Avalon Revamped (9 page)

“It looks angry,” Avalon said, moving closer to the gargoyle. “Like it’s in a rage or terror.”

“Agreed. There is nothing here,” I said, ignoring Avalon. Her fascination with technology and history was tiresome. “This is a waste of time. I don’t doubt good ol’ Nick just went on holiday with his lady friend and forgot to tell his mum. Nothing more. You’ll see. He’ll be back in time for your cruise, no doubt, ready for new adventures.”

“There’s blood here,” Avalon said. She had lifted the statue and beneath it was a ring of dried blood, shaped as the outline of the statue. Yet, it was darker than blood, even dried blood. It was black. “Murder weapon?”

“Perhaps, although I’d doubt it. Again, not enough blood. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot.”

“The murderer could’ve caught the rest of the blood in something. Let’s have a look in the kitchen,” she suggested, setting the not-so-fertile god back down on the desk.

“I’m sure the police looked everywhere.”

“They didn’t find the blood beneath the statue, did they?”

“That’s a good point, Miss Bainbridge. How could they have missed that?”

“Call me Avalon, please. Yes, rather odd that they would’ve missed it. Perhaps there wasn’t this blood when they were here.”

I scoffed. “Coppers are incompetent, of course, so it’s not that much of a shock, now is it?”

We reached the kitchen, and everything seemed in place. I was becoming quite bored with this game.

“Indeed, Arthur, but are they quite that incompetent? There’s something strange about that blood. It is rather too dark for blood, don’t you think? Perhaps we should take the statue with us. Have a bit of it analyzed.” Avalon gave the appearance of closely examining every surface, trying to find a trace of blood or of the black stuff, but I heard her sniffing, discovering the extent of her heightened senses. I could tell as soon as we entered there was no fresh blood here.

“I’m not so sure, Miss Ba—Avalon, if it turns out he was murdered, you don’t want to be in possession of the murder weapon.”

“Certainly not. Thank you, Arron. Nothing out of sorts here. I think we must speak with Mr. McFerret after all, and, if we can, the constable in charge of this investigation.”

“Mr. McFerret will be on the cruise tomorrow night, so you’ll have the chance to talk to him then.”

Avalon and Arron faced each other, excited at the prospect of the mystery, and that same roar erupted in my gut, so I moved in between them, pulling Avalon close to my side. “Yes, indeed. That’s exactly what we shall do.”

§

“I think we’ll walk for a bit, Thomas. Just take the carriage home.”

“Yes, M’Lord.” He bowed and climbed on the carriage as Avalon and I headed in the opposite direction toward the main street, parting ways with Mr. Blackwolf as well. A compressed air tram rolled by, spewing black smoke into the air above it.

“We could take the CAT,” Avalon said, “I’ve not been on one yet,”

“Another time? It is such a lovely afternoon, and it’s already getting dark. We’ll be quite safe, don’t you think? Besides, it would be nice to have a stroll with your beauty on my arm.”

She squeezed my arm and laid her head on my shoulder, breathing in the evening air. “Yes. I do like to be out for a change. Everything is so alive, and I’m so hungry, Arthur. Perhaps a stop at the butchers for some fresh blood?”

“Excellent idea, sweetheart. Excellent! You were quite impressive in there.” She beamed up at me, thrilled at my approval, no doubt. But then, who wouldn’t be? “Great find, the blood beneath the statue. That definitely adds to the mystery. We should discuss it more over dinner. How are you feeling?”

“Quite well, actually. The smell of the blood…as you well know. It is rather difficult to be among all these people. It’s as if I can hear their blood flowing, their hearts beating, calling to me.”

“You get used to it.”

A group of women marched down the street chanting and holding placards that read such things as WE ARE NOT UNCLEAN and OUR UTERI DON’T WANDER and other Women’s suffragette nonsense. The American movement had trickled across the pond, giving ladies here delusions of equality. Since I had so recently threatened Avalon with the very thing these women were protesting, I found it rather humorous, hoping Avalon wouldn’t go on a tirade. It had been a long day.

To my great surprise and pleasure, she didn’t say a word as they passed by us.

Good girl.

A newsboy called out the headlines just on the other side of the street. “Police stumped at Aristocrat’s disappearance! Read all about it. Right here, right here, folks. Just two-p. Another ghastly murder in the East End—serial rapist and murderer on the move—third one this month! Hear ye! Hear ye! Only two-p. Right here, gents! Right here! Get all the gory details!”

“How dreadful,” Avalon said. “Those poor women. How horrifying it must be for them to suffer such a fate, although, I suppose death after that horror would be a relief. I can’t imagine surviving rape.
I think I would go mad.”

“Indeed,” I said, then changed the subject, pointing. “What’s going on over there?”

Just up ahead, a group of people gathered around a tall man in a bowler, standing atop overturned crates. On the wall behind him sat a wooden display case, the kind that could be closed up and carried from place to place. The man spoke over the chatterings of the crowd. American, from the sounds of it.

It was a bloody an invasion.

“Gather ‘round. Gather ‘round, folks. That’s it. Plenty of room for everyone. Now I know I’m pretty ma’am, but give me some breathing room. That’s it. That’s it. Welcome! One and all! My name is Roderick A. Jeffries, and I’m here to make your day. Winter sniffles got you down? Can’t keep those toes warm at night? Or are you just plain blue, feeling worn out? Well! This is your lucky day! One bottle of Doc Holliday’s Snake Oil, and all your ailments will be a thing of the past. That’s right! 100% pure rattlesnake oil from deep in the heart of Texas. Wrestled to the ground by our own cowboys, hired to ensure you have nothing but the best. Do you ail from headaches or toothaches? Melancholy? Hysteria? Sore chest-throat-joints-back-feet-hips? Doc Holliday’s Snake Oil cures it all, instantly.”

“Balderdash.” A peep from inside the audience came. A single word, long drawn out in a southern drawl badly covered with a faux English accent, then silence.

“Do I hear doubt?” the salesman sang, grinning wide.

“I say it’s nonsense.” Same voice, same slow drawl. Several people in the crowd all looked down at something in the center of them. A haggard woman made her way to the front. Her creased face peeked through a long scarf draped over her head, and a wool shawl covered her short, hunched body. She hobbled with the use of a cane to the front of the crowd. “How can one thing cure everything? My son, he’s fuzzy.”

Murmurings from the crowd.

“That’s right, he actually has grown fur all over his body, like a cat. Will it cure him?”

“It will indeed, old woman.”

“Will it make me feel young again? Walk properly again? Cure my aching bones and my arthritis?” She held-up a clawlike hand. “Will it make me happy?”

“Yes and yes, good woman. You will be so happy, you will dance. I guarantee it. Here,” the salesman said, opening a bottle. “Try it. On me. If you don’t feel better instantly, I will pack up and no one will ever see me on the streets of London again.”

“Well….” The woman regarded the man with a suspicious leer. “I guess I ain’t got nuthin’ to lose.”

She took the dram of snake oil in her curled fingers, then sipped it, grimacing. After a few convulsions, for show, no doubt, the shill shrieked, and then threw off her shawl and scarf, revealing long, brown hair. Her ample-sized, scandalously-displayed bosoms outweighed the rest of her. With nimble leaps and turns, she danced near the Snake Oil Salesman. Although she couldn’t have been much over thirty, her face was an odd mixture of leathery, sun-damaged skin and deep creases, making her appear quite older. A furry eyebrow stretched from one temple to the other. I wouldn’t have recognized the gnome as female, maybe not even human, if it wasn’t for her shapely curves.

Definitely a spinner, that one.

“There you have it, folks! Limited supply, please have your shillings at the ready. Only three crowns, folks! Hurry now, supplies won’t last long.”

“Three crowns!” Avalon exclaimed, ever the advocate for the people. “That’s preposterous!”

The crowd didn’t agree. Holding out his bowler, the salesman handed each a bottle after their coins clinked in the hat with the others. Before too long, he had sold all but one of his bottles. He stopped and held it up, all while the imp still danced, and said, “Last bottle folks, and I see there are many more here who want this, so who wants it most? Do I hear a quid?”

“One pound,” a man shouted.

“I have one quid to the man in the top hat. Very nice hat, sir. Do I hear a guinea?”

“I’ve got a guinea,” an older woman said, holding up her reticule.

“One guinea to the lovely lady in blue. Two? Two guineas?”

And so on, until he had raised an astronomical five pounds for the last bottle, and still the tiny troll danced. Twirling around in wide circles, she danced among the remaining people, bowing with a flourish to each new couple she’d dance near, who in turn appeared quite frightened at the spectacle and scuttled away. Each time she’d dance close to the salesman again, she’d look up at him with such adoration, one would think she worshipped him as god and savior.

I was not a tall man, I stood well under six feet, which this snake oil salesman was at least. Avalon was just a few inches over five, my petite love, but this harlot was even smaller than that. Well, shorter at least. Barely over four feet, I would say. Close to that of a proper dwarf, but proportionate and solid. If I didn't know better, I would’ve said she was a gypsy, but even gypsies had more class than this one. Quite bizarre. She tossed her long, mousy-brown curls to and fro as she danced, gyrating in the middle of the street, as if to music.

Suddenly, she belched forth the most offensive sound. It assaulted my ears. Cackling, loud and boisterous, much like a mixture between the braying of an ass and
 the sound of the hyena I had seen at the London Zoo. I was utterly appalled to realize it was this irritating creature's laughter.

I turned to Avalon in shock at such sights and sounds, which could only come from Americans, and she appeared as affronted as I, but always the lady, hid it better than I did.

Jeffries, with an air of being very pleased with himself indeed, tried to hide a smile as he regarded the sprite. His eyes sparkled in something between pride and condescension, much as one would look at a trained monkey or a prized show spaniel. Therefore, I soon deduced the cause of her madness. She looked up at him with complete adoration. Even though he was over two feet taller and at least fifteen years older, although much better preserved, she loved him. I knew it was rather rude to ask, but I couldn't help myself. Something inside me demanded an explanation for this freak show. 

"Pardon my candor, but are you two..."

The eruption of new braying caused me to jump, and Avalon moved into my arms for protection from the offense. 

"Us! No!" she said, but her eyes never left his. They stood locked in the most intense glare I had ever witnessed between two people. She was no doubt under his spell, bound to him, and he enjoyed every moment of her submission. He owned her.

"Heavens, no. Not since, well, we don't talk about that, do we, my poodle?"

Her expression changed to that of a dog who had just been caught piddling on the new carpet.

Mr. Jeffries smiled wider, not missing a tick. His pride swelled as he enjoyed her embarrassment. 

"Rather a scandalous thing back in Boston, right my pet."

"Yes, Roddy,” she said in a tiny voice, disgraced. "I am so sorry."

This salesman delighted in her discomfort, in her shame, even to the point where I couldn't bear it, and Avalon nudged me to do something, so I changed the subject.

“Lord Arthur York.” Jeffries shook my proffered hand. “And this is Miss Avalon Bainbridge.”

“How do you do?” Avalon said, tilting her head. She didn’t offer her hand to the crook. Smart girl.

“Fine, ma’am, just fine. I’m Roderick A. Jeffries from Boston, Snake Oil Salesman, as you can see, and this is my assistant, Miss Polly Pooter.”

“Howdy, ya’ll!” Tail wagging once again.

“Roderick Jeffries? Any relation to Madame Jeffries, the notorious madame?"

"Yes, she's my cousin on my father's side."

"She's quite the businesswoman. I see it runs in the family."

"We all take business seriously, Mr. York."
Mister?
I looked into his eyes and saw he meant the slight. Other than that, nothing. Empty. His expression, too. Void. No affect whatsoever behind that false smile. "Unfortunate business, a few months back, at her establishment on Gray's Inn. She lost more than a few quid because of that. Half her clientele is gone."

He was testing me. Of course I remembered the unfortunate business quite well, as does Avalon. As does all of London, since there was nothing else in the papers for weeks, but this man was prying to see if I was a client. To see if Avalon would blush.