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Mission summary:
"Damian
Coffin is the Ring-Master of 'Circus Diablo' who tour late Victorian Britain,
but this is no entertainment for families; as they perform only for the ultra
wealthy and the powerful. Only the morally corrupt and sexually deviant are
their Patrons - and some of them are prepared to pay their Soul for a very
special performance; 'The Dance of the Black Queen'. Mr. Tibbs is back in 1889,
in the East End of London; because the Devil's Circus has come to town!"
Episode may contain the following warnings:
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER:
“All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SOME OF THESE EPISODES CONTAIN VERY STRONG LANGUAGE, VIOLENCE, HORROR AND SEXUAL REFERENCES. They are AGE RECOMMENDED suitable for persons aged 12+ years only. Some episodes are rated HIGHER at 15+ and ALL the 'ALEXANDRA' Series versions are AGE RATED at 18+”
Stephen Williams
THE AUTHOR.
Author’s notes about this episode:
[1]
This episode was originally a Holiday Special [on the website] and written with
humour to the fore!
[2]
The original Title for this episode was: ‘THE DARK CIRCUS.’
[3]
A ‘Jericho Tibbs’ original story.
[4] "THE DEVIL'S CIRCUS.” The original illustration for this episode was created by the author, as was this episode, which was also conceived and written by him. Copyright © 2011-2025 Stephen Williams. Please, no reproduction of any part without written permission.
[5] There is No 'ALEXANDRA' series adult extended version currently available.
Concept
date: 5th August 2017
First
published: 28th March 2018
Status: COMPLETED & PUBLISHED.
Location:
BOOK SERIES 1 – EPISODE 10.
Revisions:
6 [last revised March 2020]
Version:
Final.
Published
Episode No. 10
Previous
episode: “Pharaoh Amenhotep V and the
mirror of time.”
Next
episode: “Ghosts in the Devil’s garden
of the damned.”
Age
recommendation: 12+
Average
reading time: Approximately 75 Minutes.
Angel-in-charge: Margret
Team Assigned: Team 74
Mission: 3 - 048124 - 8 – 1889
Human times:
Gregorian Calendar: MDCCCLXXXIX
Muslim Calendar: 1306 - 1307 [AH]
Hebrew calendar: 5649 - 5650
Christian Calendar: 1889AD
Episode preview:
1. THE DEVIL'S CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN.
Several Constables had been required to clear the throng of on-lookers from around the body and allow Detective Inspector Maurice Mountjoy access to the corpse. He was accompanied [as usual] by Sergeant Thomas Bass, who blew his nose several times into a gaudy bright red handkerchief and cussed loudly; ”This bloody cold is really pissing me off!” The Inspector smiled and tapped his assistants shoulder; “Try some rum with hot water and lemon, that normally works for me.” The sergeant grunted and blew his nose again.
“How the hell did I catch a stinking cold in the middle of summer?” Sergeant Bass wiped his nose again, but smiled at the thought of hot rum and spices. They approached the street corner, now cordoned off with Constables and could see the figure lying covered with a dirty tarpaulin, hastily borrowed from the builders yard several doors down. Divisional Surgeon Clive Roberts was writing into his little red note book and looked up; he smiled, adjusting his small round glasses and pointed to the body with his pencil.
“A real queer one this, Inspector.” He spoke softly and pushed the notebook into his coat pocket. “Been dead for about four to six hours and by the look on his face, he died in utter fear and horror.” Inspector Mountjoy and the Sergeant exchanged glances and big Tom Bass reached down, lifting the canvas sheet slowly from the head of the body. In the warm early morning sunshine they both stared at the contorted face of the dead man.
“Sweet fucking Jesus!” Tom muttered, the old Police Doctor wasn’t kidding one little bit; the poor bastard looked like he had seen the Devil himself. “What’s the cause of death?” He asked the Doctor, who was closing up his ‘Gladstone’ bag and lighting a little brown cigar.
“I would say heart failure; there are no obvious marks upon the body. I will know more after the autopsy. But according to your Constable Lofthouse he had nothing on him – perhaps he had been turned over by footpads and simply dropped dead – but that certainly wouldn’t explain the face.” The Doctor looked down at the body and all three men could see that the corpse’s suit was on the very expensive side of good quality.
What was an obviously wealthy man doing in this grim part of the East end in the middle of the night? Mountjoy pulled his cigarette case out and popped one into his mouth – he offered Tom one, which was reluctantly refused – smoking really aggravated his bloody throat and made him cough now.
The Inspector called over Constable Lofthouse and asked him about the man’s possessions – or rather lack of them.
“Not a thing Sir, nothing in his pockets and no rings on his fingers. The suit jacket is missing and maybe his overcoat and hat have gone too – if he was wearing them - when he died.” Constable Lofthouse was a veteran of nearly ten years service and had seen lots of dead bodies, but the face on this one gave the old Policeman the shivers.
“Old Stan Cornish and his youngest boy found the body at six thirty this morning – he was here to deliver a couple of sacks of coal to the little toy factory in King Street and saw the body in the kerbside.” The Constable pointed over to old man Cornish and his coal cart. The boy was feeding the horse with a couple of apples whilst Stan Cornish sat smoking his pipe – he lifted his dirty hat to the Inspector and sucked hard on his large cob pipe.
Inspector Mountjoy didn’t bother having the old coal merchant or his cart searched; he had known Stan Cornish since his boyhood and whatever Stan was, it wasn’t a thief. Constable Lofthouse held up his Police notebook and added; “I have his statement written down and I’ve asked him to drop into Brick Lane nick to make a full one – Can I let him get on with his deliveries?”
Mountjoy nodded affirmative and smoked quite slowly, staring down at the body and wondered who the corpse was and what the hell he was doing here at his age; which the Doctor estimated to be the late fifties. Mountjoy watched the coal cart pull away and could see the Police Ambulance turning into the street from Queen’s Square. It was the gaggle of reporters following that made him groan and motioned to them, telling Bass to keep the bastards away from the removal of the body.
“With bloody pleasure. “Sergeant Bass muttered and told a couple of Constables to keep them away from the stiff. The Inspector peered down the entrance of the dark alley, which the body lay in front of, and threw down his cigarette. He wandered across and stared down the alley; a typical grim East end collection of dilapidated houses and boarded up shops. He looked up at the street sign: ‘Hobbs Lane.’
He nodded to himself; the place had a dark reputation stretching back many years for death and violence. Most of the decent locals avoided the place at night because it was now filled with the dregs of Europe, as he called them. Refugees from Russia, Serbia, Poland and even the Ottoman Empire now called it home – it was a ghetto of crime and vice – but it had always been so, if he was honest with himself.
He smiled at his thoughts; if the old man had been robbed and murdered, then he wouldn’t have to look too far for suspects! He watched as two burly Constables lifted the body upon a rough wooden stretcher and placed it in the Police Ambulance. The Inspector walked slowly over to the group of reporters and they gathered about him, shouting questions and waving notebooks in his face.
Amongst the slightly interested crowd was a tall young man in a cheap suit and boots; he certainly watched with real interest and took a deep breath. "He went too far last night, changing back to his true form in front of that poor old twat, but who the fuck has the balls to tell him that?" He spoke quietly to Peter who nodded his agreement - he certainly wouldn't tell the master how to behave; he was a fucking demon and you didn't really argue too much with them.
The odd looking pair walked away from the Inspectors impromptu press conference and headed for the Queen's Head, which was open and packed with dockers leaving the night shift. Damien Coffin checked his pocket watch and Peter pushed open the pub door and Damien walked in, his thoughts were concerned about tomorrow night's performance - the big one - as Lord Arthur referred to turning this very important trick, who would be played like a fish and landed.
"Katrina had better keep off the fucking gin until this is done." He muttered and ordered beer and whisky for himself and Peter. The fat publican; Dave 'dogface' Sellers stood arms folded, bowler hat pushed back, behind his bar and smiled; "It's still on for tomorrow night then?" he asked quietly. Damien nodded and jerked a thumb towards the two young barmaids; "Only those two Dave, they know what their doing around toff's. I can't have any fucking upsets, this is too fucking important for that. It has to be sweet, like a clock; tick-tock."
'Dogface' grinned; "Yeah, ten bob each for them and two quid for me. I know we agreed ten bob for the pair and a quid for me. Sorry, but I'll need a little more; because of all the police activity now. You know, with that toff turning up brown bread [dead] by Hobbs Lane. It's fucking risky." Damien sighed and nodded his agreement; "Just make sure the tarts are washed and looking good. Just aprons and stockings; nothing else." he tapped the bar and pushed three pounds across to Dave, who grabbed the money up. "Sure, I'll scrub the bitches myself!" he smiled and pushed the notes into his gaudy waistcoat pocket.
The barman wandered down his bar and spoke to the girls, who turned and smiled at Damien. "Fat grasping bastard." Muttered Peter and swallowed his beer down. Damien tapped his shoulder; "Steady mate, we need that fat bastard for the girls and the booze he's supplying - at cost price. He's laid his fat hands on some decent champagne and we can't dish up anything fucking less. The bloody toff's will smell crap a mile away and the game will be up. Nah, we need the fat fucker - for now." He smiled at Peter, who nodded and picked up his whisky glass; "Then he's mine." He whispered.
Damien and Peter finished their drinks and headed for the doors. From a quiet corner, Sir Francis Drake had watched the pair and the fat barman interact, he rose slowly and followed them out. Well, it actually wasn't Sir Francis Drake himself - he's been dead for over three hundred years; it was some twat dressed like him. Outside the Queens Head, he rubbed his chin and wondered what old 'Dogface' was up to with this pair of shifty strangers. He could smell a few shillings in it for him.
Two old women in shabby shawls walked past and the tall one cackled; "What's up William? Lost your bloody stage?" They both gripped each other and laughed like hyena's watching a gazelle die. "It's fucking Sir Francis Drake you fucking old crones! he shouted after them, but they were gone. "Bloody Philistines." he said and headed for home.
“How the hell did I catch a stinking cold in the middle of summer?” Sergeant Bass wiped his nose again, but smiled at the thought of hot rum and spices. They approached the street corner, now cordoned off with Constables and could see the figure lying covered with a dirty tarpaulin, hastily borrowed from the builders yard several doors down. Divisional Surgeon Clive Roberts was writing into his little red note book and looked up; he smiled, adjusting his small round glasses and pointed to the body with his pencil.
“A real queer one this, Inspector.” He spoke softly and pushed the notebook into his coat pocket. “Been dead for about four to six hours and by the look on his face, he died in utter fear and horror.” Inspector Mountjoy and the Sergeant exchanged glances and big Tom Bass reached down, lifting the canvas sheet slowly from the head of the body. In the warm early morning sunshine they both stared at the contorted face of the dead man.
“Sweet fucking Jesus!” Tom muttered, the old Police Doctor wasn’t kidding one little bit; the poor bastard looked like he had seen the Devil himself. “What’s the cause of death?” He asked the Doctor, who was closing up his ‘Gladstone’ bag and lighting a little brown cigar.
“I would say heart failure; there are no obvious marks upon the body. I will know more after the autopsy. But according to your Constable Lofthouse he had nothing on him – perhaps he had been turned over by footpads and simply dropped dead – but that certainly wouldn’t explain the face.” The Doctor looked down at the body and all three men could see that the corpse’s suit was on the very expensive side of good quality.
What was an obviously wealthy man doing in this grim part of the East end in the middle of the night? Mountjoy pulled his cigarette case out and popped one into his mouth – he offered Tom one, which was reluctantly refused – smoking really aggravated his bloody throat and made him cough now.
The Inspector called over Constable Lofthouse and asked him about the man’s possessions – or rather lack of them.
“Not a thing Sir, nothing in his pockets and no rings on his fingers. The suit jacket is missing and maybe his overcoat and hat have gone too – if he was wearing them - when he died.” Constable Lofthouse was a veteran of nearly ten years service and had seen lots of dead bodies, but the face on this one gave the old Policeman the shivers.
“Old Stan Cornish and his youngest boy found the body at six thirty this morning – he was here to deliver a couple of sacks of coal to the little toy factory in King Street and saw the body in the kerbside.” The Constable pointed over to old man Cornish and his coal cart. The boy was feeding the horse with a couple of apples whilst Stan Cornish sat smoking his pipe – he lifted his dirty hat to the Inspector and sucked hard on his large cob pipe.
Inspector Mountjoy didn’t bother having the old coal merchant or his cart searched; he had known Stan Cornish since his boyhood and whatever Stan was, it wasn’t a thief. Constable Lofthouse held up his Police notebook and added; “I have his statement written down and I’ve asked him to drop into Brick Lane nick to make a full one – Can I let him get on with his deliveries?”
Mountjoy nodded affirmative and smoked quite slowly, staring down at the body and wondered who the corpse was and what the hell he was doing here at his age; which the Doctor estimated to be the late fifties. Mountjoy watched the coal cart pull away and could see the Police Ambulance turning into the street from Queen’s Square. It was the gaggle of reporters following that made him groan and motioned to them, telling Bass to keep the bastards away from the removal of the body.
“With bloody pleasure. “Sergeant Bass muttered and told a couple of Constables to keep them away from the stiff. The Inspector peered down the entrance of the dark alley, which the body lay in front of, and threw down his cigarette. He wandered across and stared down the alley; a typical grim East end collection of dilapidated houses and boarded up shops. He looked up at the street sign: ‘Hobbs Lane.’
He nodded to himself; the place had a dark reputation stretching back many years for death and violence. Most of the decent locals avoided the place at night because it was now filled with the dregs of Europe, as he called them. Refugees from Russia, Serbia, Poland and even the Ottoman Empire now called it home – it was a ghetto of crime and vice – but it had always been so, if he was honest with himself.
He smiled at his thoughts; if the old man had been robbed and murdered, then he wouldn’t have to look too far for suspects! He watched as two burly Constables lifted the body upon a rough wooden stretcher and placed it in the Police Ambulance. The Inspector walked slowly over to the group of reporters and they gathered about him, shouting questions and waving notebooks in his face.
Amongst the slightly interested crowd was a tall young man in a cheap suit and boots; he certainly watched with real interest and took a deep breath. "He went too far last night, changing back to his true form in front of that poor old twat, but who the fuck has the balls to tell him that?" He spoke quietly to Peter who nodded his agreement - he certainly wouldn't tell the master how to behave; he was a fucking demon and you didn't really argue too much with them.
The odd looking pair walked away from the Inspectors impromptu press conference and headed for the Queen's Head, which was open and packed with dockers leaving the night shift. Damien Coffin checked his pocket watch and Peter pushed open the pub door and Damien walked in, his thoughts were concerned about tomorrow night's performance - the big one - as Lord Arthur referred to turning this very important trick, who would be played like a fish and landed.
"Katrina had better keep off the fucking gin until this is done." He muttered and ordered beer and whisky for himself and Peter. The fat publican; Dave 'dogface' Sellers stood arms folded, bowler hat pushed back, behind his bar and smiled; "It's still on for tomorrow night then?" he asked quietly. Damien nodded and jerked a thumb towards the two young barmaids; "Only those two Dave, they know what their doing around toff's. I can't have any fucking upsets, this is too fucking important for that. It has to be sweet, like a clock; tick-tock."
'Dogface' grinned; "Yeah, ten bob each for them and two quid for me. I know we agreed ten bob for the pair and a quid for me. Sorry, but I'll need a little more; because of all the police activity now. You know, with that toff turning up brown bread [dead] by Hobbs Lane. It's fucking risky." Damien sighed and nodded his agreement; "Just make sure the tarts are washed and looking good. Just aprons and stockings; nothing else." he tapped the bar and pushed three pounds across to Dave, who grabbed the money up. "Sure, I'll scrub the bitches myself!" he smiled and pushed the notes into his gaudy waistcoat pocket.
The barman wandered down his bar and spoke to the girls, who turned and smiled at Damien. "Fat grasping bastard." Muttered Peter and swallowed his beer down. Damien tapped his shoulder; "Steady mate, we need that fat bastard for the girls and the booze he's supplying - at cost price. He's laid his fat hands on some decent champagne and we can't dish up anything fucking less. The bloody toff's will smell crap a mile away and the game will be up. Nah, we need the fat fucker - for now." He smiled at Peter, who nodded and picked up his whisky glass; "Then he's mine." He whispered.
Damien and Peter finished their drinks and headed for the doors. From a quiet corner, Sir Francis Drake had watched the pair and the fat barman interact, he rose slowly and followed them out. Well, it actually wasn't Sir Francis Drake himself - he's been dead for over three hundred years; it was some twat dressed like him. Outside the Queens Head, he rubbed his chin and wondered what old 'Dogface' was up to with this pair of shifty strangers. He could smell a few shillings in it for him.
Two old women in shabby shawls walked past and the tall one cackled; "What's up William? Lost your bloody stage?" They both gripped each other and laughed like hyena's watching a gazelle die. "It's fucking Sir Francis Drake you fucking old crones! he shouted after them, but they were gone. "Bloody Philistines." he said and headed for home.
"THE DEVIL'S CIRCUS" CONTINUES IN 'TEMPORAL DETECTIVES' BOOK SERIES 1 [EPISODE 10.]
End of Preview.
Copyright © 2011-2025 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.