A State of the A.A.S.S.I. Blog

To date, Wednesday, March 22, 2017, I have received the interest and attention of the following countries and the consequent number of page views.

Brazil - 78

Canada - 78

United States - 62

Portugal - 33

Ukraine - 2

Australia - 1

United Kingdom - 1

Total - 255 page views

To all of you have dropped in and I hope continue to follow my blog, thank you. Your interest is very much and sincerely appreciated. When I started this project in October 2016, I wasn't sure what would become of it, or how it would evolve. I do know that I have a long way to go yet, before it's finished, so I hope you will all be with me for a long time to come.

Victorian Great Britain, the Orkney and Shetland Islands

Scottish Highland & Lowland Clans

Attendence at the Kendal Ball (Part VIII)

Kendal Palace, Grosvenor Square, London, Great Britain: January 1886

Sir Leo signaled the attendants to leave him and see to the next group of incoming carriages. The sturdy walking stick he had with him would suffice to help keep his own balance. Both men nodded and walked swiftly back across the pavement. Sir Leo turned back to the great entrance and walked casually towards it taking in the architecture, he was no stranger to this place, but the beauty of the place even at night lite only by gas light was impressive. The architects had managed to blend the various often contrasting styles of the various buildings added at various times into a comfortable and unified whole. The gentle frosting of ice and snow covering the roof tops and grounds reflected the light and twinkled in the darkness like gems.

Sir Leo felt his mood lightening, the strains of music were audible to the ear, as people ahead of him passed through the great double doors of the Kendal Palace inlaid in bronze with the combined Ducal arms and the Wraithdale arms. A group of plain clothes detectives and several uniformed and heavily armed police constables stood at either side of the doorway as he approached working with one of the Wraithdale family chamberlains and several foot postilions. This hardly surprised Sir Leo given the wealth and social precedence of many of those on the guest list for tonight.

Big Ben, the great clock of Westminster, struck the hour, silhouetted like some giant castle tower or keep against the night sky. Sir Leo  had always thought since he had first seen it in childhood of Big Ben as the sentinel of London, with four giant eyes watching out from it's four faces to the four major points of the compass. A glance at the hands of his watch with the aid of the soft light coming from the Great Door, showed it was 10:00 pm exactly. The formal reception for the ball would start shortly.

Sir Leo passed through the imposing security cordon, showed his invitation to the chamberlain, and was cordially ushered through the great doors and into the reception hall beyond. He paused only briefly to discard his heavy cloak and coat into the custody of one of the waiting cloak room postilions, along with his heavy helmet. Sir Leo then was directed into the hall itself, the Senior Butler of Kendal Hall greeted him quietly, and turned to announce him to the general throng of people who already occupied the spacious reception hall. Henry Addington had once been a classically trained and very successful Opera and Shakespearean actor in his youth, before he had found himself by hard times and happy circumstances in Sir Geoffrey's employ and he used his still powerful and crisply articulated voice to good affect when announcing the guests as they arrived. The staff in his gloved hands struck the hard stone floor three times.

"The Right Honourable, the Viscount Worthing." He boomed with a voice worthy of a sergeant-major on a battalion drill field. The excellent accoutics of the cavernous hall did not hurt either as nearly everyone in the hall hear it clearly and turned to view the newcomer, standing at the top of the ten steps that lead from the Door Hall into the Reception Hall. Some three hundred eyes turned on him, as he walked slowly down the ten steps. He knew a great many of these people, Sir Geoffrey and the Wraithdale family as a rule moved in varied and interesting circles of society, although not always circles some of their aristocratic contemporaries approved of. However being a Duke meant as a rule that one could safely if politely ignore most of the other peers below oneself and get on with enjoying yourself.

At the moment his attention concentrated on one person and one person alone. Ursula Wraithdale. She stood some twenty feet from the foot of the stairs, receiving the guests who had entered just before him, greeting each cordially and being greeted warmly in turn. The light airy and soothing notes of the opening to Vivaldi's Four Seasons floated through the room, setting the tone for the evening. Ursula herself looked absolutely vibrant tonight, every inch the aristocratic duchess and accomplished woman of society, although her rich sun tanned colouring would have sent many a more conventional society dame's teeth on edge. Her flaming red hair worn long and heavily curled and coiffed was set off by both her golden hued skin and her fabulous dark green dress, trimmed in decorative and expensive black lace and a hint of white silk or satin at neck and wrists. Her jewelry while deceptively plain, being confined to arrangements, around her throat, brow and ears, of diamonds and pearls were of excellent quality and beauty.

Her dress left her shoulders daringly bare, while falling in a figure hugging cascade of beautifully cut cloth all the way to the floor. The shallowly plunging neckline of the dress was formed into a crescent of black lace with its sharply contrasting line of white against her skin, neatly framing her very appealing bosom. A tiara of diamonds with pearl ornaments adorned her forehead, while a black silk, white laced pearl decorated choker encircled her throat, it's centerpiece was a large flawless stone of more then unusual brilliance. Her ears were decorated with diamonds clasps to which a single large tear-drop pearl was hung. Two pearl necklaces encircled her neck, then fell at two lengths down the front of her dress, the first just below the edge of her laced bust, the second, fell three hand spans lower to stop at her midriff just above her hips. Her arms were covered in long sleeved gloves, which terminated just short of her shoulder, and were like her throat decorated at wrist and just before the shoulder with bands of diamonds and pearls.

Beside her stood a smartly dressed and turned out gentlemen in the dark blue uniform of the British Merchant Marine, with the four gold lace rings of a full captain on his cuffs. A cluster of mercantile decorations for service and medals of merit as well as several British and foreign decorations for gallantry were fitted neatly to the upper part of his tunic. A splendid Lloyd's Patriotic Fund presentation sword decorated his left hip.

Captain Sir Thomas Jameson.

A Hidden Past (Part II)

Sir Nigel looked at the young woman across the narrow width of the oak interview table. Behind him stood two members of his special investigations team: a man of middle age and a young, demure woman both in civilian dress rather then the formal dark blue and black police uniform that Rumbleton wore. The young woman wore a dress made entirely of black cloths; velvets, stains and laces. The only contrasting colour in her attire was the deep purple silk ribbons that decorated her dress and light brown, heavily curled hair. She possessed an attractive oval face which was at first glance surprisingly pale but had an attractive amber colouring that suggested some foreign or exotic parentage. Wide, sparkling blue eyes took in her surroundings with guarded interest.

Her male companion, by way of contrast could be described as almost nondescript: he wore a dark grey frock coat, black boots and an unadorned tan coloured vest and light grey trousers. His face like his body was lean, narrow almost to the point of gauntness. His hair was the colour of freshly burned ash as were his eyes although they had a suggestion of an almost luminous green tint to them. While the woman was as still as glass, the man moved restlessly even when standing still not even his eyes remained fixed upon anything for more then a few seconds. Rumbleton ignored both of them, her attention rested firmly upon the older, white haired man seated before her.

Sir Nigel mentally ticked off things about Josephine Rumbleton, that he either knew from her records or from simple direct observation. She wore her regulation police constable's uniform as if it was perfectly natural to her to, perhaps with a bit of careful hand tailoring to enhance it for cut and style. She wore her dark brown hair loosely but neatly combed and an artful minimum of makeup. Although this did not distract from the fact she had an attractive face and pleasing deep brown eyes. Her records were remarkably vague to the point of being cryptic regarding her past life, which intrigued Sir Nigel. Take her education for instance, under the entry for her elementary education were the words: School of Hard Knocks and for her higher education were the words: University of Life. Her birthdate and even her exact age was a matter of some interested speculation if not outright conjecture amoung her fellow constables and detectives. In fact there was practically no information regarding her life before joining the London Police other then she had worked by her own admission as a seamstress, although that had not been successfully verified by anyone.

Information concerning other details of her early life were just as maddeningly nonexistent in her professional record, the entries for her parents or siblings if any or extended relatives were mysteriously blank. It was assumed that she was born in London but there was no actual hospital paperwork or local church baptismal certificate to back that assumption up, only her extensive knowledge of the city consistent only with someone who was or had been a long time resident. For some reason the name Rumbleton jogged a warning note in his memory but nothing immediately presented itself to Sir Nigel's mind when he considered it.

Suddenly something in Sir Nigel's memory clicked into place. Rumbleton Alley was a part of what was known to Londoners as the Devil's Courtyard, an ancient, largely derelict and labyrinthine selection of buildings and twisted streets and narrow alleys in the oldest part of East London. A street called Hobb's Lane formed the area's main concourse. Until about five years ago, the place had been a major point of trouble for the London Police in general and the Dead Watch in particular. Around that time a mysterious fire had gutted much of the area, killing many of it's inhabitants, human and otherwise.

The middle aged man behind Sir Nigel suddenly stiffened, his eyes fixed upon Josephine Rumbleton with a terrible clarity, as if he was looking straight through her. Surprisingly, the constable did not react to the scrutiny which typically unnerved most people. In point of fact she seemed to fail to even notice it. Sir Nigel felt his interest pique, something was afoot, his psychic investigator was having one of his clairvoyant episodes. After several moments, the man shook himself then abruptly turned on his heel without a word and left the room, the woman followed him after a nod from Sir Nigel.

A Hidden Past (Part I)

Constable Josephine Rumbleton looked out the soot begrimed window of her small office in Scotland Yard's special investigations annex. The skyline of London was bathed in a deep velvety blue-black tinted with a warm red-orange, the sun was just beginning to creep steadily up and over the horizon. It heralded the beginning  of another morning, a new day was dawning with that warm glow, meaning she had survived yet another night. She looked back absently at the report upon her age and work worn desk, she had spent the last hour recording and indexing. It made grim reading but that was not all that unusual in a police criminal report. Moreover it was all too normal for a night's work in the secretive and quietly dreaded London Metropolitian Police's Dead Watch.

Inspector Sir Nigel Redfern, seated a floor above and two halls away from the room Rumbleton occupied, examined the cluster of official ledgers and police dossiers before him on the interview room table. The young police inspector at his side shifted uneasily in the silenced that seemed to cloak the room. The older man's stern patrician profile was highlighted by  the lights and shadows thrown up by the shrouded lamp that hung over the table. The white haired, clean shaven senior police inspector spoke not a word, merely turning the pages of each document that lay before him then moving to the next when his examination was completed.

"I am not sure, Sir Nigel, if our Constable Rumbleton is the right person for you."

"Hm?" Sir Nigel responded absently as he continued his inspection of the police career dossier in front of him. After another few minutes, Sir Nigel looked up from the papers and fixed the young inspector with a cool, searching gaze.

"Why would you think that, Inspector? Is there something against her? From what I have seen so far, her service with the street patrol and investigations branches seems to have been exemplary." Sir Nigel tapped the dossier in front of him with his folded reading glasses for emphasis.

"Whistler, is.... well... a bit of an odd duck, sir."

"Whistler... " Sir Nigel said flatly, it was not a question, the young inspector coloured briefly and visibly in embarrassment as the older man's gaze settled even more firmly upon him. Sir Nigel as a rule did not altogether approve of nicknames and even less of ones that he surmised were designed to mock of denigrate the person they were applied to.

"Inspector Mathieson, you have some explaining to do."

The Dead Watch was Scotland Yard's oddball division, it was literally the graveyard shift working through the dead of night from dusk till dawn, and all too often got the worst the London police and detectives had to deal with from the merely strange or out of the ordinary criminal cases to the terrifyingly grotesque in occult or paranormal investigations. For someone in the Dead Watch to be referred  to as "odd" was no mean feat considering some of the truly epic characters found within it's ranks.

Inspector Edward Mathieson winced inwardly, he was most definitely not going to enjoy the next few minutes of this conversation.

"How odd?"

"She has an affinity for horror, she does not frighten easily. Hell, she does not frighten at all!" Mathieson said with a trace of bewilderment. "She even appears to enjoy it. Which is probably a good thing I suppose given the horrors we wind up routinely investigating."

"how long has she been with the Police Force?"

"Hm, almost four years now. Two years with the street patrol service, a year with the regular detective branch and then a year with us in the Dead Watch."

"The nickname?"

"That followed her from her time with Street Patrol. Evidently she had a pronounced tendency to whistle when she spoke, particularly the letter 'S' so her fellow constables took to calling her 'Whistler'. I gather she got into a few... well, altercations about it. Several were serious, she was reprimanded for attempting to pummel the stuffings out of at least three of her male comrades in Street Patrol at one time or another."

"Tormentors, more likely, Inspector." Sir Nigel remarked coolly.

"Another thing, she seems to be able to sense death or the supernatural. Several times she's gotten our lads out ofa jam by either turning them clear of potential trouble or at least give them a vital few minutes prior warning that we were going to be hip deep in it!"

"Did Constable Rumbleton, ever explain or account to you or anyone else for this peculiar ability?"

"Not that I know of, for most of us in the Dead Watch teams that worked with her on a regular basis, it was enough that it worked and helped make the difference between life and death quite often literally for us. Come to think of it, it often seemed that her physical senses were even more acute then normal at such times."

"In any event, Inspector Mathieson, I would like to see Constable Rumbleton for a few minutes before I make up my mind."

"Very well, Sir Nigel. I can have her called in, she is still filing a report at the moment, if you would feel comfortable enough to wait a few minutes."

"Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate it."

Further Writings and or Postings

My apologies for not posting more often, however my writing regime has been affected by my getting a new job after being unemployed for three months, and mastering it to the satisfaction of my new employers. I will however be resuming regular posts after the third week of March, by  which time I hope to have assembled enough materials and short stories and or snippets. Please be patient with me.

Thank you, everyone for your interest in my blog to date.