Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font  

Shalaby and Fecklace Spend the Night in an Unnatural Manor

Chantelle Messier

Shalaby and Fecklace Spend the Night in an Unnatural Manor

  A short story by Chantelle Messier

  Copyright 2012 Chantelle Messier

  Part I: Haberdashed

  The breakfast room door opened and an immense stack of hats walked in, escorted by the maid. I looked up from my book. Such a mountain of hats was unlikely to conceal any person inquiring about investment in my Gatling sword, but one can hope.

  “It’s Mr. Shalaby, sir,” Miss Hirsch announced.

  “That’s all right, Hirsch, don’t be too hard on yourself about it. These things can’t be helped.”

  The hats uttered a sniff of annoyance. They cascaded onto the table and one rolled to a stop in front of me, displacing my book and dangling a delicate ostrich feather into my breakfast plate.

  I picked it out. “Morning, old chap.”

  “Afternoon,” Shalaby harrumphed, dusting himself off and removing his own battered brown top hat. He tapped a cold-reddened hand on the table. “Do you know what these are, Fecklace?”

  “Fish croquettes in remoulade sauce. And I prefer them sans plumage, if you don’t mind.” I flicked one of the intruders off of the table and Shalaby snatched it up.

  “They are ladies’ straw derby hats,” he boomed, “as I expect you would recognize if you looked up from that penny dreadful.”

  “I think it’s very hard that a man should be pegged as an expert on ladies’ clothing simply because he happens to have dressed in a burlesque dancer’s costume once.”

  “Twice.”

  “Or twice.” I put down my coffee and peered over the pages of Ned Kelly! The Ironclad Australian Bushranger, an alternative to pondering the unanswerable sheaf of tailors’ bills my wife had set down for my edification this morning. “What, may I ask, is so special about these hats as to merit your interrupting my breakfast?” I leaned around Shalaby’s greatcoated bulk to observe the swish of Hirsch’s skirts as she retreated down the hallway.

  “Simply this,” began Shalaby more ominously than was called for: “Despite what the tags say, not one of these derby hats was made by Messrs. Dawson, Dawson, Dawson, and Milbanke.”

  “A charming name.” I dunked a fish croquette into my coffee.

  “Milbanke?”

  “Hirsch. It leaves a delicious taste on the tongue.”

  “Fecklace.”

  “I’ll wager her first name is…” I tilted back in my chair. “Emmeline.”

  “Fecklace! I must insist you stop thinking about the maid this very instant.”

  “I’d genuinely love to, but my wife will go on hiring pretty maids in defiance of all the laws of the flesh.” I stood, pocketing my book and fishing out a gentleman’s silk top hat from among the pile of ladies’ fripperies. “A remarkable specimen.”

  “The maid?” Shalaby’s eyebrows dashed down in a frown.

  “The hat. Do stop going on about the maid and explain what you’re so urgent about. It seems a perfectly nice hat. It’d make a damnably good replacement for that frightful old horse-leather topper you inflict on yourself.”

  Shalaby clapped a hand down over his battle-scarred brown topper. “Certainly not,” he huffed. “These hats are evidence in a criminal investigation, and as such they are the rightful property of The People.”

  “The People, indeed.” I drained my coffee. “Just when did The People start paying your salary? Have I missed something?”

  “I require no recompense from the great City of London.” Shalaby drew himself up. “My private detecting services have been hired by victimized haberdashers. And even if those gentlemen were unable to pay a shilling, sir—” It was one of his speeches, and I took the opportunity of finding my coat and shoes. “—I would consider it my duty on behalf of the civil peace to discover what fiend is profiting by putting a trademarked label on these abominable counterfeit hats.”

  “Counterfeit hats, Shalaby?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Indeed. Messrs. Dawson, Dawson, Dawson, and Milbanke have worked hard to establish their mark as the most highly-regarded haberdasher’s label in London. In fact, Queen Victoria herself has already commissioned her spring touring hat from my clients. But two months ago, several London boutiques were found to be selling hats bearing the famous label. Hats which Messrs. Dawson—”

  “And associates.”

  “—disclaim to have actually manufactured. Quite perfect duplicates, but unmistakably not shipped from the establishment of the famed haberdashers.” He looked terribly satisfied with himself.

  I regarded the table and shook my head. “And is that really all?”

  “As a matter of fact…” He lowered his voice. “That hardly puts a close to the matter. I have every reason to believe some manner of Germanic phantasmagoria may be at work.” He withdrew a folded newspaper from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Look at this.”

  ‘INDUSTRIAL SPY CAPTURED IN WEBLEY ARMAMENTS FACTORY,’ the headline blazoned. I skimmed it and summarized. “So: a foreman in Webley’s Manchester factory is found with the plans to their new prototype fast-firing recoil compensator. The fellow turns out not to speak a word of English, only German. Two days later he disappears from prison, leaving no trace but a puddle of ordinary water.” I raised a brow. “Well, it’s no Ned Kelly!, but a rousing yarn nonetheless. However, I fail to see how it has anything to do with a rogue gang of hat-counterfeiters.”

  “That,” grumbled Shalaby, “is precisely what the Manchester police said.” He pointed to the bottom of the article.

  “Mr. Shellabie of London, who describes himself as a detective, was on the scene pursuing his own theories about the crime,” I read aloud, then shot Shalaby a smirk. “I wondered where you’d been lately. When asked whether his involvement indicated any lead not being followed by the local constabulatory, Chief Inspector George Martin assured the reporter that ‘we have absolutely nothing to do with [him]. This case has no connection to the theories of some sad, shabby little private investigator with an overheated imagination.’”

  “But a spy who leaves no trace,” blurted Shalaby in frustration. “Think of the implications, man. And how could a factory foreman who speaks only German have possibly escaped notice for any amount of time?”

  “Perhaps he was an immigrant.”

  “And the inexplicable fact of the puddle of water?”

  “Did you ever think it might be just…water? Really, old fellow, sometimes I think your mind is a bit overheated.” His silenced scowl made me regret the statement. “But I don’t suspect you’ve let that deter you.”

  “Not a bit of it,” he barked.

  I smiled and thrust Shalaby’s walking stick into his hand. “That’s more like it. So, where to?”

  “The shipments were all traced back to a market exchange in Finchley,” he said, gaining steam again, “and my investigations suggest there may be a nest of counterfeiters there, in the mysteriously-abandoned Effingstoke Manor.”

  I snorted. “I dine at the club with Sir Norton Effingstoke, and that, I’m afraid, is a load of humbug. There’s nothing mysterious in Effingstoke Manor’s being abandoned. The family’s always regarded it as rather haunted.” At Shalaby’s solemn, meaningful nod I shook my head and dashed back the remainder of my coffee. “Absolutely not, old fellow. Don’t even get it into your head. At any rate, I’m assuming you’ve cut short my breakfast to request the use of my brain in this case, for the usual commission of nothing-much-whatsoever?”

  He stopped in the doorway. “Well if it doesn’t suit—that is, if you’re in some manner of money trouble—which is to say, I’m sure I could arrange�€
”certainly some percentage split, if you’ve a mind—” He crimsoned to the edge of his ginger moustache.

  “Not at all, old chap.” I swept the black silk topper off the table and popped it onto my head, palming the unpaid hosier’s bill that tumbled off with it. “A gentleman never accepts money from a friend. This fine piece of The People’s rightful haberdashery is payment enough.” As was the look of chagrin on Shalaby’s face. One can’t put a price on such things.