CHAPTER TWO
Staring at the curved arch of the brickwork above him Druitt thought about what was happening to him and tried not to breathe to deeply. It was of course only a very few hours since he had left Mr. Valentine's school in the scenic and (he thought now) sweet-smelling environs of Blackheath, left what had, up till then, passed for normality and now here he was with a group of persons who he had never met in his life and yet - somehow they all seemed familiar. Even the faintly feminine Mme. Blavatsky, currently in the boat ahead of them with the Lama: he knew her, had been with her, had even (he shuddered) been intimate with her. In the other boat, the Lama turned round and looked at him.
"Yes, Mr. Druitt" he said, raising his voice to be heard over the whimperings and assorted moans coming from the Marjorie/Tumblety conglomerate, "You are starting to realize the truth. This is not a nightmare or a chalk-induced delirium. We are familiar with each other and we have reunited for a Purpose. When we reach a place of safety I will try to explain but until then, compose yourself."
The man who had been introduced to him as James Maybrick sat up in the boat.
"Listen," he said, "do you hear something?" Druitt listened.
"No, just the splash of water and other things against the hull."
"Listen harder." And there, just at the limit of audibility, Druitt heard -music? Yes, definitely music of some sort.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I've heard something like it before when I was in Austria organizing the Salzburg-Liverpool Cotton Trade Fair. It's zither music."

Out of the darkness before them they could see a strange eldritch light flickering about the figure of a man. He was playing a musical instrument. As they passed they could hear him scream something to them.
“What was that?” asked Druitt?
“I don’t know. It sounded like: “Don’t forget the hairy lime!”
They both listened as the eerie plinky-plonk died away into the distance. Druitt looked at his companion: a tall, somewhat morose individual with a sandy moustache and a thin line of blood dripping from his nose. "You have been injured?" he enquired.
"No," the other replied. "It just seems to happen from time to time. It goes with these voices that whisper in my head. Everything started when I visited America last year. Went down to New Mexico to inspect my wife's farms, saw this light in the sky and ever since then I've had this problem. It must have..."
He was interrupted by a cry from Mme. Blavatsky. The boats slowed and the strange being who seemed to be steering pushed a button. In front of them, appearing out of the gloom, they saw a landing stage. Waiting for them was a tall, fit-looking man with a military moustache and closely-trimmed beard. He appeared to be wearing the costume of a Prince of Japan and was accompanied by a figure rather like their steersman but clothed in what appeard to be a military greatcoat several sizes too large for him.
"Greetings, gentlemen and colleagues" he said. "I am the man who wrote to you all. I am Walter Weedon Grossmith."
“But didn’t I see you back at Bishopsgate before we left?” cried Marjorie Eddy.
“No, no” said Grossmith in a somewhat petulant tone. “That must have been my brother.”

Grossmith surveyed the upturned and astonished faces 'You have endured much', he said. 'Before we proceed further, you must rest and refresh yourselves. We have food waiting.'
'Eughrr', said Marjorie. 'I'm not eating anything that's been in a sewer.'
'Don't disturb yourself Mr. Eddy', said Grossmith, stroking his unevenly drooping moustache. 'We will adjourn above. Please come this way'. The group, led by their strange steersman climbed with relief from the boats onto the jetty. Grossmith lead the way to a primitive wooden lift
. The small figure in the large clothes cranked a handle and the ill-assorted party slowly and jerkily
ascended. They were at length disgorged into a dimly lit and cavernous room. Above could be heard faintly the sounds of laughter, even music. The two small figures scuttled about lighting candles and as they did so, a table was revealed, on which exquisite delicacies were laid. Eggs, ham, mustard and
cress, strawberry jam a gleaming plate of golden buns, muffins dripping butter, and a beautiful fruit cake covered with pink icing and with a legend written on the top in white: “Heaven Protect Your Endeavors.” Maybrick sighed. It was just the sort of cake that his mother had made for him when he came back from school for the holidays. His mother had always loved him more than his brother Michael who had to be content with a baked potato and a penny bun..

Tumblety, who had at least partially recovered his sense, hurled himself at the table with a greed that awoke unpleasant associations in the wan and drooping Marjory. But Grossmith stopped him with a gesture 'Not there Mr. Tumblety please', he said. 'That is needed above. Our repast is located elsewhere'.
In an antechamber four portions of fish and chips wrapped in copies of the “Daily Telegraph” and accompanied by pickled onions and other savouries lay steaming on an otherwise bare kitchen table. Maybrick, Marjory and Druitt surveyed them with some interest. 'I hope you all like vinegar', said Grossmith, gesturing his guests to be seated.
'Just a moment. Mr. Grossmith', said Maybrick. The sight of the food had awakened his dormant nausea, and his irritation and fear found voice for the first time.
'I don't know you, or these other people. You might be some deranged madman planning to murder us all. I won't sit at your table until you give me a complete explanation of why you have brought me to this place'
'If you will all do me the honor of sitting down, I will try to explain. The Hammonds Chop Sauce is in the jar on the shelf over there.”
Marjory, Tumblety and Druitt obeyed silently, doing their best to appear at ease. 'Pickled egg anyone?' Tumblety unscrewed the jar with a practised hand, and offered them around, playing host with what was almost savoir-faire. Only Maybrick did not yield to the mood.
'I prefer to stand' he said.
With a wave of his hand Grossmith let it pass. 'My colleagues and I dined earlier' he said, 'but we will join you in liquid refreshment, and a toast.' The small beings filled seven cups with a rich dark fluid that seemed to bubble mysteriously. The scent alone was strangely reviving to them all.
'To the Cabal!', said Grossmith
Obediently, though with no understanding of what they did, Tumblety, Druitt and Marjory raised their cups.
'The Cabal', they repeated. But this was too much for Maybrick. 'Cabal?' he cried, a rising edge in his voice, 'what cabal? I see no cabal!'
'Then you are not looking', said the Lama softly into his tea cup.
'”At what?” said the cotton-broker, proudly twirling his Fazakerly Cricket-Club tie.
Marjory brushed the hair out of his eyes and sighed. 'See here, I don't know any more than you what's going on, but maybe we should hear these good people out', he said.
'I think he may be right', said Druitt, though his voice trembled. Tumblety said something through a mouthful of batter that might have been agreement. But Maybrick slowly shook his head.
'I don't think so' he said slowly.
'Please be calm, Mr. Maybrick', came Grossmith's unctuous tones.
'I am calm', he responded.feeling the iced water in his veins. He was calm and ready for it. This time, he would handle a crisis in his life properly. No more dithering or fretting over whether he had made the right choice. His beloved Florrie would be proud of him. He tightened his fists in silent preparation. Grossmith, the Lama and the woman in the jodhpurs looked like formidable opponents. he would have to lay the ground carefully, trap them into betraying themselves. He smiled a small smile, his eyes darting here and there, missing nothing. 'I think' he said slowly, 'it's time for you to answer some questions'.
'By all means, said Mme Blavatsky, 'but one thing first please, would you mind removing your hat."
Maybrick laughed a little, he was hitting his stride. 'I am always ready to please a lady', he observed, 'but would you mind telling me why after being enticed to a mysterious rendevous, assaulted, attacked by midgets and taken on a cruise through the sewers of London I should remove my hat?'
'There's a spider on it' said Mme Blavatsky.
Maybrick screamed, shouted, lost his balance, fell over one of the small creatures, clawed the hat from his head and threw it across the room. There were spiders in that place. He had always been terrified of spiders even before brother Michael had told him how a giant spider had broken into the organ loft at St Peters and eaten the sub-organist. He seized the first thing that came to hand, something bulky and solid, and using it as a defense against anything else he might meet, he ran from the room, throwing off the restraining hands that reached for him. In the semi-dark he blundered against the table containing the wonderfull cake, seized it to steady himself. Gouts of blood were pumping from his disordered sinuses. 'Get him! He must be stopped!' He heard the cry from behind. He must get out, but where could he go? As if in divine answer, at that moment, and just as small long-fingered hands were reaching for him, Maybrick and the table began, as if by magic, to ascend. He had time for one wild cry of triumph.

Seven and a half seconds later, the audience for Act I of an unexpected revival of “The Sorcerer” watched as the electric lights came up to illuminate, in addition to the usual scene, a bemused and hatless man with blood all over his face and a jar of pickled eggs in one hand. He half fell into the orchestra pit. 'Spiders!' he shrieked in piercing falsetto, then he punched the conductor and collapsed into unconsciousness.

Slowly the red mist cleared from his eyes and Maybrick saw that he was, again, in the small basement room where they had been taken. A face loomed up before his eyes. "Doing all right, sport?" said the curiously masculine Mme. He focused on the small hairs curling out of her nose. "Yes," he said, "Yes, I think so. It's just that I've always been afraid of spiders. They horrify me: I can't control myself."
"Ah, " said the voice of the Dalai Lama behind him. "He is starting to remember. Come gentlemen, return to your places. It is time to tell you why you are here - again!"
"Again?" thought Maybrick. He stood up and saw that more dishes had been added to the repast. Sandwiches of all sorts, pots of mustard, a side of beef and a replacement giant economy sized jar of pickled eggs which Tumblety was already engaged in decimating. And, did his eyes deceive him? a plate of Scouse. Whilst the four men ate, the Lama started his tale.

"Reincarnation" he said "is not a universal truth. We ARE reborn - some of us - but it is with a purpose; a purpose we must fulfill before we are finally admitted to Paradise. All of us in this room are Old Souls: we have been reborn many times. The difference, my friends is that whereas Mme Blavatsky, Mr. Grossmith, his brother and myself remember our past lives, you have forgotten them. You have forgotten that we have met many times in places like this and always with the same purpose: to save Mankind!"
"To save Mankind?" Tumblety mumbled, his mouth distended by pickled egg. "From what? Surely you jest!"
"No, Frank. For all the millennia that man has stood on this frail planet there have been forces trying to wrest it from him. We, the Cabal, were formed originally so long ago that even I can hardly remember it. At that time it was to defeat the dread Older Gods and it was at that time that Mr. Maybrick received his fear of spiders for he fell in single combat with Great Cthulhu Himself, a being, as you surely will come to remember, of many appendages and composed in equal parts of deranged viciousness, a hatred of all lesser breeds and a shockingly bad memory. Fortunately the rest of us were able to pinion the evil Being in his House at Ryleh where to this day he is endeavoring to remember whether the door leading to his freedom opens inwards or outwards, and the danger was averted. You may be glad to know, Mr. Maybrick that to memorialize your epic struggle there is a monument to you (under the name of Ugh) just off the shore of Ponape in the Pacific. But I digress. Over the millennia we have fought many strange beings, some from the far stars, some from other dimensions and some from here in the lower depths of the Earth itself. In fact some of those adversaries are now our allies and you see them here with us today: the Deros from the vasty caverns under London itself.

“Today however, we face a foe that is material and which uses science so far ahead of ours that it is almost like magic. You saw them briefly before: trying to attack us at the top of the stairs and on the train from Liverpool. Our enemies are the Gray Aliens from the Pleiades and even now they are trying to find us in order to slay us."

Druitt, who had till then been nibbling ruminatively on a saveloy started to his feet: "But why!" he screamed. "Why do these creatures pursue us? Why do they wish to conquer the Earth?"

Grossmith shrugged. "It's very depressing, back in the Pleiades, " he said.

The Dalai Lama continued: “A few weeks ago I felt that something strange was about to happen. One of my friends would have said that there was a disturbance in the Force. I investigated. I sent messengers to the great Occult Masters all over the world; The Pope, Koot Hoomi, the Compte de Sainte Germaine, Mr. Cheems of 27 the Broadway, Wimbledon and they helped to confirm what I had dreaded - there was to be another assault on our fair Earth and on the Human Race. We pinpointed the source: a small star in an otherwise undistinguished constellation.

“They are a strange people, the Pleidians. Unable to harness any of the more mundane forces like steam, electricity or strilth they were forced to develop their minds and they have through their insane malignity managed to ruin planet after planet so that their race can develop. They have never been beaten and now it is our turn.”

“How do they attack?” Said Tumblety, “What are our chances?” The tips of his moustache drooped with fear and depression.

“They project their personalities to the target where they use psychic power to force their dupes to perform actions that will enable a conduit; a tunnel of mental energy to form between their planet and the target one. They will then be able to send their entire bodies through and once there will be able to force creature to kill creature until the whole planet is bare and ready for their occupation. They will then move in their breeding colonies and another planet will have fallen to them. Our chances? Slim! But we must try gentlemen, we must try!”

In the meantime, James Maybrick, slowly recovering from his terror found himself next to the exotic Blavatsky. Something was worrying him. "Excuse me," he whispered to her. " I know of your work but I had always considered you to be a Russian of noble birth, yet when you speak I seem to hear the tones of my Australian friend "Yowzah" Gillespie. How is this possible?"

The intrepid female smiled."Thats all publicity, sport. I'm really Sheila Phillips from Woonagoona sheep farm down in the Northern Territories. Before I went off to Tibet, found the Lama and got enlightened my old man used to run 2.5 million sheep and one day he got a new herder who said he was Tsar Alexander and he'd retired from the throne to get a bit of piece and quiet. He taught me all this Russian stuff that I use on the shills." She sighed. "It's only when I'm helping out these chunders, saving the world like, that I remember my past and how I started. Otherwise it's all Isis unbound, Secret Masters and keep your hands off the men, Mabel." She looked away from Maybrick. "I got a real feeling that this is the big one. There are hiccups in the psychic continuum and you can't get a straight answer out of the Secret Masters anymore. I said to Koot Hoomi the other day: "Koot, kidder, what's happening, how come these Pleidians are wondering around London like a Pom at the Melbourne Cup?" and all he said was: "Daughter, these are exciting times," which frankly isn't much use to me." They heard a sound. Maybrick looked to where it was coming from and saw the cellar wall start to flow towards him as though it were melting butter. The Lama sighed.
“Interruptions all the time. It’s as bad as the time the Pope came over and we couldn’t get a decent days golf in at Alt-Khazam because of those damn Yeti’s mating in the snowfields over by the long fifth.”


The great composer Signor Puccini left La Scala in Milan in a foul and ugly mood. It had been one of those evenings. The man in the front row rustling his bag of Maltesers, and using a straw to feed them to his girlfriend; the brand-new electric light system exploding just at the climax of the second act, and the damned leading man who never could remember all the words to the recitatives, insisting on filling in with 'tum-te-tum-te-tum'.

He avoided the crowds at the stage door (Peasants! They probably didn’t know who he was anyway), and, hunched against the tepid Milanese rain, turned down a side street. He wanted food. he wanted company. He wanted something to make him forget what a miserable job the theatre was. He thought about seeking the brief friendship of a certain class of lady. but decided against it. His last experience had been embarrassing in the extreme (he still blushed to think of it). A strange dwarfish figure had beckoned to him. He'd followed it into the shadows, expecting the usual brief encounter (he wasn't choosy when drunk). But when he'd put an exploratory hand beneath the voluminous clothing, the thing had squeaked in extraordinary fashion and poked an incredibly long bony finger into his eye. He'd passed out on the spot, and come to many hours later, with a dim image of traveling at great speed through dark tunnels. A policeman had been standing over him, asking the kind of questions that great composers would rather not have to answer.

No - no ladies of the night for him. Just home and bed, and a large helping of filling pasta to obliterate bad memories. Just (it seemed almost the very moment), he thought these words, a bright light burst into the street. Puccini looked up, blinking in the unaccustomed brilliance. What was this thing he was looking at, with its twinkling array of many coloured lights, its open windows issuing forth a strange steamy radiance? He moved towards it, knowing only that such a thing had no business in the age that he inhabited; that it was a thing of the time to come, and that if he allowed it to envelop his frail soul, he might never withdraw again but attracted by the conviction that there was food to be had there..A transparent door slid open without his having to even touch it. Before him strange beings, oddly dressed, a confusion of sensations.’ Yes?' said a twanging voice speaking what appeared to be English, 'are you the large ham and mushroom with extra garlic bread?'
He tried to speak, but a buzzing filled his ears, a whirring was in the air. When he opened his eyes again he was in what appeared to be a perfectly round and featureless cellar. A voice cae to him, out of the air.
“Or was it the Quattro Stagione with pepperoni?!

Druitt, who had begun to think that by now nothing further could surprise him ever again, chomped down on his saveloy biting the delicious savory in half. There had been a sudden explosion of light in their basement retreat. Somehow the room had expanded and now held a large flower-pot-shaped vehicle the open door of which shed a harsh white light on two unexpected figures. One of them was a thin gentlemen with a wispy beard, tangled gray hair and golden pince-nez who appeared to be wearing good but threadbare clothing. The words "shabby-gentile" came to Druitt's mind. Behind this new arrival was a strange being, in shape human but clad in tight blue trousers with what appeared to be small rivets adorning them, a multi-hued shirt and a small cap with a wide peak. On the brim of the cap were the words: "Domino's Inter-Time Pizza Express."

"You have mistaken the time," said Grossmith. "This is 1888 and we haven't ordered yet."
The being took a notepad out of its pocket. "You're not the Revived Temple of the Demon God Yog-Sothoth Summer Picnic?" "No," said the Lama. "We are the Cabal and we have more important work to do than sacrificing a few virgins. Please leave us."
"Sorry squire” said the strange being. It proffered a card. “Call in when you're ready and quote this number for free antipasto and a jumbo bottle of gin."
The door clanged shut and, in a way that hurt Druitt's eyes, reduced itself to a faint spot, went "ping" and vanished completely. The basement snapped back to how it had been leaving just one extra visitor who Grossmith introduced as: "Signor Puccinni, musician, composer and official historian of our struggles."
Puccinni smiled nervously. "Gentlemen," he said in a faint Italian accent, (Mme. Blavatsky gave a sneer) "I have no idea why I am here I know of course the famous Mr. Weedon Grossmith and others of you look familiar as though I must have seen you before but I would be very obliged if someone would tell me what is going on and where there is some Spaghetti con Vongole."
The Dalai Lama took him away to one of the corners of the room and the others tried to quiet their nerves by finishing their meal. Maybrick looked at Tumblety. Where had he seen him before? It was recently, he was sure. Could it have been on one of his American trips? And when he thought of Frank, for some reason the face of his beloved Florrie came also into his mind. Of course they were both American although Florrie was very civilised and even came to the cricket matches with him. He thought hard.

Meanwhile Frank Tumblety, who had greeted the apparition by jumping onto the table and flexing his arms in the noted "Baritsu" technique settled back onto his chair. He looked at his neighbour, Marjorie Eddy. "We have met, haven't we?" he said in what was for him a quiet, self-controlled voice.
"I thought that we had not," said Marjorie, "but over the past few minutes I have been having the most amazing visions; visions which are almost like memories. I see a country, hot, humid with strange megalithic monuments, curious pyramidic structures and all around, brown-skinned people watching as though they were at a theatre, a platform where there are many men dressed in armour and carrying swords and just one brown, unarmed but richly-dressed man sitting on a throne listening to them. And then time passes and I am myself on that platform and everyone is watching me and I am -different. Naked and dancing, but I am not as I am today. And the last thing I remember is a figure in armour coming towards me who takes off his helmet and there, there Mr. Tumblety I see you!" He lowered his head into his hands and Frank heard a muffled sobbing. He put his hand on Marjorie’s shoulder in a companionable gesture.
"I know," he said "exactly what had happened. I remember too the time when I was a Spanish soldier in Mexico wading through blood for the glory of God, my King and incredible quantities of Gold. Then I saw her before me on the stage and I have never forgotten her: Brenda Quetzalcoatl the Temple Dancer. Mistress of the High Priest Ixaquahotl who I killed two thousand men to possess!” He sighed. “Ah, there was real passion in those days! It was you and it shows me that all of us here are bound by some great fate to find each other no matter how e have changed throughout our many lives."
"Yes!" said Grossmith, who unbeknown to them both had been listening. "We are all connected, one with the other. Our bodies may change but our souls meet and re-meet down through the generations. We are The Cabal and we are meant to battle eternally against those many instruments of evil that threaten our fellows. GENTLEMEN!" he roared. "Now is the time for us to recognise that we are a band of brothers united by a force that we cannot begin to understand but with a purpose. Charge your glasses comrades and let us drink to THE CABAL!"

IN the moment of peace that followed the collective drinking of the toast and smashing of glasses on the floor, they heard a voice from near the door."Cobbers," said Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, "It's real bonza for all this macho bonding and I'm not complaining that at least temporarily I'm part of the sheilas but there seems to be something coming down the stairs that doesn't sound too friendly and in case you wospas hadn't noticed, there aint any

The Cabal

Foreword: by Colin Wislon.

It is with the greatest pleasure that I contribute this short introduction: it is my 3,000 foreword, intro or preface. Little did I know that nearly 60 years ago when I contributed my first preface to Vol. 7 no. 23 of “The Wizard” that that humble piece on the great superhero and sports star Wilson (no relation) would be the start of a lifetimes occupation. And indeed it is still in print. (see “The Collected Prefatory Remarks of Colin Wislon vol 1” Headline Books £15.) Even when I was musing on my first full-length book while living in a tent in the middle of Oxford Circus I still contributed interesting and informative pieces to such works as “Three Little Fieldmice and How They Ran” and “Deranged Axe-Murderers Through the Ages.” Now here I am with the ambition to write several more before I am gathered up to heaven at the Pyramids of Giza this coming New Year. Oh, and this work is probably the most convincing and scholarly piece on the Whitechapel Murders since I wrote the foreword for the last one three weeks ago.

The Cabal: an everyday story of Conspiracy.

Chapter one

Imagine if you will a summer's morning in 1888.Birds singing in the trees, small furry animals gambolling happily in the forests and all over the great British Empire men and women are wakening with a sense of hope and a feeling that things may not be too bad after all.

Several of our characters have woken, coughed a bit and scratched vigorously. Some of them have even cleaned their teeth and are opening their mail: Signor Puccini, dreamy after a hard night at the opera slits open his letters with the handle of his spaghetti-tenderising fork worrying not a jot that his immaculate cuffs now have small pieces of Carbonara sauce on them..
Across the globe Frank Tumblety, twirling his mustachios carefully teases open an envelope while throwing bacon-rind to his Bull-Mastiffs.
Back in Europe, Maybrick rises early trying not to disturb his beloved Florrie and makes for the breakfast room wondering a little why his wife has been so immersed in her new book:"The Life and Works of Lucrezia Borgia." His mail is ready for him to open, one letter standing out, as though asking for his attention. He takes his letter-opener in his hand, watching the morning sunlight glinting on the blade as he inserts it under the envelope-flap
And finally in his rooms overlooking the Pond on Blackheath Druitt wakes from slumber as his landlady brings in his breakfast and mail and wonders what he did the previous night and why there is a stuffed penguin in the corner of his room.
And in the mail of these otherwise unconnected men is one letter signed by someone of whom they have never heard summoning them to a meeting which will change their lives completely.


"The landlady brought in Druitt's breakfast and set it on his table."Wake-up time Mr. Montague" she said as he poked his nose up over the blanket. "You have some letters." she said as she retreated through the door.

Montague John Druitt, Barrister, school-master, bon-viveur and cricketer got out of bed, draped his snuff-coloured dressing-gown across his shoulders and wandered over to the table. He looked first at the clock: plenty of time before the start of the school day, and then at his mirror. Did the little moustache really suit him? He wondered. He shuffled his letters through his fingers: bills, bills, begging letter - ah!. One in particular caught his attention. An expensive, honey-coloured envelope with gold copperplate writing on the front. The envelope crackled luxuriously as he took his bread-knife, wiped it free of Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade and inserted it carefully under the flap. The letter inside was addressed to him by his full name. The body of it was short: a few lines only:” As you value your life and your honor, meet me at 9pm in the Bishopsgate Institute." It was signed with three enigmatic initial: WWG.

Puzzling. Druitt looked again through his other letters: a bill or two, a letter from his brother saying that their mother now thought that she was Queen Cleopatra and a reminder that his subscription to “Modern Gynecology” needed renewing. Nothing unusual there. He knew no-one with those initials and had only once been to the Bishopsgate Institute when he and some Oxford friends had gone slumming in Whitechapel. He remembered that Jim Stephens had wanted to find a particular book of poetry that included an ode that he wished to send to his particular chum the Duke of Clarence and he and Druitt had searched the shelves of the Library there unsuccessfully. No “Collected Works of Sapho” to be found.
What to do? Druitt finished his breakfast, dressed and prepared to leave. He left the mysterious letter underneath the penguin. As he left he thought to himself: "If I'm going out again tonight I'd better get my hair cut at Mr. Klosowski’s.” It was a new barbers shop in Blackheath Village just down the road from the school at which Druitt taught. There was a fine haircut to be got there and Mr.Klosowski often had his wife playing the piano to entertain the customers.

Druitt walked down the stairs, pausing only to tap on the door of his landlady. Mrs. Stephenson opened the door, her eyes staring brightly into his, for she was almost the same height as he was.
“I’ll be out for dinner Mrs. Stephenson” he said.
She nodded. “I will see you in the morning then Mr. Montague.” She started to shut the door and then stopped.
“Be careful today!” she said.
As Druitt walked down the path towards the school he wondered what she had meant. His back twitched as a queer, cold feeling ran down his spine.

'The early morning sun peered warily through a single corner of Maybrick's bedroom window. He woke suddenly; threads of nightmare dissolving around him. This was the way it always was now.
Florrie was snoring. He watched her a moment. Her golden hair tumbling over her pillow; her teeth, white and perfect, just showing over the edge of the night-glass she always kept them in. A nameless thought made him turn aside. he noticed a single red spot on his pillow. Another inexplicable nosebleed. With a weariness he could not fully comprehend, he rose and dressed. In the breakfast room the post was arranged neatly on the faux silver salver.One envelope stood out for him. At once alien and strangely expected. As if, somewhere in the dark unknown of his own mind, he had known it would be there. A crisp honey-coloured envelope, addressed to him in a graceful hand. He seized the paperknife and slit it open with a noticeably practiced movement. "As you value your life and your honor, meet me at 9pm in the Bishopsgate Institute. London. " It was signed with initials only: WWG.
Initials familiar and yet strange. Maybrick thought hard. Did he know anyone with those initials? Where was the Bishopsgate Institute? Why was his kedgeree so cold this morning? He rang for the cook. He waited for a few minutes but there was no answer.

Ever since Maybrick had been wealthy enough to have servants, he had insisted on punctuality; food on time, well-cooked and hot. This was intolerable. Even his bacon was cold and the eggs appeared to have been fried several hour ago. He got up, letters momentarily forgotten and went to the kitchen. It was empty and seemed to have been so for quite some time. Where were the staff? He listened. Just at the edge of hearing there was a sound: almost like the sound of the sea on the shore. It came from outside. He went to the kitchen window and saw, at the bottom of the garden close to the river a small group of people. There were his cook, two maids, the gardener, his valet and the gardener’s boy. They were all crouched on the ground in a circle, their arms held out almost as if in a state of worship. And in the middle of the circle one figure who he recognised instantly: his wife, Florrie.

Maybrick smiled. What was the dear girl up to now? He turned away. Perhaps he would have breakfast at the Cotton Merchants Club. And he would take his letter with him. Perhaps his friend George Davidson would know where Bishopsgate was.


It was another fine morning in Hackensack NJ. Birds twitted in the sky, small furry mammals gamboled happily in the grass and across the water meadows Union Carbide belched out dark gray clouds of intoxicating fumes. Frank Tumblety sighed in ecstasy. All was well with the world. As he walked towards the breakfast room he paused a moment to pat his amanuensis on the shoulder as, chained to the pianola he began to play Frank's favourite piece: "God Bless Ireland and To Hell with the British." His chef had already set the table and was bringing in the silver dishes containing bacon, kedgeree, lightly-fried eggs and kidneys. Frank had a special arrangement with Mr. Connors at the funeral home for his breakfast necessities.
Beside his plate, Manuel the chef had placed Frank's correspondence. He sorted through it. Circulars from the Royal Homeopathic Hospital on one pile, pleas from widows and orphans on another and on the third - just one letter: honey-coloured and written in firm strokes of the pen with gold-coloured ink. This was unusual: the last time Frank had had such a distinctive letter was when Secretary Stanton wrote to apologize for shopping him to the Feds. Frank had really had very little to do with President Lincoln’s assasination. He had given Johnnie Booth the gun, arranged for Lincoln’s guard to be in the bar across from the theatre, sorted out the horses, arranged a simple-minded dupe to take Booth’s place and to be shot in his stead and packed Booth off to Co. Kerry in God’s Own Country. Really nothing at all and it was certainly very annoying to have been picked up and thrown in a very unpleasant gaol albeit for just a few days. He had made his feeling known very forcibly to Secretary Stanton who had soon grown tired of waking up to find parts of his favourute horse strewn over his bedcovers.

Frank took out his special letter-opening knife, razor sharp and bearing on it a humble dedication from the Societe Anonym de Homniphage. With a practised hand he slit the envelope and drew out its contents. Just two lines: "As you value your life and your honor, meet me at 9pm on the third of June in the Bishopsgate Institute. London." It was signed with initials only: WWG. Frank pondered; got up from the table his breakfast only half-finished. "John," he called to his amanuensis: "I'm going to London. Cancel the newspapers and my appointments, pack my trunk and before you do that, feed the dogs." Behind him he heard a howl of thanks. "Ah, the children of the night," he said to himself. "What music they make!" He opened the french windows and stode out onto the lawn of his palatial estate. As was his custom, he walked across the grass towards the small Grecian-style temple that he had constructed over the final resting-place of his favourite bull-mastiff. He had always loved that dog and blamed himself for its untimely demise. If he had chopped up his late wife into smaller pieces, the mastiff wouldn’t have choked on the final portion.

It was a high summer evening somewhere in Louisiana. The cicadas were setting the dank humid air humming stickily. In the kitchen of the crumbling Eddy mansion Big Martha, the faithful cook was preparing Massa's favourite dinner - corn bread and mash potatoes. Out in the swamp, Old Joe was catching the main course, pausing only to wave at a passing riverboat and its inevitable
complement of gamblers in frilly shirts.

Swinging idly in his hammock on the verandah, Marjorie, scion and last hope of his family - sighed and took a long pull on his mint julep. His lank blond hair fell over one eye. His immaculate linen clothes fitted as if made by the best tailor in New Orleans (as indeed they had been). He was a
beautiful young man, with beautiful clothes, and a beautiful life The only thing he didn't have was a reason to get out of his hammock. Or get up in the morning. Or do anything at all. He'd done the Grand Tour and come home bored. He'd done Harvard, and come home educated - and with an even
higher boredom threshold. Papa Eddy despaired of him. Ladybird Eddy (his mother) defended him and dabbed lavender water on his temples when he had the headache (which was nearly all the time). And Marjorie just sighed a lot. And drank mint julep Old Joe came onto the verandah, slightly out of breath, clutching a bucket of fish 'What do you want, Joe?' Marjorie asked, barely suppressing a yawn.
'Young Massa - I done got them red snapper like you asked'
'Oh them.' He peered into the bucket for a moment. 'They look rather chewed up'
'Yes Young Massa, that big old 'gator got them - but I got them back, sure thing'
'Eeugh', the young man grimaced. 'I'm not eating anything that's been in an alligator's mouth - throw them away.' The old man looked at the hammock for a long time.
'Yes young massa' Marjorie glanced at the old man for a moment.
'Didn't you used to have more fingers than that?'
'Guess I did young massa' 'Well try and get them back - or you won't be able to tie my shoelaces and
I'll have to fire you'
'yes young massa'
'Now go away'
'Yes young massa.'
The old man turned away, then turned back. 'I nearly forgot young massa. Postman asked me to take this up for you. It's a letter.'
He drew it out of his pocket - a soft, honey-coloured envelope. The youth winced with distaste.
'You're bleeding all over it. I'm not touching it. Hold it up in front of my face - and don't drip on me'
The old man did as he was bid, slitting open the envelope with what remained of his horny old fingers. Lying there, swinging gently in the moist evening air, this is what Marjorie read:
"As you value your life and your honor, take the next steamer to London meet at 9pm on the third of June in the Bishopsgate Institute. London. " It was signed with three initials:WWG.


It was a quiet day at the school: Druitt spent most of the time marking papers but during his only scheduled lesson (Algebra: the Dynamics of an asteroid) the caretaker summoned him to the headmasters study. This was unusual; Druitt normally met the Principal only upon the cricket-pitch or in the club room later. As he entered the hall leading to the headmasters room, he heard the sound of a bell. Mr. Valentine had recently had the telephone installed so that he could speak to his mother and reassure her that she was still alive. As Druitt entered the study he saw Valentine holding the earpiece in one hand. He spoke into the mouthpiece: " HE is here. Call me later." He reconnected the instrument. "Druitt," he said, "You have received a letter. Regarding your career and indeed your life it is in your best interests to ignore it. That is all!"

Repelled by the forbidding aspect of the headmaster’s face, Druitt made no reply and left the room After that,there was no doubt in his mind: he would go to the meeting. He went back to the classroom hardly noticing that the three youngest boys had tied up the prefect and were burning his feet with matches. “Stop squealing Harker!” He said and went back to his lecture, his mind in a whirl. Something told him that it was necessary, essential to make his appointment. He left the school in plenty of time, taking a Hansom to New Cross Gate Station where he boarded the Metropolitan Line train to Whitechapel. Accustomed as he was to the milling crowds of the East End he jostled past traders, costers, street women, crazed axe-wielding maniacs and minor members of the Royal Family. Passing the Ten Bells he heard the sounds of cries of terror and furniture breaking. He peeped through the door. "Evening Mary Jane" he called to the disheveled harpy busily breaking the neck of a Scots Guard. "Evening Monty!" she grunted back.

Turning left into Bishopsgate Druitt saw the gates of the Institute on his left. He looked around: no obvious sign that he was being followed although there was a rather peculiar round object in the sky above the Railway station. Probably just swamp-gas he thought. Things were quiet in the institute. Somnolent librarians dozed over their books. There was a sign by the stairs directing members of the Spitalfields Amateur Dramatics Company to the third floor where the dress-rehearsal of Titus Andronicus was taking place. They had already started, he could hear the screams. At the end of the passage he saw a door marked EXIT. As he walked towards it, it swung open revealing what seemed to be a long flight of stairs descending deep into the dark. As he looked down he could see, very far away a tiny patch of light. As he put his foot onto the first step the door slammed shut behind him. Simultaneously he heard a voice, sibilant as a snake whisper into his ear: "Good Evening Mr. Druitt."


James Maybrick had sent a message from his office to tell his wife that he had been called away for a short time. Leaving instructions with his clerk as to how to conduct the business in his absence he took a cab to the station.The journey from Lime St.station was dreary and uneventful for Maybrick, the monotony broken only by the familiar but curious pulsating buzzing in his right ear that seemed sometimes almost to form itself into words. As he dozed in his first class compartment, fleeting images of large, liquid, almond-shaped eyes danced insanely in his peripheral memory, as they always did now. 'Probably something I ate', he said to himself and recalled how Florie had looked at him with such alarm when he'd made the same observation at dinner the previous night. The dear little girl worried about him so. She had even taken to personally mixing him a lunch-time drink which he could take to his office. He hadn’t told her that he really preferred a pint of stout and a pork pie at the Cotton-Merchant’s Arms in Broad Street. He took a hansom from Euston. to the gates of the Institute. He was tired and his limbs tingled strangely The gates stood open. Inside all was silence apart from the gentle snoring from the reference department and the distant echoes of jungle drums wafting their way down the staircase from the upper floors. There was a smell of floor-polish and the heavy odor of dusty books. No one seemed to notice the echo of his footsteps as he traversed the pitted but lovingly-polished wood floor. He stood for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.

Away from the world he knew - the Exchange, gaming clubs, the Poste House (why, he wondered did he always call the old Muck Midden by that name?), his hard won savoir-faire deserted him too easily. He was aware that the cut of his clothes was a little too loud for his surroundings. He wished he hadn't worn his canary yellow waistcoat and pale gray beaver hat. They proclaimed 'trade' with a fell certainty. He remembered telling his friend George: “Even a cotton merchant can be a gentleman!” And perhaps it was true in Liverpool but here, in London, heart of the mightiest Empire the world had ever known he felt somehow insignificant. He looked about. Sunlight filtered pallid and uncertain through the dusty windows. There was no-one there who seemed to be waiting for him. A moment almost of panic suddenly informed him. Why had he made this absurd journey? He would take the next train home and surprise his wife. (how delighted she would be). He half turned towards the door, but even as he did so, there was a strangely commanding creek from the other end of the corridor. He turned back. The door marked 'Exit' was swinging slightly on its hinges and a suggestion of damp cool air seemed to issue forth. He felt drawn, compelled, to move towards it. As he approached closer he was almost certain he heard the brief muffled sounds of a scuffle. The throbbing in his ear was almost unbearable, seeming to form itself into a command 'Open the door. Open the door. Look behind you. Oh no he isn’t!'. He opened the door. He could dimly discern steps leading away downwards into the blackness. he took one step forward, and the door slammed sickeningly behind him. 'Well', said a soft snakelike voice, that seemed to come from directly behind his left shoulder, 'guest number 2 has arrived'.

It had been a somewhat trying voyage and Frank Tumblety settled happily into his suite at the Adelphi, determined to relax for a time before heading down to London. It was dinner-time on his second day and as he glanced through the room service menu he heard a tap at his door. And saw to his delight a fond memory of his time in Charleston. "Ah, Florrie," he said to his beautiful visitor."You got my wire then."
"Good to see you again," said the fair maiden. "Apart from the parrot on your shoulder you look just the same as ever. How are tricks?" The parrot screamed, jumped into the air and flew with great rapidity out of the window and into the Liverpudlian skies. Tumblety sighed. "I should have told you not to say "tricks"" He explained: On the last night of their voyage the passengers arranged a concert party.

Tumblety had had a relaxing trip. He knew the Captain and most of the crew particularly the cook. Who he knew could be relied upon to produce those little specialities that a man of Tumblety’s sophistication and discriminating taste demanded.

The consequential loss of two passengers at sea only delayed the crossing by a few hours as they were only travelling third-class. Frank Tumblety was therefore in fine spirits and full prepared to enjoy a nights’ entertainment He sat, with his parrot (adopted from one of the unfortunately mislaid passengers) in the front row. There were songs, dancers and finally a conjurer. He sawed a stewardess in half, vanished things and finally said that he would perform the greatest trick in the World. The
Greatest Trick. At that moment, the boat hit the rocks off the Irish coast. Tumblety and his parrot shared a lifeboat with the Captain and the conjurer. The parrot looked at the conjurer. "Bloody stupid trick," he said.

The next day Tumblety made his farewells to Florrie and walked to Lime Street station where he bought his first-class ticket to London. In view of his mission he dressed conservatively: sky-blue trousers, pink shirt and tartan waistcoat. The Pullman Car was nearly empty: the only other person
there being a small individual huddled in travelling clothes and wearing a large cap pulled down over his face but not quite hiding his distinctive almond-shaped eyes. His skin, where it could be seen, was a rather unhealthy shade of grey. "Chinese!" Tumblety thought. "They get everywhere."
He reached Euston just as his watch - a gift from Florrie- chimed eight. The transport he had ordered was waiting for him: matched gray horses and a black coach. "Evening Netley," he said to his usual driver. "You know where to go." "Yes Master," was the quiet reply. The horses clattered down the quiet street and pulled up by the Institute. " If I'm not back in an hour, Netley, call on Dr. Anderson."
The polished floor of the corridor reflected his boots as he marched towards a door which was just closing, as though a previous visitor had just gone through. He listened carefully before opening it: a curious humming sound but nothing else. The door led on to a steep flight of stairs going down. At the bottom, perhaps a pinpoint of light. Tumblety started down, ignoring a hissing voice that seemed to be behind him. He paused to listen. The voice, which now seemed to be close to his right ear said in a rather scratchy, insectial manner: "Welcome, guest number..." Tumblety lashed back with his right elbow, connecting with something that appeared soft, and gave a little. The voice gave a curious grunt and Tumblety was brushed by a form, which fell past him, bumping endlessly on the stairs as it vanished into the pit of darkness. The door behind him opened and a human voice said: "Well done Frank. Now perhaps we can join the others."

Marjorie woke with a start and looked fearfully about. The room was unfamiliar. The drapes heavy and scented. Pink predominated. Dimly and with queasy sensations he recalled fragments of the night before. The end of voyage party. The swaying journey through unfamiliar streets. The unfamiliar hotel room and the even more unfamiliar gentleman who had escorted him there Further into recollection he decided not to go. But the name 'Frank' clung to his waking thoughts, together with an image of a largish man with a big moustache that smelt of formaldehyde who in extremis was prone to shout 'Brenda!' and then pass out. Marjorie shuddered delicately as he slipped from between the sheets. The things one did to while away the time. But- like a dream - the man and his moustache were gone now. Never to be seen again. It was time to dress and be on his way. 'Pack my trunk Adam' he said to the small dark boy who he had employed as his valet and musician, for Marjorie Eddy had learned at his mother’s knee that truly civilised life was always set to music.

Liverpool, he decided, was gray. And so was the station and the trains. The catering in the Pullman Car was decidedly not what he was used to and his waiter seemed to have no knowledge of the finer elements of deep-South cuisine. Sipping on what the waiter had assured him was the English equivalent of a Mint Julep, but which was in a large glass, dark brown in colour and with a suspiciously-creamy head on it, Marjorie stared at the outskirts of London as his train grumbled and groaned its way into Kings Cross Station. He found a cab outside the station and watched whilst his small valet loaded the luggage. Whitechapel was only a few minutes away and his cab pulled up just outside what the cabbie assured him was the Bishopsgate Institute. Ennui crowded in. He sighed, and sighed again. He stood in the corridor sighing, watching Adam (who he had allowed to run behind the cab) haul the eight piece set of matched luggage in out of the rain. An old man approached. He was bent almost double and dragged his left leg as he walked, his long white beard almost brushing the ground. As he drew
closer, Marjorie observed a small label hanging discreetly from it that read 'property of the D'Oyly Carte Opera Co'. The old man looked at him strangely as he wheezed past. 'Go to the door marked exit. he whispered. 'And remember - you have not seen me!'
Marjorie brushed the lank blond hair from his eyes. 'Actually I think I have', he said languidly in his southern drawl. 'I believe you played the Major-General in a memorable tour that included the New Orleans Hippodrome.'
The old man hesitated for barely a second. 'That', he said with only a hint of tartness, 'was my brother'
Marjorie watched him leave. It took a long time. In his confusion he had begun limping on his other leg. Then, leaving Adam to guard his possessions, Marjorie turned, sighing, to the door marked 'exit' as others had before him. Suddenly the stairs started moving.

A few steps in front of him, Tumblety fell to his knees and as he tried to hang on to the treads by his fingertips he heard, some way behind him a pitiful and somewhat effete yelp: a yelp that seemed strangely familiar. Someone was behind him but more importantly something was in front of him. Just as suddenly as they had begun the stairs stopped moving and Tumblety found himself in a chamber so vast that the walls were invisible. The only lighting was a strange harsh glow that seemed to come from the ceiling. It shed its light on four bed-shaped constructions grouped together in the center. Two were occupied. Almost at his feet Tumblety saw a small body wrapped in what appeared to be a cape or traveling rug and wearing a strangely concealing hat. Tumblety knelt and unwound the hat from the face. His breath hissed through pursed lips in amazement. The creature was not human! Grey-skinned with immense, dark, almond shaped eyes and two small holes where a nose should be. The clothes the being was wearing were familiar: he had shared his Pullman Car with it, but something at the back of Tumblety's mind told him: this creature was familiar. Somewhere in the dim past they had met before. He stood up and as he straightened himself, he saw the light glint on a small item near the body. He picked it up. It was a disc apparently made of metal about the size of a silver dollar and it had words written around the edge, words, Tumblety was surprised to see in English. He struggled in the semi-darkness to make them out. "The truth is...other?" he couldn't quite make out the last words. Behind him he heard a noise and he turned quickly, his fists held in the ancient martial art pattern of the Quackawatte indians. A familiar form came into the light.” Brenda!" Tumblety cried: "It's you at last!"
And in the middle of the room, James Maybrick raised himself from the flat, icy surface where he had just regained consciousness and looked to where he had heard the cry and saw two figures, one of whom was horribly familiar.

A sickeningly familiar smell reminiscent of mulberry bushes and funeral homes wafted to Marjorie's nostrils and brought him swiftly to full consciousness. A moustache that he knew now would forever haunt him in his nightmares loomed over him, its owner's face contorted as if by some powerful emotion. 'Brenda!' the stout man cried. 'At last - it's you!'
'Oh no', Marjorie groaned inwardly - expecting what must happen next. He was not in error. With a heavy crash. Tumblety's unconscious form collapsed across his face. For the next five minutes muffled squeaks were all the scion of the house of Eddy contributed to the incredible scene unfolding all around him. He did not see the stocky fair haired Liverpudlian stumble to his feet, gazing in disbelief at the two figures approaching the circle of light. He did not see the tall delicately handsome young Oxford graduate drop his lucky mortar board (that he took everywhere with him), from nerveless fingers. 'No' said the shorter of the two figures, gazing down at the dishevelled
faintly heaving mass that was the American contingent, 'not Brenda, my dear. Not - Brenda at all!'

In the reading room far above, all was apparently normal. The librarians shifted positons slightly, their delicate snores changing pitch. The gas jets flickered in their sconces, dimmed, and unobserved by the few quiet scholars there, turned a faint, thrilling, unnatural blue. Outside, hooves clattered suddenly and crazily over cobbles and died away into the night. Passers-bye intent on their errands looked not at the forbidding frontal aspect of the Institute. Only one man, crouched in the doorway of the neighbouring City Police Station looked up at the sky. From a strange round object hovering about a hundred feet above the roof of Liverpool Street Station a bright and coherent light had appeared, almost like a bar of steel going down to the ground and finishing just beyond the stairs that led to the Underground Railway. The man turned to his friend who was just coming through the door of the Police Station having come off duty. “Did you see that?” He said. “See what?” Said his friend. They both looked. There was nothing there; even the round object had disappeared. The man shrugged his shoulders. “I need a drink” he said.
The main doors of the Institution flew open, as if on a gust of wind. But no wind blew on that still night. And there, outlined on the threshold was a small deadly sillhouette.

Marjorie managed to push his fellow countryman to one side and raising his head, his eyes focused on the figures before him. The taller figure was just putting a small flat object away into a pocket of what seemed to be a long, flowing robe. The figure was bald and oriental. He smiled, the light glinting off his gleaming teeth. He turned slightly, to look at the two men who had now risen from their slabs and had joined the group. “Gentlemen" he said, “Let me introduce ourselves. I am His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Lord of Tibet and holder of the Scrolls of Uncanny Wisdom and this," pointing to the other, smaller figure beside him "is my colleague Madame Helena Petrovna Blavatsky." "Charmed, sports" said the figure who Marjory now saw to be vaguely female but wearing what appeared to be jodhpurs and carrying a small whip of the Circassian type.
"Let us leave Frank for a moment, to recover. He has had a difficult few days and an impossible few nights and it is necessary for him to recover his psychic energies. Meanwhile, let me introduce you to each other for the first time in this life." The three men circled around His Holiness, and Madame Blavatsky walked into the darkness towards the stairs. "Let me introduce first Mr. James Maybrick, gentleman and cotton merchant of Liverpool. Mr. Maybrick is a man of completely pure bodily essences and as such will be invaluable in our task. There is also another, more important reason for him being here, and that I will go into later. Here is Mr. Montague John Druitt, scholar, sportsman scion of the West Country Druitt’s' and hereditary keeper of the Sacred Seal of Blandford Forum." Druitt twitched and furtively made a certain Sign with the toes of his left foot. "Oh yes, Mr. Druitt, I know...everything. And here is our third member, young in years but old in souls, Let me present Mr. Marjorie Eddy whose mother is Georgia State Chairwoman of the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Bride of Yog-Sotthoth. And lying recumbent on the floor but soon to awaken is the man who connects you all, Francis Moriarty Tumblety." A groan came from the floor.

"Yes, yes, nice to meet everybody," cried Maybrick, "but what are we all doing here?"
"The reason for your presence is..." His Holiness was interrupted by a scream from the top of the stairs and a cry so frantic that its two words could only just be understood: "Theyre heeere!"


Even as the cry still echoed, Mme. Blavatsky leaped, jodhpurs quivering, to the lever on the wall. As she wrenched it downward, the staircase shuddered as it had once before, and slid into the wall like a well-oiled machine (which in fact was what it was). And, as it did, so forms filled the doorway far above. Black, shapeless forms, from which soundless sounds emerged. And in their midst, a small thing. Its black eyes glittering in the flickering torch light. Its mouth a thin menacing and immobile line. It looked down for a single moment at the figures grouped far below. Then, it leaned forward and
tapped with the thing in its hand, on the side of an upturned silk hat. A white rabbit leapt forth, sprang below and exploded, spewing deadly fire and a cloud of engulfing silk handkerchiefs.
'Quick', screamed the Dalai Lama, 'into the boats!' For the first time Druitt, Marjory and Maybrick became aware that a low archway opened out into what could only be a sewer, and bobbing there, were (amongst other things), two sturdy rowing craft. A being crouched in one of these; small, and huddled. It extended a strangely elongated finger and a glowing light shot forth . A squeak and a shudder of falling masonry showed that the beam had hit its mark. 'Into the boats', cried the Lama again. 'This will not hold them for long. We are too weak at present. Too weak.' As if they knew what was expected of them, Marjory, Druitt and Maybrick hauled the unconscious Frank to the boats, and dropped him there, climbing over him in their own haste to reach safety. 'Speed, speed', cried Blavatsky, her feathered lorgnettes glinting magnificently as she stood like an Amazon figurehead in the prow And speed they did. The small figure drew a little box from within the folds of its clothing. It pressed a single button. With a strange whine, both craft lifted off the surface of the water and leapt with the silent power of the stars themselves, into the looming blackness of the London sewers. As Marjory, Druitt and Maybrick lay in the bottom of the second craft, vainly clutching for support at different portions of Tumblety's anatomy, they heard a distant cry, as of a great and evil thing disappointed of its prey.