Teacups & Tentacles | ONC 2022

10. Susie Isn't the Only One

The cobbled streets were oddly empty. Especially for a weekend in late spring, when people would be taking the air later and later or just going out to attend any manner of spectacle.  Even the blue and orange blinking lights of the night Zeppelins that ferried  partiers across London's skies into the wee hours of the night were few and far between.

Amelia paused by a shop front to take in the entire expanse of the road in which she was the sole pedestrian. Silence. Not even a prowling cat zipping from front door to front door. 

It was more than bizarre.

It's as if everyone has left on holiday to Brighton and forgotten to leave a note for the milkman, she thought. And then: Poppycock. You're simply imagining things. The next road over will be simply swarming.

Amelia pulled the top hat crowned with a set of green-lens goggles lower on her head and jacked up her shoulders to make herself look thicker under the long men's jacket she was wearing. 

The feeling of being in trousers was not as odd as she'd once thought -- women's bloomers gave a similar feel -- but it was the absence of the heavier, circular layers of cloth from the skirts that made her feel as if her legs were virtually naked and she could skip round like Susie the Dancing Pig if she felt like it. 

She didn't feel like it at the moment. But if the streets continued to be this empty, she just might give it a go, she decided. Why not?  

The house where she would deposit the secret was no more than eight or nine streets away. It was inhabited by a spiritualist featured in an article on one of the  talking hoardings outside a butcher's shop.  Having nothing better to do, Amelia had plucked up the bell-shaped listening piece from its hook on the hoarding and listened to an entire series of spoken articles on topics of borough interest while waiting on the pavement for Rose to select the best cut of beef for Maynard's supper. 

Riveting stuff.

According to the article, the spiritualist, a Madame Estelle, held regular seances for those who had recently lost a loved one and desired direct and practical contact with the deceased. Which to Amelia had sounded very much like help finding the golden life insurance policy the exasperating old coot claimed to have in their papers and was now no where to be found.

Madame Estelle's main draw, and what had sparked Amelia's imagination, was her ability to locate missing pet parrots. More money was to be had in finding missing cats or absconding husbands, it was true, but Madam Estelle claimed both were so gobsmackingly egocentric, her considerable powers of persuasion had no effect on them.

"I wonder if she could locate one of my escaped parrots," Amelia had thought and now she murmured the same words to herself, a glint of devilment dancing in her eyes, as she cautiously approached the house. It was dark on the ground floor. A dim light shone in one of the windows on the first floor. 

A quick head jerk right.

A quick head jerk left.

Neighbours?

Amelia searched the upper floors of the surrounding buildings in the dim light cast from the nearest gas lantern, but found no moon-shaped countenances staring down at her, eyes black with suspicion. She casually drew out the fabric strip that held her lock-picking tools, as if drawing out a cigar case.

It took her no more than twenty seconds to spin the lock's tumblers and crack open the door with a minimum of creaking from the hinges.

Shut door, stash tools, pocket torch out and on.

Amelia found herself in a narrow corridor that lead straight back into the kitchen, which was also dark. From upstairs, she heard the murmur of a voice. The glow of lamplight spilt across the landing, but didn't reach the hallway below which remained in greyish shadow.