Read Online The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale by John Connolly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Connolly
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haven’t burgled your house?”
“I don’t think they know where I live.”
“Really? Well, be sure not to tell them, then. You wouldn’t want to put temptation in their way.”
They pulled into the yard of Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s. The factorye—sorry, factory 22 —occupied a big gloomy Victorian monstrosity designed by Hilary Mould. All of Hilary Mould’s buildings were gloomy, thought Sergeant Rowan. They might not have started out that way on the plans, but that’s how they ended up. Hilary Mould could have designed a playhouse and made it look like a mortuary. His buildings were the kind of places that were probably advertised in newspapers in the Afterlife:
FOR IMMEDIATE OCCUPATION: Building looking for ghost to haunt it. All Dark Corners, Weird Carvings, Creaking Doors, Sinister Paintings of Relatives of Whom Nobody Speaks, and Secret Rooms Not Listed on Original Plans entirely intact. Would suit ghoul, specter, poltergeist, or other incorporeal entity. Available for eternity, although shorter leases will be considered. Inquiries to the wailing, demented spirit of Hilary Mould.
Why Mr. Pennyfarthinge had originally chosen a “Mould” for the location of his business was something of a mystery, but it had certainly thrived there. Its success was helped by the fact that Mr. Pennyfarthinge and the mysterious Uncle Dabney were one and the same person, a detail that emerged only following Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s death by gobstopper. The basement of his factory was found to contain thousands of boxes of unsold Uncle Dabney products, including prototypes for some that had not yet been unleashed on the public: Uncle Dabney’s Orange Bombs (which turned out to be actual bombs, with a hint of orange essence); Uncle Dabney’s Chocolate Bullets (real bullets covered in rich dark chocolate: not less than 50 percent cocoa and 50 percent gunpowder); and Uncle Dabney’s Nuclear Blast Toffees (of which the less said, the better). There were also samples of Uncle Dabney’s Cough Drops, which caused coughing instead of curing it, and enough sachets of Uncle Dabney’s Flu Powder to count as a potential epidemic. It was said by some that the building had driven Mr. Pennyfarthinge mad. All things considered, it was a very good thing that the jars of gobstoppers had landed on Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s head when they did, for who knows what he might have ended up inventing if he hadn’t been killed.
None of this, of course, concerned the scientists. They were just happy to find a place that they could rent cheaply, and the sale of sweeties—including the remaining Uncle Dabney products that had not been destroyed or classified as weapons—helped to fund their operations. To ensure that their cover remained intact, they had taken to wearing large beards to disguise theirfaces, for both Professors Hilbert and Stefan had visited Biddlecombe in the past, and were worried about being spotted by locals. Their assistant, Dorothy, also enjoyed wearing a beard. The scientists were not sure why, and didn’t like to ask.
Thus it was that, when Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel knocked on the side door of the factory, they were greeted by three people wearing false beards, one of whom was clearly a woman. Behind them was Brian, the new tea boy. He was not wearing a beard, which was unfortunate, as it might have helped to cover some of his very pale, very frightened face.
To their credit, the policemen did not even blink at the peculiar appearance of the scientists. Sergeant Rowan had learned long ago that, if you started each day expecting people to behave strangely, then you would not be disappointed, surprised, or shocked in any way.
“Hello, er, sweet makers,” said Sergeant Rowan.
“Hello!” said the three scientists in the excessively cheery manner of people who have something to hide and are doing their best to make sure that it stays hidden.
“Everything all right here, then?” said the sergeant.
“It’s all
“I don’t think they know where I live.”
“Really? Well, be sure not to tell them, then. You wouldn’t want to put temptation in their way.”
They pulled into the yard of Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s. The factorye—sorry, factory 22 —occupied a big gloomy Victorian monstrosity designed by Hilary Mould. All of Hilary Mould’s buildings were gloomy, thought Sergeant Rowan. They might not have started out that way on the plans, but that’s how they ended up. Hilary Mould could have designed a playhouse and made it look like a mortuary. His buildings were the kind of places that were probably advertised in newspapers in the Afterlife:
FOR IMMEDIATE OCCUPATION: Building looking for ghost to haunt it. All Dark Corners, Weird Carvings, Creaking Doors, Sinister Paintings of Relatives of Whom Nobody Speaks, and Secret Rooms Not Listed on Original Plans entirely intact. Would suit ghoul, specter, poltergeist, or other incorporeal entity. Available for eternity, although shorter leases will be considered. Inquiries to the wailing, demented spirit of Hilary Mould.
Why Mr. Pennyfarthinge had originally chosen a “Mould” for the location of his business was something of a mystery, but it had certainly thrived there. Its success was helped by the fact that Mr. Pennyfarthinge and the mysterious Uncle Dabney were one and the same person, a detail that emerged only following Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s death by gobstopper. The basement of his factory was found to contain thousands of boxes of unsold Uncle Dabney products, including prototypes for some that had not yet been unleashed on the public: Uncle Dabney’s Orange Bombs (which turned out to be actual bombs, with a hint of orange essence); Uncle Dabney’s Chocolate Bullets (real bullets covered in rich dark chocolate: not less than 50 percent cocoa and 50 percent gunpowder); and Uncle Dabney’s Nuclear Blast Toffees (of which the less said, the better). There were also samples of Uncle Dabney’s Cough Drops, which caused coughing instead of curing it, and enough sachets of Uncle Dabney’s Flu Powder to count as a potential epidemic. It was said by some that the building had driven Mr. Pennyfarthinge mad. All things considered, it was a very good thing that the jars of gobstoppers had landed on Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s head when they did, for who knows what he might have ended up inventing if he hadn’t been killed.
None of this, of course, concerned the scientists. They were just happy to find a place that they could rent cheaply, and the sale of sweeties—including the remaining Uncle Dabney products that had not been destroyed or classified as weapons—helped to fund their operations. To ensure that their cover remained intact, they had taken to wearing large beards to disguise theirfaces, for both Professors Hilbert and Stefan had visited Biddlecombe in the past, and were worried about being spotted by locals. Their assistant, Dorothy, also enjoyed wearing a beard. The scientists were not sure why, and didn’t like to ask.
Thus it was that, when Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel knocked on the side door of the factory, they were greeted by three people wearing false beards, one of whom was clearly a woman. Behind them was Brian, the new tea boy. He was not wearing a beard, which was unfortunate, as it might have helped to cover some of his very pale, very frightened face.
To their credit, the policemen did not even blink at the peculiar appearance of the scientists. Sergeant Rowan had learned long ago that, if you started each day expecting people to behave strangely, then you would not be disappointed, surprised, or shocked in any way.
“Hello, er, sweet makers,” said Sergeant Rowan.
“Hello!” said the three scientists in the excessively cheery manner of people who have something to hide and are doing their best to make sure that it stays hidden.
“Everything all right here, then?” said the sergeant.
“It’s all
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