It was one of Julius's schemes, one could tell by the careful choreography of dispersed urchins around the small square. My vantage point was inside Hubbard's watch and clock store, behind the counter close to the door. Unfortunately I could not see all goings on because of incoming customers and a view obstructed by merchandise. Whenever I could I tried to observe what exactly happened outside, but I have to admit that some is guesswork and I had to fill in the blanks here or there. Either way the result was the same and as would be expected of Julius, quite exceptional.

It all started around 7 in the morning. I had just opened the store and was cleaning the store's windows when I heard the sound of metal on metal, as if someone was pushing or pulling a sled over cobblestones. Quite frankly my first instinct was to hold up the windows for the screeching sound might break the glass. Perhaps I had been listening to Hubbard too long who ranted on about divas who could break a wine glass with the sound of their voice. The glass window did not break. I felt rather foolish and quickly looked around if anyone had seen me. Quickly I ducked into the store pulling the broom after me and before I had secured myself behind the counter I heard the noise again. This time I could actually see where it came from. Two urchins were pulling a small stall across the pavement and positioned it directly in the opening of our square. With a stall that small and an entry way as large as ours the urchins barely blocked the entrance. It looked quite natural sitting there, made of pieces of wood that obviously were not meant for that stall but instead one or more other objects that had fallen apart years ago. All in all it looked convincing as something a peddler would use. The two urchins rummaged around the newly created business opportunity and pretended to try to find the owner, as if they had not just put it there themselves.

After 5 minutes an older urchin appeared and chased the two younger ones away. This much larger child arranged something on the inside, rolled down a canvas construction that might even keep out the rain on a dry day and started to setup whatever were his wares. At this point there is a gap in my observations since the honorable James Dillarde, Esq. entered the store to pickup his precious watch. God knows why the man was obsessed with American watches. His argument was that the Americans had outdone the British by adding a cover to pocket watches to protect it from wear and tear. This did not make much sense to me until I understood that pocket watches were mainly used in America by railroad workers. A clever mechanism it must be said, but cumbersome in it's use and it completely hid the beautiful face. Even when the protective lid was opened it would not always reveal the full dial but typically be half opened. I prefer the British watches that are usually bigger and hang on ornately decorated fobs from one's vest. Even though Mr. Dillarde is peculiar about his watches he is a decent sort of gentleman and usually stays around to pick up some local news. Given my current situation of self-confinement I could not tell the good man anything of interest and instead I asked him about some of the latest. News gathering goes both ways and Mr. Dillarde has no problem volunteering his perspective on current world affairs. I was just being polite that morning and was not actually all that interested in the good man's opinion in the supply problems of our troops in the Crimean war. I nodded and agreed but did not encourage him to continue. Luckily he is a good and careful observer and figured out quite soon enough I had other matters on my mind. More importantly he was not offended in my refusal to indulge in political bickering this time. With a tip of the hat and many thanks for our services he took off, showing his American watch to two unfortunate ladies who's only goal was to get fresh bread and be home before the missus woke up.

The view was dismal and I could barely make out what the new kid was doing in the improvised stall. It didn't look like he was actually planning on selling anything. Instead he rummaged and prepared and looked generally busy. Hubbard had returned the previous evening from the opera and had left his opera glasses in the workshop. Quickly I retried the surprisingly strong binoculars and used them casually to peek through the shop curtains. Up close I could not discern anything different than I had already noticed before. A tall lanky kid was seemingly starting a day of sales, much like other merchant assistants do, with the difference that there was no actual merchant in this stall. Even though Julius was nowhere in sight, it clearly was one of his setups. Only he would go through the efforts of assembling a complete stall for his schemes. Usually when I see one of these plans come to fruition I would alert the people in the immediate neigbourhood and we let the kids play until things get out of hand and then we step in. Usually either a scheme ends in a massive urchin scramble or as had once occurred applause after a rather inventive scheme involving a dog and a stage play. Perhaps that one is worth mentioning in an upcoming Urchin Patrol. This current set of events looked much more elaborate and more serious than anything I had seen before and through my curiosity completely forgot to inform the adults.

Two new urchins appeared, small ones, who took up places on the opposite side of the street facing the stall. At least that's what it looked like at first. To my surprise Julius appeared with a large stack of paper and took up a spot next to the lanky guy who was still bustling about the stall. Newspapers of sorts were spread out in parcels over the stall's counter and various flyers were attached to the beams upholding the canvas roof-like structure. To hold down a pile of newspapers a stone was placed on top of each stack and after that Julius produced a high stool and sat down quietly overseeing his domain. Normally peddlers and sellers scream details of their wares to nearby customers and other potential buyers in Wales or Scotland. To add more curiosity neither Julius or the tall kid said anything, at least not visibly. By this time the store was moderately busy and by the time 11 'o clock came about I had lost track of the activity outside. When finally the noon chaos started in the clock store with the simultaneous sounding of all chimes, I had a chance to observe up close what the urchins were up to. Normally I have my lunch somewhere around the square but today I needed a better vantage point. Across the street, almost directly opposite the stall is one of Fleet Street's numerous printers. They have two benches directly outside the premises where office workers rest and smoke. Due to their work with flammable materials no one is allowed to smoke inside. I got there early with my lunch, which consisted of two paper wrapped sandwiches. It wasn't difficult to pretend I wasn't watching them, the hustle and bustle of Fleet Street is quite interesting by itself. Occasionally I would throw a glance towards the stall where Julius and his co-conspirator were pretending to read. This proved they were up to no good since none of the urchins could read or write. Perhaps Julius could but if he did he kept it well hidden. Next to me supplies were brought in and out on flat carriages pulled by two large horses. Paper rolls went in and boxes came out, presumably filled with paper. All this time I could not spot any additional urchins that may have been brought in. Not that I could remember but I could swear the two I saw earlier had been replaced by two different ones.

I reached over to grab the last of the sandwiches when a particularly large cart barreled out of the building. It took a sharp right turn into Fleet Street and nearly took the bench I sat on with it. When I managed to steady myself I noticed that Julius was still quietly reading but the other tall kid had disappeared. To my right a terrible crash made people turn and watch how a large barrel had fallen into the path of the horses. The driver panicked and attempted to pull the horses around but one could not help but hit the barrel with its front legs and fell down. The other horse moved on and tilted the cart on its side throwing the driver off his seat. In all the commotion I managed to remember paper. They make paper in the factory behind me. Julius had not moved but where was the other kid? I stood up, turned around the corner into the factory from where people were streaming now to see the upturned cart but no sign of the lanky urchin. I didn't need to look any further because whatever Julius was up to it was done and over with. The two little urchins who had stood watch were helping Julius close up the stall. They were pulling a small cart on wheels and in it they dumped whatever flyers and other paper they had out on display. Without thinking twice the stall was abandoned and the three urchins casually walked away leaving the stall where it stood. 

Thankfully the driver of the big cart was unharmed but the horse that hit the barrel was clearly lame. It stood with it's head down a bit off to the side with the other horse trying to get back onto it's legs. Constable Jones came running around a corner cursing and pushing the onlookers away. The factory workers who now realized they must be missed by the floor manager were slowly trickling back into the factory. Julius could have done one of two things, either he had the tall kid steal something from the warehouse or had something put in. Either way my guess was it should soon be apparent what this was, since his usual efforts included loud and visibly obvious pranks. He really only wanted to show he was capable of pulling off such a stunt and there was never any harm. I'm sure he regretted that the horse was hurt, but then again you never really knew with that kid, maybe he was only interested in the effect the barrel would have and saw the horse as something incidental. It was 12:30 right now and I remained there on the bench till it was one o clock. Nothing happened and everything seemed business as usual. Whatever Julius's stooge had carried in or out must have been small or something that would not be quickly noticed and he must have known exactly what it was he was after. Almost disappointed I returned to the store where the first customer was already waiting with a sorry looking wall clock.

Nothing happened for two days and I had quite forgotten the incident. On the evening of the second day after the bizarre events I noticed two urchins harassing a peddler who sold various candy.  They were waving bills in his face and pointed at the candy. With nothing else to do and being curious why the urchins were paying for candy with paper money, I strolled over. When I reached the trio one of the urchins recognized me and shouted to the other kid: "It's Jimmy, run!" The both of them made off like hunted foxes leaving behind a crumpled bills. I picked it up and as I was unwrapping the paper I became convinced that to my astonishment I was looking at genuine paper money. At least at first sight. The size, weight and overall appearance seemed authentic but where there would normally be a picture of queen Victoria, a badly drawn version of Julius's face appeared, grinning an enormous grin.

I was busy writing a different text in fact. At the time I was finally committing to paper what happened to that curious fellow who walked into the store to have the name of his beloved wife erased from his pocket watch. It must have been indeed December 15th 1886 if I remember correctly. But that story must wait for another day. Soon, perhaps. They say time works in a different way in prison. Not that I am at this moment in prison, but my small room upstairs from mr. Bartlett's clockworks and watch repair shop feels like that at the moment. It was dreadful outside when I wrote the piece. Rain was sleeting from the roof, sloshing around the gutters and giving Hubbard a terrible fright for the safety of his greenhouse. No, no thunderstorm, nothing so melodramatic. But we don't need such effects to feel the oppressing city around us, at least not in London. Quite honestly I do love this weather. I like the results London weather can have on its inhabitants. Whenever the heavens come down on the citizens of this grand metropolis, the response is always one of comfort making. In fact right this minute I can hear our maid Helen (better not call her maid in front of her, she is our lady in waiting) putter around her room. The sound of clattering indicates she is about to put more coal on the fire and that usually means knitting. Olivia is in there with her and the two of them keep at it for hours. That's not the comforting part; the magnificent part is the in-betweens. Knitting needs scones and fresh coffee and perhaps some marmalade on toast. Every hour or so, sometimes more often, Helen or Olivia will leave the room and go to the kitchen to pick up something. If I behave I can participate. Not sure what 'behave' means, but when I do I'm allowed part and parcel of the proceeds of an afternoon of knitting. A scone here, perhaps some coffee or hot chocolate there. Can't say that I have left my room much other than to feed and use the lavatory. When otherwise I loved leaving the sometimes oppressing watch maker's shop, recently I can't bring myself to go out and enjoy the city. Being guilty of murder does not have much to do with this, that is a matter that is currently beyond the approach of the police force. One would think this gives a person some peace of mind, but it rather has the opposite effect. The images and events are burned in my mind and as opposed to other memories that fade away these become stronger and stronger. Still I can not write it all down and have to resort to use a small mouse to divert my and more importantly, your attention.

It must have been around four according to my mantle clock, fixed and restored by yours truly, that I thought it be time to venture out myself and anticipate the next scone opportunity. Hubbard was nowhere to be seen or heard, and that suited me just fine. I could not be around the old man, not after what happened. But enough of that, I need to trust that to its own telling. The kitchen was deserted. A small fire smoldered in the stove ready to be awoken for scone or coffee duties. A tiny sound reached my ear but faded so fast I could not determine what it was or where it had come from. Like clockwork, Helen stepped into the kitchen and proceeded to work a proper fire. "Jeremy, you here, how do you know when I'm coming", Helen said in her heavy Russian accent. "You're too predictable", I answered. "No no, not good. Russian women are never predictable, that is only what we want you to believe", came the brisk retort. There it was again, the tiny sound. Helen heard it as well and we both swiveled our heads to find the source of the hiss or what almost sounded like a sneeze. Helen was quicker than I was, she knew the kitchen well and figured out where the sneeze came from. She darted towards the pantry and nearly strangled a bag of flower with her powerful clasp. A mouse darted out letting out a loud sneeze. The creature was covered in flower and caused puffy clouds to bellow behind it as it ran from the pantry over the cupboards and out of the kitchen. Were it not for the trail of flower we might never even have noticed where it went. As it was, the poor creature left a clear trail for us to follow. It must have known the house well, better than us even because the flower trail disappeared into the wall between the washing room and Helen's bedroom. A stream of curses left Helen's mouth and even if I understood Russian I would not dare to reproduce them here.

We heard a giggle. Olivia was now laughing out loud in Helen's bedroom and it was Helen who stormed past me towards the laughter. "A puffy mouse ran past", shouted Olivia, "he sneezed, did you hear that too, he sneezed!" she yelled as if it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Helen did not agree. "But why did you not catch the mouse?" she said, "He is ruining my pantry". "Make him come back, he's funny", said Olivia. "Come back? We need to get him out of the house", Helen now nearly shouted at the little girl. It took some calming to get the maid, nee lady in waiting, to pick up her knitting needles again. I told the two that I would fix the coffee this time, not mentioning scones knowing that there were completely outside my set of cooking skills. I returned not half an hour later with coffee. The two of them were contently knitting now with Helen spying the floor boards and any other place a tiny mouse could re-surface. Sensing the mouse emergency to be over I made my way to my own room and attempted to continue the horrible telling of Sheila's death and my involvement. I left the door pried open in case Helen decided to attack whatever she thought she could see creeping around the room. We've had incidents of some of Hubbard's more exotic animals making their way out of the vivarium and into our living quarters. I had for that purpose permanently in my room: one butterfly net, one large empty jar, one snake stick (Indian made) and patent leather gloves. Nothing happened however. The afternoon lingered on with no improvement in the weather or the coffee. I could not put one word on paper. How does one write in poetic phrases how one committed a horrible crime? There was that sneeze again. This time much closer than during the daring prison break from the kitchen. At first I investigated my desk. The mouse was surely not hiding behind my bottle of ink. That would be too clever, even for a mouse. Hiding in plain sight? Surely not. The sound seemed to come from much lower to the ground. I leaned slightly left and titled my head to see just around the corner of the door the tiny eyes of the mouse glaring at me. He wasn't even afraid and just sat there looking at me as if I was his only possible savior. He must not have been very familiar with my room and the animal trapping gear in it. What an utterly strange creature.

The little thing moved a little bit more into the room, all the while looking at me to see what I would do. I did nothing. Animals don't necessarily like me but they are never afraid of me. That goes for the two scorpions in the attic as well. The mouse was now completely inside my room and what is more it had its left hind paw entangled in a bit of yarn that was trailing behind it. In fact when I moved to look I could see the string of yarn reach all the way across the landing into Helen's room. She must have noticed the same thing at the same time because a yelp froze both myself and the mouse. The mouse came around before I did and it made an interesting and quick decision. It had decided that the safest place in the entire house would be upon my person, inside my left breast pocket to be exact. Not such bad reasoning for a tiny creature. It bolted, yarn in two, up my trouser leg, onto my arm and darted directly into my pocket. I don't know why but it suddenly occurred to me why there was a hole in the vest pocket. It must have been created by the same trespasser who was now occupying it. Helen did not see the mouse, all she noticed was her string of yarn going into my room and into my vest somehow. She very nearly hit me over the head with the fire poker and I could only barely get out of her way knocking over an old vase holding my umbrella and the snake stick. I tried pushing her away from me and managed to sit her down on the bed after being bombarded by a raw stream of Russian curses. "I will kill it!" she yelled. Olivia had also made it over to my room and was standing in the doorway. "He's fast and he's clever", Olivia giggled. "He likes you", she added. My first concern was to get Helen into a reasonable state and for that I needed her to understand that the mouse was no longer a concern. "Look", I told her, "I've caught the mouse; he is no longer a threat to you. I will keep him here and as long as he is here you know he is not in your kitchen or anywhere else for that matter". Truth be told I am a coward when it comes to killing animals and I could not imagine drowning the poor sod. Not to mention that Olivia would hate me for it for the rest of my life. "Here I will put him in this box and he will not bother you anymore", I said as I took the little mouse and transferred him into one of the empty butterfly boxes we sometimes get when we get pupae from South America. Helen calmed down somewhat. "If I see him in the kitchen he's dead", she added. "Holes, you need holes in the box Jeremy, or he can't breathe", Olivia said pointing at the closed butterfly box. Helen stood up, she cut the string of yarn with some scissors she had taken to deal with the mouse and stormed out of the room. I opened the box and took out the mouse, which was still tied up in some yarn. It let me carefully untangle its paw and when I was done it just sat there on my hand. "What are you going to call him Jeremy?" Olivia asked. It had not occurred to me that I had acquired a pet but with Olivia now hovering over the mouse it started to sink in fast. Without thought I blurted out: "Max, I'll call him Max". No idea where that came from. It was one of those instantaneous thoughts that one can never quite explain.

And there you have it, the arrival of Max the pocket mouse. In fact from then on he preferred to stay in and around my vest pocket whenever possible. I had to take some precautions however. From some coffee filter paper I fashioned a number of small cup-like constructions I could fold into my pocket to keep the mouse from soiling my garment. Not that that much happened. Most of the time he was asleep in there, sometimes poking his little head out for some air or entertainment. Even the customers didn't mind. Some even greeted both me and the mouse when they arrived with their clocks and watches. When he is not residing in my pocket he lives in his own house made from an old clock box, those are the ones we store old travel clocks in. I made him a little door he can push open when he wants to leave or enter. Gives him a bit more privacy, although God knows what a mouse needs privacy for. Helen has not made peace with Max an he usually ducks away when she walks past scowling at him. I've thought of training him to inspect clocks from the inside when I can't really open them or when they are too fragile. Some customers would not mind but most come in with raised heads and upturned noses who would not tolerate even a cat looking at their precious heirlooms. With Max in my pocket I could finally write down the terrible events that had past. Not that this little mouse will scare away the hangman. He's quite clever with yarn, but rope is a bit too much for him I'm afraid.

Julius was in it for the sheer achievement of it all. Even though he stood to gain considerable amounts of goods from some of his plans, the moment the plan worked he was done. Most of the time his mind would be racing to construct the next scheme, and a mighty scheme it would be. Mind you we are still talking about small children. A mighty scheme for urchins is to make Jones's horse sneeze. Every 5 minutes. I'm sure you are thinking that this is rather innocent. It is, the horse recovered quite well and Jones's head returned to its normal color about an hour later. Making the horse sneeze was just the prelude, the dress rehearsal. When the front of the animal proved controllable, Julius started concentrating on the other side. For weeks he tried various herbs and spices, plants and vegetables in all kinds of combinations to get the desired effect. For his test subject he used Ms. Grub's cat, a fat slow moving specimen of feline fur on velvety feet. At first nothing happened to the cat. It was perhaps a little more irritable than usual, but since the animal was considered 'temperamental' anyway, a term frequently used by Ms. Grub, she did not pay much attention. Only during the last two weeks when the usual purring became interrupted with either a loud burp or a long lasting breaking of wind, did Ms. Grub start to investigate. It was already too late. By then Julius had perfected his recipe and was onto bigger things. How he managed to sneak his trysels into the cat food we will never know but it must have been one of his smaller master strokes because Ms. Grub never noticed. It took quite some time before the cat returned to normal. The last we noticed of the cat's intestinal problems was when I was standing around the front of the store waiting to pick up some fabric Hubbard needed for a display box. The cat had been roaming around my legs and whatever I did, it would not go. All of a sudden the cat made a noise as if it had the hiccups. It sat on its hind legs and stared into space with eyes contemplating what its body would do next. With the loudest sound ever heard from an animal the cat let loose. The force of the air knocked the poor animal over and an immediate stench of rotten eggs and boiled leaks permeated the room. All I could do was shout to Ms. Grub that I would return later because it was already past my lunch break. The poor animal could not even get up anymore, or rather it had decided to give up and wait until its body had indicated when all was well.

We should have suspected what was going to happen next. First a horse sneezing its tiny brain out, then a cat producing more methane than Welder's distillation experiments. Julius waited. He waited long enough until we had forgotten the cat incident and long enough for Jones's horse to recover from a nervous tic that would make it raise its upper lips every time Jones would take out his handkerchief. The full story was later told to me by Sebastian, who in this particular case turned out to be an innocent bystander. Julius had trained the urchins to create a network of stooges around Jones and his horse. He needed several minutes to feed the horse enough of his mixture for the desired amount to be digested. Jones and his horse slumped through our end of Fleet Street and as per usual stopped at the entrance to our alcove. Jones would go into the bakery and buy a scone or other such pastry. It's a miracle the horse could drag both Jones and his carriage around town. Inside the store Jones had a clear view of Fleet Street through the bakery's large windows. Always the horse would stand there, head slightly down, contemplating the exact nature of Newton's first law. From where Jones was standing in the shop, he had a perfect view of the entire front of the horse. Julius had calculated that if he could make the horse stand still but move its head down just a little more, it would seem as if the animal had discovered a flaw in Newton's first law and was contemplating the best way of writing e rebuttal. The horse could not move too much. One step forward or one step backward and Jones would know. His exact ritual and the many years of exercising its precise schema would certainly show if there was anything out of the ordinary going on. Julius had tested this out in fact. Exactly a week before he had squeezed himself against the wall and inched himself towards the horse. Jones's horse knew all the kids, he could smell one apart from the other a mile away. This time Julius crept closer as Jones was in the shop and at the opportune moment stuck a cigar in the horse's mouth. The horse did nothing, kind of chewed on it a little bit. Before any innocent bystanders could even start to open their mouths Jones was already on his way to see who had done this. Julius was of course nowhere to be seen, but the test had confirmed that you did not mess with Jones's horse.

It was on a Saturday morning and Jones as usual parked his carriage with blurry eyed horse next to the bakery. Slowly he walked in and started investigating the contents of the jewelry box as he called it. Julius crept closer with a bucket. The bucket was completely closed off at the top with some cloth and out of the top stuck a long straw. Julius had coated the top of the straw with sugar and was now dangling the end of it below the window frame. The horse noticed the straw and slowly moved its large and tired head downward. Right at that moment an urchin entered the bakery and asked for a carrot cake. Mrs. Fineley, the baker's wife looked round Jones and with a contemplative voice told the urchin they did not sell carrot cake. This was the point where Julius managed to have the horse take a few long sips through the straw. Jones luckily takes forever to pick his pastry for the day. Not half a minute later another urchin casually walked into the store and rapped his knuckles on the glass display case. D'you have carrot cake? The kid asked. "What is it with you kids and carrot cake today?" asked Mrs. Finely perturbed. Without saying a word the urchin turned around and walked out. Jones raised his cap and scratched his head. "I tell you these kids play the strangest games these days", he said. The horse outside was clearly enjoying whatever Julius was feeding him. In walks another urchin. This time Mrs. Fineley cuts off the little kid and says: "let me guess, you want carrot cake". With an innocent face and a clear voice the little kid says: "No m'am that would be disgusting", and walks out of the store. At this point both Jones and Mrs. Finely are looking at each other with a mix of annoyance and confusion, which is a good thing because had they looked out the window they would have seen the horse taking very long sips through Julius's straw. 

Operation 'Jonesing the Horse' was considered a complete success. Julius crept away as soon as he heard the bakery's store bell ring for the sixth time, indicating that the third urchin had just left the store. On cue the urchins spread out and took up positions along Fleet Street to witness the results of Julius's scheme. They did not have to wait long. The horse looked fine, perhaps a little more active than was usual on a Saturday morning. Calmly Jones steered the cab into the slow moving traffic, where various other carriages carried courting couples on their leisurely way towards social obligations or perhaps a museum. Wares were sold on the pavement and pretty much anywhere where there was space. Peddlers did not even need that and would carry their merchandize all along Fleet Street and beyond. Sebastian, who recounted these events told me that it took longer than expected for the chaos to ensue. The horse was already out of sight from where he was standing, but the sudden outburst of unmistakable sound easily traversed all the way to his location. Carriages instantly sped up to get away from the sudden sewer stench covering a large part of Fleet Street. Eyewitness accounts tell us of people collapsing to the ground from sheer lack of oxygen. The peddlers ran for it, dropping their merchandise. The courting couples closed any doors and windows in their carriage. Those unfortunate enough to be in an open carriage grabbed their faces or even jumped out of the moving mobiles. We never did find out what Julius put in that bucket. We did notice that ever since that accident Jones's horse wears a long mantle covering it's entire upper body and most of all its rear end.

Forgive me, dear reader; it has not been long since I emerged, physically unscathed yes, but mentally in shambles. You will permit me to rest a while before I commit to paper all that I have seen. Currently I would not be able to describe by any means those things and people I encountered. Those endlessly moving paintings of Dr. Halter, whose understanding of light and dark can not be put into words alone. How will I convey the depths one plunges into after just one brief glance? Light, yes, light, that is the same at least. Down there, light takes on a different form. It is alive and has its own mind and agenda, it wants to reign and attach itself to everything. It fights the dark but can not win. That is what Dr. Halter understood. His paintings only work there, they must be observed in a room with light made for just one painting, for one purpose. Perhaps this is true for all that I saw and lived through down there: it can only exist there. But what does that leave me? I have the light of above, of the real natural sky. The light that is still mine, that thing that has remained the same since I left. Perhaps the inspector can help. Unlike myself, a person who is now allowed below beyond the lobby, the inspector can not go into Echidna beyond the doors. This is most fortunate; perhaps he can help understand why things are different down there. He has not been infected; he has never been that deep. But what am I saying, how can you, dear reader, follow all this. I speak in riddles and riddles not even clear to myself. We will meet again, yes we shall indeed and maybe then I can elaborate. Eternally tired. Must sleep until this mental fever is no longer raging in my brain. For now I bid you a good day.

One first turns a slight haze of purple, with blotches of green. Those are but one of the first symptoms. It is a tragic affliction that can only end but one way. After the first symptoms of slight discoloration, more let us say intrusive maledictions surface. It has been known to completely change the appearance of those afflicted with ILS, short for Inflammatory Language Syndrome. First one only sees the purple countenance and greenish blots. Then, when innocent bystanders are completely captivated by the change in appearance, the sufferer will most likely start to use clever language in order to subdue the intended victims. This of course in order to transmit the parasite to a new host. Time does not matter in this process, for the sufferer will use all of his or her energy to pass the decease on to others. There have been bystanders where an instant case of Tourette's was diagnosed in those directly observing the poor ILS patient. The change in appearance in the following stages of the sudden onset of the syndrome are quite appalling and certainly leaves the patient utterly shameful. Most transformations resemble those also found in the strange cases of high energy dissipation disorder, a high upper palate and an overall mouse like look. Do not let this harmless appearance lull you into believing the syndrome is benign or harmless. Let ye be warned! After enough shame, the patient's hormone levels will increase, triggering the final stages of the syndrome. At this point we do not speak of a syndrome anymore but in fact of a full medical illness, diagnosed as both an clinical disorder and a physical aberration in the lycanthropy area. Under most circumstances the progression of physical manifestations is now too fast for urgent medical care to take control of the situation. If the final stages of ILS are not manifested in a controlled environment the patient might not be well enough to find medical attention. Do not approach the sufferer, for this will push the hormone levels over the hill. Do not attempt to reason with said sufferer since this will most likely engage a second stage of the first phase of ILS.

Not sure if this conversation was serious or not I decided to walk along and ask Dr. Roberts later if he had heard of this. Although, perhaps I should not endeavor to make myself more ridiculous than the two gentlemen must have if they are true medical man with potential careers ahead of them.

"Yes indeed, I have had a stiff back ever since I left Venice a few weeks ago. How on earth did you know?" I asked slightly confused. "Your walk was uneven just now when you walked from the stairs to the chair and you were leaning with your right arm, since there was not enough support from your back", Leng said calmly. "Follow me please", he added quietly. What was I to do? Part of me was curious as to what Leng was hinting at and part of me wanted to be left alone, especially the part of my anatomy that was stiff and painful. At the door the old barber turned around, "it will only take a moment I assure you", he said. The man had performed stranger feats and having him examine my back did not seem totally out of his list of skills. Slowly I followed him outside, grabbing a cane one of our customers had left. Our small voyage to Mr. Leng's attic apartment felt all the more bizarre since the old man could not see and was leading me without the assistance of a cane and navigated the distance without hesitation. A case of the blind leading the cripple. We entered the house of Ms. Grub the seamstress and fabric shop owner. Ms. Grub was at this time repairing some table lace and looked up from her work through thick half-glasses. "Good to see you Jeremy, you're looking good this morning", she said as if I had not been gone for weeks and if my physical condition had not changed since the last time we met. "Come by later for some tea and scones if you like!", she shouted after me as I made my way up the long narrow staircase towards Leng's plateau as we call the old man's abode.

Higher than an attic, but less so than a loft, is how the space appears to newcomers. With carefully placed bibelots and furniture the main room exudes a radiant warmth, no matter what time of year. That was not to say that the place is cluttered, nothing of the sort. In fact it always feels as if there is a specific design embedded in the carefully placed objects. From the ceiling tapestries of unusual length came down to create the spires of a fabric cathedral. Those draperies can be used to configure the room in any number of ways and it had occurred more than once that people who were ordinarily familiar with the place would find themselves lost. Parts of the floor are slightly raised and some are even lowered, giving the entire space the appearance of an odd landscape. It is my guess that Mr. Leng used these ridges and plateaus for navigation, but they do add to the mysterious atmosphere of the place. Seating arrangements are always improvised depending on who is visiting and for what purpose. If Leng suspects there will be long conversation, he will bring out extremely large pillows on which a London gentleman in proper attire can not sit elegantly and only with great difficulty, but comfortably. Women are treated in a completely different manner and are provided with chairs complimentary to their dress and standing, always making them look more elegant than they naturally are. Leng's assumption being that men can not be elegant no matter what situation and might as well look ridiculous. How the old man figures out what a woman is wearing is beyond me, but he always manages to complement his female guest's attire perfectly. Where the old man keeps all of these chairs and pillows and benches and cushions is difficult to say. Everything seems to fold away into some unseen location.

Out of nowhere Leng produced a table, which he folded open so fast that it seemed as if the object appeared out of thin air. "Please lie faced down on the table", he said not in my direction and slightly commanding. "There will be no need to take off any item of clothing", he continued as if he had guessed what I wanted to ask. I did as I was told and crawled onto the table, which seemed sturdier than I had imagined. Nothing happened. In fact nothing happened for quite some time. There was shuffling somewhere at the far end of the room but when that ceased after a minute there remained utter silence. How Leng manages to keep London outside of his home is a miracle. After this much time lying still on a table, I felt rather ridiculous and started to look around. "Please stay still", said Leng from somewhere close to me. "Please, place your hands next to you on the table, palms facing up", he said. I did as I was told. With one easy move he managed to take off my clerk's jacket, how he did this I have no idea and I never found out. "Please relax, I will first put you in a receptive mode. Closely follow my instructions." Why was it necessary to be in a 'receptive' mode and what did that mean by that? Even though he had taken off my jacket there was no actual sensation of touch thus far. All of a sudden there was a slight prod at the top of my neck, barely noticeable. Next his fingers slowly seemed to tap each of the vertebrae one at a time. There was no pushing or force applied, just a little tap. He stopped somewhere around my waist and now touched the insides of my palm with what felt like his index finger, both at the same time. "Do you feel both of your hands equally well?" Leng asked. "Yes I do", I replied. "That is good, very good", the voice came from further away. "I'm going to repeat the same procedure, but now I want you to keep focusing on the inside of your palms", the voice was close by again.

The same pattern was repeated but this time the tapping was a bit colder and a bit faster. Again it ended with a simultaneous tap on both my palms. "Can you smell anything?" I was asked. When asked that question it occurred to me that ever since I arrived back home I had not smelled any subtle fragrances, only strong and obvious ones, such as the old dusty books in Hubbard's library and the coffee Helen poured for breakfast. I felt Leng putting his hand under my forehead, slightly lifting up my head. He then pulled a latch somewhere and the front part folded into the table, revealing a soft stand of dark red velour that allowed my head to be in alignment with the rest of my body without any discomfort. Only my forehead and chin were resting on this curious construction. Leng said: "I'm going to do the same thing I did with your back but with your head" It took quite a while before this actually happened and I slowly felt myself drifting into sleep when I felt Leng's index finger slightly pressing my left ear inwards. He let go slowly and repeated the same with my right ear. "Can you feel your cheeks? Are they warm?" What an odd question, are my cheeks warm? "Not warmer than normal" was my answer. In total this procedure was repeated three times, each time the exact same sensation and each time Leng asked if my cheeks were warm. Not that I was loosing my patience, if this was all he was going to do, he could keep on going for a while, the entire experience was quite relaxing.

There again was the finger on my left ear, slightly colder now and again only on the lobe. The same happened to my right ear, except that when asked if my cheeks were warm I had to admit to my astonishment that they were indeed. Not hot, not a fever, but slightly warmer as if sitting in front of a fireplace after coming in from the cold on an early December morning. "Excellent, we are making progress", Leng murmured from somewhere in the room. He placed both of his hands on my shoulders, holding them flat he did not push he just kept them there, very steady and then suddenly removed them. Again he put his hands over my shoulder blades and kept them there for a minute. Twice more was this ritual repeated. After what seemed to be much longer than the previous intervals I felt two cold shapes on my shoulders, just a bit heavier than the sensation of Mr. Leng's hands simply touching. "Does that feel comfortable?" the old man asked. "Quite so", I replied, but for some reason lacking the desire to ask what exactly was placed on my body. "You're doing quite well, much more receptive than most", Leng said. The man now placed two fingers in between my shoulders on each side of my spine. "Can you feel this Jeremy?" I heard. "Yes I can", I said, although I now wonder if I had said it in any understandable form because by this time I felt very groggy. The next sensation was as if Leng picked up the fabric of my shirt with the fingers of his hands in both the places he had just tapped. He slightly tugged as if to command my body to levitate from the table. "No need to move now, don't fight the sensations", Leng almost whispered. "Imagine that all of your muscles are tensing around these two points and nowhere else." Leng picked up the two points of fabric from my back. He held this position for half a minute or so. "Imagine that these are the two points around which all of your back, neck, head and legs revolve." The two points were moved slowly towards each other. "Your back hinges on these two points." As if wires pulled through the points I felt all the muscles in my back tense around Leng's two focal points. A slow upward motion made it feel as if my body was dragged into a single point above me. "Hold here", came a commanding voice. "Now let go", seconds afterwards. The imaginary cords were slowly released and my entire body started to spread out over the table. In unison with my back lowering itself Leng must have removed the weights from my shoulders, such that it felt as if they flew away by themselves. "Slow", Leng whispered, "Very slow. Is your back feeling warm?" As I was still lowering my back I clearly felt a warming sensation start from where there were previously the two pulling points, a sensation that slowly spread all over. "Lower still", said Leng.  My body obeyed and with a noiseless sigh did my back straightened out completely. There were a quick few taps at my ears, a few over my back along my spine and a couple in the palms of my hands. "Sleep now", I heard Leng say from very far away.

When I came round I smelled the strong fragrance of fresh tea. "Ah you are awake, how do you feel? You can get up now", Leng said cheerfully. I expected to have to use my hands to raise myself off of the platform, but there was none of the stiffness now that I was accustomed to for the last couple of weeks. With ease I slid of the table and put on my jacket. "Here, have a seat and have some tea", I saw the old man say with a smile on his face. In silence I drank some tea, sitting cross legged on one of Leng's oversized pillows. "Can I ask exactly what you did?" I asked. "I did nothing, you did it all by yourself. I just helped your mind see that there was nothing wrong with your body." Out of all the answers I imagined, this one made absolutely no sense. A slight curiousness now grabbed me and I wondered exactly what the old man had done. Over by the table in a wooden tray lay a number of very long thin metal needles with colorful handles. My curiousness turned to nervousness and I checked my back and ears for any damage. Leng laughed, "It is not what you think, nothing bad happened to you, if that is what you were wondering. Your entire nervous system was telling your back that they had only one position to be in: stiffly bent forward. This probably happened because you slept a lot in objects other than beds, am I right?" "Indeed I have been traveling much, with not many places that contained proper sleeping arrangements. Most of the time I slept in carriages and cabs", I admitted. "You're body assumed it was going to maintain that lifestyle for a prolonged period of time and prepared itself accordingly", the old man said sipping his tea. "Then exactly why did you stick those needles over there in my body?", I said. "Those are acupuncture needles and I only placed them on your body slightly under the skin, a technique that has been used in my country for thousands of years. You place a needle at the juncture of a specific bundle of nerves, that way you can either activate or deactivate those nerves  and control if they allow sensations to pass to the brain. First I disabled a number of pathways along your back and neck by carefully placing those needles. This took away any noise from the rest of your body that might disturb your concentration. Then it was simply of a question of focusing all of your muscles on one point and asking you to let go. Your body did the rest and assumed its normal form", Leng concluded. "What were those weights on my shoulders and what were they for?" I asked still not entirely satisfied. "Those were simple copper weights, they enhanced the sensation of sinking when you finally let go." More and more questions came to me rapidly. "Why did I not feel the needles go in?" I asked. "Again this was suggestion. Although they are so thin you would not have felt them anyway, I wanted to completely remove the chance of you noticing anything out of the ordinary. You felt me tap your back, your hands and your ears. This created a pattern of expectation and when I placed a needle your body already had a picture of what was happening. It could simply not tell the difference. It also helps me to find the precise nerve bundles of course", mister Leng said. "But enough explanations. Time to go home, it is getting late."

With many questions still to be answered I walked back to Hubbard's store. Olivia was busy in the greenhouse talking to Smollet. As I stood there staring at the wildlife I heard a sound I had not heard from this part of the house before. The trapdoor leading to Bibliotheca Echidna opened slowly and I heard someone walk up and enter the store. Only when the door closed again could I see Hubbard standing in the hallway looking at me. With an expressionless face he said: "Welcome back Jeremy, I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

"Two days?" I asked. "I know I was tired and hadn't slept for quite some time when I arrived back home, but two days was quite a lot to be unconscious." With Helen now acknowledging that I was not a meandering ghost but very much my old self, she became less nervous and more of our maid. "You better come get some breakfast, Hubbard has been asking about you. And take of those filthy clothes please. Where on earth did you get those?" she said strongly, now briskly walking away towards the kitchen. It is futility itself arguing with urchins and Russian maids and I did as I was told. My old clerk's livery was an uncomfortable change of attire from well worn traveling clothes, with the only benefit that I must have lost a considerable amount of weight and the costume now fell around me as if I had just put on a fabric harness. The mirror on the wall above the small basin showed a face with a darker skin and more facial hair than I had ever had. A shave took care of the stubble but did nothing for the weathered skin. As far as I could I straightened my back and made my way towards the kitchen in the forward part of the upstairs living quarters. I found a table set for one with a cup of hot steaming coffee and an English breakfast. Clearly my stomach had forgotten what it was used to every morning because now matter how tasteful the sausage, it felt heavy in my stomach and I could not eat as much as I normally did. Helen noticed of course. "Jeremy, what did they do to you over there on the continent? You look all scrawny and worn out and you've barely eaten anything", she said, sounding very much like the Helen I had left behind. "Not to worry, I'm sure all that will change soon, you'll see", I replied.

Thus far I had not seen Hubbard. Nor did I care to meet him just yet. The man had shown a callous side of him I had not expected, something which greatly confused me. He had grabbed the item I had sought out for him with great danger to myself and he had rushed downstairs into Bibliotheca Echidna without a word of explanation or thanks. Helen had not seen him much either for the last two days and the man had virtually been swallowed into ground for all we knew. "He will be back and he will apologize, you will see", Helen said, trying to turn around my anger. "You know what he is like, whenever he gets something in his head he has to see it through. It is like a fever that has to run its course", she added, "Remember the Triops?" I did remember that. His constant absence both in mind and body from the dinner table and the workshop to spent time peering at ugly creatures in a fish tank had disrupted the household greatly. At first I felt a great need to become familiar again with the interior of the house. Whatever the world outside looked like would have to wait. Almost minutely I went through the abode, re-acquainting myself with the objects, the layout, the colors, the smells and the dimensions. Never before had I realized how much the inside of my home had made an impact on me. Traveling rapidly from city to city, from temporary accommodations to even more temporary sleeping quarters had created a need for a permanence and I was very glad to find that back in Fleet Street.

Almost at once did I start to notice small sensations that had never before entered my consciousness. The specific color of the wood paneling, very dark in contrast to the bleached stone texture of Mediterranean houses, the smell of polishing wax, something I would normally loathe. Still the subdued colors and dark red wood did not appear at all depressing my spirits, instead they gave a warm and comfortable feeling to the place. Similar sensations entered my mind when walking into the library, books still in the same disorder as I had left them. Old paper combined with Morocco leather creates a penetrating smell, not to dissimilar to pipe tobacco, something I had never realized before until then. When I entered the shop downstairs, it was clear that not much had been sold. Clocks and watches had been taken in but had not been picked up. Some of the clocks had simply been placed on the counter by their owners and were not even examined or labeled, something that ordinarily happens before they are moved into the workshop. Three of these clocks would be very difficult to place unless their owners came to claim them. One rather ostentatious mantle clock could be immediately identified as belonging to Mrs. Clapham, a lady with absolutely no taste and a fixation with the reign of Louis XV. Cleaning the store and organizing the merchandize gave me a way to work myself back into the creeks and crevices of the house. Never before had I been an overzealous cleaner of spaces, but having trundled so much mud and muck, it was quite a nice change to be able to actually clean something a bit more permanent than perhaps scrubbing my boots for the next day. Helen had stayed out of the store area. "All them clocks and watches, that's not for a maid to cope with. Let Hubbard himself sort it out", she stated resolutely.

Hubbard himself was nowhere to be seen. His workplace the same chaos as before, with no signs as to when the last time was he had occupied it. Inevitably I reached the vivarium, or greenhouse, built against the house in the backyard. Not to confuse this construction with a regular greenhouse, the complex, for it should be called that, was of an enormous scale and housed a small section of tropical rainforest. Not just plants were kept here but the typical animal life was appropriately transplanted into the artificial counterpart. It was as if God had sliced a quarter of forest out of the jungle and planted it right in our backyard. When I entered the hot enclosure I was greeted by a new sound, a loud shrieking of a bird with an English cold. Encountering this noise within an actual forest must be an immense sensation since the volume produced by this bird was incredibly loud and would certainly echo for miles. "It's a Toucan bird or a Ram...   a Rampa ... Ramphastidae", a small voice came from behind me. I spun around and saw Olivia staring at me. "Its name is Smollet, like the newspaper man around the corner. He sounds just like him", she said in one breath. "Olivia! good to see you again", I cried out. The little girl ran towards me and wrapped her arms around my waist. "You're back you are!" she shouted. "Indeed I am and I won't go away anymore", I said, wondering if I could indeed make that promise. "Now how did you know that Latin name for that bird", I asked. "Mister Hubbard gave me a book with pictures, he said I should like to study onitoligy, that's about birds you know", Olivia said, now slowly letting go of me. "You mean Ornithology probably", I said.  Not wanting to crush the little girl's newly found interest I quickly added: "that's very impressive that you know that bird's Latin name." Olivia nodded. "Smollet is very clever. I'll show you." Olivia walked up to a small plant and picked a bright red piece of fruit. She then entered the central opening in the forest and intently gazed upwards. "Look", Olivia said and tossed the piece straight up into the trees. Out of the leafs came a large bright yellow beak that snapped up the piece of fruit from the air with a loud clack. Olivia clapped her hands. "Smollet's very good, he almost always catches it.

"Come", she said,  "there's more new animals." She took my hand and dragged me towards the left side of the enclosure where a small set of stairs descend into a viewing area from which you can observe the contents of a small stream that runs across the vivarium. "Look", Olivia said, "do you see the little snakes over there?" On the floor bed, curiously examined by some Discus fish roaming the bottom for food, were three yellow and brown striped elongated fish or eels no more than a couple of inches in length. "They look like they have moustaches", Olivia giggled. Indeed upon closer inspection the tiny eel like fish appeared to sniff around with short bristles at the end of their snout, constantly prodding the stream's sandy floor bed, occasionally shooting away from larger fish getting too close for comfort. "They are funny, they do that all day. Sometimes they mistake one of the bigger fish for food and they tickle them. Those big ones get really angry when that happens", Olivia said. "I'm sure", I said, "I'm sure that itches for a while." "Mister Hubbard told me that the little eels don't really come from the same place as the other fishes, but he says that they should be ok. I've been watching them so they don't get sick", Olivia said. We sat there for a while gazing at the abundance of life in front of us. Little fish inevitably got themselves into scuffles with other small fish, which for a short while created a cloud of spurious activity, ending in an explosion of life towards all ends of the stream. "Ah there you two are." Helen walked down towards the bench we were sitting on. "Did you show you him the fish with the moustaches?" Olivia nodded with a smile. "They are very funny animals", I said, "a bit like underwater dogs" "Good thing I found you here Jeremy, Mr. Leng is upstairs to see you, he says he can help", Helen said. "Help me?" I asked, "help me with what?" "He didn't say, he just said he could help you." Not wanting to leave the bench I reluctantly stood up and went upstairs to see what Mr. Leng had to say.

There came a soft knock on the carriage door. "Jeremy, are you in there?" The familiar voice of Hubbard. "Jeremy, did you bring it? We must take it downstairs immediately. They are all waiting" There was no escaping anymore. I straightened my back as far as I could, fastened my hat properly on my head and slowly opened the door. A completely soaked Hubbard stood peering through his half glasses outside his shop door. When I looked up to take in the familiar front of the place I have called home before all this had happened I noticed Helen standing at the top of the spiral stairwell. She did not look happy or apprehensive or curious. There was almost resignation on her face, as if some puzzle was put together again, not a family but a puzzle. I was not ready for Hubbard yet, the house and Helen perhaps, but not Hubbard. He was mostly anxious about the object I had brought, an object of which I still knew nothing. Without leaving the carriage I reached out through the rain as if penetrating a waterfall and handed him the metal container. He took it with both hands. "Excellent, boy, let's get this downstairs immediately!" I did not know exactly where 'downstairs', but it had to be somewhere in the catacombs of Bibliotheca Echidna. It meant nothing to me now. Hubbard had not traveled post haste through a large part of Europe, instead he had sat in his library contemplating the best way to handle the object. I had left as a nineteen year old boy and had returned an old man, physically as well. The journey had given me a serious injury to my back, courtesy of the Swiss Alps and showed as a slight forward bend when I walked.

Hubbard had rushed inside immediately and I saw him press the hidden button that closed the trapdoor to the underground museum. Slowly the inside of the coach was getting wet and the cabbie made some noises indicating that he was tired as well of this trip. Slowly I gathered my possessions. The rain did not bother me, it seemed appropriate and felt like a shower, washing away experiences and memories. This at least is how it felt, as if by leaving the carriage I would loose the memories of days of intense living. With loud complains the cabdriver lowered my trunk from the back of the coach. I paid him whatever I money I had left and accidentally gave him some Italian Lire and German Deutschmark. Helen had come to the door and took my hat. "This is different", she said, both observing the hat and me. "Are you sure you are Jeremy? And where did you get that cape. It suits you though." The trunk I left in the store. Helen closed the door behind me and followed me up to the kitchen. "I'll make you some hot chocolate, that'll settle you right down", she said with a severe face. I did not want to settle down, wanted to be back on the road. Perhaps some hot refreshments would not be that bad. I resigned to the fact that all things must come to an end and that the realization that everything had really happened was the most important object I had brought with me. "What did you bring Hubbard?" Helen asked. "I have no idea, I never bothered to look inside. It's very light, probably something made of paper", I said. It was true, the moment the container was handed to me I felt a bit embarrassed. Was this what I had pursued so fanatically?

We talked about the little things that had happened in our Fleet Street community. Mrs. Vandermeer had given birth to a baby girl, with the effect that suddenly Olivia felt like she had a baby sister and was behaving very much acting the part of the older sibling. Sebastian had broken his leg when he fell of the back of a cab. Had to happen sooner or later. Meyers was as productive as ever and was now printing small bound books. All this I took in and stored somewhere in the back of my head, knowing that I would process the facts later when the sea salt had wash off my skin. I must have dozed off at the kitchen table because I remember sitting up with Helen shaking my shoulders. "Better get you to bed, you're not going to last much longer sitting there", she said. In a daze I made my way towards the back of the house where my bedroom was. Inside everything was as I had left it but nothing was the same. With my wet clothes still on and with my leather hat clasped in my hand I fell asleep on my bed. The only dreams that came that night were blurred visions of moving from one tall building to another from city to city.

Meyers has now recruited myself and Mr. Hubbard to sift through the enormous stack of paper to find any works that might be publishable. Leonard, Meyer's assistant is too engrossed in producing the plates that are needed to keep the printing business afloat. With all this activity there has been a visible neglect in the store portion, the original occupation of the old bookworm. Instead, as did Hubbard, Meyers is now employing the services of a young lady by the name of Agnes. Last name as of yet unknown, she won't divulge anything personal and keeps a safe distance from anything remotely human, including customers. In that respect she fills the position adequately. Bookstores would not do well with an overzealous salesperson, who would recommend a Faust to someone seeking uplifting prose. "But madam, Faust is one of our rapidly selling items, we received a new shipment this morning and they are simply flying out the door." Agnes relates more to the mood and temperament of people drifting in, in search of literary fulfillment. "Perhaps a short novel such as Candide by the French author Voltaire would suit madam's mood?" she would ask. "It is an ever delightful tale of unstoppable optimism." Agnes would peer through her half glasses and with her squinting eyes sold a considerably smaller volume than let's say Goethe's Faust, but she would sell many more in the course of a day and to customers who would surely return many times over.

Agnes was rummaging around behind one of the counters as our conversation around submitted manuscripts reached a new level when Meyers gave me some samples of prose that had come into his store just last week. On top of the stack of paper sorted into books were drafts by a lady who is using the pen name "Anna Christo". Miss., or perhaps Mrs. Christo writes detective novels or as can be read from the subtitles of her work: "Another sleuthing serial, featuring the famous detective Roger Morrison" In the stack were three such novels, each with what must be assumed to be sensational titles, such as there was: "The Library in Red", "Nobody left the House" and "The Mysterious Death of Charles Baker". Below those three fine examples of England's home brew literature was a manuscript submitted by the Reverend Masterly. I truly hope that is not his real name. The good Reverend writes romance novels. It is hard to believe indeed. Not only does the man write romance novels, he writes very very dubious ones. One wonders where he gets his knowledge from, certainly not the members of his parish. Perhaps he has been reading the Beatrice one too many times and felt compelled to introduce a modern version of this work. Chances are slim that any of these manuscripts will ever be turned into printed books, but nonetheless I do not want to keep these wonderful examples of passionate scribbling from you. Imagine if you can, an elderly man dressed in his habitual clergy costume, holding a pen, examining the last sentence he had just committed for eternity to the piece of paper in front of him. The line of text he just finished came out of a paragraph that read like this:

Muriel, the pious and pure sister from the nearby convent of St. Angelus was walking with sister Angela in the apple orchard adjacent to the village church. It was late morning and the sun had just driven all the moist and dew into the leaves and branches, leaving swollen and healthy vegetation all around as far as the eye could see. The two devout women were discussing the ripening of blossom into apples and blessed themselves for being allowed to witness this holy miracle. Amongst the heavily laden trees and soft grass they slowly strolled until they reached the Northern most edge of the convent's properties. The other side was farmland with a wide strip of wooded area, separating the farm from the holy land. Farm hand John noticed sister Muriel and sister Angela walk past unseen, still lost in their thoughts and admiration. John had stepped away from his father's reign to take his dog to the little stream that had plowed its shape into the prosperous land. "Sister Muriel, Sister Angela!" he shouted. "Why not join me for an early lunch by the stream? I brought a full picnic basket, but there is too much to eat for just myself and I hate to waste food" Both nuns were familiar with John and knew his passionate temper, a temper not always commensurate with church doctrine. Still, the poor mountain of a man deserved the same devout attention as any other parishioner and could surely be taught the ways of the Lord. Sister Muriel and sister Angelus greeted John and asked him if he had said his prayers. "Yes of course, I prayed for some companionship and see, the Lord has provided", said John.

Being shown so much faith, the two nuns could not refuse and crossed the little gate into the wooded area after having picked several apples and some strawberries to supplement the picnic. "Master John", sister Muriel began, "I have not seen you in church for quite some time." "T'is my master, farmer Collins, he keeps me in the field all week and will not even permit me to rest on Sundays", John said sheepishly. Both Muriel and Mabel were visible taken aback. "Surely Master Collins knows the Lord's wishes", said Mabel. "I can not disobey. I would lose my job you see", added John. Muriel, who was the more sensitive of the two, Mabel being the one who had worked in various hospitals and orphanages, felt her heart open towards the tall handsome farmhand. "I will go speak with farmer Collins this instant and cite him the appropriate paragraphs from the scriptures", Mabel said. She leapt up and briskly walked through the trees onto the farmer's land and could be heard muttering to herself in colorful, yet devout language. Muriel now found herself alone with the silent young man, who at this point was demolishing an apple. After only a small portion of the piece of fruit was left, did the man toss it amongst the trees and reached for something deep down in this trouser pocket. He took out a small knife and proceeded to peel and cut one of the remaining apples. Muriel all the while observed the movements and motions with a an embarrassing curiosity. Why would a man eating an apple be of any interest to her?

Perhaps I should not go on. What I have copied thus far is already sufficiently embarrassing, especially for the Reverend Masterly if this were ever published and if that were his real name. Many more closet romance novels in draft were littering the house and weeding through them would take weeks, if not months. Agnes, who had been collecting a small pile of these manuscripts in a corner of the store, was silently reading. If she suspected anyone observing her, she would pretend it was something of no interest and would flamboyantly discard it on a random pile of books. Moments later she would grab the volume again and continue reading, slightly flustered.

Miss Christo's manuscripts are more to my liking. After reading some of her work I must admit that it is actually quite good. Mind you I have only read through: "The Mysterious Death of Charles Baker", a detective novel in which a banker is murdered during regular banking hours, using some very unusual methods I might add. Perhaps I will make this work available to you, so that you may form your own opinion. Other books and manuscripts shown to me by Meyers were either of abysmal quality or of such a nature that it is really up to the public to decide if it merits wider publication. Currently there is no room for highly experimental works of fiction and these will sit on the shelves until the passing years are more agreeable to their subject matter. Perhaps I will also include some of these works for you, as you might be more open to subversive literature. Some of the writers are firmly in the grip of the Jules Verne novels and try to emulate and even outdo the master. The result? Compendiums of the most ridiculous inventions, used for even more absurd adventures. For your amusement I have listed here three such works with a description and and outline of the stories:

'A Trip to Paris and Back', by Ralph Westerly, the recounted adventures of Baron Rasmussen, who invented a submarine that maneuvers underground instead of underwater. The ridiculous machine resembles a large conical drill mounted on the front of a locomotive. In order to go 'underground', the vehicle lifts it's back portion by pneumatic pressure and points its entire structure towards the ground. The drill then both creates a hole in front of the machine as well as drags the contraption forward and downward.

'At the top of Mount Everest', written by Marlin Rochester, being an account of a daring investigative reporter who follows a madman on his attempt to climb the highest mountain in the world. For this adventure various devises were used to make the trip through high altitudes possible. Amongst the more outlandish machineries, is a suit that keeps the wearer warm. It is fueled by warm water trapped inside the suit and is pumped through a device carried on the back that resembles a small steam engine.

'The Lost Land", penned by a person calling himself 'R. J. Chesterfield', after many months of searching the desolate plains of Northern Russia, the expedition led by Arthur Brackenridge returns to London. It was the ultimate goal of the party to return with proof of the continuing existence of the Wooly Mammoths. Modern type vehicles, mounted on sleds were used to comb the barren wastelands of this mostly undiscovered country. If you want to know of the results of their efforts you will have to read the entire adventure!

The last abstract was actually included with the manuscript on the first page and was proposed to be used for advertising purposes. Most of the writing was actually of good quality, but the descriptions of the machines and inventions used; created a constant tendency to laugh out loud. Amongst the more boring as well as poorly written materials are works on the sciences, with for some reason a large number of books on birds and insects. For example, there were two books (volume I and II) about the flying power of a certain species of large beetle (Lucanus cervus). Apparently the male of the species can fly through a glass window and come through unscathed. An interesting fact you might say, and indeed I did not know this. But two entire books on the matter? When I showed these volumes to Hubbard they were immediately examined and added to the library, which technically means that the author sold one copy. "Did you know that these insects are directly related to dung beetles and scarabs?" Hubbard said after reading through some of the lesser dense text.

Not that all of the samples that Meyers gave me to read were of poor quality. Indeed, there were some magnificent works of prose that can stand up to any of the books by Dickens or Haggard Rider. A couple of these books should certainly be mentioned. There were five complete children's stories by Allister McMoran, each of the volumes containing  the continuing saga of a colony of field mice that is forced to migrate to the big city after their small meadow is turned into a factory. The mice, after many tribulations settle themselves in the center of a small square in the big city of London. A square, which is described as consisting of an enclosed area containing willows and poplars, not unlike our own alcove community. Below the vegetation they dig out and build a mouse city of admirable proportions. Perhaps at some point I should include excerpts of these tales for your and your children's entertainment. Meyers will not publish them as of yet, since he is looking for specific works that fits the 'milieu' he has in mind as he calls the customers of the soon to be printed high-quality literature. Children's stories are one of the more popular streams of incoming materials and we already sorted at least twenty five short stories and about 6 full novels. Most of the manuscripts are of a standard sort, being rather educational and of questionable entertainment value.

For now there is a large stack of assorted paper still to be sorted. Since last week, the builders who Meyer's hired to construct an extension to his house into the back yard, have finished to the point where the space can be used for storage. Most of the outside still needs to be put into place, but the inside is fully furnished and resembles the headquarters of the Oxford English Dictionary efforts. Stacks and stacks of large pigeon holes allow Meyers and Leonard to sort the large mass of incoming paper into rough categories. After a rigorous selection and reviewing process, suitable works are tagged by a yellow strip of paper and are placed into a higher pigeon hole. The lowest ranks are used for incoming manuscripts, who then proceed to either travel upwards or are thrown out if they remain in the same slot for more than a month. Occasionally I will ask Meyers if I can select some of the piles from the medium height holes. Those that are neither suitable for immediate publication and are not that bad as to insult the reader. Currently I am engrossed in the aforementioned The Mysterious Death of Charles Baker", a story I will provide soon for your reading pleasure.

Quickly, the one we shall not name because he is Charles the fiancé of Miriam, was informed and Hubbard, after discussing the matter for an extensive period of time agreed that however unusual the enormous size of the monster was not at all out of proportions. Metusaleh of course ignored the discussion and continued eating and growing. All throughout the life of our remaining monster we noted down its behavior, eating habits and any other peculiarities that might be of use later. When I say 'later' then that most likely means in a hundred years or so when a bright young student from Oxford reads the logs and wonders what we hoped to accomplish. The poor soul might even do a dissertation on the hopeless pastimes of confused Victorians.

In any case all the activity surrounding the creature ceased when Helen found it all bunched up in a corner of its tank. At first she thought it had grabbed something that had fallen into the water and was now carefully dissecting it. Not at all an unusual occurrence. But when there was no movement after regular food was added, Helen grew suspicious. Using the neurological tools Hubbard always keeps on an examination bench, she carefully prodded the animal. Triops are not shy and will swim towards anything moving, but this one would do so no more. Helen then realized the animal had passed away and proceeded to do her big entrance into our kitchen. Completely unperturbed Hubbard climbed into the attic space with me following close behind. He did not immediately go towards the tank but instead opened a cabinet filled with empty glass cylinders closed off on either side with a base of dark mahogany. He picked up a glass bottle with formaldehyde and then finally made his way towards the back of the room. “Jeremy, please fill the cylinder while I take out the Triops”, Hubbard said in a formal tone. He always turned like that when he used the veil of science to shield himself from something emotional. The old man had grown quite attached to the little creature and thought the two had much in common. As I was filling the Triop’s last resting place I saw Hubbard carefully take out the animal and place it on a piece of parchment paper. “Not enough time to draw it. They don’t hold up well outside the water. Look Jeremy the structure completely collapses, just like jellyfish”, he muttered. I placed the now full container next to the parchment and watched Hubbard drop the animal inside. Hubbard kneeled; his eyes now level with the floating Triops: “Luckily I did not do any damage when I put it on the paper.”

There it now sits, inside a glass cylinder, looking even more menacing then when it was still chasing food and other Triops. Anything you put in a jar filled with formaldehyde will turn into something otherworldly and in the case of this animal the effect was even more bizarre. I am not sure if Hubbard will continue the experiment by hatching another cycle of larva. Personally, I would not mind seeing some innocent fish instead.