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.