for the benefit of Boos. You see, by the following morning, she could hardly anything about the meeting. I however, have it locked in my memory forever.

Did you love Mistress of Death? Then you should read The Sisterhood - Curse Of Abbot Hewitt by Annette Siketa!

With their compacts with 'the master' about to expire, three witches use revenge, spite, toadyism, greed, and even romance to stay alive…and then one of them discovers that her supposed dead daughter is still alive.