“I would like to have them work with me,” I noted.

  “Then the choice is up to them,” Mr. Avery remarked.

  The following day when authorities rounded up the circus animals for return, Mr. Avery had already notified city officials of the ringmaster’s cruelty. For the animals that had been found and gathered, two lions and the elephants, they were taken to the New Orleans Zoo where they would be cared for. The other animals such as the horses and gorillas remained at large.

  When authorities went to explain to the ringmaster that he would not receive into his custody the abused animals, they found him still trapped in the cage that had belonged to the lions. Protruding from his chest, directly above his heart, was the bull hook he had used to punish the elephants.

  The news reported the murder. It further stated that all the workers had vanished along with all funds that the master had horded. They speculated that one of the circus workers had committed the murder, however, none of them could explain the bent bar that I had wrapped around the cage door. To them, that would remain a mystery until Mr. Avery was ready to present my friends and me to the world. Because they, like myself, want to see the world improve instead of decline.

  For nearly the last six months, Mr. Avery has been working nonstop on devices that he hasn’t even shared with us yet. But, he assures us all that we will be perfect fighting machines. Soon, each of us will be equipped to defend the world and battle all of its evils. It is only a short matter of time until that day comes.

  Ectoplasmic Eradicators Wanted

  Professional Inquiries only

  A Timothy Flood Adventure

  Nikki Nelson-Hicks

  It was nearing afternoon tea when they finally found the mansion on the hill. It was a stoic building, rather unassuming as mansions went except for the enormous bulge in the center, like a swollen steeple, constructed from steel and glass. Timothy Flood gripped the newspaper advert in his fist and slapped it on his thigh. “One day, Giselle, we’re going to have a house like this. I promise. But ours will be bigger, grander. A massive place where everyone back at the theatre, everyone from the grips to the actors, everyone will have a roof over their head and never be cold again. I promise.”

  “Let’s focus on the here and now, Timmy. One job at a time.” Giselle Benedict patted the young man on the shoulder and sighed. Timothy was a good man but he did have, to be kind, lapses of reality. Friends since they were found at a workhouse and sent to apprentice in a local playhouse when they were children, she was the only one who knew how to keep him on track. Giselle pinned her hat on top of her tightly coiled flaxen hair and rolled the thin black lace veil down to cover half her face, falling right under her nose, making her robin’s egg eyes pop like luminaries in all the shadow. She was naturally pale so that even the lightest red rouge looked like gouges on her cheeks, and the lacey veil gave a somber quality that the rubes expected. “Give the punters what they want!’ was rule number one for Mr. LeQuirk’s theatre troop and Giselle and Timothy were his finest protégé’s.

  “Are you sure this is the place? Orbweaver Hall? What sort of name is that?”

  “Who knows? Probably some posh family joke. Still, this is the address in the advert.” He handed the paper to her and started towards the door. “Come on! It’s not good show to keep our audience waiting.”

  Giselle read the ad again. She had read it a dozen times before, trying to glean some new meaning. “Ectoplasmic Eradicators Wanted! Apply to W.E. Bridgestone at Orbweaver Hall, Whately Lane. Professional inquiries only!” Ever since the Spiritualists stirred up the spirits of London, there were always ads like this posted by frightened old ladies in the daily newspapers. Timothy and she had made a tidy sum at playacting their way in and out of haunted homes, laying the ghost of someone’s persnickety old Auntie who didn’t understand why she wasn’t welcomed for tea after being dead only three years. It was an easy shell game. Giselle played the role of the swooning medium and Timothy completed the show with all his blinking and smoking gadgets. It was all silly buggers from then on out. Something about this advert gave her a cold feeling, deep in her chest.

  Is my feminine intuition finally kicking in? she wondered.

  And now, standing at the gate, the feeling crystallized and stabbed at her. She looked up at the metal and glass erection and her upper lip curled. “It looks like a rude cucumber.”

  Timothy Flood ran ahead, his black and red cape flapping. It was unseemingly, he knew, not gentlemanly, and completely out of character for the part he was playing but he couldn’t contain himself. He had a Feeling that this was the One. Timothy was the sort to always trust Feelings. Especially ones that came to him in capital letters.

  He reached the door and waited for Giselle to position herself next to him. She fluffed out her the skirt of her dress, straightened up her corset by jiggling herself in ways that made him feel strangely uncomfortable, and made sure the veil was straight. He did the same…except by straightening his vest instead of a corset, of course. Giselle dusted off his shoulders, adjusted his cape and then, in a way that made him feel even more uncomfortable, pulled at the waist of his trousers, aligning his buttons. She smiled and winked at him. “Ready?” she said.

  He ran his fingers through his wavy dark hair. They were polar opposites when it came to looks. Salt and Pepper. That’s what Old Man LeQuirk billed them as on the marquee. Timothy wasn’t sure LeQurik knew them by any other name. He smiled back and gently kicked the black and red tartan carpetbag at his feet. “Ready.”

  “Oh, no… you didn’t bring it, did you? You promised! Timothy, you-”

  He knocked. “Too late!”

  The door opened with a very impressive and resounding CREEEEAAAAK and a ferrety-faced man in a fine gray and burgundy suit answered the door.

  He stared at the young man and woman for an icy minute.

  They stared back.

  He tapped his fingers on the door.

  Timothy smoothed down his eyebrows.

  He raised his chin and adjusted his cravat.

  Timothy pulled out his-

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” From her handbag she pulled a calling card and a cream colored envelope with a blood red wax seal with the monogram F&B and gave it to him. “We’re here to apply to the advert your master placed.”

  He read the card aloud. “Benedict and Flood, Extraordinary Ectoplasmic Exterminators.”

  “Benedict and Flood?” Timothy hissed.

  “I had them reprinted. We’ll discuss it later. May we come in?”

  He sniffed and stepped aside. “Master Bridgestone is seeing another applicant at present so, please, wait here in the hall. I will inform him of your arrival.”

  “Thank you.” Giselle said and gave the Butler a tight smile that sent him on his way up the spiral staircase. She turned to Timothy, pointing a sharp finger in his face. “Do not start in on the billing. Alphabetical is always preferable. Besides, multisyllabic names are always first. It’s simple music theory.”

  “But you’re a-”

  Her eyes flashed behind the veil. “A what? Is there something you need to tell me? Something I need to know? Because all I know is that I am your partner. The same partner you’ve had for years and years, since we were kids. The partner that keeps your flipping head above water. You just remember that and keep your mind off our differences in the plumbing arena.”

  Timothy held the carpetbag against his midriff like a shield and nodded.

  She took a deep breath, well, as deep as her bloody corset would allow, exhaled, and took a quick survey of the place. “Not very impressive on the inside, is it?”

  It really wasn’t. They stood in an entrance hall that had a foyer with two expanding wings and ahead a flight of stairs that spiraled upwards. The only pieces of furniture were a few cruelly ornate chairs obviously made for decoration and not for resting anyone’s bum. The walls were coated in floral wallpaper and the floors were black and white marble, like checkerboard that went on and on for as far as they could see.

  “That’s odd.” Timothy said, pointing to the sconces on the walls. “Candles. You’d think posh people like this would have converted to electricity by now.”

  “Posh doesn’t always mean fashionable.” she said, glad for the diversion. “Many of these old families prefer to cling to the past. Or perhaps this Bridgestone isn’t quite as flush as you think.”

  “I did my research. He is the last scion of old money, some of the oldest moneybags left in England. Trust me. This egg is golden. I can feel it! This is the One. And with my new invention, it will be ours!”

  Giselle’s shoulders slumped. “Timothy, please, you promised me. No more untested toys. We don’t want another Titania escapade, do we? Nearly burned the entire theatre to the ground that time.”

  “That’s so unfair! It was ages ago and it wasn’t my fault!”

  “Took ages for my eyebrows to grow back, that’s for sure.”

  “Besides, Ellie, you should just concentrate on your performance, all right?”

  “My performance?” she hissed. “MY performance? And when has my performance ever been the issue? If you can keep your gear from fizzing, exploding or, as it is more likely, not working at all, it’s a bloody miracle!”

  He did the one thing he knew would anger Giselle the most: he pointed his finger straight in her face. Her blue eyes blazed back in anger much to his delight. “You never understand that my toys are the key to our future! You never-”

  The sound of a gloved hand clapping a staccato rhythm stopped their bickering. Coming down the stairs were three men. A tall stately older man in a smart black and charcoal gray suit, gently smiling and clapping his kid gloved hands. Beside him was a shorter man with russet hair and thick mutton chops. His suit was the same color auburn as his hair with thin stripes of blue intermingled. All together, he looked like an orangutan that had tricked a tailor into cutting out a pair of trousers. Trailing behind them was a younger man dressed simply in a white shirt, jacket and trousers. His thick brown hair was a mess of wavy curls that bounced with every step.

  Timothy turned his finger and directed his ire towards a different foe. “YOU!”

  Professor Stephen Kirby of the Royal Psychical Society bowed his head slightly. ““Good afternoon, Mr. Flood, Miss Benedict. I am so sorry too inform you that you’ve wasted your valuable time. As you can see, the professionals are here. I am confident the position has been filled.”

  “Yeah, so bugger off!”

  “Manners, Harry, manners.”

  “Mademoiselle Giselle?” The younger man stepped forward, smiling brightly and kissed her hand. He looked up at her with warm brown eyes. “It is so good to see you again.”

  Giselle blushed. “Bonjour, Travis, ca va bien?”

  “Bien, et vous?”

  “Comme ci, comme ca.”

  Timothy gaped. “Travis? Who is this, please? When did you start speaking French? And can you take your lips off her hand?”

  “Monsieur Travis Dare. I modeled for him a week ago.” Giselle said. “And I have all manner of talents, Timothy.”

  “Modeled?”

  “Yes, modeled. He’s an artist. He offered me a few pounds to do some sketches and then we went out for coffee.”

  “Sketches? Coffee?”

  “Ugh, or what passes for café in this country.” Travis grimaced. “One day, ma bichette, you must come with me to France. I know the most wonderful bistro.”

  “Oh, France! I dream of going to France, owning a bookstore with a salon for artists and writers to gather and talk.” Giselle playfully slapped Travis’ face. “You are such a tease.”

  “France? Bistros?” Timothy sputtered in frustration. “What did he call you?”

  Giselle waved Timothy away. “But, tell me, Monsieur Dare, what business does an artist have with the likes of Professor Kirby?”

  “As an artist, times are always lean and I have certain, um, what you might call… talents… that are useful to the professor and his studies.”

  “Oooooh, now I see!” Timothy beamed. “He’s your new pet psychic, isn’t he? Dearie me. Worn out the last few, have you? You go through them so quickly. It’s hard to keep track without a scorecard.”

  “You talk to the dead? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It is a little something that I do, ma petite.” Travis kissed her hand and looked up at her, “It is not all that I am.”

  Timothy pushed Travis away from Giselle. “Can you get your lips off her, please?”

  “Oi!” Harry thrust a meaty fist into Timothy’s shoulder. “Back off! The Prof only uses the real deal. Unlike you flashbang boys. Yeah, I’ve got your act. Smoke and fizzles, horns floating in the air, shitlined gauze pulled out of your nethers!”

  “Harry. Settle.” Professor Kirby put a hand on his excited friend’s shoulder. “My use of persons blessed with psychic gifts is well known and my compatriots at the Royal Psychical Society. They have no doubts in using them as tools for scientific research into the avenues of the spiritual realm. I have no need to quantify my methods to the likes of Mr. Flood. The Society isn’t interested in the results of… theatre folk.”

  “Yeah! What the Prof said.” Harry snorted, rubbed his nose and flicked a surreptitious snotball towards Timothy.

  A red ball of rage curdled in Timothy’s gut.

  Giselle gently grabbed his arm and whispered. “Let it go….”

  No. Not this time. He swiped at his cheek. “Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, I have something that your highbrow compatriots might be interested in.” He held up his carpetbag.

  Giselle rolled her eyes and seated herself in one of the uncomfortable chairs. “Oooh, boy.”

  “Inside, I have devised a most wonderful creation. One that will revolutionize supernatural studies and advance parascientific inquiries worldwide!”

  “Oh? Pray tell.”

  “Question: what is the most vexing problem that faces men of your area of study? Answer: the fact that what you study can’t BE studied. Not in laboratory situations, anyway. You can’t bag and tag a ghost, can you? Or can you?”

  Timothy whipped off his cape in a manic flourish as he leaned into his spiel. “Gentlemen, attend! In this bag, I have the future of paranormal research.” He put the bag on the floor, reached in, carefully pulled out a simple pinewood box and held it aloft. “This extraordinary device I have dubbed the Ectoplasmic Entity Entrapment Device!”

  Giselle clenched her jaw and muttered a curse.

  “Ah, how…very unassuming.” Professor Kirby stifled a yawn. “What does it do?”

  “Sorry? What does it do? The title says it all, don’t you think? Or did that slip past you? It captures ghosts, sir. Traps them, seals them inside this box so you can take them back to your lofty ivory towers where you can study ghosts until your academic balls drop off.”

  “How very inventive. How very ingenious.” Professor Kirby’s lips drew into a thin line. “And how very fortunate that the Royal Psychical Society is having a meeting next week. I’d be honored to sponsor you and your pinewood ghost box.”

  Timothy garbled out, “Sorry, what? Come again?”

  Giselle felt her stomach fall to her knees. She worried very seriously that she would be sick.

  “Sponsor you, my boy. Here is my card and, lo! Fate must smile on you, my boy, I happen to have a spare invitation here in my coat pocket. Bring yourself, your lovely companion and your most wonderful box. I do hope it doesn’t give you splinters, oh my. I want you to give our esteemed peerage a presentation of what we can expect for the future of parascientific exploration.”

  Timothy shook his head. “I’ll have to check my calendar. Things have been hectic…I don’t know if I’ll be free…”

  “I. Insist.” Kirby pressed the invitation against his chest and slid it into his vest. “I can’t wait to show you off, Mr. Flood. Come, boys. We have much preparation before our next investigation. Until next weekend, Mr. Flood. Miss Benedict.”

  Professor Kirby stepped around the wide-eyed Timothy; Harry bumped into him, grinning as he passed by.

  Monsieur Dare crossed over to Giselle, bent down and whispered in her ear, “Trust your instincts with the man upstairs. There is more here than we fathom. I hope to meet you again.” He kissed her softly on her cheek and followed the others outside.

  The door closed with a soft thump and silence choked the hallway. Giselle sat motionless on her perch, her pale skin making her look like a marble statue. Timothy tapped the floor with his heels and coughed into his hand. “Well, small world, what?”

  “You….complete….imbecile!” Giselle stood up slowly. “You…just…you can’t….IMBECILE!” Her fury propelled her forward and she slapped him across the face.

  “Ow!”

  “Why did you do that? Are you insane? Is your head so filled with cockamamie fantasy that you forget reality? We are actors! THIS is just theatre without a stage. Your Ectoplasmic Entity Extractor is just a pinewood box rigged with small electric lights, flashbang smoke bombs and a fan that you’ve rigged to suck instead of blow!”

  “The sucking tube was a tricky bit of engineering, let me tell you.”

  “NO! Don’t tell me anything. Not any more. Now, you’ve got a date to show off your magnificent Ghost Trap to the Royal Psychical Society. Do you understand what that means? They will expose you and, worst of all, ruin any hope we have of securing a future away from all of this insanity. Do you see? Through your stupid act of bravado, you’ve ruined us.”