by Simon Clark
My Dearest Emma,
Once more I am hotfoot in pursuit of adventure. Inspector Abberline has been ordered to investigate a murder that has taken place on a small island in the River Humber. The island is known as the Kingdom of Faxfleet. Imagine! I grew up in Yorkshire, yet I have never heard of the place before.
I miss you very much and dream of seeing you soon. I shall write to you again once I reach Faxfleet and have met its king.
Yours with absolute affection,
Thomas
Thomas Lloyd walked around the island alone. Here he was in the little-known kingdom of Faxfleet. The island was low lying, flat and covered with trees. It sat in the Humber several miles upstream from where the huge river disgorged itself into the North Sea. After the train journey to the city of Hull, a small steamboat had brought them to Faxfleet, which lay about half a mile from the mainland. The spring afternoon had become quite breezy. Winds blowing across the river shook the trees into such fits of loud rustling it sounded to Thomas as if huge apes must be swinging through those oaks, elms and willows.
‘Invisible apes in English trees.’ Thomas smiled as he jotted down descriptions of the island in his notebook. ‘My grandfather always said that I had a “veritable Goliath of an imagination”.’ His pencil whispered across the paper: Isle of Faxfleet, ruled by King Ludwig III – two miles long, one mile wide. Curves, almost a banana shape. King’s residence stands on eastern tip. Lots of wildlife – otters, rabbits, foxes; all quite tame. Fox came out of long grass to sniff my boots. More like pet dog than wild fox. This is a strange place. Scent of fragrant blossom. Very heady, almost intoxicating.
Thomas strolled on, following a path by the water’s edge. A seal’s head popped up from the river to watch him go by. The creature’s eyes shone like balls of polished, black glass.
Inspector Abberline had gone to King Ludwig’s home to introduce himself. Abberline suggested he go alone to talk to the man about the murder committed here recently. He wished to introduce the fact that he was accompanied by a journalist a little while later. Sometimes landowners and the aristocracy could be decidedly reluctant to have a man from the press on their property. Even if the owner of the island wasn’t perhaps a genuine king in the accepted sense of the word, he, Ludwig III, still had the right to order Thomas to leave. So, yes, definitely best to allow Abberline to diplomatically broach the subject of a journalist being here to write about the murder.
Thomas stepped onto the pebble shore. It stretched out perhaps fifty paces before it reached the river itself. He walked toward the water. There the seal amused itself by turning somersaults amid the waves – trying to catch its tail apparently. Thomas laughed softly to himself. He was glad he’d changed his mind. If he had decided to return to regular day-to-day newspaper work he’d probably be sat at a desk back in London, listening to the editor howl bad temperedly at underlings. Here, there was fresh air, the pleasant rustling of trees, the lap of waves on the shore. Simply beautiful. Thomas smiled, enjoying his stroll.
‘Hey. You there. Come over here. Quick!’
He turned to see a figure standing on a rock. A remarkable figure at that. Quite amazing, in fact. An individual of around thirty years of age stood on a rock that was about five feet in height and which protruded from the beach some fifty yards away. The figure stared in Thomas’s direction while beckoning with astonishing vigour.
‘Come here. Please hurry!’
Thomas stared, open mouthed. The figure wore a short crimson jacket. The clothes on its bottom half were amazing. A kilt in pale brown leather reached its knees. From beneath the kilt came a pair of legs clad in loose-fitting trousers, or pantaloons, or … or … Good grief. Thomas couldn’t decide what the exotic garment should be called.
‘Please, sir. You must come over here to me!’
A young man? A woman? Thomas shielded his eyes against the sunlight. He couldn’t really tell the sex of the extraordinary creature. The stranger wore its black hair very short. The voice didn’t tell him if it was male or female either.
The figure cupped its hands to its lips and shouted, ‘Sir? Can you understand English?’
‘Yes. I’m an Englishman.’
‘Then in the name of Jove, run! Come over here at once. Hurry!’
It’s a woman. That striking figure that combined a strange blend of femininity and masculinity quite bamboozled him. In fact, he felt strangely dazzled by this exotic apparition in leather kilt and pantaloons.
‘Please hurry!’ she cried.
‘Madam? Are you in danger?’
‘No, but you are, sir. You’re in danger of drowning! Fly this way. Move those feet of yours as fast you can!’
Such an odd way with words, he told himself. Such an odd way of dressing, too. Despite her bedazzling effect on him, he did move briskly across the beach towards her.
‘Faster, sir. Faster. The river is licking at your heels.’
This time Thomas understood her warning. The tide had turned. With astonishing speed it rushed across the pebbles.
‘Run!’
Thomas obeyed. He ran up the beach towards the large boulder on which the woman stood. When he reached the rock, she bent down, extending her hand towards him. He held out both his hands to help her down, misunderstanding her gesture.
‘Here,’ she said quickly. ‘Take my hand, I’ll help you up. My mission of the day is to keep your shoes dry.’
Her way of speaking seemed decidedly odd, yet she smiled brightly. She glowed with good humour. He took her hand. And, dear God, her grip was a strong one. She energetically hauled him up onto the boulder. Even though he strived to do anything as impolite as stare, he couldn’t help but notice the narrowness of her waist and a youthful pretty face that glowed with health.
‘There, sir.’ She pointed at the river. ‘The tide dashes in here like a cock after his dainty little hen. If you hadn’t run to me the river would have caught you and carried you off.’
‘Thank you, miss.’ Thomas politely raised his hat.
‘Miss, ha! How sweet. Nobody has called me “miss” for years.’
He found himself gazing at her dancing eyes. They caught the light of the sun, and flashed with such energy and charisma. This remarkable woman is an explosion in human form. Good Lord. An explosion in human form? Were those appropriate words to describe a young lady? He shook his head, striving to find more accurate phrases.
‘You shake your head.’ Her shining eyes fixed on his. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
‘No, I’m quite well, thank you. I’m just …. erm, swept away by this turn of events.’
‘Swept away.’ She laughed, holding a hand up to her perfectly formed lips. ‘You very nearly were, sir.’
‘Erm … ah … much appreciated that you, erm … warned me.’ He’d become staggeringly inarticulate. ‘Perhaps there’s no need to … erm …’ He raised his hand that was still clasped by hers.
She laughed. ‘Oh, it would be just too scandalous for me to be seen holding a stranger’s hand on this rock. We don’t want to embarrass our friend the seal, do we? He might write an angry letter to The Times about the improper morals of the young today.’
‘Ah, yes, quite.’ Thomas felt the heat in his face as he blushed. She was quite right. Who would see them holding hands? Besides, nothing improper occurred. The lady had held his hand to prevent him from slipping back into the river. He glanced round, now in no hurry to remove his hand from her forceful grip. The river had engulfed the beach in seconds. The speed of sticks and foam moving by told him that the current was dangerously fast here. Already the water had surrounded the boulder, meaning that they now stood on their own little island.
He said, ‘Robinson Crusoe – that’s who I’ve become.’
She laughed, amused by his comment. ‘And I shall be your Man Friday, loyal companion and servant.’
‘Hardly Man Friday.’
They both laughed at this so loudly that the seal bobbed in the river, watching them with
an expression of what seemed like comical surprise. The woman released her grip on his hand. Not that he would have minded if they’d remained hand in hand on their rock in the river. An island made for two.
‘Good afternoon, stranger.’ She held out her hand for him to shake. ‘My name is Jo.’
He must have reacted with surprise, because she laughed.
‘Yes, sir: Jo. My full name is Josephine Hamilton-West. Jo suits me best, however. So it would make me happy if you called me Jo.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I do.’
‘Jo.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I am Thomas Lloyd.’
‘Mr Lloyd.’ She dipped her knee, turning her eyes downwards as if she were a shy maiden being introduced to a gentleman at a dance. Jo was clearly play-acting for her own amusement. Despite this, her manner was pleasantly charming.
‘Please call me Thomas.’
‘Thank you, Thomas. So, what the heck now? Do we bravely swim for the shore? Or sit here in the sun and talk?’
Thomas Lloyd realized that yet another day was turning out to be really quite extraordinary. This morning he’d set out from London – a teeming, noisy, turbulent city that smelt of coal smoke from tens of thousands of domestic and industrial chimneys – and now here he sat on a rock surrounded by water. Fresh air pleasantly caressed his face. He could smell fragrant blossom. The Humber shone as if it had been magically transformed into a river of gold in the sunlight. He heard the musical notes of birdsong, the lap of waves, the splash of the seal as it hunted for fish. Perhaps most extraordinary of all, he sat here on a boulder, surrounded by the incoming tide, with a woman of thirty or so; pretty much his own age. And she was amazing. Jo wore that incredible leather kilt over exotic pantaloons. Her hair was cut short to her head. Her lively, happy eyes watched him with such intensity as he talked, and she had a heart-warming smile that rarely left her attractive lips.
The woman had such self-confidence, too. She spoke to Thomas as if she’d been his friend for years. When she noticed something of interest – a heron catching a fish, or a ship passing by in the distance – she’d lightly rest her hand on his forearm before pointing out what he should see. Thomas liked her. Josephine Hamilton-West had to be one of the most interesting people he’d ever met.
‘You like my clothes?’ she asked.
‘They’re quite eye-catching.’
‘I bought them in Russia. Cossack women wear these when they go out riding on those fiery horses they have. To ride one of those stallions is like riding a demon.’
‘I imagine people stare when they see you dressed like that.’
‘I care not one jot, sir.’ She spoke in a laughing kind of way that made Thomas smile. ‘Besides, here on the island we’re all very strange. You know, I have a hat that should be worn with this costume. It looks exactly like a plant pot. I must confess I never wear it at all.’
‘And your boots?’
‘These are cowboy boots from America. Why are you here, Thomas?’
‘I’m here with Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard. We arrived this afternoon.’
‘Inspector Abberline? He’s famous.’
‘Most famous, perhaps, because he led the search for the murderer of those women in Whitechapel.’
‘Ah …’ Her face became serious. ‘Jack the Ripper. Do you think he’ll ever be caught?’
Thomas could only shrug. ‘It’s now two years since the last Ripper killing in 1888. There have been none since.’
‘Then the devil might have taken a knife to his own throat instead of butchering anyone else.’
‘However, nobody knows if this so-called Jack the Ripper is male or female, or whether it was a gang of killers working together.’
‘Inspector Abberline, I take it, is here to investigate the murder? Poor Mr Feasby, shot from a tree by an arrow.’
‘Indeed he is. The inspector is very good at his job. I’m sure the killer will be caught.’
‘Good. I don’t want any more of my neighbours being shot down like they’re nothing more than pigeons sitting on a branch.’
‘Why was Mr Feasby in the tree? After all, I hear that he was over eighty years old.’
‘We’re all exceedingly strange on this island, Thomas. I might be one of the strangest.’ She winked.
Thomas wasn’t used to seeing a lady wink in such a mischievous way.
Jo continued, ‘Very well, the world-famous Inspector Abberline is here to solve a crime. Why are you here, Thomas?’
‘I work alongside him.’ Thomas chose not reveal his occupation as a rule, preferring to let people assume he assisted the detective. If people knew he was a journalist that sometimes hindered Abberline’s investigations. ‘I have been doing so for a number of weeks now.’
‘You’re not a policeman.’
‘Oh?’
‘When I got hold of your hand to help you onto the rock I felt a callous on the middle finger of your right hand. Here.’ Seizing his hand, she turned it to reveal the thickened pad of skin on the side of his finger. ‘That’s where a pen chafes your skin. You must spend a lot of time writing to form a callous like that.’
‘That’s very observant of you. Police officers write, however.’
‘Ah, you do not have a policeman’s eyes. Don’t you find that the police always have suspicion in their eyes, even when talking to a friend? It’s a habit they form over time.’
‘You don’t see suspicion in my eyes?’
‘No. You are interested in the world around you, which could make you a poet. However, your expression isn’t one of dreamy introspection as one would find in a writer of verse.’
‘I might write novels?’
‘Novelists sit in backrooms, slaving over their dramas and romances. You have a healthy, golden tan. You spend much of your time outdoors. No, Thomas Lloyd, you are a newspaper reporter. I’m certain.’
He said nothing, merely stared at her in surprise. Her deduction had been absolutely accurate.
‘Worry not, Thomas, dear. I will not reveal your secret. Besides, I love secrets. They make the heart thrill with excitement.’
Thomas smiled. ‘Why are you here on the island?’
‘I don’t know if you know about what happens on Faxfleet?’
‘I know that this is a miniature kingdom, ruled over by King Ludwig.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And that you have your own laws.’
‘But do you know what actually goes on here on this shard in a Yorkshire river?’
‘Some farming, I guess. Fishing? Country sports?’
‘Many on this island are vividly eccentric. You will encounter exponents of free love. There are anarchists, free-market economists, holy grail hunters, inventors, explorers, artists, philosophers and free thinkers galore – and one wild lady who shamelessly displays herself in a kilt and gaudy knickerbockers.’ She slapped her thigh.
Thomas could barely conceal his surprise. ‘They are guests of the king?’
‘Oh, bonnie Thomas, it’s more than that. We compete for the prize.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘King Ludwig is a philanthropist. He’s kind hearted. He has good intentions, and as we all know good intentions pave the road to hell.’
‘Are you making fun of him?’
‘No, absolutely not.’ She placed her hand on his forearm and leaned closer as if she would reveal a secret. ‘People write to King Ludwig; they set out their ambitions, whether that is to invent a new machine, compose a symphony, or develop new philosophical ways of living, and a host of other unusual ideas. If our king likes the idea he invites them to live here on the island in order to work on their beloved project.’
‘He sponsors scientists and philosophers and the like?’
‘Yes, he provides cottages, and these brilliant men and women live here at the king’s expense. A host of geniuses toiling in their little houses.’
‘You talk as if you mock
them.’
‘Not mock, sir. Perhaps a little wise to it all. After all, the prospect of free accommodation and a monthly stipend attracts scoundrels, cheats, the deluded and the desperate, as well as honest men and women of vision.’
‘How long do they stay here?’
‘If the king believes the work has valuable potential then members of his academy might remain on the island at his expense for years. However, if he ultimately decides that the work has no merit then the individual is given twenty-four hours to return to the mainland. Of course, this is a dreadful outcome for some, if they have no money or no other home. If they are sent away from the island then they might only have the poorhouse to turn to.’
‘Then there might be an air of tension at times?’
‘Absolutely, Thomas. The month of June is a period of great anxiety for us all. That’s when the king makes his judgements. If our work is found to be lacking, then we pack our bags and trudge down to the ferry.’
‘I see. We are approaching June now. People will worry.’
‘People are excited, too. If the king decides an individual demonstrates exceptional promise then they are awarded a gift of ten thousand pounds.’
‘A man could live comfortably on ten thousand pounds for many years.’
‘And they receive a trophy, too, in the form of a gold shield. Everyone here covets that. There is a lot of rivalry.’
‘You said that you live here on Faxfleet.’
‘Indeed so. I work on my own project, and have been given a wee house by the king. Soon I will learn whether King Ludwig wishes me to stay or leave the island.’
‘You might win the ten thousand pounds?’
‘Perhaps I will.’ She smiled.
‘What is the nature of your work?’
‘Ha! Inquisitive, sir, I shall keep that secret from you … for now.’
‘Really?’
‘The river level is dropping. You see, a bulge of sorts runs upstream when the tide rises; water levels peak for a few minutes, then fall before rising again. We have a moment or two to reach dry land, otherwise we’ll be stranded here for a while yet. This way, Thomas.’
