A Christmas Carol Betwixt

Christmas: A Carol Betwixt (A work in progress) Chapter One Scrooge could never be anything other than cold of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time

Exiting the counting-house, two gentlemen walked dejectedly away from it. “Mr Fosdyke,” said the first gentleman, “I am deeply saddened that anyone could be so cold of heart, especially so at this time of the year.”

“Indeed, Mr Hartwell,” the second gentleman replied. “Imagine, wanting to put the poor and destitute into prisons, to punish them, so, because of their bad luck. Mr Scrooge must surely be the coldest person in England, this Christmas.”

“His clerk was suffering mightily, so cold that it was in his office,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. “Did you see the fire they had set in the grate?”

Nodding, Mr Fosdyke replied, “I did. Mr Scrooge could never be anything other than cold of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time.”

“Come; we have others to call upon before this day has finished with us,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleage.

“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “I am sure they will – all of them – offer us a better welcome than Mr Scrooge.” As the gentlemen made their way along the narrow, cobbled street, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the cold shadowy doorways and arches lining it.

Rounding a bend in the street, Mr Hartwell gasped, in shock, when he spied someone lying face down upon it. “Look,” he said, pointing to the unfortunate person, “someone is in need of our help.”

Approaching the person (it was a male) they tried to ascertain who it might be. “Who is it?” Mr Fosdyke asked his colleague “I don’t know,” Mr Hartwell replied. “He is mightily thin, though.”

“And small,” Mr Fosdyke added.

“Help me to roll him over, so we can get a look at his face,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. They rolled him over, onto his back.

“He’s a child!” Mr Hartwell gasped, quite in surprise.

“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke concurred. “He’s no more than ten or eleven years of age, I’d hazard a guess.”

“He’s wet to the bone,” said Mr Hartwell.

“And also as cold as the grave,” Mr Fosdyke added. “Come; we must get him indoors, before a warm fire, lest he expires from exposure this very night.”

Later, at the gentlemen’s base, the boy, seated in a chesterfield chair in front of a roaring log fire, offered his hands to the flames, warming them. “Begging your pardon, sirs,” he said, speaking timidly, “but how did I get here, wherever it is?”

Offering him a mug of piping hot tea, Mr Fosdyke said, “You are safe, here; it’s our base. We found you lying unconscious in the street.”

“And on so cold a night,” Mr Hartwell added. “We feared for your life, so we did.”

Accepting the tea, the boy said, “Thank you, sirs, for helping me.”

Sitting on a chair adjacent the boy, “Mr Fosdyke said, “Pray tell us your name, lad.”

“And why you were lying there, unconscious, in the street,” Mr Hartwell implored. “Your parents must be sick with worry.”

However, staring blankly into his mug, sipping his tea, the boy offered no explanation as to why this was so.

“Has the cat got your tongue,” Mr Fosdyke asked, jesting, trying to lighten the child’s mood.

Running a finger around the rim of his mug, the boy said, “My name is Tommy, Tommy Tilbert, sirs.”

“And?” Mr Hartwell asked, urging him to say more.

“And...I had been playing.” he told them, uncomfortably recalling it.

“Playing outside, at four of the o’clock – in the month of December?” Mr Hartwell asked, thinking he heard incorrectly.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. “It’s true!”

“It’s alright,” said Mr Fosdyke,” we believe you, don’t we Mr Hartwell?”

“Humph, yes,” he replied, uncomfortably clearing his throat. “You must have had good reason to be there, on so cold an evening.”

“I did, I did!” Tommy insisted. Running his finger ever faster around the rim of his mug, he said, “You see, sirs...I am homeless – and I was set upon.”

“Set upon?” Mr Hartwell asked, concerned for the boy.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Who attacked you?” Mr Fosdyke asked, worried for the child.

His finger stopping, Tommy looked up from his mug, and then said, “Street urchins.”

“Why did they attack you?” the gentlemen asked, concerned for his safety.

“Because I am homeless,” he told them.

“But they are also homeless,” said Mr Hartwell, scratching his head, confused by Tommy’s story.

“They attacked me because I am not one of them, in their gang,” Tommy explained. “I have not always been homeless, sirs.”

“Why are you homeless, then?” Mr Fosdyke curiously asked.

His finger running around the ring of his mug once again, Tommy’s thoughts deepened, remembering how it had come about.

“Did you get lost?” Mr Hartwell asked. “Because if you did, we shall do all that we can to reunite you with your parents.”

Bursting into tears, Tommy wailed, “My mum and dad are dead!”

Stunned by this news, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke were at a loss as to what they might say in reply.

“Mum and dad died last year, just before Christmas,” Tommy sobbed. “They died of consumption, both of them – the same day.”

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Mr Hartwell said, in all honesty.

“Please accept my sincerest sympathies,” Mr Fosdyke said sympathetically.

“Thank you, sirs,” Tommy replied. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he said “The landlord came to our house the day after their funeral. He told me to get out, that he had to fumigate it, after them dying from consumption, there. That’s what he said. He told me that I could

return a week later, when the fumes were gone. But when I returned, there was a new family in our house, and they ran me, threatening me with the police if I ever returned, so they did.”

“Have you any brothers or sisters?” Mr Hartwell enquired.

“No, sir, not any,” Tommy answered despairingly.

“Have you any relatives?” Mr Fosdyke asked.

“Apart from an uncle and aunt, living somewhere in Pimlico, that I was unable to find, I have none at all,” Tommy glumly replied.

“That’s why I was on the street.”

“And why the street urchins picked on you,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Yes,” Tommy answered. Taking off one of his shoes, he reached into it (the gentlemen thought it was to fish out a stray stone).

Withdrawing his hand, Tommy said, “But they didn’t get this.” He showed them a shiny bright sixpence. Seeing it, the gentleman laughed, so amused that they were. Perturbed by their reaction, Tommy said, “Why are you laughing? This is my life savings!”

“We are laughing with you,” Mr Fosdyke kindly explained, “not at you.”

“Mind your money well,” Mr Hartwell told Tommy.

Later, after the gentlemen had shown Tommy upstairs, where the housekeeper, Mrs Mapplethorpe, put him to bed, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke relaxed, seated in front of the roaring log fire. Drinking

port, they discussed their find. “The child fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Indeed,” Mr Fosdyke concurred, “he was so tired, roaming the streets for almost a year, he was unable to keep his eyes open long enough to bid us goodnight.”

“We must go search for the child’s uncle and aunt, this very evening,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Indubitably,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “And we shall not rest until we have found them. Mrs Mapplethorpe, the housekeeper, will take care of Tommy while we are gone.”

Lighting a taper from the fire, Mr Hartwell offered it to his pipe.

Sucking, breathing in the sweet smoke, he relaxed, enjoying the moment. “You know something, Mr Fosdyke,” he said, blowing out smoke. “I have been thinking.”

“Thinking,” Mr Fosdyke replied, “about what?”

Chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr Hartwell said, “About Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“Yes, Christmas,” he answered. “I have been thinking about it for a while, now. Tommy has focused my thoughts. Let me explain...”

By the time Mr Hartwell had finished explaining, telling Mr Fosdyke his thoughts about Christmas, his colleague was somewhat

confused. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “you want to make Christmas better by making it easier?”

“Yes, in a nutshell, that’s it,” Mr Hartwell replied.

“But how is that possible?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “There are so many poor and destitute in England, let alone the rest of the world, it would take a miracle to achieve such a noble ambition.”

Placing his glass of port onto the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell looked hard in his friend’s eyes, and then said, “A miracle is exactly what I am hoping for.”

Thinking his colleague had drank a port too many, Mr Fosdyke reached up to the mantelpiece and pushed his glass gently away from him. Laughing good naturedly, Mr Hartwell said, “That was my first glass of port, and well you know it.” Reclaiming his glass, he sipped the delicious liquid. “I can see that you are confused, old chap,” he said, “so I will put it another way.” Returning his glass to the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell said, “Can you recall what Mr Scrooge said about Christmas?”

“He said many things about Christmas,” Mr Fosdyke replied, “and all of them unfavourable.”

“He most certainly did,” Mr Hartwell admitted. Gazing into the fire, he watched some sparks, escaping the logs, flying up the chimney, then he said, “He also told us that his partner, Mr Marley, died seven years previous, this very night.”

“He did,” Mr Fosdyke answered. “I thought it most peculiar that such a terrible thing happening – and so close to Christmas – had not softened his temperament, not even a bit.”

Inspecting his pipe, Mr Hartwell noticed that it had gone out.

Tapping it against the fireplace, he emptied his pipe of spent tobacco. Refilling it, he said, “If I was Mr Marley, alive and well, not dead as a doornail in a cold and damp grave, I would use my money to make this a Christmas, better than any before it, for all to enjoy.”

“I am sorry, old chap,” said Mr Fosdyke, “but I cannot see how talking about Marley can make Christmas any easier.”

“After we have visited his grave, you will,” Mr Hartwell solemnly whispered.

Chapter Two Here Lies the Body of Jacob Marley

Later that evening, on their way across London, trying to find Tommy’s uncle and aunt, the gentlemen digressed from their route.

Stopping at the graveyard where old Marley lay buried, Mr Fosdyke and Mr Hartwell entered it, searching for his grave.

“I say,” Mr Fosdyke whispered, “Is this really necessary, visiting such a dreary place – and on so cold an evening?”

Pointing the way forward, to the low corner of the graveyard, Mr Hartwell said, “I’ll wager you a shilling that Marley is buried, there, in the paupers’ lot. Come; let us inspect it.”

Stepping into the low corner of the graveyard, avoiding a newly excavated grave awaiting its occupant, Mr Fosdyke swathed his collar around his face, covering his nose. “This is an abysmal place,” he bemoaned. “It is so rank with the stench of death, I wonder if the corpses lying within it are covered at all.”

Pointing to one of the headstones, Mr Hartwell said, “There; that is Marley’s grave.”

“That one,” Mr Fosdyke incredulously asked, “the grave with the smallest headstone of them all? Surely, not even Mr Scrooge would bury someone he knew in so miserly a manner.”

Approaching the grave, the gentlemen inspected its diminutive headstone. It read: Here lies the body of Jacob Marley. Born 1785 Died 1836.

“Oh, that he was alive again,” Mr Hartwell said, patting the cold stone. “I am sure he would see things, namely money, in a new light.”

“You told me that when we got here, to this wretched man’s grave, I would understand how to make Christmas easier,” Mr Fosdyke grumbled, “but I am none the wiser. I am as perplexed as before we set off.”

Coming clean, Mr Hartwell admitted, “I had a hunch, a gut feeling, the instant Mr Scrooge told us his partner was dead, that we had to come here.”

Removing his hat, Mr Fosdyke scratched his head thoughtfully through his thinning grey hair. Donning his hat, he said, “If I had just met you, I would have thought you a candidate ripe for Bedlam, saying such a queer thing. But since I know you – and for a considerable time at that – I will give you the benefit of the doubt.

Pray tell me some more.”

Coughing awkwardly, clearing his throat, Mr Hartwell said, “That’s about it, old chap, whatever it is, be it intuition, sixth sense or an

insight into a realm of creation that I know precious little about, I was impelled to come here, this evening.”

“All that I know,” Mr Fosdyke grumbled, nervously looking about them, “is that we are sitting ducks, ripe for the picking, secreted at the back of this graveyard. Vagabonds pay no heed to the goodwill of Christmas, you know.”

Suddenly, there was a sound, like someone stepping on dried leaves.

Pointing to the nearest tree, Mr Hartwell whispered, “Hush!”

What the gentlemen saw next was scarier by far than mere vagabonds...

Chapter Three I was not always like this, a ghost

“What is it?” Mr Fosdyke whispered, pointing fearfully at the tree.

“Someone is lurking, there,” Mr Hartwell replied. “Whoever you are,” he warned, speaking louder, “know you this, there are two of us!”

“And we are armed!” Mr Fosdyke cautioned.

Glancing peculiarly at his colleague, Mr Hartwell asked, “Armed?”

“Yes, with our canes,” Mr Fosdyke answered. “Whoever it is, lurking under that tree, doesn’t know that is all that we have,” he whispered. “He might reconsider his options, thinking we armed with something altogether more threatening than walking canes.”

In spite of Mr Fosdyke’s wishful thinking, the clandestine individual, weaving between the low slung branches, continued to act in the same threatening manner. Around and around he went, close enough for the gentlemen to get a glimpse of him but far enough away to conceal his true identity.

Waving, catching his colleague’s attention, Mr Hartwell said, “The best form of defence is offence.”

“It is?” Mr Fosdyke anxiously replied.

“Yes!” Mr Hartwell insisted. “We shall play him – whoever it is – at his own game.” Pointing to where they had stepped into the low corner of the graveyard, he said, “Circle across to the right, heading for that open grave. I’ll go about in the opposite direction. We shall meet at the grave, and push, shove, scare; do whatever we must to send our worrier falling, crashing into it.”

In a pincer like movement, the gentlemen, armed only with walking canes, circled the low corner of the graveyard, herding the clandestine individual towards the grave at its entrance.

The closer they got to the grave, herding the mysterious individual through the low hanging branches and dead grasses, the more excited (and apprehensive) the gentlemen became. Approaching each other close by the entrance, they breathed a sigh of relief, believing the job almost done. However, the mysterious individual, howling, groaning, grating its disquiet at being treated in so callous a manner, abandoned the cover of branches. Rushing out from under the tree, it hurtled towards the gentlemen, and then flew over their heads, rising fast into the night sky, trailing chains, padlocks and boxes far behind it.

“Good lord!” Mr Fosdyke gasped. “What on earth was that?”

Removing his hat, Mr Hartwell scratched his head thoughtfully, and then said, “It was certainly no vagabond.”

Pointing skyward, Mr Fosdyke, gasping again, said, “Look, its returning!”

The creature, falling, returning to earth at great speed, was heading directly towards the gentlemen.

“Run; run for your life!” Mr Fosdyke howled to his colleague.

“I’m running, I’m running!” Mr Hartwell yelped in reply.

Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke dived for cover, trying to escape the thing, so fast they lost their top hats in the process. The descending object, however, stopped before it crashed into them. retrieving his hat, Mr Fosdyke asked, “Where did it go?”

Pointing upwards, Mr Hartwell replied. “There it is, directly above you.”

Gazing up at it, Mr Fosdyke almost fell down with shock, because, hovering directly above him, was a ghost of disingenuous appearance and proportions. The ghost, all callus and grizzly, with a bandage swathed around it head, supporting its jaw, had yards and yards of the cruellest, coldest, rustiest chains he had laid eyes on.

Moreover, the chains had a number of portfolio boxes, locked and secured, attached to them. Skirting away from under the ghost, Mr Fosdyke stuttered, “M, Mr Hartwell, is that t, thing hovering so despicably above us r, really a g, ghost?”

However, before Mr Hartwell had a chance to reply, the ghost, loosening the cloth supporting its jaw, bellowed, “I am indeed a ghost!”

Edging further away from it,” Mr Fosdyke said, “I must be losing my m, mind. Yes, that must be it, because no one can c, converse with the d, dead.”

Speaking again, the creature said, “I was not always like this, a ghost.”

“Y, you weren’t?” Mr Fosdyke asked ever so timidly.

Descending to ground level, the ghost, its chains and portfolio boxes clanging and banging noisily into each other as they settled upon the cold earth, said, “I was once like you, a man, albeit is a misery, penny-pinching aberration of one.”

“You were?” Mr Fosdyke asked almost as timidly as before.

Motioning for them to come closer, the ghost said, “What business do you have here, in this a place for the dead?”

“We came here to pay our respects to Mr Marley,” Mr Hartwell explained.

Rising fast from the ground, its chains, padlocks and portfolio boxes smashing hard into each other, the ghost bellowed, “Marley? You wanted to pay your respects – to Marley? That miserable, pennypinching accountant who thought so little of people that he threw them into the workhouses and debtors prisons if they reneged on their responsibility of debt by as little as tuppence?” Its chains and portfolio boxes rattling and shaking in time to its rage, the ghost awaited Mr Hartwell’s response.

Studying the portfolio boxes attached to the ghostly chains, Mr Hartwell smiled, and then said, “I truly believe that everyone has some good in them...including you, Mr Marley.”

Mr Fosdyke gasped in abject surprise, hearing this.

Bellowing angrily, the ghost took hold of its chains and rattled them so angrily Mr Fosdyke feared the attached boxes might break free and crash down upon them. However, the ghost’s rage subsided as quickly as it had developed. Its manner changing, softening, the ghost returned to ground level, then said, “Why do you, a complete stranger, who never met the man that I was, say such a thing?”

Chapter Four Abandoning the tree, the witch swooped down on her broomstick, towards them.

The ghost, its disposition softening some more, sat down. Resting upon a broken headstone, it said, “Who are you, to see the man that I was?”

“I am Mr Hartwell and this is my colleague, Mr Fosdyke.” Mr Hartwell replied. “We run a charity, helping the poor and destitute, at Christmastime, offering them a brief respite for the hardships of winter.”

“Yes,” said Mr Fosdyke, “our only regrets being that it cannot be more.”

“MORE!” the ghost bellowed, rattling its chains, padlocks and portfolio boxes as vehemently as before. “That is why I am here, like this,” it howled, “because I wanted more!”

“More?” the gentlemen timorously asked.

“Yes!” it replied. “More money to stash away for a day that I knew would never come, when I might spend it!” Motioning for them to come closer, it said, “Look at these chains, I forged them in life;

inch by inch and yard by yard. They are a terrible weight, holding me down, tethering for all eternity to this mortal domain. Lifting one of the chains, it said, “See these attached boxes?” The gentlemen nodded. “They are packed full of money, the money that I saved while in the company of Scrooge, without care or consideration for anyone I might hurt, doing so. What good is it now?” it asked.

“None, I tell you. Are there pockets in a shroud? No, there are not.

Money is useless in the afterlife. These portfolio boxes, packed full of money, are a terrible burden, tethering me ignominiously to this mortal coil. Will I never escape it?” it dolefully asked. Lowering its head, speaking slowly, lowly, it uttered, “That, gentlemen, is why I am here, at this graveyard, on the anniversary of my death.”

“It is?” Mr Fosdyke curiously asked.

“Of course,” the ghost despondently replied. “Because of my sins, my life deeds, the harm that I caused while of the living, I am tethered to this earth, this mortal domain, for all eternity.

Moreover,” it said, raising its head, gazing hard at him, “I am impelled to return to this graveyard, each year, on the anniversary of my death. If only I was able to undo which I have done, if only...”

With that, the ghost lowered its head, shamed by its deeds.

Raising a hand (although the ghost was unable to see it), Mr Hartwell said, “Perhaps, there is a way.”

Raising its head, the ghost uttered, “A way?”

“A way?” Mr Fosdyke incredulously asked.

Having secured the ghost’s undivided attention, Mr Hartwell said, “From the moment Mr Scrooge told us about you, three hours previous, I have been thinking...”

“You have?” the ghost warily asked.

“Yes,” Mr Hartwell replied. “I have been thinking about what you might do, to undo the harm, the hurt you caused to those less fortunate than yourself, if you were alive today, that is. And, a point, you are.”

“And?” the ghost asked, urging him to say more.

“You must go visit your partner, Mr Scrooge,” Mr Hartwell told him. “You must tell him about your miserable existence since that fateful day, when you died. Warn him that he is facing the same fate – perhaps even worse – when he dies. When you have done this, and set him on a path to redemption, I truly believe that you will also be set on that path.”

“What you say has a ring of truth to it,” the ghost answered. “I have considered this course of action for many a year, since my death. I will visit Scrooge this very night. However, as for it bringing about my redemption,” it said, rattling its chains and portfolio boxes, both angry and frustrated, “I think not.”

“You don’t?” Mr Hartwell asked, confused by his tack.

“No,” the ghost dejectedly replied. “I had my chance, before, when of the living.” Pounding one of his ghostly hands into the other, it said, “I will be damned if Scrooge suffers the same fate as I. Rest

assured, sirs, I will do all that I can to convince him to change his despicable ways.” Pointing upwards, he added, “That is, if the wily old witch allows me.”

“Witch?” Mr Hartwell asked, gulping hard, afraid.

“Witch?” Mr Fosdyke asked, shaking all over.

Pointing at the tree under which the gentlemen had first spotted it, the ghost said, “Yes, the witch that worries me while I am walking abroad, both far and wide, during the rest of the year.”

“Worries you?” Mr Fosdyke asked.

“As in controls,” the ghost answered.

“The rest of the year?” Mr Hartwell asked.

“Apart from this night,” the ghost told him, “she controls all that I do while walking abroad. It is the punishment that I have to endure, and for all eternity, for the despicable life I crafted with Scrooge. ” Pointing to the very top of the tree, it said, “Look, she has heard us.”

Gazing up at the tree, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke saw someone, a witch, sitting atop it. Moreover, before they had a chance to say anything more, the witch, abandoning the tree, swooped down on her broomstick, towards them.

Landing adjacent the ghost and the startled gentlemen, the pasty faced witch dismounted her broomstick. After settling her flowing black hair that had a hint of green to it, the witch smartened her coat

and hat (these too were black in colour). Eyeballing the gentlemen suspiciously, she rasped, “What have we here, then?”

“Mr Fosdyke and Mr Hartwell,” Mr Hartwell replied.

“We run a small charity, helping souls at Christmastime,” Mr Fosdyke added.

Raising her broomstick threateningly, the witch said, “Souls? What business do you, men of apparently good fortune, have with souls?”

“We supply them with a few morsels of food, to tide them over the festive season,” Mr Hartwell explained.

“Yes,” said Mr Fosdyke, “we do. And if there is enough money left in the kitty, after doing that, we offer them a dram of port to ward off the cold.”

The penny having dropped, the witch realised that the gentlemen were not after the control of souls (like her). She softened her grip on the broom.

Seeing this, Mr Hartwell said, “Will you release the ghost of old Marley, if only for a short while, so he can visit his former partner, Mr Scrooge?”

“To warn Scrooge not to end up like him?” the witch asked, her eyes narrowing, with contempt.

“Yes, exactly,” Mr Hartwell replied, thinking he had secured her confidence.

Her eyes narrowing some more, the witch said, “You want to deny me or one of my own the control of his soul, when he loses it, at death?”

“Yes,” Mr Hartwell innocently admitted.

Her eyes narrowing even further, the witch croaked, “What’s in it for me, apart from losing control of his soul, that is?”

“The knowledge you have done something worthwhile, to save it, his soul,” Mr Fosdyke foolishly admitted.

Raising her broomstick, the witch, her thin pointy fingers caressing it fondly, said, “Away with you, silly man.” From out of the end of her broom handle a stream of razor sharp light exploded. Hurtling towards Mr Fosdyke, the explosion of light, finding its mark, knocked him hard to the ground.

Helping his friend up, Mr Hartwell asked if he was okay.

“Yes, at least I think so,” he replied, breathing out smoke. “I have an awful pain in the chest, though.”

“Take is easy, old friend,” Mr Hartwell whispered. “Let me do the talking from here on.”

Embracing the thought, in fact wishing he had never set eyes on the wily old witch, Mr Fosdyke agreed to do as his colleague suggested.

Choosing his words carefully, Mr Hartwell said, “Perhaps, witch, you might have a suggestion, an idea, as to how we might proceed regarding this matter?”

Laughing, cackling out loud, the witch said, “You are in the wrong business, helping people. Speaking like that – so diplomatically – you should have chosen politics as a career.”

“Then it’s agreed?” Mr Hartwell optimistically asked her.

Raising her broomstick, the witch said, “I will tell you when that is so, if it is so.”

“Oh,” he glumly replied The gentlemen waited and waited, then waited some more for the witch to resume speaking. When she finally began speaking, she said, “I will release the ghost of old Marley.”

“You will?” Mr Hartwell asked, hardly believing their luck.

“Yes,” she answered. “Moreover, I will dispatch three ghosts to help him in his task; Christmas Past, Present and Future, but on condition...”

“On condition,” Mr Fosdyke enquired, “on condition of what?”

Staring cold and hard at him, she said, “On condition that you are able to find – and return with – the people you are searching for.”

“The people we are searching for, is that all?” Mr Fosdyke asked, daring to speak, so relieved that was by her terms.

“How do you know who we are searching for?” Mr Hartwell asked, thinking there was more to her offer other than kindness.

Swapping her broomstick from one hand to the other, the witch, glowering hard at him, said, “If you fail to return to this graveyard with the people you seek, you must forfeit your souls by way of recompense.”

“I say, steady on!” Mr Fosdyke gasped, shocked to the core by her daring demand. “Our souls are not commodities to be gambled with!”

Butting in, cutting across his colleague, Mr Hartwell said, “We agree with your terms, witch.”

“We do?” Mr Fosdyke asked, more shocked than before.

Sniggering impishly, the witch, addressing Marley’s ghost, said, “Go; go and rehabilitate Scrooge, if you are able to, that is – go!”

The ghost, after securing its jaw with the length of cloth it had loosened earlier, set off on its mission. Returning her attention to the gentlemen, the witch said, “There, it is done.” Pointing a thin, pointy finger to each man in turn, she said, “Remember, you must return, here, to this graveyard before the first rays of light on the morrow.

Mounting her broomstick, she said, “I will be waiting up there, atop that tree. If you do not return before daybreak, your souls will be mine to do with as I please.” With that, she flew up to the top tree.

Later, with the graveyard far behind them, the gentlemen searched for a Hansom cab to transport them across London.

“I say,” said Mr Fosdyke. “Was she all there, the witch?”

“I fear she was more with it than we might ever imagine,” Mr Hartwell cryptically replied. “Look,” he said, pointing along the street, “there is a cab!”

Stepping into the street, Mr Fosdyke waved down the cab. “My man,” he called out, “we are in need of your services!”

Pulling hard on the reins, the Hansom cab driver (he was an incredibly ugly individual), quelling his horse’s ambitions, steered his cab to a stop. “Yessirs,” he said, speaking bad English, “what can I be doin’ for yous gentlemen on this cold Christmas Eve?”

Chapter Five Tommy’s uncle and aunt could never live in so moribund a place

Later, a hansom cab, having travelled for well over an hour through the cold, fog shrouded streets of London, pulled to a halt halfway along a bleak, cobbled street. Tapping the top of the cab, alerting his passengers inside, the cab driver said, “Sirs, if it be pleasing to yous, we have arrived at Pimlico.”

Stepping out from the cab, Mr Fosdyke inspected the bleak, cobbled street. A yellow brick wall, soot covered and grimy, ran alongside the path on the side of the street he was standing upon. On the other side of the street were a variety of dwelling houses, each one as moribund and despicable as its neighbour. “I say,” Mr Fosdyke said to the cab driver, “are you quite sure that we are in the right place?”

“Yessir,” the cab driver replied. “Yous asked me to bring you to Pimlico,” he waved a hand, presenting the bleak, cobbled street to Mr Fosdyke, “and Pimlico it is.”

Stepping out from the cab, Mr Hartwell glanced momentarily at the unwelcoming street. Noticing a gas lamp burning abysmally a few

yards away, he set off for it, hoping to see the street better from there.

“The fare is half a crown,” the cab driver called out, worried for his fare.

Unbothered by the cab driver’s concerns, Mr Hartwell opened his coat pocket and withdrew his pipe. Tapping it against the lamp post, he emptied his pipe of spent tobacco.

“Begging you pardon, sir,” the cab driver said to Mr Fosdyke. “Your friend appears to have left you with the bill.”

“He certainly does,” Mr Fosdyke gruffly replied. Searching through his pockets, Mr Fosdyke found two coins; a two shilling piece and a shilling. “Here are three shillings, my man,” he said, handing the cab driver the money. “Please wait here until I have spoken to my colleague.”

Doffing his cap, the cab driver said, “I will, sir, but only for short while, mind you. This place is not safe, you know. Loitering around here at so late an hour, in the pits of midwinter, is asking for trouble.”

Approaching his colleague, Mr Fosdyke found him filling his pipe with fresh tobacco. “I think the cab driver brought us to the wrong place,” he grumbled “He might even have done it on purpose. I could never believe, not for an instant, that this moribund street – most surely a breeding ground for vagabonds and thieves – is where Tommy’s uncle and aunt actually live.”

Drawing deeply on his pipe, inhaling the sweet smoke, Mr Hartwell considered his colleague’s words. Pressing the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, settling it, he said, “I fully agree with you, Mr Fosdyke.

Tommy’s uncle and aunt could never live in so moribund a place.”

“Then why are we still here?” Mr Fosdyke enquired. “This street is not Pimlico, but only a small part of it. Come; the driver is waiting – but not for long. Let us return to his cab and search the area from the comfort therein.”

However, Mr Hartwell, leaning contentedly against the lamp post, made no effort to return to the cab.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sirs,” the cab driver said, calling out to them “I must be off!”

“It’s alright,” Mr Hartwell replied, waving him on, “you can go.”

Pulling alongside the gentlemen, the cab driver, his demeanour apologetic and worrisome, removed his cap, then said, “With all due respect to yous, sirs, are you sure Pimlico is the place you were wanting?” Gazing furtively from side to side, he warned, “This is not a safe place for the unwary traveller.”

“Do not be concerned for our safety,” Mr Hartwell replied. “We will be fine.” With that he waved the cab driver on.

Donning his hat, the cab driver jiggled the reins and then cracked his whip, signalling his horse to go forward. Setting off in a canter, the horse transported the hansom cab with its less than handsome driver

along the bleak, cobbled street, into the dark of the night before Christmas After mournfully watching the cab disappear along the fog shrouded street, Mr Fosdyke turned to his colleague, and said, “I hope you know what you are doing, old chap. This is an incredibly bleak spot.

A man – even two – could be murdered without anyone seeing the foul deed, let alone being able to stop it.”

Chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr Hartwell took a few moments to reply. When he did, he pointed across the bleak street, saying, “See that house over there?”

“You mean the little one, the two up two down?” his colleague asked.

“I do,” Mr Hartwell answered.

Studying the moribund house, Mr Fosdyke asked, “What about it?”

Inhaling the sweet smoke from his pipe, Mr Hartwell said, “That little house is our next port of call.”

Chapter Six Yes, Who is it?

Crossing the street, the sound of the gentlemen’s footsteps seemed to take on a life of their own, echoing coldly, boldly, warning everyone inside the despicable house, opposite, that they were coming.

“I say,” Mr Fosdyke whispered to his colleague, “this place gives me the creeps.” Mr Hartwell, however, his eyes focused on the moribund two up two down directly in front of them, continued across the street without answering him. Spying someone staring out from the upstairs window, Mr Fosdyke said, “Look, someone is watching us!”

While nodding to his colleague, acknowledging what he had just said, Mr Hartwell stepped onto the pavement at the far side of the street. Approaching the front door of the house, he raised a finger to his lips, signalling for silence. Although Mr Fosdyke wanted to ask Mr Hartwell why such a moribund house was so important to them finding Tommy’s uncle and aunt, he thought better of it, considering the risky situation he truly believed they were in. He also wanted to ask Mr Hartwell if he had any idea who was spying on them from

the upstairs window, but for the same reason as before decided to leave it at that. In silence, he awaited his colleague’s next move.

Taking hold of the door knocker (Mr Fosdyke thought it looked suspiciously like an imp) Mr Hartwell rapped the door three times.

The gentlemen waited and waited, then waited some more, but no one came to answer it, not anyone.

After waiting for nigh on ten minutes, with no one coming to answer the door, Mr Fosdyke, his blood pressure high with worried frustration, said, “I don’t like it, old chap; I don’t like it one bit. This place gives me the creeps, big time.” Just then, the sound of someone moving about behind the door caught his attention. “Did you hear that?” he said, pointing to the door. There is someone in there, behind this door, and they are ignoring us! Go, on,” he said, pointing to the door knocker, “knock it again – only louder!”

Taking hold of the door knocker, Mr Hartwell knocked the door, loud and hard, another three times. When he had done this, the gentlemen waited to see if anyone answered it this time around.

Several minutes later the door, with no one from inside the house bothering to answer the door, Mr Fosdyke’s blood pressure was going critical. Bending down, he opened the rusty old letter box, and then peered through it. “I say,” he whispered, “I can see them, the person inside.”

“Who is it?” Mr Hartwell asked.

“Hold on, it’s rather gloomy in there,” he replied, straining to see.

“They have only the one gas light illuminating the entire hallway.”

Bending down lower, he tried to see clearer. “Ah,” he said, “that’s better.”

“Who is it?” his colleague asked him again.

“It’s an old woman,” Mr Fosdyke gasped, quite in surprise.

Abandoning the letterbox, stranding erect, he blurted, “It’s the witch!”

“The witch?”

“Yes,” he replied, “the same one that we met in the graveyard, earlier.”

Bending down, Mr Hartwell opened the letterbox and peered into the dimly lit hallway.

“What on earth is she doing in there,” Mr Fosdyke asked, “when she is supposed to be waiting for us atop her high tree?”

Moments later, having conversed with the witch via the rusty old letterbox, Mr Hartwell said, “She is going to open the door.”

“She is?” Mr Fosdyke asked, surprised by how easily he had managed to get her to do it.

“Yes,” his colleague answered. “It was just a matter of telling her who we are.”

“But, but she knows who we are – already!” Mr Fosdyke insisted.

Ignoring his remonstrations, Mr Hartwell said, “Hark, she is opening the door.”

Creaking, grating, groaning its disquiet, the crabby old door inched its way open. Poking her head around it, the witch said, “Yes, who is it?”

“It’s us,” Mr Hartwell replied, “Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke.”

Opening the door further, the witch asked, “Why are you here?

Have you given up on your task so soon?”

“Why are we here?” Mr Fosdyke grizzled. “Why is she here,” he asked, pointing surreptitiously at the witch, “asking such ridiculous questions, to boot!”

Removing his hat, Mr Hartwell asked the witch is they could come in.

Opening the door fully, the witch said, “You may enter this place.”

Removing his hat, Mr Fosdyke followed the witch and his colleague into the despicable house.

Walking ahead of them, the witch led the way into the kitchen; a small room, ten feet by ten feet in size. “May I get you gentlemen something to drink, tea?” she asked, tapping a dingy brass kettle that was coming to the boil on an even dingier gas hob.

“No thank you,” Mr Fosdyke quickly replied.

“I would love a cup,” Mr Hartwell surprisingly answered.

“You gentlemen go into the parlour,” the witch told them, pointing with a long bony finger out of the small room.

Entering the parlour (it was almost as small as the kitchen), Mr Hartwell pulled out a chair from under the table, then sat upon it.

The chair, a grubby affair, all cobwebby and dusty, groaned under his weight. Pointing to a free chair, he bid Mr Fosdyke to do likewise.

Although he was accustomed to meeting and mixing with the lower, most unfortunate echelons of society, Mr Fosdyke took offence from the soiled chair. “I’m not sitting on that,” he protested, “not on any of them! Heaven knows what awful disease I might catch, if I did!”

Carrying a tray, supporting two cups of tea upon it, the witch entered the room. Shuffling across to the table, she rested the tray upon it. Handing a cup to Mr Hartwell, she said, “There you are, my dear, tea to warm the weary traveller.”

“If we were so lucky to get any done,” Mr Fosdyke grumbled under his breath.

“I am sorry, did you say something?” she asked Mr Fosdyke, her bloodshot red eyes glowering contemptuously at him.

“No, nothing at all,” he lied. “Ah, is that mine?” he asked, pointing to the cup of tea still left on the tray.

Her manner softening as quickly as it had hardened, the witch handed Mr Fosdyke the said cup. “There you are, my dear,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. Pulling out a chair from under the

table, she sat upon it, watching her guests, one of them sitting and the other one standing, drinking their tea...

Chapter Seven Do I look like a ghost?

After the gentlemen had finished drinking their tea, the witch returned their cups to the tray she had placed on the table. Returning to her seat, she asked, “What’s afoot?”

“A third of a yard,” Mr Fosdyke automatically replied, unable to resist saying it. Glowering hard at him, the witch dispatched a look so sharp it would have curdled butter. Feeling shivery all over, Mr Fosdyke said, “Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me, saying such a ridiculous thing.”

“We are, as you already know, trying to find the child’s uncle and aunt, somewhere in Pimlico,” Mr Hartwell reminded the witch.

“My dear,” she replied, feigning concern, as she rubbed the bony extrusions she called hands, “you are already in Pimlico.”

“Yes, we are aware of that,” Mr Hartwell respectfully answered.

Whispering to his colleague, Mr Fosdyke said, “Tell her about the person we saw looking down at us from the upstairs window.”

“Did you see who it was?” the witch abruptly asked.

“Uh, no, not exactly,” Mr Fosdyke replied.

“What about you, sir?” she asked, turning to Mr Hartwell.

“No,” he answered. “Whoever it was moved away from the window the instant we spotted them.”

“Would you like to go upstairs,” the witch asked, “to see if they are still there?”

“I say,” said Mr Fosdyke, butting in, “do you think that is wise?”

Pointing upwards, the witch, her mood deepening, croaked, “Are you afraid of what you might find up there?”

Coughing uncomfortably, trying to bluff his way out of it, Mr Fosdyke said, “Afraid – me? No! I am not afraid of what I might find up there!”

Opening the door, the witch hissed, “Then you can lead the way up.”

Clutching his walking cane as if his life depended on it, Mr Fosdyke exited the room. After making his way gingerly along the dimly lit hallway, Mr Fosdyke stepped onto the stairs and began climbing it.

Following closely behind, Mr Hartwell asked his colleague if he was okay. “Don’t you have any idea who is up there?” Mr Fosdyke whispered in reply. “It was your idea to come to this house, you know!”

“No, I’m sorry” Mr Hartwell answered, “I have absolutely no idea who it might be. I came here on a hunch, that’s all.”

“Not another one!” Mr Fosdyke groaned despairingly.

Having climbed the stairs, the gentlemen waited for the witch to join them atop the small landing. However, this did not happen. Gazing down the stair well, Mr Hartwell called, “Witch, we are waiting for you.” The witch, however, never answered him. “Witch, where have you gone?” he asked. For a second time the witch failed to reply.

Retracing their steps, the gentlemen searched the ground floor of the house, trying to find the elusive old witch. Unable to find her in either the kitchen or parlour they returned to the dimly lit hallway.

Scratching their heads, perplexed by her sudden disappearance, they had absolutely no idea where she might be.

“Who are you looking for?” a voice suddenly asked from behind.

Spinning around, the gentlemen spied a young girl, no more than ten or eleven years of age, standing on the bottom step of the stairs. The girl, pale faced and sallow in complexion, sporting a head of hair, as black as the blackest of coals, with just a hint of green to it, was dressed in white clothes, all loose and free flowing. Standing motionless upon on the step, she waited for a reply.

“Who are you?” Mr Hartwell enquired.

“Are you a g, ghost?” Mr Fosdyke asked, thinking by now that anything was possible.

“No, silly, I am not a ghost,” she answered. “Do I look like one?”

“Well, no,” he cagily admitted. “If you are not a ghost, then, what are you?” he asked.

“I am a girl,” she told him. Giggling impishly, she said, “You are a silly man, not knowing that.”

“Pray tell us your name, child,” Mr Hartwell implored.

“My name is; no,” she said, stopping midsentence. “You must guess it.”

“You want us to guess your name?” Mr Fosdyke fumed. “We are not here to play games,” he chided. “We are here on a mission to find an uncle and aunt before the night gets away from us.”

Butting in, Mr Hartwell said, “Please excuse my colleague. It has been a long day and he is tired. We are both tired.” Withdrawing his pipe from his coat pocket, he pointed at her with it, and said, “Can I take a shot at guessing your name, child?”

Nodding, she said that he could.

“Are you mad?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “How can you possibly hope to guess her name correctly?”

Paying no attention to his colleague’s concerns, Mr Hartwell stroked his chin with the shank of his pipe, trying to work out the girl’s name.

“At least ask her to give us a clue,” Mr Fosdyke beseeched.

“Well, child, will you give us a clue?” Mr Hartwell asked.

Smiling impishly, she said: “I will tell you this right here and now,

I am named after something, of which I am proud, Like the time of year, the season, so still, Midwinter, resplendent, the time of goodwill.”

A sliver of a smile creeping onto her young face, she said, “Well, what do you think my name is?”

Although he considered his colleague mad, trying to guess the child’s name, Mr Fosdyke said, “Well, Mr Hartwell, what is it?”

Inserting his pipe into his mouth, Mr Hartwell chewed thoughtfully upon it. Moments later, pointing at her with the shank of his pipe, he said, “Your name is Noelle.”

“Correct,” she answered, clapping her hands excitedly. “That is indeed my rightful name.”

“How did you do that, work it out?” Mr Fosdyke gasped, quite in surprise. “Of all the names in the world, how on earth did you know that she was called Noelle?”

“It was a hunch,” Mr Hartwell modestly admitted. “It was simply a hunch.”

“A jolly good hunch,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “I would never have thought of that, not in a hundred years!”

“Not even at Christmas time?” Mr Hartwell asked. Turning to the girl, he said, “Child, Noelle, pray tell us why you are here?”

“Do you know where that wily old witch got herself to?” Mr Fosdyke asked, thinking it better they knew.

Sitting upon the bottom step of the stairs, Noelle said, “I am here to light your way forward.”

“What about that wily old witch, huh?” Mr Fosdyke asked, reminding her of his question.

“Which do you want to know,” Noelle bluntly asked him, “the location of the witch or the way forward?”

“The way forward, of course,” Mr Hartwell insisted.

“Do you agree with that?” Noelle asked Mr Fosdyke.

“Hrrmph, yes, I suppose so” he gruffly replied, feeling hard done by.

Telling them, Noelle said, “When you leave this place, you must travel far across London, to Beggars Bush.”

“Beggars Bush?” Mr Hartwell barked, astonished that she had said it. “That is surely the most dangerous place in London, perhaps the entire country!”

“Nevertheless,” Noelle answered, “it is where you must go.”

“But our business is here, in Pimlico,” Mr Fosdyke explained.

“There is an uncle and aunt living somewhere about whom we must go visit tonight!”

“Beggars Bush is where you must go,” Noelle insisted, “for without going there you will never find the people you are seeking.”

Standing up, she settled her dress and her flowing black hair. It glinted greenly in the dim light. Pointing to the front door, she said, “Away with you.”

“But, but what do we do when we get there?” Mr Hartwell asked.

“Yes,” said Mr Fosdyke, “Beggars Bush is far too dangerous a place to wander about, willy nilly.”

Without taking her eyes away from the door, Noelle said, “Would you rather stay here and wait for the witch to return?”

“On second thoughts,” Mr Fosdyke countered, “perhaps a stroll in the night air would do us some good.” Opening the door, he said, “What say you, Mr Hartwell?”

Stepping out from the house, onto the bleak cobbled street, Mr Hartwell found it hard to believe what he had just witnessed, Mr Fosdyke being ordered about by a mere slip of a girl. Crossing the street, Mr Fosdyke glanced momentarily over his shoulder, to the two up two down they had just exited. “Who is she?” he curiously asked.

“She is Noelle,” Mr Hartwell, quite matter-of-factly.

“That is who she said she is,” Mr Fosdyke retorted. “I want to know who she really is!”

The seeds of doubt thus sown, Mr Hartwell glanced back over his shoulder, hoping to see Noelle standing at the door waving them goodbye. However, it was just as they left it, closed. “Whoever she is,” he said thoughtfully, provokingly, “I have a sneaking suspicion that we are going to see more of her before this night is finished with us.”

“Look,” said Mr Fosdyke, “I see a handsome cab, yonder.” With that, the gentlemen set off, running along the bleak cobbled street, trying to attract the cab driver’s attention, on their way to Beggars Bush.

Chapter Eight Beggars Bush

Later, having travelled halfway across London, to Beggars Bush, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke gazed furtively through the hansom cab window, wondering if they had made the right decision, going there.

You see, the Beggars Bush area of London was something altogether more different – and squalidly tormented – than Pimlico.

Pulling hard on the reins, the handsom cab driver steered his horse to a stop. Tapping the top of his cab, alerting his passengers therein, he said. “Beggars Bush, gentlemen.”

Stepping out from the cab, Messrs Hartwell and Fosdyke eyeballed the area and its colourful residents even more suspiciously than they had done while seated safely inside it.

“That will be three and sixpence,” the cab driver told them. “Which of you gentlemen are game enough to open your purse, first?” he asked. Gazing around them, the gentlemen realised just how many of the unsavoury characters were watching their every move.

Stepping back into the cab, Mr Fosdyke advised his colleague to do likewise. “What are you up to?” Mr Hartwell asked, staring into the cab, at him.

“Did you see them?” Mr Fosdyke asked, pointing furtively through the cab window. “Thieves and vagabonds by the dozen, and all of them buzzing about us like so many wasps around a jam pot!”

“Yes, of course I did,” Mr Hartwell snapped. “Have you forgotten what Noelle told us?” he asked. “That we cannot find the uncle and aunt if we shy away from visiting this place, first?”

“But we don’t even know what we are supposed to do here?” Mr Fosdyke grizzled. “Moreover, how on earth could she, a mere slip of a girl, know – and advise on – what we are doing this most peculiar of nights?”

Tugging at his colleague’s arm, trying to coax him out from the cab, Mr Hartwell said, “Let’s stay for half an hour. Then, if we are still none the wiser as to why we are here, we shall hail us a cab and return to Pimlico. What say you, my friend?”

“Do you really mean that?” Mr Fosdyke sceptically asked.

“Yes, of course I do!” he replied. “What say you? Do we have a deal?”

Opening his purse, Mr Fosdyke fished out three and sixpence.

Stepping out from the cab he handed it to the cab driver. Delving a hand into his coat pocket, he rooted about for some pennies. Finding two, he handed them to the driver, saying, “Here is a tip, my man.”

Accepting the money, the cab driver thanked him and wished both he and Mr Hartwell a merry Christmas.

As the handsom cab disappeared along the fog shrouded street, the gentlemen’s confidence disappeared as fast as the cab. Lowering their heads, trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible, they treaded the icy cold pavement uneasily.

Several minutes later, having passed numerous undesirables, including a man selling candles, a youth begging for coppers and a painted woman touting for business, the gentlemen hoped they were past the worst of it. Lifting his head a smidgeon, Mr Hartwell surveyed the street ahead of them. “Look,” he whispered, pointing surreptitiously forward, “There is hardly anyone ahead of us, yonder. We are almost out of it, this madding crowd.”

Raising his head, inspecting the streetscape, Mr Fosdyke smiled, seeing it. Setting off at a blistering pace, determined to get there as soon as was humanly possible, he had no intention of stopping until he reached it. “Wait for me!” Mr Hartwell called out, following fast behind him.

Just then, however, two hands resting heavy upon the gentlemen’s shoulders, stopped them dead in their tracks. Messrs Hartwell and Fosdyke froze, stiff with fright. However, although the mysterious hands lay heavy upon their shoulders, the gentlemen were surprised that nothing untoward happened to them. They were not attacked, lambasted or even knocked to the ground. Nothing troubled them apart from the mysterious hands weighting heavy upon their shoulders. Suddenly, the mysterious hands, grabbing hold of the

gentlemen by the scruff of the neck, lifted them, jackets and all, off the icy cold path.

Chapter Nine Mr Grimshaw wants to see you

With their feet dangling uselessly beneath them, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke feared for their lives. Peculiarly, though, like before, when the mysterious hands had lay resting upon them, nothing happened. Wriggling about, Mr Hartwell tried to swing himself around so he could see who was lifting them up, displaying them so ignominiously for all and sundry to see. Following his colleague’s example, Mr Fosdyke did likewise.

“Hah hah,” a voice (it was male) boomed from behind. “The pipsqueaks are playing ring a rosies.” Although the incredibly loud voice terrified them, the gentlemen swung even more, determined to see their assailant. Their assailant, however, laughed all the louder, “The pipsqueaks will be playing here we go round the mulberry bush, next, hah hah!”

Undaunted by his jibes, tormenting them in so callous a manner, Messrs Hartwell and Fosdyke swung even harder, trying to see who it was and hopefully break free. Finally, Mr Hartwell swung around enough to snatch a glimpse of him. Gasping with fright, when he saw who – what it was, Mr Hartwell feared they might never break free.

“What is it, Mr Hartwell?” his colleague asked. “What have you seen that has you all in a quandary?”

However, before Mr Hartwell could answer, to tell him what he had seen, the powerful hands, loosening their grip, dropped the gentlemen. Messrs Hartwell and Fosdyke crashed hard into the pavement. Nursing his hurt, Mr Fosdyke struggled to his feet. “Are you alright?” he asked Mr Hartwell.

“Yes, I am fine,” he replied. “Apart from a sore ankle, that is.”

“You pipsqueaks are so funny, hah hah!” the mysterious voice boomed out again.

Spinning around, Mr Fosdyke gasped in surprise when he saw him; a veritable giant a man dressed in dark clothes, all grimy with soot, like those of a chimney sweep. Standing brazenly before them, with his hands on the hips and laughing out loud, he said, “Why are you staring at me, so?”

“Because of your great height,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “You must be all of nine feet tall!” he said, still gasping in surprise “Have you never before seen a giant?” the giant asked, surprised at his stance.

“No, I have not,” Mr Fosdyke answered.

“What about you?” the giant asked, turning to Mr Hartwell. “Is this also the first time that you have seen a giant?”

Having already come to the conclusion that the only way to escape or at least survive someone as tall and despicable as a giant was by humouring him, Mr Hartwell said, “Yes, you are the first giant I have ever laid eyes on. Moreover, on seeing you, I feel impelled to tell you that the stories I have heard about giants being incredibly ugly are somewhat overrated.”

On hearing this, the giant rested his bony old head upon one of his huge hands, mulling over what he had just heard. Pointing at Mr Hartwell with one of his long, ugly fingers, he said, “I like you.”

“You do?” Mr Hartwell answered, taken aback that his lie had been so readily accepted.

“Yes,” the giant answered. “You have exceedingly good judgement, for a normal, that is.”

“He does?” Mr Fosdyke asked, as taken aback as his colleague.

“Of course,” said the giant. “Normals – that is what giants call people who are smaller than us – are usually closed of the mind.”

“Closed of the mind?” Mr Fosdyke asked, confused yet again.

“Yes,” said the giant. “Their thoughts and opinions – being far greater than their diminutive size – get in the way of them thinking right of the way.”

“Oh, I see,” Mr Fosdyke answered, although secretly thinking the giant was talking nonsense. “What do you think about that?” he

suddenly asked his colleague. “Do you think we normals get things wrong, like the giant says?”

Lying again, Mr Hartwell replied, “Indubitably, old chap, indubitably.”

The giant, his brain quite evidently smaller that his stature suggested, settled the gentlemen’s suits after their aerial ordeal. “I like you, both of you,” he told them. Looking from side to side, as if someone other than they might hear what he was about to tell them, the giant asked the gentlemen to step closer.

Stepping closer, they said, “Yes, what is it?”

“Mr Grimshaw wants to see you,” the giant whispered, barely audible.

“Mr Grimshaw?” Mr Hartwell asked, prodding the giant to tell them some more.

“Why does he want to see us?” Mr Fosdyke asked.

“We are dillydallying,” the giant answered. “Mr Grimshaw, he is low of the patience.” Pointing across the street, he said, “He is waiting for you, there, at number twenty-three Beggars Bush.”

“In there?” Mr Fosdyke asked, eyeballing the near derelict structure with some considerable disdain.

“Yes,” the giant answered. “Do you want to go under your own steam or do you want me to shepherd you there?”

Cutting in, Mr Hartwell said, “We shall go there under our own steam, thank you.”

“That is of the good,” said the giant. “I would have hated having to shepherd you there, you being friends of mine and all that.”

Crossing the street, Mr Hartwell instructed his colleague to do likewise.

Standing outside number twenty-three Beggars Bush, the gentlemen inspected the building. It was in an even shabbier state of repair than they had thought while across the street. The paint was peeling off the windows and door, the gutter and downpipes were so rusty and derelict, the gentlemen wondered why had not fallen off many years hence. And the brickwork, all broken and damaged, was in danger of imminent collapse.

“Go on,” the giant of a man boomed from the far side of the street, “knock of the door!”

Taking hold of the door knocker, Mr Hartwell rapped the door three times. Almost at once they heard someone coming to answer it.

“Well,” Mr Fosdyke said cheerfully, “at least we don’t have to wait for ages, like in Pimlico.”

Shush,” his colleague chided, “they might hear you.”

Chapter Ten I am Mr Grimshaw

Creaking open, the dilapidated door revealed a small, ashen faced man standing directly behind it. Small is really too generous a word to describe him, for he was tiny. Wearing a dismally grey suit that was well past its best, the bald, pasty faced man looked for all intents and purposes as if he was dead. Waving them in, he droned, “Follow me, gentlemen, Mr Grimshaw is expecting you.”

Following the diminutively sized man along a dark, dingy corridor, Messrs Hartwell and Fosdyke wondered why Mr Grimshaw was so eager to see them. Opening a dirty, brown painted door, the pasty faced man pointed into the parlour. “Please wait in there,” he said, directing them in. “Mr Grimshaw will see you, shortly.”

Entering the room (it was remarkably similar to the parlour of the witches house they had so recently visited), the gentlemen each pulled out a chair from under the table then sat upon them. “I say,” Mr Fosdyke whispered to his colleague. “Who do you think this Grimshaw person actually is?”

“I am more concerned as to why he wants to see us,” Mr Hartwell ominously replied.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” Mr Fosdyke answered. “It’s funny, though, how he knew we were in the neighbourhood.”

“I wish that was all that it was, just funny,” said Mr Hartwell. Sitting silently upon their chairs, the gentlemen waited for Mr Grimshaw to enter the room.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Shouting, yelling, hollering at the top of his voice, the little man, accompanied by what can only be described as a shadow of a man, said, “Quick, we are under attack!

Follow us; your lives are in danger!” The gentlemen jumped off their chairs so fast if looked as if they were spring loaded. Following the ashen faced man and the shadow of a man, they exited the parlour and ran into the kitchen.

“Quick!” the ashen faced man ordered. “Get into the yard!”

Following him into the yard, the gentlemen wondered who the attacker might be, for they saw no one at all, threatening or otherwise. Slamming the door shut, the ashen faced man said, “Phew; that was close!”

Feeling that he was somehow missing something, Mr Fosdyke said, “Will you please tell me what is happening?”

The little man, his demeanour hardening, said, “We are under attack, that’s what, you ungrateful clod.”

Having seen nothing of their attacker, Mr Fosdyke asked, “But who is it, the attacker, for I have seen no one at all!”

“Yes, who is it?” Mr Hartwell asked, joining the inquisitive chorus.

“For, in all truth, I never saw anyone, either!”

Raising his hands, the shadow of a man motioned for silence, addressing the gentlemen, he said, “Please allow me to explain.”

Although Messrs Hartwell and Fosdyke waited for him to explain, the shadow of a man took some considerable time to resume speaking. As they watched, waiting for him to explain, they studied him intently. Wearing dark clothes and an even darker coloured hat, the extraordinarily thin man appeared, for all intents and purposes, as little more than a shadow. Although he was no more than five feet in height, he appeared tall standing next to the diminutive, ashen faced man. When he finally began speaking, he said, “I am Mr Grimshaw.”

“You,” Mr Fosdyke blurted, “are Mr Grimshaw?”

“You said it,” Mr Grimshaw strangely replied.

“I thought you would be taller,” Mr Fosdyke said to him.

Turning towards the ashen faced man, Mr Grimshaw said, “I am taller than him.”

Seeing the funny side of it, Mr Fosdyke began laughing. Louder and louder he laughed, deep belly laughs, until tears of merriment were streaming from his eyes.

“Hush,” Mr Hartwell chided, fearing Mr Grimshaw might take offence.

However, instead of taking offence, Mr Grimshaw also began laughing, so too did the ashen faced man.

“What on earth is so funny?” Mr Hartwell asked, flapping his arms about as if he was demented.

Seeing this, Mr Hartwell flapping his arms about as if he was mad, the ashen faced man, Mr Grimshaw and Mr Fosdyke laughed all the more.

“Am I missing something?” Mr Hartwell asked, completely befuddled as to why they were laughing, so.

Several minutes later, when the peals of laughter had finally subsided, Mr Fosdyke, wiping his eyes dry, said, “God, I needed that.” He wiped his eyes some more.

“I wish I knew what you thought was so funny,” Mr Hartwell grumbled.

“Don’t say another word,” Mr Fosdyke warned, “lest you start me laughing all over again!”

Addressing the gentlemen, Mr Grimshaw said, “As I was saying, before out little interlude, we are under attack.”

“By whom?” the gentlemen asked, wanting to her more.

“By time, of course,” he casually replied.

“By time?” Mr Hartwell asked, thinking he heard incorrectly.

“What do you mean, time?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “And how on earth could it attack anyone?” he enquired, thinking that Mr Grimshaw was not being at all honest with them.

“Time can be a sneaky bedfellow,” Mr Grimshaw oddly replied.

“Extremely sneaky,” the ashen faced man added.

“What on earth do you mean?” Mr Fosdyke asked Mr Grimshaw.

“Time, for want of a better word,” Mr Grimshaw explained, “is a paradox.”

Scratching their heads, more confused than before, the gentlemen said, “A paradox?”

“Yes,” he answered, quite matter-of-factly. “It is an absurdity.”

Baffled by what they considered flawed reasoning, to say the least, the gentlemen said, “An absurdity?”

“Yes,” Mr Grimshaw answered. “Time is, for sure, an absurdity. It is the enemy of man no matter in which way you look at it. You think you have more than enough time to do all that you wish,” he went on. “However, you will be lying, there, on your death bed before you are even half way through that which you have planned to do. You will wonder, then, where all the time went.” As he continued to speak about time, Mr Grimshaw installed into the gentlemen a sense, a feeling of hopelessness, that they were going to end up on that inglorious bed no matter what. “Think about it,” he said, pushing his case further. “Time rules your lives. You are

always in a hurry, rushing here rushing there, lest you run out of it, time. Can you truly and honestly tell me that you do not think it strange, perhaps even absurd, that mankind allows itself to be governed – and in so ruthless a manner – by something, a concept that it does not understand?”

“But we do understand time!” Mr Fosdyke protested.

“Then tell me what it is,” Mr Grimshaw said to him.

Although Mr Fosdyke tried to explain the notion of time, what he believed it to be, he found himself increasingly doubting his words.

Many minutes later, having run out of steam, Mr Fosdyke, trying to bluff his way out of it, said, “Well, that’s it, Mr Grimshaw, time.”

Offering his colleague support, despite thinking he had failed abysmally to explain the notion of time, Mr Hartwell clapped enthusiastically.

Clapping, slow, ever so slow, Mr Grimshaw made it patently obvious that he was not impressed – or convinced – by Mr Fosdyke’s argument.

Realising that he was losing the case, Mr Fosdyke tried for a second time to explain the notion of time, but the more he tried, fumbling and mumbling on, trying to explain something that he simply did not understand enough to do justice, the more he felt himself sinking deeper ever deeper into a quagmire of his own making.

Watching his colleague’s faltering attempt to explain his case, with a growing concern, Mr Hartwell became increasingly depressed. In

fact, his mood became so dark, so deep and so morose, abandoning his colleague to his own devices, he withdrew into himself.

“B, but, “Mr Fosdyke spluttered, trying so hard to state his case despite having absolutely no idea what he was going to say next, “But...”

“But what?” Mr Grimshaw cackled in reply.

Hearing this, the cackle, Mr Fosdyke tried even harder to wrest himself free from his depressed state. However, despite trying so hard to break free of it, he sank deeper and deeper into the same depressed state as his colleague. Closing his eyes, offering no further resistance to the Dark powers engulfing him, Mr Fosdyke gave Mr Grimshaw and the ashen faced man what they had wanted of him – submission.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter Eleven The Witch is Mr Grimshaw!