“I am Peter Keaton and this is my sister, Petra,” Peter began, tipping the edge of his hat with a courteous finger. “We are Americans on holiday and need rooms while we are in London.” Before the man could reply, Peter added, “As you can see, we travel with our dogs and certainly will pay extra for any bother or inconvenience. They are very well behaved,” he added. Mischievously, he barked a sharp command. “Kipp, Elani, sit!”
The back ends of the lupines hit the floor so quickly that I thought the china teacup holding the desk man’s morning tea trembled on the mahogany countertop. Kipp glanced at me, narrowing his eyes.
“I am not a trained circus elephant,” he muttered.
“Me neither, Kipp,” Elani chimed in.
“Pipe down, you two,” I replied, trying not to laugh. “Peter is making a point, so just play along, please.”
“We often have guests who travel with their dogs,” the man was saying. It seemed he was not concerned. “Once a lady showed up with her pet goat…that was a little unusual,” the man added, his eyes growing large. “But the goat was quite well behaved, and our staff became quite fond of her…Gloria, I think her name was. I’m Mr. Haley,” he added, “and I will be glad to see to your needs.”
As Peter and Mr. Haley examined the costs and other issues, I took a moment to walk around the room. A wall that was painted the soft yellow color of a lingering sunset featured a series of lovely watercolors, dainty and tasteful, caught in the glow of the early morning sun. Kipp stared after me longingly but didn’t think he was free to meander since Peter hadn’t formally released him from the sit. I was familiar with this part of London from my past visits, most recently during the Whitechapel trip when I lived in Mayfair. We should be far enough away from Harrow’s home that we wouldn’t inadvertently run into any past acquaintances who might still be living in the area.
“Petra, today is February 27, 1912!” Peter exclaimed telepathically out of the hearing of the desk clerk. “We couldn’t have timed it any better. At the very most, we are off a day or two from our target which was a little fuzzy anyway.” He turned and met my eyes, his face flushed slightly from excitement.
A boy, who was maybe seventeen if that, showed us to our rooms. He, like the few others we’d met, looked askance at our backpacks, eyebrows raised, obviously thinking that American culture was odd and not to be understood. He offered to take mine, but I shook him off. The rooms, which were large and well lit due to a series of narrow, long windows stretching from ceiling to floor, were in the rear of the building. They wouldn’t have been considered the choice rooms based on location but worked for us due to the rear staircase for the servants that would give quick access for the lupines to visit the grassy area across the back alley behind the hotel, which was named The Dovecote. Why someone would name a hotel after a pigeon coop, I didn’t know.
“I worked out the usual deal where we will pay extra for special attention. The manager will have a boy bring food in for the lupines, as well as us, as we request. I told him we’d often be gone but needed to retain these rooms until April 10th.” Peter shrugged his shoulders. “He seemed happy enough with the additional money I gave him.”
Despite living in a modern world with many conveniences, I missed oil lanterns and candles and the soft, natural light they created. Electricity was widely dispersed in London by 1912, so with a turn of a knob, a bulb flickered to life, feeble at first but then bolder as if it wanted to impress me with its work ethic. There was a water closet close by, and the boy brought fresh pitchers of water to each room. Obviously, the Dovecote’s plumbing was still a work in progress. Kipp’s eyes followed me as I inspected my room; my fingers ran along the top edge of the water basin, unexpectedly finding a small chip in the smooth porcelain. The mirror above the dresser was surprisingly free of ripples on the surface, and the reflection which gazed back at me was true. Kipp hopped up on the bed to sample its comfort; a satin coverlet made the surface so slippery that he almost slid down before he could brace his feet.
“Not sure I like this cover,” he remarked nonchalantly, his nostrils flaring. Since I was constantly in his mind as he was mine, I realized he was slightly embarrassed that Elani had observed him in a clumsy moment. He cared about her impressions of him, despite his statements to the contrary. Ducking my head, I avoided his sharp glance as he dared me to say anything. Wisely, I remained silent.
Since obtaining appropriate clothing was a first necessity, we went out front and hailed another four wheel carriage. “Take us to Park Road,” Peter requested, using my suggestion. Kipp wedged his body next to mine on the upholstered bench seat, his head stuck out the window as we breezed along. It made sense to start on a more widely traveled thoroughfare and then use the smaller side streets as needed to shop for vendors to meet our needs. The humidity was beginning to lessen as the rising sun cut through the dissipating fog, and I closed my eyes, daydreaming of the last time I made such a journey.
“We need to go find him,” Kipp remarked softly, his nudging words meant only for me. “Even if from a distance. You know you want to.”
The cherished pearls Harrow had gifted me hugged my neck, showing at the modest V of my collar. “Let me think about it, Kipp. Don’t push me.”
Across the carriage, Elani was standing, her large head hanging out the small window, her tail wagging so vigorously that her entire back end shimmied. Peter reached over and ran his hand lightly down her broad back. I didn’t intrude but his body language spoke of his pride in her abilities. Had she been familiar with the area, Elani could have driven this time shift and landed us pretty much square on. In that way, she rivaled Kipp’s talents, even though it was not a competition. Unlike many humans, we tended to applaud one another’s skills and accomplishments without envy or rancor. Strength and talent in one of us benefited the entire community, from our way of thinking. The wheels caught on a patch of uneven pavement, jostling us hard on our seats. The driver’s muttered apology drifted back from his perch on the box.
Deposited at our requested location on Park Road, our odd party drew a few looks due to the size of the lupines, who ambled nonchalantly at our sides. We kept close, however, and avoided crowds while managing to make our way to a shop that we spied as we approached a cross street. A well dressed man, wearing a fashionable navy blue blazer over a shirt with a collar so crisp it jutted into the underside of his chin, almost collided with us as we entered. A man whose youth was betrayed by the gentle flush on his cheekbones, as well as a valiant attempt at wispy strands of facial hair, met us under the tinkling bell hanging over the door to the shop. It seemed that the shop only served men, but the fellow was delighted to have his assistant accompany me the short distance to the seamstress shop a mere two blocks away. As I walked with the youth, I realized I glanced back a couple of times; it fell odd to leave Peter and Elani behind.
“You’ve become attached,” Kipp said, pushing his shoulder against my leg to make a point. “And not only with Peter and Elani but also with Fitzhugh and Juno.”
“Haven’t you?” I asked more than a trifle defensively.
“Always,” he replied, nudging his head under my hand.
We were deposited at the seamstress’s establishment, which like all such places smelled of musty fabric, candle tallow and old sachets of lavender. Fortunately, the proprietor was a dog lover and seemed happier to see Kipp than me, as she offered him a good size hunk of her biscuit while giving me nothing. Her shop, though small, obviously catered to the more affluent, and with my guise as a traveling American of adequate means, she was delighted to work with me to create a wardrobe that would, at least, help me pass muster while on the Titanic. Kipp dropped down in a corner and watched, wagging his tail to approve of a fabric or suggested fashion style, or closing his eyes to things of which he disapproved. Although I didn’t think I’d attend a sit down dinner on the Titanic since Kipp would be left behind, I, at his encouragement, did allow the seamstress to talk me into one pretty gown that c
ould pass in a pinch for something more formal. She pulled out a length of delicate watered blue silk and held it up beneath my chin as I gazed at my reflection in a full length mirror. It was one of those colors that would be attractive on anyone, and I liked blue, so it was a go. I warned her that I was not wearing a corset and had chosen the very modern brassiere; her lips pursed in disapproval of my libertine attitude but said nothing and nodded her head. It was my preference that she collaborate with a milliner, since I had neither time nor inclination to involve myself in the creation of hats. The lace draped bucket I currently wore on my head would see me through most eventualities, but I’d need something a little fancier for other occasions. Looking up, I saw Peter peering nearsightedly through the front glass of the shop, and, with a promise from the seamstress that she could have my dresses ready for a final fitting in time for our departure date on the Titanic, Kipp and I joined the others outside.
With directions given by Peter’s tailor, we found a readymade goods shop and enhanced our traveling wardrobe with undergarments as well as a couple of fresh blouses for me and a hat which, thankfully, didn’t feel so large and cumbersome. This one had a broader brim and tighter crown and would be more comfortable for our daily excursions while we wasted almost 6 weeks.
“So, what do we do while we wait?” Peter asked as our carriage lurched along carrying us to The Dovecote, our packages stowed neatly in a rear compartment.
“I have a little side trip I’d like to make,” Kipp remarked. “If you guys think you can stomach one more ghost encounter,” he added unexpectedly.
Chapter 15
The train left London early in the morning, as the fog was lifting from the Thames to shroud the rooftops like a damp, white ceiling so dense it blocked the view of the sky. Smoke from countless chimneys combined with the cloying mist to create a seemingly impenetrable wall through which our carriage had pushed on our journey to the train station. Leaving Kings Cross behind, we began the trip towards Suffolk, where the land gently sloped to meet the sea, and the landscape was thick with bogs, marshes and other wetlands.
“Okay, Kipp, what’s up?” I asked as my body rocked back and forth with the motion of the train. We had a first class compartment to ourselves, and both Kipp and Elani were craning their enormous heads to view the countryside as we passed. Small villages dotted the mostly level landscape where a few rolling hills were segmented by thick hedgerows gone dormant from the previous winter.
“There’s a tale of a spectral dog called Black Shuck which is rumored to haunt the eastern coastal regions.” Kipp hopped up on the seat next to me and rested his head in my lap. I was wearing my spare traveling skirt with the matching tweed jacket and a fresh blouse; I’d ditched the bucket hat for the new one I’d purchased. While not as stylish as current trends demanded, I never bothered over minor details involving fashion. Rolling my eyes, I looked at Peter who smiled.
“I thought you’d had enough of ghosts and haints,” I replied teasingly, gently tweaking his big ear for good measure. My jest was met with Kipp’s amber eyes, serious and unblinking, as he stared back.
“I’ve had enough of worrying that the Twelve or others might want to use me. This particular trip is to satisfy my curiosity.” Kipp adjusted his position on the seat, stretching as he did so.
“Which is what?” I asked. I glanced out of the window as our train sped over an elevated trestle, where a gently flowing stream curved beneath, the sunlight flashing off of the surface of the water. A short distance away, a young boy and girl played at the edge of the water, throwing rocks to watch them splash since the weather was still too cool for wading. Now that we’d cleared the big city, the sky, which was free of soot and smoke, was bright blue, lit by a yellow sun that failed to bring any heat to the chilled earth.
“There’s speculation that Arthur Conan Doyle wrote The Hound of the Baskervilles after hearing of the tale of Black Shuck. The image of a large, black, spectral hound has been documented for centuries, crossing the marshes and wetlands, terrorizing the inhabitants,” Kipp intoned dramatically, half closing his eyes as if he was casting a spell upon us.
Elani darted a quick glance at me, not sure if Kipp was purposely building a tale just to frighten us. Slowly, I closed one eye and smiled at her; she was far too naïve and trusting, a result of her youth. There was a part of me that wished she’d stay just that way but time and experience would change her. Such things were inevitable.
At Kipp’s urging, we’d packed our small backpacks, now turned inside out to resemble valises, with a change of underwear and a fresh shirt so that we could stay overnight. Now I understood why—Kipp wanted to go out into the marshland surrounding Blythburgh in search of an encounter with Black Shuck. We’d left London quite early, and the train ride was uneventful but soothing, the motion of the car eventually lulling me into a light sleep. As the train eased to a stop in the small station, Peter reached forward to give my arm a slight nudge. There were times I thought I’d never get fully caught up on my rest. After nodding off on the train, I was ready for a walk and we, with Kipp’s guidance and the helpful directions given by a couple of villagers, wound up a hill to where the Holy Trinity Church stood, overlooking the surrounding countryside. The land was filled with promise as grass tried to take hold of the fields left dormant by the harshness of winter. Off to the east, I saw what appeared to be a white cloud break apart before realizing it was a flock of gulls seeking the ocean. The origin of the church was established in medieval times, and the front entrance, which was crafted using stacked rock, was surrounded on either side by graves from past centuries. Leaning forward, I tried to make out the inscription on one only to find, with disappointment, that the name and sentiments had been eroded by weather over the ages. An old man—a caretaker—made his way towards us, taking care not to step on the physical graves.
Smiling, the man put down his rake and half propped upon a rock pillar, squirming his shoulders to find a place of comfort on the cold stone. After a minute of fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a pipe. “So, you’ve read of Black Shuck,” he said, in response to Peter’s query, as he began to fill the pipe with some loose tobacco from a worn leather pouch.
“Well, I really have only heard some vague rumors,” Peter replied, pushing his hands in his pockets. “Can you tell us more?”
“Well, we’ve been told not to gossip about it, since it involves demonic goings on, but I’ll tell you what I know if you don’t repeat it.” The old man squinted up at the sun which was almost directly overhead, obviously happy to have a rapt audience in Peter and me.
“Oh, we won’t, sir.” Peter’s eyes were opened wide, his voice full of earnest cooperation. I was filled with admiration how he could pull off such moments while I, if I tried a similar tact, would be subject to suspicion. Maybe it was that pair of big brown eyes?
“In 1577, there was a service being held in the church. Suddenly, there was a clap of thunder, and this door burst open,” the caretaker intoned, gesturing at the front door. “A large black hound entered, raced down the center aisle to the nave and killed a man and boy; as he left, the church steeple collapsed. The hound reared up, putting his feet on the door, leaving scorch marks on the wood.” The old man had grown serious; his jaw had a slight tremor as he considered his next words. “They call the marks the Devil’s fingerprints.”
“Can you open the door for us to see?” Peter was at his best as naïve schoolboy.
The man looked around, almost furtively, as he rubbed a faded kerchief over his face. I followed his thoughts…he knew the church staff were in a back room, deep in a meeting concerning finances, and they’d never know. The old man loved to tell the story and see peoples’ expressions of astonishment when the marks on the door were revealed. So, with a little dramatic flourish, he pulled the wooden door back. We peeked at the interior finish, and indeed, there were black marks on the surface of the wood.
“Wow!” Peter exclaimed, wanting to give the caretaker some
pleasure by seeming amazed. I added a little drama by grabbing Peter’s arm and gently fanning my face with a lace handkerchief.
The old man thought I was going to collapse, so he quickly closed the door and resumed his tilting posture on the rock pillar. His reluctant pipe, by then, was fully engaged, and a cloud of blue smoke encircled his head; the scent of burning tobacco filled the air. “The story was that a local nobleman became enraged at his wife, thinking she was unfaithful to him. He threatened to kill her, and she ran off, crossing the moors. He chased her and finally caught her, stabbing her with a knife. Her dog, which was a large black hound, loved his mistress, and he turned on her killer and savaged him, ripping out his throat.” The man sighed. “His master is the Devil, now,” he concluded with a shrug of thin shoulders.
I glanced at Kipp who was starring at the marks on the door, his ears flat, posture rigid. Elani was next to him, her furry shoulder almost pressing against his. It was clear the story of the devil had made them both more cautious than usual.
Tugging on Kipp’s collar lightly to break the hypnotic spirit of the moment, I asked the man if he knew of anywhere we might stay the night. He suggested a small boarding house and gave directions. We excused ourselves after thanking the man and walked slowly down the hill towards the picturesque village. The one and two story dwellings were separated by tiny gardens which, later in spring and summer, would be filled with flowers. I could imagine larkspur, bluebells and delphinium stalks lined up against the rock and clapboard walls. The scent of the ocean was subtle but suggestive of our proximity to water.
The proprietor of the rooming house was short, barely five feet, with a knot of white hair wound so tightly on the top of her head that I wondered if her smooth complexion was partially due to the pulled strands tugging against the effects of gravity. She answered the door wearing an apron which had the makings of dinner upon it.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 16
