Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion

by Howard, Jonathan L

  I cannot say if Taharqa spoke the truth. He is a vengeful spirit, much consumed with a desire to see our Empire cast out of Africa and his own land of Kush mighty once more. All I can say is that, since the demolition of the Barrage, I have heard no stories of people of Bristol being taken mysteriously near the waters. I cannot, however, speak for the simple folk who live along the Somerset coast. Coward that I am, I have not attempted to find out how they fare.

  I am sealing this document, and depositing it with my lawyers with instructions that it be given to any corporation undertaking major engineering works in that region of the Severn Estuary where the ill-fated Barrage was to have been built.

  Sirs,

  According to historical record, Constables Palmer and Rimes did indeed join the army. Both died at the hands of the Zulus at the Battle of Battle of Isandlwana in 1879. Inspector Bartram died of a heart attack that same year. Thomas Guppy died in Italy in 1882, having been in ill health for many years. There are no historical records concerning Miss Edwards’ supposed manservant, Jenkins.

  Miss Edwards herself, while a noted Egyptologist, was also a successful writer of fantastical fiction of the populist kind. Her ghost story, “The Phantom Coach”, was well thought of and anthologised several times. There being no evidence of the existence of the creatures that she mentions, and no corroboration of her story from any of the other witnesses, it is my belief that everything she has written here is fanciful.

  Thus, while it was entirely right and proper for Messrs Plympton and Naismith to have brought the matter to your attention, I can see no risk whatsoever attached to the Central Electricity Generating Board, or the project to construct a nuclear power station at Hinkley Point.

  Barnabas M. Olmstead, Consultant

  Story Notes

  Amelia Edwards was a real person, and a co-founder of what is now the Egypt Exploration Society. She was also, at one point, vice-president of the Society for Promoting Women’s Suffrage. She really did have a mummy in her house, but it is not known whether it talked. Mrs. Brayshaw was her “companion”. The pair lived together in Bristol for 30 years.

  Thomas Guppy was also a real person. His mother, Sarah, was a noted engineer and inventor. The species of fish known as the guppy was named after Thomas’s nephew, Robert, who first discovered it in Trinidad in 1866. It seemed appropriate that someone from the family be involved with the Deep Ones at some point.

  Kenneth Mackenzie was a real person and was later a co-founder of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

  Taharqa was the fourth pharaoh of the 25th Dynasty of Egypt, a family that originated in the Nubian kingdom of Kush. He was noted for his wars against the Assyrian king, Sennacherib.

  There really were plans to build a Severn Barrage in Victorian times, though it never actually got started. The original plans would have located it further upstream, where the Severn bridges have since been built.

  Dagon really was a sea god of the Philistines, who were probably the same people that Egyptian sources call the People of the Sea. He is often pictured as half-man, half-fish.

  H.P. Lovecraft seems to have had a thing about fish. Events in this story bear some relation to those in his story, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth”.

  The Chronicles of Montague and Dalton: The Hunt for Alleyway Agnes

  - Scott Lewis -

  From the Memoirs of Doctor William Nathaniel Dalton, Esq., 23rd July 1913.

  The Asiatic Cholera epidemic of 1866 swept through Bristol like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Throughout the city men and women were falling sick at an alarming rate, and the poorhouses in particular were awash with reeking, vomiting, disease-ridden specimens. Living as I did at my employer’s country home in Somerset, I initially thought myself lucky enough to be unaffected by the malady, but as is so often the case my fortune in avoiding one peril simply served as a prelude to something far more dangerous.

  What history appears to have expunged from the popular record is that at around the same time a series of rather grisly murders were reported in the Park Street district of the city. The circumstances surrounding the deaths were most strange indeed, and appeared to have baffled the local constabulary, not that this was necessarily difficult given the rudimentary levels of training and discipline possessed by the majority of the city’s officers. The gossip factories have since focused on the vile deeds of such miscreants as Spring Heeled Jack, Doctor Crippen and Jack the Ripper, but for a few weeks at least the story of Alleyway Agnes was the talk of the streets and drinking dens of most of the major cities.

  The story of my own involvement in the tale begins on the morning of the 14th May. I was sat in the drawing room at Greendale, happily reading my copy of the Mercury when my employer walked in. He was dressed in a tweed sporting suit and had already put on his boots. He was motioning at me with his cane.

  “William! Are you not ready yet? Come on, my boy, time is of the essence!”

  Despite being a man of twenty-two he still referred to me as ‘my boy’, but this concerned me less than the fact that either I had missed an instruction or (a more likely case) he had forgotten to give me one. I remain convinced to this day that, for all his genius, Professor Cornelius J. Montague suffered from some hitherto-unclassified mental complication that made more trivial matters - like asking his associate to do an errand or prepare for a journey- simply evaporate from his mental task list.

  For one of the smartest men I have ever known, the Professor still remains something of an enigma. Scientist, adventurer, philanthropist, scholar and friend, he employed me for many years as his assistant, aiding him with his research into the Faeries and other denizens of the Aether, that spirit world which exists alongside our own. From our first venture together — an attempt to create an enclosure to observe the Fae, which ended as something of a catastrophe — through travels to the depths of Africa, the furthest northern reaches of the Arctic circle, and down to the Colonies in Australia, he always seemed to me more of a somewhat eccentric and more-than-slightly insane favourite uncle than an employer. Though many of the great scientific minds of the day pooh-poohed him and mocked his theories, it is thanks largely to his works that we have half the understanding of the spirit realm that we do today.

  I glanced up from my paper with a frown of annoyance, having been reading a particularly interesting article about an archaeologist from the Institute who had uncovered a hoard of Saxon treasure in an underground cavern near Wells. “It is? Well, where are we going?”

  “Bristol!” The Professor exhorted, as he struggled into his overcoat. “Grab your bag, my boy. You may also want to bring Titania. I fear there may be some hefty work in our foreseeable future!” Apparently overnight he had added clairvoyance to his list of talents. I rolled my eyes and set my newspaper down on the side table.

  “I see. May I ask — I mean, could you please remind me as to why we’re making such a sudden journey?”

  He gave me a level stare from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and irritably tweaked one end of his waxed, white moustache.

  “The letter. From Superintendent Chalmers. That arrived this morning. You know, the one I gave you at breakfast?”

  He hadn’t given me a letter at breakfast. I sighed internally, before asking, “Can’t say I’m familiar with the contents. Do you have it with you?”

  “Not now. I put it in the briefcase I asked you to load in to the carriage.”

  He hadn’t given me a briefcase, nor had he asked me to load the carriage.

  Half an hour later, and it was time to leave. My overnight bag was packed with the usual — an extra set of clothes, my nightshirt, a copy of the latest popular novel, in this instance The Adventures of Captain Hatteras — and the tools of mine and the Professor’s trade. My pair of his patented meta-spectral optical augmentators (the last word in aether-based supernatural detection and creative etymology), a large collapsible butterfly net (steel, the netting iron-cored) and Titania — a custom double-barrelled twe
lve-bore fowling-piece, designed to the Professor’s specifications by the famous gunsmith William Scott. The latter was a beautiful creation, etched with a depiction of the briar scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and subtly machined to be just a tad more accurate than most weapons of the sort. I also packed a box of solid iron slugs… just in case. In our many dealings with the denizens of the Aether the Professor and I often had recourse to apply the belief that when all else fails, two large lumps of twelve-gauge cold iron are an effective final solution to most Fae-related problems.

  I also made sure to stop by the stables, where Goblin-Groom was asleep on the neck of one of the Professor’s draught horses. My occasionally-stalwart hobgoblin companion was fascinated by the creatures, and spent most of his time trying to figure them out. He’d adopted me as his human a good five or six years ago, and aside from the odd prank, he’d become a welcome member of the household, scampering around in his little brown loincloth, tripping over his own beard and generally lending a helping hand with keeping the place tidy. We had to keep Dorry the cook from trying to sew him little hobgoblin-sized outfits, because we knew how offended he’d be if we gave him clothes; they can be quite malevolent little creatures when wronged, and apparently suggesting that they’re walking around in the nude is the height of human insolence.

  As the aethercarriage clattered along, Goblin-Groom spent the entire journey tying my shoelaces together, then shaking his head and muttering in disgust before trying to find an even more fiendish method with which to trip me up. The Professor was sound asleep, and I was sat reading the letter which we had eventually found hidden under a copy of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species.

  Dear Cornelius,

  I know that you and I have had our differences in the past, but I fear I may be in need of your expertise in that peculiar field you study. I have no doubt that you will gloat when you read this, but I find myself flummoxed by new evidence that has arisen regarding the spate of murders that I’m sure you have heard about. I would appreciate your assistance in this matter, and will tell you more when you get here.

  Yours,

  Gerald Chalmers

  Superintendent

  Bridewell Street Station

  I must have read the letter a half-dozen times before Bristol finally came in to view down the Wells Road. Even in the bright spring sunshine the faint green-tinted aether-fume haze marked the location of the city for a good five or six miles before the town itself appeared over the horizon. The smog was particularly thick today, largely due to the clear, cold weather and the lack of a breeze to carry a large part of the stinking cloud out to the surrounding countryside. The cloud sat over Bristol like a brooding spectre, fed by the constant burning of coal and aether crystals. Aether-smoke had become a common feature of the up-and-coming industrial city of the period, ever since we started tapping the ley lines that criss-crossed the country and refining the energy that coursed along them for fuel. Now that I lived in the country I found myself almost sickened by the thought of going back in amongst the pollution, despite having spent most of my childhood in the city paying it absolutely no heed.

  Goblin-Groom became more and more restless the closer we came to the city, and eventually I lost my temper with him. “Groom! What on Earth is the matter? Stop that now, you pesky little bleeder!” He had been tugging at my shirt sleeves for a while, and had started attempting to undo my cufflinks. He looked up at me, hurt, and turned away, folding his arms and huffing like a miniature version of a petulant child. He started to chant softly to himself in that lilting voice of his.

  “Humans nasty, no one see

  Goblin-Groom excited be.

  Still, I’ll show them all one day,

  When they’s need me, I’s away!”

  It was typical Goblin-Groom moping, and I paid it little heed. His sulking was, after all, far better than his constant badgering. A few moments later he began to fade from view, a trick he normally used to keep out of sight when strangers were around but had been known to employ to indicate that he was very upset with me. I shook my head and took out my novel; a huffy hobgoblin was the least of my worries at that moment in time.

  A further two hours passed — thankfully in relative silence - before the aethercarriage pulled up outside the police station on Bridewell Street. Abraham got out to open the door for the Professor and I to dismount. For a man in his early fifties, Professor Cornelius James Montague was still surprisingly spry. His cane was purely for show and not a walking aid, though he was capable of playing the frail older gentleman whenever he thought he could swindle his way out of helping with, say, heavy lifting. As we entered the station, he threw a smile at the desk sergeant.

  “Sergeant Benningfield! A delight to see you again. Is your Super around?”

  Benningfield looked askance at the Professor, then nodded towards the back of the reception area. “Out back, in the Autopsy Room. We had another last night.”

  “Another?”

  “Another murder. Lass found over in Frogmore Street, slashed up good and proper same as all the others. Seventh in as many days…” Benningfield leaned over the desk conspiratorially.

  “Looks like something’s been ‘aving a bit of a nibble, Professor.” I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but didn’t have time to ask for clarification as we were ushered through into the back of the station.

  The autopsy room at Bridewell was a recent addition, paid for by the British Aether Extraction Corporation as part of their continuous program of ‘civil responsibility’. We found Superintendent Chalmers in there, a tall, spindly gentleman with a half-hearted attempt at a moustache. He and the station doctor stood over a body on a cold marble slab, and both looked up as we approached.

  “Professor. Mr. Dalton. A pleasure to see you both, as always.” Chalmers walked across the tiled floor and held his hand out.

  “Gerald, dear boy, a pleasure to see you again. I must say you’ve certainly piqued my interest, given your notable disdain for my field of study.” The Professor took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. As we said our hellos I noticed that Chalmers looked drawn and tired, a condition that in no way assisted his semi-wilted appearance.

  “I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t need your help, Cornelius. I’m afraid our latest case may have taken a turn which has put it beyond my realm of expertise, and if the ravings of a madman are to be believed, dropped it squarely into yours. Mr. Dalton, I’m glad to see that you are well.”

  Even his handshake was weary. I liked Chalmers, and I have to confess to some level of discomfort at seeing him like this. He was a member of our club, the Bellerophon, and while he thought the Professor’s theories regarding aether-mining and the seemingly-increasing presence of the Fae was ‘utter bunk and flim-flam’, he was a good man, one of the shining beacons of Bristol’s law enforcement community. He was also a man who appreciated advancements in the scientific fields, particularly anything that made his job easier, but, like many of the more scientifically-minded members of society, this brought him into direct disagreement with the Professor, something which often caused raised voices at the Bellerophon’s main bar.

  “It’s good to see you as well, Superintendent. Though judging by the look of the poor wretch on the slab, I’m going to make an educated guess that this isn’t a simple social call?”

  Chalmers looked back at the corpse, then gestured for us to move closer.

  What lay on the slab was less than pleasant to behold.

  It was the body of a woman around my own age. Probably between twenty and twenty-two years old. I suppose that in life she would have been described as pretty after a fashion, but the five parallel cuts which ran from her left temple to right lower jaw and had caved in the bridge of her nose put paid to any real (and frankly less-than-appropriate) judgement of her physical appearance. She had deep lacerations on both arms, and one long cut which had laid open her throat.

  Despite the horrific nature of these injuries, what shock
ed us both the most were the markings on her leg and torso. Chunks of flesh had been ripped away, leaving ragged, gaping holes that had already started to turn a pale purple around the edges. It took me a few seconds to realise what they were, but the minute I did I felt my gorge rise. I have to confess that the undignified choking sound I made trying to keep it under control may not have been my proudest moment.

  “These… These are bite marks.”

  The doctor gave me a disdainful glance, and sniffed haughtily. “A very astute observation. I hadn’t realised. Thank you for pointing that out.”

  “I’m sorry… I just hadn’t expected to see somebody who had been half-eaten when we were asked to come.”

  “Gentlemen, please.” Chalmers’ voice was exasperated and weary. “Yes, Mr. Dalton. These are bite marks. The other bodies found over the past fortnight have also all been partially devoured. This young lady is, I hate to say, the least-damaged specimen of the eight.” He frowned, then took a cigarette from his pocket, struck a match and lit it. He took a draw and exhaled with a breath that was half smoke, half sigh. “She came in last night. We believe her to be a Miss Rosemary Clay, of Museum Avenue. She left the home she and her fiancé shared late yesterday evening, then around midnight one of our officers came across the body… and her assailant.”