The Chronicles of Milton Frobisher – Volume 1
My first thought on alighting at London’s St. Pancras railway station was that whoever had written that famous homesick line “Oh to be in England, now that April’s here,” must likely have done so from the sun-drenched patio of a Grecian villa. Or perhaps the terrace of a Spanish finca while gazing out over the azure blue of the Mediterranean sea.
—They sure as hell did not do it from a dank garret anywhere near the center of the capital.
My trip from the port at Dover had been through a landscape of persistent drizzle that had washed all the color from the countryside. I was feeling tired and would probably have dozed through the entire trip if it hadn’t been for Snootles and Mumsy-Wumsy.
—The first was a small, bony, almost hairless rodent. Or possibly a dog. The second was a woman, quite the opposite in size, dressed head to foot in that pink color that makes decent people wince. Snootles yapped incessantly, and, in response, Mumsy-Wumsy cooed and coddled. Fortunately, as we arrived at Ashford, they left the carriage. Just as well, as the offensive creature had sorely tested my patience. I didn’t like the dog much either.
—The remainder of the trip was uneventful, and eventually my umbrella and I arrived at the damp terminus in the midst of the city. The station’s impressive steel frame with its myriad glass lenses was designed to bathe passengers in a warm glow. Today it painted them all a flat, lifeless gray. Steam from waiting trains added to the humidity and created an oppressive atmosphere through which a multitude of perspiring bodies seethed as they tried to make their weary way home.
The streets outside offered no relief. The fabled thoroughfares were not paved with gold as legend had it, but rather were awash with thinly diluted equine excrement. The newfangled steam carriages that had appeared over the last couple of years might be somewhat noisy and unreliable, but if their introduction reduced the number of horse-drawn vehicles—and the piles of stinking feces they left behind—it would at least result in a cleaner city.
—I waited in line for a vacant vehicle. I was too tired to care which. At that point all I wanted was transportation across the city to my family’s townhouse in Kensington. In more pleasant weather I would take a leisurely walk, but there was no joy to be found trekking these sodden streets.
—The first attack followed a familiar pattern, though perhaps ‘attack’ is being overly dramatic.
—A distractingly attractive young woman stumbled in front of me. Distraction was her purpose, of course. As I moved to help her, as any gentleman would, I collided with another man apparently intent on the same course of action.
—Except he wasn’t. This man was the woman’s accomplice, and his goal was to relieve me of my wallet. His hand moved deftly under my thick wool coat and inside my jacket. He was clearly a skilled practitioner, and most victims would doubtless have been unaware. I, however, had quickly noticed that the woman was never in any real danger of falling and so had redirected my attention towards the pickpocket.
—By the time the man’s hand reached its target, it was met by my own. I grasped it firmly and stared into the fellow’s eyes as he realized he had been found out. I then used my thumb and forefinger to break his pinky. It’s an acquired skill, but I had worked on the appropriate musculature whilst in the Himalayas. The local tribes believe strong hands are an important asset. Indeed, yak wrestling without an iron grip is somewhat foolhardy.
—The thief’s eyes widened in pain, though he did not cry out for fear of attracting a constable. He struggled to pull away. I held both his gaze and his hand for a moment longer, twisting the digit to ensure that small shards of bone grated against one another to cause maximum discomfort. Then I released him. He whimpered, and the nefarious pair scurried away into the descending gloom.
—My umbrella had remained hooked over my forearm throughout. It was an old friend and sported a fine Malacca handle. The natural grooves made for excellent grip. An observer might have wondered why I had not raised it to protect myself from the inclement weather. The reason would soon become clear.
Street vendors and peddlers are common in and around the capital’s railway stations, and I’ve been known to avail myself of a halfpenny bag of freshly roasted chestnuts on more than one occasion. I am not so keen on the organ grinders whose equipment is, by its nature, somewhat repetitive. Neither do I like to see their tethered monkeys. City streets are no place for jungle creatures.
—The one that I could see now, with its ever-present tin cup scraping along the pavement, was odd for several reasons.
—First, there was neither sight nor sound of the organ or the man grinding it.
—Second, the monkey (a capuchin if I was not mistaken) was making its way through a great many legs seemingly bent on begging from me, and me alone.
—Third, but by no means of least importance, the monkey’s waistcoat seemed inordinately bulky. Much thicker than would be expected for the little chap (or chapess), even taking into account the current inclement London weather.
—Despite the animal’s diminutive size, I had an inkling of a threat. I am a cautious man by both nature and training, so I took a couple of steps to one side to interpose a porter with a large, wheeled traveling chest between myself and the determined simian. The little beast remained fixed on its apparent objective, hopping lightly on top of said luggage, dropping back to the ground, and rapidly closing the gap between us.
—The monkey bounded forward on all fours, then at the last moment launched itself through the air towards me. As it did so, I withdrew the handle from my umbrella, revealing twenty-two inches of finely honed Damascus steel blade that I had acquired some years before at Astara, on the Caspian Sea.
—The Capuchin was moving too fast to change its trajectory. The razor-sharp weapon slid easily through the animal’s small body, and the creature was limp by the time it reached the hilt. However, the danger was not past. Beneath the waistcoat, I could see a burning cord attached to a wax paper bundle that could only be some kind of explosive device.
—I had no way of knowing the size of the charge or the collateral damage it might cause. It seemed likely that innocent bystanders would be injured, probably killed. I immediately lowered the corpse, put my foot on it, and withdrew the blade. With a swift kick, I propelled the body of my tiny attacker into the deepest puddle within view. There was a hiss as the fuse extinguished, followed by a soft crunch as the wheel of a passing carriage crushed the simian’s body and broke open the destructive package to render it harmless.
—For a moment the people closest to the action were held in shock. Some broke free almost immediately and quickly fled the scene. Others stared, trying to make sense of what had, in truth, passed very quickly. Sensing an opportunity, I moved swiftly to the front of the queue and, ignoring one or two half-hearted protests, climbed into a cab. I directed the driver towards Kensington.
—I believed I had closed the door firmly, but suddenly it banged open as if caught by a strong gust. This was a surprise, given that the atmosphere was dense and muggy rather than blustery. Just as quickly, it slammed shut on the rebound.
—I saw no one, but that didn’t necessarily mean I was alone. I had no wish to put members of my parent’s household at risk, so I redirected the cabbie to my club. The staff there were adept at dealing with interlopers. They would also do a first-rate job of cleaning the monkey blood from my clothing.
—My thoughts turned to the demise of that poor Capuchin. I regretted killing the little creature but had been given no choice. It was not just a question of my own safety, but that of the innocent people around me. Regret turned to anger directed towards whoever had unleashed the animal. When I found the person responsible, I would make my feelings known to them. Forcibly. Probably in a dark alley where I could slip away from the body unnoticed.
Want to read on? The Chronicles of Milton Frobisher is a novella of around 120 pages. Get it on Amazon as a Kindle Ebook or paperback.
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