I’m studying Science Fiction and Fantasy at Cardiff University. This week we were invited to write a short piece, or opening chapter to a longer piece in the style of another writer. I chose to use characters Tom Holt might employ and set it in the world created by Susanna Clarke in her wonderful novel, “Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell”. It is set about half a century after the events of Clarke’s novel in 1870. England is still at war with France and the denizens of the netherworld have returned to London.
Detective Inspector Camden Ironbell of the Gnome Office
By Martyn Winters
In the normal course of events in 1870, a person of gentle upbringing would not expect to cross paths with a member of His Majesty’s Constabulary while they are conducting an investigation. As rare as such a circumstance might be, it pales somewhat vividly compared to the chances of meeting a constable, or an officer, whose countenance is not that of a solid, square jawed son of London’s East End, but the enlarged nose and unwieldy ears of a gnome. Yet such was the occasion on that strange night of August the 8th when Captain Johannes Millwright emerged from his club on the Mall. Still robed in his dress reds despite receiving his discharge papers that very evening, Millwright cut a fashionable figure as he strode nonchalantly down the steps to pavement level, only to be greeted by shouts of “Stop thief,” as two diminutive figures chased a ragged beggar of a man across the road.
The beggarman, such as he was, seemed to be clutching a bag of finely tooled leather, quite out of keeping with his otherwise impoverished appearance. Quickly ascertaining that the rightful owner of such a bag is very unlikely to be anyone other than a gentleman of fine bearing, Millwright stuck out a highly polished riding boot as the vagabond rushed past, sending him sprawling across the flagstones.
Leaping on the senseless bundle of rags, the two compact figures showed uncommon strength for such tiny persons, pinning him securely.
The taller of the two, if indeed you could ascribe such an attribute to someone barely scraping four feet two, called out, “Cuff him, Lightweazel.”
Millwright later learned the smaller of the two was none other than Sergeant Umros Lightweazel, confounder of a Franco-elvish plot to assassinate the Prime Minister of England, some seven months ago. She produced a heavy pair of iron manacles which she adeptly snapped on the struggling vagrant’s arms and legs, rendering him quite helpless in her companion’s powerful arms.
Lightweazel’s derring-do filled a substantial proportion of the capital’s broadsheet columns for some weeks, culminating in a front-page lithograph of her in a swimsuit in one of the less salubrious publications, which despite its familiarity with the gutter, circulated the barracks and the officer’s mess in Millwright’s regiment. At the time, he remarked it was quite extraordinary such a pulchritudinous young lady should have netherworld antecedents, only to be informed by his CO that it was quite normal for gnomish womenfolk to catch the eye, while their males were decidedly unprepossessing. However, in a note of darkly muttered caution, the colonel advised, in the strongest possible terms, that engaging in a tryst with such a being carried a tariff which no right-thinking officer would pay. The perils were both many and substantial, not least the disproportionate strength gnome females possessed, which could place any human at a considerable disadvantage.
“Thank you, Captain,” panted the male gnome, eyeing the pips on Millwright’s shoulders, as he reached into the folds of his green tweed suit and produce an engraved card. “I doubt we would have caught this rapscallion, but for your timely intervention.”
“Sadly, Captain no longer,” Millwright observed. “I received my discharge this very evening and I have yet to change out of my dress reds. Tomorrow I will be in mufti and at a loose end. Johannes Millwright at your service.”
Millwright took the proffered card and read it. “Inspector Camden Ironbell. Gnome Office. 01-2471.”
“Well, Mister Millwright,” Ironbell replied, “You have my gratitude, and I will be sure to advise the Chief Superintendent of your courage and prompt action. You sir, are a credit to your training and your former regiment.”
“Thank you, inspector. What of Johnny Fleetfoot here?”
“He’ll be charged with theft and incarcerated for the night. No doubt he’ll be brought before the beak in the morning. I would imagine it’ll be the front for him, possibly by the weekend.”
“I’m innocent,” squeaked the manacled man. “I found the bag hanging on railings in Nelson Street and intended returning it to its rightful owner. Cross me ‘eart.”
“Shut it,” snarled Lightweazel, pushing his face into the pavement.
“You say you’re at a loose end, Mister Millwright?” Ironbell said as he brushed dust from his suit.
“Indeed, I am, Inspector,” said Millwright. “I’m not of a wealthy family, so my options are severely limited, and my savings are less than I would wish. All I know is horse riding and war.”
Ironbell stroked his beard, seemingly deep in thought. “A man of fine military bearing could do worse than consider policing as a career. I realise it’s not the regiment, but you’d get a uniform, good pay, and digs.”
“That’s very considerate of you to mention it, Inspector,” said Millwright as he patted his tunic. “Regrettably, I have no calling cards, so you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Why don’t you come with us to the station, Mister Millwright,” piped up Lightweazel. “It would make a pleasant change to have a human in the squad room.”
“Sergeant Lightweazel,” Ironbell remonstrated, “I suspect you may have ill-defined my intent. Mister Millwright would be more suited to the mounted constabulary than we lowly foot plodders.”
“Lightweazel?” Millwright raised an eyebrow. “Sergeant Umros Lightweazel?”
“Yes,” said Lightweazel. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh golly-gosh,” Millwright’s face lit with delight, and he held out a hand. “Please let me shake your hand, madam. I am fully apprised of your sterling work in defeating the Frenchies’ attempt to murder our dear Prime Minister.”
“Thank you, Mister Millwright,” Lightweazel took the extended hand.
To Millwright’s surprise, her grip was not as forceful as he expected, given the ease with which she detained the criminal now in their custody. He later recounted to a friend in a private conversation it was as soft as a “breeze through a field of English corn.”
“Much of that written in the columns was a gross exaggeration, you’ll realise,” said Ironbell, “but it was undoubtedly first-class work by the Sergeant… and the other officers attached to the case.”
The three regarded each other for a moment as Ironbell assessed his options. He was of a mind to increase the squad’s numbers, but there were too few gnomes interested in policing. Perhaps it was time to open the doors to the other races. Just not elves, he cautioned himself, definitely no elves.
“Can we get going?” The fleet footed thief whined. “My belly is empty, and I have a hankering for one of those police cell suppers.”
“I take it you are acquainted with His Majesty’s hospitality then, villain,” Lightweazel pushed his head again for good measure.
“Ow. Please miss, I have injuries from the war.”
“You were a soldier?” Millwright sounded aghast, and a look of shock spread across his face. “How have you fallen so far?”
“Got blown up by a kettle-bomb at the second battle of Austerlitz,” the villain shook his head. “Got a load of shrap’ in my barnet and can’t think right anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
“Have the surgeons not attended you?” Lightweazel demanded.
“I wouldn’t let those sawboneses near my fingernails, never mind me head.”
“That’s an unfortunate aspect to hold dear to, soldier. What’s your name and rank?” Millwright was almost standing at attention.
“Jack Morgan, sir. Corporal in the Dragoons, retired.”
“Well, Jack Morgan. I will see that you’re in front of the Surgeon General by this time tomorrow. The surgical profession has come on leaps and bounds since that alchemist, During, discovered penicillium. Why, we even have knock-out drops to guard against the pain.”
“Do you think it will be alright, sir?” Morgan, for the first time in the encounter, sounded hopeful.
“Yes, Corporal Morgan,” Millwright said solemnly. “I guarantee it on my honour as an officer.”
“There’s the not inconsiderable matter of the stolen purse,” said Ironbell.
“I will take it back to its rightful owner personally,” Millwright declared. He opened the bag and examined the contents. “It should have the means to identify them inside.”
“There,” said Lightweazel, her hand once again brushing the Captain’s as she pushed it into the open bag. She pulled out a clutch of calling cards in a silver binder. “Lord Dalmatin of number 1 Nelson Terrace. It appears he has a Bellphone, sir. His number is 01-3611.”
“What’s a Bellphone?” Millwright asked, looking perplexed.
Ironbell smiled at the opportunity to expound on the value gnomes brought to society. “The Bellphone to which Lightweazel refers is a marvellous device invented by a cousin of mine, Alexander Ironbell. It uses talkweed to transmit one’s voice over great distances to a numbered receiver.”
“Gosh, that’s jolly marvellous,” Millwright exclaimed. “Whatever will they think of next?”
“Oh, we’ve already thought of it,” said Lightweazel, producing a clam from her jacket. “The police have been equipped with these shellphones. The clams have an affinity with water and utilise the very moisture in the air to transmit our voices to others in possession of either a shellphone or a bellphone. You just have to state the number to the intermediary we call an operator, and they will facilitate a connection.”
“Don’t they smell?”
“Freshwater clams,” said Ironbell. “They’re still a little malodorous, but it’s tolerable.”
“A bit like the goblins, I suppose,” chuckled Millwright.
“Nothing is like the goblins, Mister Millwright,” cautioned Ironbell, but the twinkle in his eye showed an element of growing approval of the young captain. “Shall we depart for the station house?”
“Indeed,” said Millwright as Lightweazel hauled Morgan to his feet. “Whereabouts is it?”
“Not far, about twelve minutes’ walk,” said Ironbell. “Number 4, Whitehall Place. Also known as, Shetland Yard.”
“I say,” said Millwright. “Isn’t that where the top knobs are?”
“It is, but we occupy a suite of offices of slightly less illustrious appointment,” replied Ironbell.
“He means we’re in the basement,” said Lightweazel.
At that very moment, as if to underpin the conversation about the Conurbation Police Force’s technology, a warbling came from Ironbell’s pocket.
“Ah, I have a call,” he said, pulling his shellphone from his pocket. He flipped the clam open.
“Ironbell of the Gnome Office.”
“I have the Lord of Darkness on the line,” said a voice that didn’t so much speak as slither into Ironbell’s ear.
“Satan? What does he want?”
“Camden, old boy, or should I call you Inspector Ironbell?” Satan’s voice was like lava flowing over a geology professor, smooth but with a shriek in the background. “We have a problem.”
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