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A small clock ticks in Whitehall

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  • A small clock ticks in Whitehall

    A clock ticked away in the background like a reluctant passenger in time, the only other sound the furious scribbling of a sharp nib on quality paper.
    The ghosts of Whitehall were all abed apart from the two ageing mandarins about their incidious and mysterious tasks, the one scratching furiously at paper, the other measuring time by the passage of brandy through a fluted glass that left little rings of patina on his polished oak desk everytime he lifted and depressed the glass in his regimented but rythmical fashion.
    'There we are, Charles!' boomed Dr Bond flinging across the paperwork he had employed a nib on for the past two hours. 'See what you make of that, old boy?'
    Charles Henry Cutbush peered closely at the sheaf of papers.
    'What the devil is all this dross about then, Thomas?' enquired Cutbush, placing his brandy glass reluctantly on the oak desk.
    'Oh, that Jesuit Anderson asked me to write down my thoughts on the recent murders, so I've come up with what Ebbing Raft terms a 'profile',' explained Dr Bond. 'Quite good fun actually, if you have nothing better to do. I'd rather shoot pigeons as you know.'
    Cutbush leafed through the papers.
    'Solitary and eccentric in his habits, you don't say?' he asked.
    'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
    'A man without regular occupation but with some small income, you don't say?
    'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
    'Living amongst respectable people who have some knowledge of his character and habits... you don't say Thomas? Amazing thought eh?'
    'Indeed, Charles, indeed.'
    There came a timid knock at the door.
    'Come in, damn you!' bellowed Executive Superintendent Cutbush with all the authority of his lofty position.
    A slighty built boy elevated himself into the room and stood wringing his hands in abject discomfort.
    'My nephew,' explained Cutbush with a sigh. 'Well boy, damn you, what do you want now?'
    'Sir,' replied the trembling boy. 'I was wondering whether I might borrow your service pistol for the night... I've an urgent desire to shoot Dr Brooks.'
    'Good man!' screamed Dr Bond. ' I could never stand that upstart anyway.'
    'What about that nice Chinese dagger I got you for Christmas last year, surely you could employ that for such a purpose?' asked Charles.
    'I left it on the Pimlico train, I'm afraid uncle Charles.'
    'Look my dear nephew, take yourself off to ramble the streets of Whitechapel, covered in mud, and all that, for myself and the good doctor have important matters to discuss pertaining to the Whitechapel Murders.'
    'Can I have a stamp, uncle Charles?' enquired the young man. 'I have a letter for Grimthorpe here.'
    Cutbush senior passed over a penny red which the young fellow gladly took.
    'You and your letters, young Thomas, what shall we do with you? Now off with, young Thomas, and let us not see you until the wee hours of the morning... now then Dr Bond where were we?
    'Ah yes, Charles, I also speculated that the family of the suspect would be unwilling to communicate with the police for fear of notoriety...'
    'Indeed, Dr Bond, indeed,' chuckled Charles. 'The brandy is almost up, so may I escort you to the door?'
    'Thanks old boy, but I think I'll use the window.'

  • #2
    love the last line, AP,---I like it.Good stuff.

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    • #3
      Meanwhile young Thomas wandered home with a heavy heart - it was Kelly's.

      Great stuff, AP.

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      • #4
        Thanks Natalie & Robert
        as I think you'll know I disguise something very important with humour.

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        • #5
          Thanks for that AP.

          And I don't care what anyone says- stick to your guns. Or snifter as the case may be.
          Mags

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          • #6
            Anderson stretched his long thin legs until the knee joints popped like fire crackers in the empty silence of Whitehall chambers, startling a half-asleep Charles Cutbush who promptly pulled his service pistol from its concealed holster and fired a full chamber into the ceiling.
            High above their heads came a sudden shriek of pain.
            'Did that sound like Lushington to you, Charles?' enquired Anderson.
            'I fancy I heard the cry of a Jew boy rather than a Catholic, sir,' opinioned Cutbush.
            'Indeed Charles,' confirmed Anderson. 'You'd have to ascend another floor before you could clip a Catholic.'
            'More's the pity,' muttered Cutbush darkly.
            'Now then, Charles, have you studied Bond's report on the Whitechapel Murders?
            'Indeed I have, sir, and a jolly little read it is too!'
            'But did you, Charles, spot the fault line that ran through his work like the San Antonio?'
            'Well, sir, I believe I did, sir,' replied Cutbush. 'In that the good doctor failed to blame the Catholics for the wicked crimes...'
            'Oh but Charles, allow me to interrupt you there,' broke in Anderson. 'For surely you mean that Bond failed to mention that it was a low class Jew responsible for the wicked crimes?'
            'A Jew, sir?'
            'Yes, indeed, Charles, a Jew, not a proper Jew you must understand, like my dear and warm friend Rothschild who only gave me this superb gold Rolex watch last week, as a thank you for my meanderings upon proper Jews in my recently published 'The Darker Side of My Life', but I digress, Charles, I digress... where was I, my dear chap?'
            'Low class Catholics, I believe, sir?'
            'Jews, Charles, low class Jews, socialist filth, Charles, anarchists and the like, these Polaks and Ruskis, Charles, now't but animals, and mark my words, Charles, it was an animal that committed these dreadful deeds, no Englishman would have done such a thing...'
            'Catholics, sir,' interrupted Cutbush.
            'Well I don't like 'em, Charles, that much is true, but the low class Jew seems to lend himself to such bestial behaviour... why did you see that article in The Times last month which proved that the lower class Jew actually murders women and children to provide oil for their synagogue lamps? Astonishing! Decent chaps like Montague and Lushington only use whale oil for such purpose... and anyway Bond's well made point about the family concealing the killer is the most damning of all, for it is the low class Jew that always does so. No respectable English family would do such a thing, would they Charles?'
            Cutbush appeared lost in thought.
            'Well, Charles!?' demanded Anderson.
            'I'm sorry, sir, I was just thinking on my nephew, young Thomas, and that I really must have a word with him about his stabbing of the serving girls...'
            'Yes, you must, Charles, it's really not good enough. Imagine if the press got hold of the story? Stll that is Macnaghten's department... Charles, do you see that cloud out of the window?'
            Cutbush craned his neck to obtain a better view.
            'Do you mean the one that resembles a heavenly staircase with the sun shining brightly upon it?' he asked.
            'That's the one, Charles, now then, enough of this nonsense. I must go and prepare myself, for he comes!'
            Last edited by Cap'n Jack; 11-04-2008, 09:31 PM.

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            • #7
              and with a deafening Hallelujah!---he invoked the canon !

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              • #8
                More great stuff, AP.

                Excuse me if I interrupt here. Just ignore it and return to your flow.

                Meanwhile, a disconsolate Thomas was sitting in the Seaside Home snooker room sipping tea with PC Watkins, when a muddy coffin was wheeled in and placed on a trestle.

                "Ah yes, to be sure," echoed an Irish voice within, "that's the fella who butchered me."

                "I protest!" yelled Thomas. "She hasn't even lifted the lid to look at me. Besides, she's a stiff."

                "Silence!" bellowed Watkins gently. "Show some respect for the tart."

                "Well, it's crazy," rejoined Thomas. "How are you going to get her to testify in court?"

                "With electrodes?" asked Watkins, hopefully.

                "Haven't oi been though enough?" came the Irish voice.

                "There you are. Witness refused to testify," said Thomas.

                "OK, wheel her away," ordered Watkins. "So, you wriggle out of it again, youngfellamelad."

                "I knew you couldn't bluff me," smirked Thomas. "She couldn't have seen me, because it was pitch dark when I did it. I mean - "

                "Eh?"

                "Oh look, PC Watkins : you've dropped your Rich Tea."

                "Where? Did you see where it rolled?"

                And so it was that PC Watkins forgot all about Jack the Ripper's confession, because of a Rich Tea biscuit.

                And now back to AP.

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                • #9
                  You never know Robert,altogether possible-----after all there were some very "unusual goings on" by Robert Anderson -the seaside home saga being only one----just as peculiar were Anderson"s moonlit visits to certain mortuaries with Dr Bond in tow.

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                  • #10
                    Let down by the small details

                    Humour aside, not likely to be Penny Reds just then...Mostly Penny Lilacs (1881 I think), but alternatively a fair few of the Jubilee issue (1887)...

                    Back to the fundamental research

                    Pedantically yours!

                    Dave

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