DEEMING

The ghost of Jack the Ripper comes to Glen Hartwell and starts slashing up women

MILLERS COURT, LONDON, ENGLAND
November 9, 1888

Mary Jane Kelly, a tall, attractive blonde prostitute, was walking down Millers Court when she saw the tall middle-aged toff. He was done up to the nines in a smart Harley Street Suit, black cape and top hat, carrying a gold-tipped, detachable walking stick in his right hand, and a black case, possibly a doctor's or dentist's case in his left.
Mary sashayed across to the man, swaying her prominent hips and asked, "'Ello, Gov, interested in a good time?"
"I am indeed, pretty lady," said the man.
A little wary, Mary asked, "You ain't Jack, is you?"
"Indeed not, pretty lady, my name is Frederick."
"Frederick," said the blonde, putting an arm through his, "I knowed you was a toff ... I mean a gentleman."
"Do you know somewhere we can go ... to be alone?" asked Frederick.
"Just up the road, I got digs at number twenty-three," said Mary.
"That's convenient, pretty lady," said Frederick. "Normally performing outdoors, I'm very rushed. But indoors I can spend a couple of hours with you."
"It's a shillin' an hour," said Mary, hoping she wasn't being too greedy.
"And, well worth every penny, I'm sure, pretty lady," said Frederick, smiling broadly, as did Mary Jane Kelly, unaware of what was in store for her that night.

LePAGE, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
May 26, 2025

The Free Love Sex Lounge in Gordon Street, LePage, rightly or wrongly, laid claim to being the first legal brothel in the whole state of Victoria, not just LePage in the countryside. It was a three-storey building with a red neon light, proclaiming its name. The front parlour was filled with faux Victorian four-person sofas, swathed in red. Several working girls, draped out in fancy undies, some Victorian, some modern, some crotchless with peephole bras, sat around on the sofas, hoping to earn some money that night in what some people called, rightly or wrongly, the world's oldest profession.
Beside the concrete steps outside the front door, stood three women: a tall, night-black goddess with a huge chest, named Sherri, a short, amply chested Asian cutie named Cerille, and a fifty-something blonde in a Madonna Cowgirl Stage costume, Martha.
"So do you think it really is the world's oldest profession?" asked Martha,
Mondays always were slow nights, so the girls had plenty of time to natter.
"What?" asked gorgeous Sherri.
"Prostitution, some people claim it's the world's oldest profession. What do you think?"
"No way," said Sherri. "Maybe the oldest paid profession for women, but if men weren't working before that, where did they get the money to pay the women? It's a little like in the Bible, where Adam and Eve are the first people. They produce Cain and Abel. Cain kills Abel, then goes out into the wilderness and finds a woman whom he marries ...." She threw her arms up in despair. "But where the Hell did she come from when there were no people except for Adam, Eve, Cain, and their family?"
"Maybe he married his own sister?" suggested Cerille 'Sally'.
"But it doesn't say that," insisted Sherri. "It says he went out into the wilderness and found a woman, whom he married. Even though there can't have been any women out there for him to find."
"Your point being?"
"If prozzies were the first workers, they would have starved to death, because without men working first to earn money, they couldn't have got any payment."
"Maybe the men inherited wealth from their ancestors?" suggested Martha.
"In which case, their ancestors would have had to work first to earn the wealth, for their descendants to inherit."
"Yes, but ..." began Sally, stopping when she saw the tall, distinguished-looking man in a smart-looking black suit, with an old-fashioned wrap-around cape, a long gold-tipped cane in one hand, and a black bag in the other, walking toward them. "Get ready, girls, I think Sherlock Holmes is looking for some female companionship."
"Huh," said Martha, as she and Sherri both looked around.
"Maybe he's an actor from a repertory company?" suggested Sherri. "But he's quite dishy."
"And looks loaded," said Martha, lusting after both the handsome man and his, she imagined, loaded wallet.
"Relax, Cowgirl-Madonna gone-to-pot," said Sally cruelly, "he's never gonna choose a lardo like you, when he could have an Asian cutie like me."
"Or a gorgeous night-black goddess, like me," said Sherri.
Slowly, the potential customer strolled across to the bottom of the concrete steps to say, "Hello, beautiful ladies."
"Hello," said Sherri, Sally, and Martha, all smiling like piranha spying an approaching meal.
"Are you looking for a good time, handsome?" asked the night-black Goddess.
"Perhaps with a petite Asian cutie?" asked Sally-Cerille.
Ignoring the first two women, the man walked across to Martha, looped an arm through one of hers and asked, "Is there somewhere we can go to be alone?"
"I work inside," said Martha, pointing toward the Free Love Sex Lounge.
"No, no, I meant more private, perhaps your home or apartment?"
"We're not supposed to take outside clients," said Martha apologetically.
"Not even for six hundred dollars for the night?"
Martha's eyes goggled. At first, she was unable to speak, then, to gob-smacked Sally and Sherri, she said, "Tell the Amazonian witch I developed a cold, and had to go home."
"Why should we?" asked Sherri, glaring daggers at her.
"I covered for both of you in the past when you went AWOL," said Martha. "Of course, if you'd prefer me to tell Lysette where you really were ...?"
"Okay, okay, we'll cover for you," agreed Sally and Sherri.
"Thanks, girls," said Martha, before leading her new customer down Gordon Street toward her apartment at 123 Duke Street, off Duchess Lane.
As they entered, Martha warned her client, "Be very quiet, we don't want my nosey landlady to overhear us."
"No, we certainly do not," agreed the man, tiptoeing upstairs after the fifty-something Cowgirl-Madonna gone-to-pot.
Finally, they reached her apartment, 224, on the second storey, actually no more than a bed-sitting room with tiny shower and toilet cubicles. They tiptoed across, then Martha unlocked the door, and they sneaked inside.
"Phew," said Martha, "I really didn't think we'd make it. If Mrs. Harvey found me sneaking a man into my room, she would have killed me."
The tall, distinguished-looking man couldn't help grinning at the suggestion.
Smiling back at him, Cowgirl-Madonna said, "By the way, my name is Martha. Martha Godfrey.
"Deeming," said the man, just before slitting her throat with a razor-sharp knife concealed within the top piece of his cane. "Frederick Bailey Deeming."
He looked down at the smiling corpse and thought, Yes, we will have fun over the next few hours! Taking a butcher's leather apron from his black bag, he put it on before filleting Martha's ample buttocks, then her huge, if sagging, breasts. Before cutting open her obese stomach to remove her entrails, which he threw upon her bed, before lifting her carcase to place it on top of the entrails, so that he did not have to bend so low as he continued to remove her organs, fatty tissue, and muscle tissue to pile beside her upon the now blood drenched bed.
Well, Cowgirl-Madonna gone-to-pot, he thought, you may have been worthless in life, but in death, I will make you into a work of art!
So absorbed was he in his work that Deeming didn't notice as the sun started to come up, until he heard movement in the adjoining rooms.
A tapping came on the bedroom door, then an old woman's voice said, "Breakfast in half an hour. Less you intend to sleep all day as usual."
Careful not to say anything, Deeming waited until he heard the old woman say, "Lazy cow," then the sound of footsteps receding.
Walking across to the bedroom window, Deeming opened it and looked out. Taking off the leather apron, he placed it into his black bag and returned his knife to the top of his cane. Then, although on the first storey, Deeming climbed onto the window ledge, then leapt out, landing softly upon the thick carpet of dried pine needles and gum leaves that blanketed the backyard, not far from the forest just beyond town.
Careful not to look back, Frederick Deeming walked off into the forest, then headed toward Lake Cooper a few kilometres outside town, to wash off any blood from his leather gloves and the leather apron. Finally, he washed the gleaming silver blade of the razor-sharp knife.

Late that afternoon, the five cops were seated around the huge blackwood desk in the front room of the Mitchell Street Police Station, in Glen Hartwell, having afternoon tea.
"Mrs. M. sure makes great macaroons," said Paul Bell, a tall, thin, dark-haired Sergeant reaching retirement age that December. "I'm certainly gonna miss these treats after I retire."
"I, on the other hand, at only eighteen, have another forty-nine years to go," claimed Suzette Cummings, a trainee, with long, raven-coloured hair.
"Of course, Mrs. M. is already in her early to mid-sixties," pointed out Colin Klein. A tall, strong, redheaded Englishman, Colin was a constable and was engaged to Terri. "So she probably won't be around for another forty-nine years."
"I never thought of that."
"And that's assuming that they even let you come back to Glen Hartwell, after you do your final exams in Melbourne in December," teased Sheila Bennett. A tall, athletic Goth chick with orange-and-black striped hair, Sheila was the second in command of the local police forces. "They don't like to send you to your home area. You'll probably end up in Port Melbourne, or somewhere like that."
"What?" demanded the ravenette, panicked. "No more of Mrs. M.'s divine tucker. I'll die of boredom."
"Relax," said Terri Scott. A beautiful ash blonde in her mid-thirties, Terri was the top cop of the area. "I've already rung Melbourne and explained to them that with Paul retiring around Christmas, and Drew Braidwood retiring next January, we'll be short-staffed and will desperately need you here. And they agreed to make a special exception for you."
"Phew, thank the god of haute cuisine," said Suzette.
"Well, I didn't know," lied Sheila.
"I told you last night," said Terri, "when we were watching the news."
"I never listen to you when we're off duty. You do tend to natter on a lot."
"How dare you?" demanded Terri.

Over at Mrs. Harvey's boarding house at 223 Duke Street, LePage, Gladys Harvey was sick and tired of having to stay quiet all day, so Martha Godfrey could sleep in all day.
It's time that the lazy cow got up! thought Gladys, taking her vacuum cleaner up to the first floor in the tiny elevator.
This'll wake Sleeping Beauty! thought Gladys, as she started vacuuming outside the door of Martha Godfrey's room. However, after forty minutes or so, she had vacuumed the entire first-floor landing, still without waking the Cowgirl-Madonna gone-to-pot.
I've heard of heavy sleepers, but she takes the cake! thought the old lady. Taking her passkey from her pinafore pocket, she unlocked the door, saying, "Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead," as she stepped into the room. Then in seconds, she was screaming fit to wake the dead.

Over at the Mitchell Street Police Station, they were just finishing up afternoon tea when they received a hysterical phone call from Gladys Harvey.
"Calm down, please, Mrs. Harvey," begged Suzette Cummings, unable to work out what the old lady was saying. Finally, she had to hand the receiver to Paul Bell, saying, "I can't understand her."
"Mrs. Harvey?" asked Paul, finally having to hand the receiver to Terri.
After a moment, Terri handed it to Colin, who waited until Gladys Harvey calmed down a little. Then he said, "I think she's saying one of her tenants, it sounded like she said Madonna, had been gutted in the night."
"Madonna is a tenant at that broken-down boarding house in Duke Street, LePage?" asked a puzzled Sheila. "I thought I knew most of the residents from BeauLarkin to Willamby. How could Madonna have sneaked into town without me knowing about it?"
"Well, let's go find out," said Terri as they all stood. "Maybe you'd better stay to man the phones, Suzette. Paul can come with us on this one."
"Okay," said the raven-haired woman, only just resisting a sigh of relief.
Parking across the road from 223 Duke Street, since two ambulances were parked outside the boarding house, Terri and the others walked across the road.
Ignoring the usual sarcasm from Cheryl Pritchard and Julia Prescott, two paramedics, about them being the last on the scene, Sheila asked:
"Is it true that Madonna has been killed inside this sleazy dive?"
"Nope," confirmed Derek Armstrong, a tall, fifty-year-old black American who had worked for Ambulance Victoria for the second half of his life, "Some prozzie named Martha Godfrey."
"Martha Godfrey, didn't she have her own TV show in America, way back when?" asked Paul Bell.
"No," corrected Sheila, "that was Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts. He introduced dozens of new dance crazes to TV, including the twist in the 1960s."
"She really does have a wealth of useless knowledge about ancient TV shows," teased Cheryl Pritchard, an Amazonian brunette, nearing retirement age.
Ignoring the sarcasm, Terri and the other cops went inside and walked upstairs to the first floor to see the eviscerated remains of Martha Godfrey.
"Yeech," said Sheila, before taking the crime scene photos, "she doesn't look much like Madonna anymore."
"That's for sure," agreed Tilly Lombstrom, a tall, attractive, fifty-something brunette surgeon from the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.
"When can we have your best guess of when she was killed?" asked Terri.
"The hysterical landlady managed to tell us she wasn't in at 10:30 last night, and she found her about 4:30 this afternoon."
"So sometime between 10:30 last night and 4:30 this afternoon?" asked Colin.
"No, it would have taken all night to eviscerate her to this extent. So I'd say sometime between 11:00 and midnight last night."
As they left, Sheila said, "I would love to be there when that sarky cow, Jules, has to shift that mess to the hospital later."
However, when they went outside, Julia Prescott and her driver were shifting a sedated Gladys Harvey to their ambulance."
"Damn!" said Sheila.
"Maybe Cheryl will throw up when she sees that mess," said Colin, trying to cheer up Sheila.
"No, that hard bitch has been a paramedic for over forty years, she probably eats scarier things than that for her dinner."
"Yeech," said Terri, as they crossed the road to climb into her blue Lexus.
"Where to?" asked Colin.
"Around to the Free Love Sex Lounge in Gordon Street," said Sheila, starting the car.
"Excuse me, I thought I was the one who gave the orders?" said Terri.
"On that gargoyle business," said Sheila, [See my story, 'Gargoyles'.] "Martha Godfrey was a prozzie working at the Free Love Sex Lounge in Gordon Street. So we need to find out why she wasn't there last night. Or if she was, when she left there and with whom?"
"Who's a clever girl then?" said Colin, as though talking to a parrot.
A short time later, they were at the Free Love Sex Lounge, talking to a tall Amazonian fifty-something blonde, Lysette Carmichael, the madam of the sex lounge. The other girls would not awaken until six o'clock. Some of them slept on the premises, others boarded out, like Martha Godfrey.
"Martha was here at first," said Lysette, "then a little after 11:00, Sherri and Cerille came in and told me she was ill and had to go home."
"Ooh, you won't believe how ill," said Sheila.
"Do Sherri and Cerille sleep on the premises?" asked Terri.
"Sherri does, but Cerille boards at the Dorset Hotel in Duchess Lane."
"Then, it's time to say wakey-wakey to Sherri, so we can talk to her," said Colin.
A few minutes later, the black Goddess, dressed in an almost sheer chiffon robe, sat before them on one of the red, plush four-person sofas in the ground-floor parlour, yawning widely.
"So tell us about Martha's illness?" said Terri.
"Well," began Sherri, for once lost for words, wary of speaking in front of Lysette, finally said, "actually, she took a private customer."
"A private customer!" shouted the blonde Amazon. "You know I don't allow my girls to take private customers!"
"Yes, well Sally and I tried to talk her out of it, saying you'd fire her," lied the black Goddess, "but he offered her six hundred bucks, and her eyes lit up like dollar signs, and she wouldn't be reasoned with."
"I'll give her dollar signs!" cried Lysette.
"Her private customer already did!" said Terri. Then to Paul Bell, "Could you take Lysette into another room, so we can speak to Sherri in private."
"Sure thing, Chief," said Paul, having difficulty convincing the madam to go with him until he threatened to arrest her.
After she had gone, Colin said, "Now tell us the truth."
"Well, this dreamy-looking bloke, mid to late thirties, dressed up to the nines, turned up looking for some rumpy. Naturally, Sally and me thought he'd choose one of us. But, unbelievably, he picked that frump, Martha, instead. She asked us to cover for her when he asked her for a private all-nighter. And since she'd covered for us in the past, we agreed."
"So, what, this is sorta like the prozzies code of honour?" teased Sheila.
"We prefer to be called Ladies of the Night," said Sherri, huffily.
"You know that makes you sound like the Brides of Dracula," teased the Goth chick.
Trying to get them back to the topic, Terri said, "So Martha and this bloke ..."
"He was dressed up like Sherlock Holmes," said the black goddess. "We wondered if he was part of a repertory company?"
"Maybe we should check out the Glen Hartwell Playhouse Theatre in Blackland Street," suggested Colin.
"And get a line-up of all the thirty-something actors for Sally and Sherri to check out."
"Ooh, gladly, as long as they're all dishy," said Sherri.
"Relax, Vampirella," teased Sheila, "theatre actors don't earn enough to be able to afford your services."
"If they're dishy enough, I'm not above giving out free samples," said the black goddess, hurrying to add, "but don't tell Lysette that. She's almost as down on girls giving it out free as she is on us taking private customers."
Half an hour later, they were at the Dorset Hotel, interviewing Cerille-Sally, without finding out anything new. However, they did tell her about the proposed lineup of actors for them to attend.
"He was very dishy," agreed Sally, "with his top hat, long cape, and, I'm guessing, Harley Street suit."
As they were leaving, Colin said, "Actually, a Harley Street suit doesn't sound like something a theatre actor would be able to afford either."
"Maybe it was part of the theatre wardrobe," suggested Terri.
"In which case, it wouldn't look like a Harley Street suit up close," said Colin. "Maybe to the audience watching a play ... but not up close."

Leticia Longtree, a tall, beautiful Eurasian with bright green eyes, a high chin, large breasts, and a perfect hourglass figure, was standing in the poorly lit Purple Sin Discotheque at 434 Howard Street, Glen Hartwell, soon after 10:30 that night.
The large, square room which made up the disco was lit by three low-wattage, multifaceted strobe lights, which radiated their meagre silvery light into first one spot then another, as they slowly revolved.
Out on the murderously highly polished dance floor, a dozen or so couples were shaking about as though having seizures, rather than dancing.
Saint Vitus's Dance is making a comeback! thought Tisha, rolling her beautiful eyes at the spastic gyrations of the clueless dozens.
Two greasy-looking teenage boys, Harold and Duncan Morley, came up to the gorgeous Eurasian.
"How about it, gorgeous?" asked Harold, a geeky-looking seventeen-year-old, grinning like he thought he was God's gift to women.
"How about what?" demanded Tish.
"You and me out on the dance floor."
"How about I kick you in the nuts, then laugh, while you crawl away crying?"
"Ouch, like Johnny O'Keefe, I like a real tough chick, but don't take it too far, babe, or you might go dateless tonight."
"Sooner that than go anywhere with you."
"Ouch," repeated Harold.
"Let me have a go, bro," said Duncan, a year older than Harold. Grinning idiotically at Tish, he asked, "So gorgeous, how does the idea of a threesome with Harry and me turn you on?"
Not wasting time with words, Tish kicked the creep in the testicles, making him screech like a Banshee and fall to the floor.
"Come on, bro," said Harold, trying to stay well wide of Tish while dragging his brother toward the door of the discotheque.
With the loud music blaring out, almost no one even noticed the contretemps, but the few who did shrugged, thinking, Creeps got what they deserved!
Another man, a tall, fifty-something guy with a military style crew cut, walked across to the beautiful Eurasian. Keeping one hand in front of his crotch for protection, he said:
"Without nutting me, and making me crawl off crying, how about a dance?"
Tish thought for a moment, then said, "Very well."
Tish and the man, Ronny Sergeant, danced for half an hour before Ronnie, actually a sergeant in the Australian Armed Forces, got called back to base.
"Come on, Serg, it's back to base for you."
"Sergeant Sergeant?" asked Tish as they were leading him away.
"I'm hoping one day to be General Sergeant, or even Field Marshall Sergeant," explained Ronnie. "Can I see you again, gorgeous?"
"Come back when you're General Sergeant, or Field Marshall Sergeant," teased the Eurasian beauty.
"Ooh, I love a real tough chick," said Ronny, quoting the late, great Johnny O'Keefe.
"Settle down, Serg," said one of the MPs, "or we'll have to taser you."
So much for that, thought Tish, having enjoyed Sergeant Sergeant's company. Looks like I'll have to sleep alone tonight.
At that moment, a tall black American, with a cut-down Afro, jive-walked across to her and asked, "Hey babe, do you electric-boogaloo?"
"No," she said scathingly, "I was born this century."
"Ouch," said the jive turkey, turning and jive walking away.
Tish looked around at the other men in the discotheque and shuddered, thinking, I'd become a nun before I'd sleep with any of them.
Then, just as she was thinking of leaving, Frederick Deeming walked in the front door, only to be stopped by two burly security guards.
"Hey, whatcha got in the black bag?" asked one ape-like guard, snatching it off him and ripping it open to look through the contents, "leather apron, thumb clamps, leather ties, and that's all." He handed the bag back, apologising.
"Aren't you wondering about the leather apron, thumb clamps, and leather ties?" asked Deeming.
"No, you can be as kinky as you like, as long as you ain't bringing drugs, guns, or shivs in here."
Deeming considered that information for a moment, then turned and started into the discotheque, spotting Leticia Longtree at almost the same moment as the gorgeous Eurasian noticed him.
"Hello, beautiful lady," he said, taking off his top hat and doing a long, traditional bow.
"Hell-hello," said Tish, startled by his old-fashioned yet charming behaviour.
Taking her by the arm, he asked, "Why don't we get out of this sleazy atmosphere and go somewhere more suitable for a beautiful lady such as yourself?"
"Yes, yes, of course, we could go to my place in Duchess Lane, LePage," said Tish. "It's not that far from here, and I have a car in the basement car park."
"Lead the way, beautiful lady," said Deeming, bowing again.
It was a little before midnight when Tish and Deeming reached the Dorset Hotel in Duchess Lane.
"We'll have to be quick," said Tish, "they lock the front doors at midnight. Wait till I see who's on reception duty. If it's that redheaded bitch, Annette, we're in trouble, if it's her husband, George, he's more understanding about a woman's needs."
She poked her head around the door and was relieved to see George Mulberry, a tall, muscular man looking more like a wrestler than a hotelier, on duty. Smiling broadly at him, Tish pulled her date into the garish blue, white, and blue reception area.
"George is a West Coast Eagles fan," Tish advised Deeming, seeing him staring at the colour scheme.
"Not that it does me much good at the moment," said George, nodding casually to Deeming. "The stupid Eagles are at the bottom of the league ladder."
"That's a pity," said Deeming, not certain what the burly man was talking about.
"Don't worry, the upstairs rooms are in quieter shades," said Tish as she started to lead him across to the small, silver-doored elevator.
"I'd take the stairs if I were you," advised George. "Annette has just taken the lift up to get something from our room, and will be back any second now."
Shrieking at the tinging of the elevator doors, Tish dragged Deeming toward the stairs beside the reception counter, and they were upstairs out of sight, when Annette Mulberry, a tall, beautiful, chestalicious redhead, appeared.
"What was that?" asked the redhead.
"Just our last guest going up to bed for the night, my chestalicious angel."
"Good," said Annette, heading toward the front door, "because I'm locking the door for the night." Returning to the reception desk, she said, "Come on, let's take the lift up, and you could get lucky tonight."
Needing no further encouragement, George raised the flap in the reception desk, turned off the reception area light and followed his busty wife across to the elevator.

Upstairs, in room 217, Tish and Deeming hurriedly undressed, then as the Eurasian beauty climbed onto the king-single bed in the paisley coloured room, Deeming took the leather apron from his black bag, and put the apron on.
"Ooh, I like it kinky," said Tish, her last words before he slashed her throat.
"That's good," said Deeming.
He slashed off her generous breasts and carefully sliced them, like a butcher slicing ham, then spreading the two stacks slightly, placed them upon a small bedside table, as he had done all those years ago with Mary Jane Kelly. Then he rolled her over to get at her prominent bubble-butt. Then her carefully sliced each butt round into much larger stacks, something he had not done with Mary Kelly, all those years ago, placing the two stacks carefully upon a teak vanity cabinet, smiling at his careful work. He then cut away the meat from her thighs and calves, carefully placing them beside her upon the bed. Then he rolled her back over, so that he could carefully cut away the flesh from her upper and then lower arms. Before starting on her beautiful face. By the time he had poked out her green eyes, then cut out her cheeks, and tongue to place beside her on the bed, the Eurasian was no longer a great beauty.
Looking down at the mutilated corpse, which had a couple of hours earlier been a great beauty, Deeming sighed with pleasure, thinking, She may have been a beautiful woman before, but now she is my greatest work of art so far!
After packing his leather apron in his bag, then redressing, Frederick Deeming checked out in the corridor. Then, finding it empty, he walked down the red-carpeted corridor, thinking How appropriate! and continued downstairs to the reception area. Finding a duplicate set of keys in a drawer of the reception desk, he walked across to unlock the front door, careful to close and lock it again, leaving the keys outside the door, before heading off on foot down Duchess Lane, toward the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest not far away.
A great night's work! thought Deeming as he exited the area.

Early the next morning, George and Annette Mulberry came downstairs, George looking like the cat that got the cream, having indeed got lucky with his beautiful, chestalicious wife the night before.
Lizzie Enrich, the Dorset Hotel's maid-cum-waitress-cum-general dogsbody, came down the stairs beside the reception area.
"Lizzie, open up the dining room," instructed Annette.
"Ja, wohl!" said Lizzie, a tall, twenty-something brunette, doing a Nazi salute, before goose-stepping across the reception area toward the dining area opposite.
"One day I'm to have to, as the Yanks say, go upside her head, the cheeky cow," said the redhead.
"Ah, it's just the excitement of youth," said George, quite taken by Lizzie's take no bull from anyone attitude.
"She'll be excited all right, if I chase her around the hotel with a metal dust pan," said Annette, reluctantly following the brunette into the dining room, as the first of the guests started coming down to be served.
"What's for brekkie this morning?" asked Delia, a pink-rinsed lady of eighty-two, who never ate anything for breakfast except pancakes with maple syrup.
"Pancakes with maple syrup," said George.
"Excellent," said Delia, heading toward the dining room. "That's what I like about this hotel. We always get the right food."
"So it's steak, fried eggs, and chips for breakfast again?" asked Jonny Talbutt, who ate nothing else in the morning.
"Absolutely, Jonny," confirmed George Mulberry.
"She's right then," said Jonny, following Delia into the dining room, "you do have great tucker at this hotel. Unlike a place I used to stay at in Sydney."
To George's relief, Jonny went into the dining room, instead of staying outside to tell George yet again his long-winded tale of the possibly mythical Montague Hotel somewhere in East Sydney.
"They had shocking tucker," he heard Jonny telling Delia.
"Who did?" asked the old lady.
"The Mont ..." started Jonny, cut off mid-word as the dining room door slid closed
"Thank God!" said George, until Annette opened the dining room door, saying:
"We could use another hand to help serve the starving masses!"
"Is that all we are to you?" demanded Delia.
"No, offence, Delia," said the redhead, grabbing her husband to pull him into the dining room.
Over the next hour or so, they served the hungry masses, then washed the dishes, before heading back out into the reception area.
"Was that Asian chick with the posh name in the dining room?" asked Lizzie.
"If you mean Leticia, I didn't see her," admitted Annette.
"Nah, she definitely wasn't it there," said Jonny Talbutt. "A hot chickadee like her, I would have noticed her for sure."
"You pervo," said Delia.
"She might still be sleeping," said George before he could stop himself, "she took a swanky-looking bloke up to her room last night!"
"What!" shouted Annette and Lizzie as one.
"You let her take a customer up to her room in our hotel?" demanded Annette.
"What do you mean, a customer?" asked George. "She isn't a prozzie. In fact, he was dressed up to the nines."
"Being dressed up to the nines doesn't mean he doesn't resort to prozzies," insisted the redhead. "In our hotel! That's it, I'm giving her, her marching orders!"
So saying, she strode across to the silver-doored elevator, closely followed by Lizzie, Delia, and Jonny.
"Honey, it's none of our business if she takes a man up to her room occasionally!" insisted George.
"It's my business!" insisted Annette, just before the elevator door chinged closed.
Outside room 217, Annette used her passkey to open the door, saying, "I'll get that Eurasian tart a piece of my mind."
"Can you spare it?" asked Jonny Talbutt before he could stop himself.
"Quiet," said Annette, "or you can sling your hook too."
Swinging open the door, Annette said, "All right, Miss Yoyo-Knickers, you can ...!" Then she started screaming as she saw the expertly carven side of meat, which had once been a beautiful young woman.
Too fast to stop in time, Lizzie and Delia ended up in the room too, and soon three hysterical women were screaming. Jonny Talbutt was saved from screaming by fainting instead.

Over at the Yellow House on Rochester Road in Merridale, they were just finishing breakfast that morning.
"One more cup of tea, Sheila, dear?" asked Deidre Morton, a short, chubby brunette of sixty-something and the best cook in the Glen Hartwell area.
"Thanks, Mrs. M.," said Sheila, sitting back while her landlady served her.
"Nothing like personal service, Sheils," said Leo Laxman, a tall black Jamaican, employed as a nurse at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.
"Well, she is my favourite out of all of my children," said Deidre Morton.
"Do I count as one of your children too?" asked Natasha Lipzing, a tall, grey-haired lady of seventy-one.
"Of course," said Deidre, pouring Sheila's tea.
"But I'm nearly a decade older than you."
Deidre thought for a moment, then said, "All right, you're one of my adopted children."
"Well, in that case, Mummy, could I have some more tea too?" asked Tommy Turner, a short, fat retiree, who Deidre was trying to wean away from alcohol addiction.
"And this little boy would like some more coffee," said Colin Klein. Who, despite being English, hated tea.
"Coming right up," said Deidre, never happier than when serving her 'children'.
Deidre had just started to pour Colin's coffee when Terri Scott's mobile phone suddenly rang.
"You'd better gulp down your cuppas," warned Freddy Kingston, a tall, podgy, near-bald retiree.
Terri spoke on the phone for a while, then disconnected and said, "That was George Mulberry at the Dorset in LePage. One of his female guests has been gutted like Martha Godfrey."
"Oh, no, not Cerille-Sally, one of our witnesses?" asked Sheila.
"No, someone named Leticia Longtree. Apparently, she was a great beauty in her mid-twenties."

"Was a great beauty being the operative term," said Colin forty-five minutes later, as they stared down at the expertly butchered remains of Leticia Longtree.
"Yeech," said Sheila before taking the crime scene photos.
"Is Cerille-Sally anywhere about?" Terri asked George Mulberry, trying to sound as casual as possible.
"Cerille Chiang will still be sleeping," said George, "she does some kind of night job and often doesn't get in until breakfast time."
Terri, Sheila, and Colin exchange glances, careful not to say anything.
"Could you check that she's okay?" asked Colin. "She was a witness to another crime, which may or may not be related to this one."
"Sure thing," said George. He went outside, and a couple of minutes later, he returned to say, "Yep, she's fine, just a little drowsy."
"Okay, we might see her at her work later tonight, to tell her about the line-up we'd like her to attend."
As they departed the room, Sheila was smugly pleased to see that redheaded Julia Prescott was one of the paramedics who would have to remove the remains of Leticia Longtree after Tilly Lombstrom and the local coroner, Jerry 'Elvis' Green, had finished doing whatever they could with her.
"Enjoy your work," said Sheila, smiling disingenuously at Julia.
"Er, thanks," said a puzzled Julia Prescott, blanching when she stepped into the bedroom and saw what had been done to the former Eurasian beauty.
After interviewing everyone at the Dorset Hotel, Terri and the others drove around to the Glen Hartwell Playhouse Theatre, at number 199 Blackland Street.
Inside, they found about thirty or so actors and repertory staff rehearsing for their latest play.
"May I help you, Sergeant?" asked a tall, thin, grey-haired man coming across to the three police.
"And you are?" asked Terri.
"Tennessee Ernie Hodgekins, the director," said the man."
Sheila started to laugh, then realised that the man was serious.
"I don't suppose you're doing a play set in Victorian England at the moment?" asked Terri.
"No, we're doing A Streetcar Named Desire."
"So, no reason for any of the actors to dress at all like Sherlock Holmes?" asked Colin.
"Of course not," said Tennessee Ernie, "he would be wildly out of place."
"Nonetheless, we need to arrange a lineup of all the males in your company, preferably tonight sometime."
"A lineup?"
"For two women who saw a suspect two nights ago," explained Colin. "When does your play start tonight?"
"It doesn't, we're still rehearsing."
"Then how about eight o'clock?" asked Terri.
"All right," said the director, sounding unhappy.

Later that night, also unhappy, Cerille-Sally and the black Goddess, Sherri, were at the Playhouse Theatre, looking at a lineup of a dozen people, not one of whom looked even remotely like their Sherlock Holmes wannabee.

Over at the Free Love Sex Lounge at 221 Gordon Street, LePage, three new girls had taken over the place at the bottom of the concrete steps, usually claimed by Martha, Cerille, and the black Goddess, Sherri.
"Wednesdays can be a bit slow," said Hattie Lincoln, a short, obese brunette, pushing forty-five, with long curly hair.
"Not as bad as Mondays or Tuesdays, though," said Lizzie Bondage (her work name), a tall, beautiful strawberry blonde in her early thirties.
"So what do we do between tricks, assuming we get any tonight?" asked Peggy Pérez, a tall, curvaceous Latina in her early twenties.
"Stand around nattering, hoping not to freeze our tits off outside in the cold," said Lizzie.
"Then why don't we wait inside, where it's warm?"
'Cause there are thirty other girls in there for any potential customers to choose from," said Hattie. "Out here, he sees only us, so we've got a one in three chance of earning."
"Instead of a one in thirty, inside the parlour," finished Lizzie
"Oh," said Peggy, just wishing she had worn something warmer.

Over at the Playhouse Theatre, at number 199 Blackland Street, the lineup was in full swing. With everyone looking toward the stage, the three cops did not notice the Sherlock Holmes wannabee peaking in from the front door. Noticing Cerille and Sherri standing near the front of the stage, Deeming smiled broadly, knowing where tonight's victim would come from.

"If you think this is cold?' said Lizzie Bondage. "Wait for another week, when winter starts."
"Then it really will be cold outdoors," said Hattie Lincoln.
"But won't Cerille and Sherri have the outdoors spot sewn up again by then?" asked Peggy Pérez.
"Two of the spots, so we'll have to duke it out for the third spot," said Lizzie.
"Poor Martha got killed, remember," said Hattie, having never liked the Madonna wannabee, but deciding not to speak ill of the dead.
"I was told she was a fat old slag?" asked Peggy.
"Well, yeah," admitted Lizzie, "but we were trying not to speak ill of the dead and all that."
"Oh," said Peggy, just before noticing the tall, dressed-to-the-nines man heading their way. "Girls, I think we could have a live one."
She pointed to where Frederick Deeming was sauntering toward them.
"Nice to earn some cash, well, one of us anyway," said Peggy.
"And whoever he chooses will certainly get warmed up," said Lizzie, laughing.
The man, dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit, a black cape, and a black top hat, showed no hurry to reach the three increasingly desperate prostitutes. However, he did gradually stroll their way.
"Hello, handsome, looking for a good time?" asked Lizzie. "If you're into kinky stuff, like bondage, I'm your girl."
"Or maybe a Latina honey is more to your taste?" asked Peggy Pérez.
Ignoring Lizzie and Peggy, Deeming walked across to the short, chubby brunette, Hattie Lincoln and asked, "Would six hundred Aussie dollars be acceptable for the whole night ... at your place?"
"We're only supposed to work inside," said Lizzie, pointing toward the sex lounge.
"Oh, come on, girls, you'll cover for me, won'tcha?" asked Hattie.
Well, I suppose that lardo is unlikely to get any more customers tonight! Lizzie thought, before saying, "Yeah, okay, but you'd better not make a habit of taking private customers. Or Lysette will cut off and fry all of our tits."
"This'll be the first and last time," said Hattie, unaware how true that was. Then to Deeming, "We can take my Cortina."
She led him down to a lime green Cortina of indeterminate age, and soon they were driving to her house in Lenoak.
"How could a lardo like her get a trick, let alone an all-nighter, when we were both standing here?" demanded Peggy.
"Some old-fashioned types like fat chicks," said Lizzie.
Half an hour later, they were still discussing Hattie's good luck when another man, this time short and wearing a black raincoat, stopped outside the sex lounge.
"Looking for a good time, handsome?" asked Peggy, having been instructed to always call them handsome, no matter how pig ugly they really were.
The short man hesitated for a moment, then opened his raincoat to show her was wearing black, frilly lingerie, and said, "I'm Clyde, I like it kinky."
"Then I'm your girl, Clyde," said Lizzie. "I call myself Lizzie Bondage, and I've got a friend you might like to meet, called Mr. Whippy! He's a long cane, who loves to warm up naughty boys' bums."
"Yes, please!" said Clyde, almost squealing from delight. He grabbed Lizzie's right arm and they raced up the concrete steps into the Free Love Sex Lounge.
Almost an hour later, Terri and the others drove up to drop off Cerille and the black goddess, Sherrie.
"Hey, what are you doing in our spot?" demanded Sherrie, seeing the Latina girl standing beneath the concrete steps.
"No disrespect to her memory, but now that poor Martha is gone, I thought there was room for a new third girl out front."
Sherri and Cerille exchanged looks for a moment, then Cerille said, "Yeah, okay, but we get first choice of any tricks."
"Of course. So, how did the lineup go?"
"A bust, not a single Sherlock Holmes lookalike," said Sherri.
"Sherlock Holmes lookalike?" asked Peggy. "That's funny, there was one here about ninety minutes ago. He went off with Hattie Lincoln."
"What?" asked Terri, Colin, Sheila, Sherrie, and Cerille together.
"Yeah, a real Flash Harry, with a fancy black suit, a long cane, a black bat, and wearing an old-fashioned top hat."
"What?" repeated Terri and the others.
"Yeah, they sneaked off to pull an all-nighter at Hattie's place."
"Which is?" asked Terri.
Peggy shrugged, "How would I know? I barely know her."
"Let's ask inside," said Sherri, "Lysette has every girl's address on file."
Inside, they found the Amazonian blonde and told her what had happened.
"What?" demanded Lysette. "What did I say about firing anyone who takes on private clients?"
"I tried to stop her," lied Peggy, deciding not to involve Lizzie in it. "But she threatened to whack me."
Clearly unconvinced, Lysette picked up a PC tablet, logged on, and scrolled through the names and addresses before saying, "Hattie Lincoln lives at 44 Morecombe Street, Lenoak."
"Let's hope 'lives' is still the operative word," said Terri as the three cops raced out into Gordon Street.

Over at 44 Morecombe Street, Deeming had had more than two hours to perform his art upon poor Hattie Lincoln. Her opulent breasts and large buttocks had been removed and carefully sliced and left on her makeup table. Then he had gouged out her eyes, before cutting out her tongue and cheeks, before slicing away all of the flesh and fat from her forearms and lower arms, as well as cutting away her fatty thighs and calves. Last of all, he slashed open her prominent stomach to lift out her entrails, heart, liver, lungs, and kidneys, to display them artistically (in his opinion) around Hattie on the king single bed.
The room had had drab grey walls, but Deeming had carefully splattered much of Hattie's blood on the walls. Admiring his handiwork now, he thought, That's what this room desperately needed, a splash of colour!
He was almost finished when he heard the sound of a car screeching to a halt outside the small grey weatherboard house. Looking down from the first storey window, he saw Terri, Sheila, and Colin run out and race across to the front door.

"Altogether!" shouted Terri.
The three cops shouldered the front door together, breaking the lock away, so that the door swung inward, making Terri and the others fall into a heap onto the dirty grey-brown carpet.
"Phew," said Sheila, climbing back to her feet faster than the other two, "doesn't she ever dust in here?"
"Let's hope she gets a chance to later," said Colin, as the three cops ran up the thin, rickety staircase toward the bedroom on the first storey.
"Open up!" cried Terri at the first door.
Colin kicked in the door, only to find that it was the bathroom-cum-toilet.
"Next room!" cried Sheila.
She raced across and kicked in the plywood door to the bedroom, just in time to see Frederick Deeming leaping straight out of the open window.
The three cops raced across to the window and saw the Sherlock Holmes lookalike racing off into the nearby forest.
"How the Hell did he do that?" asked Terri, as Sheila climbed up on the windowsill to jump out.
"Sheils, no!" cried Colin.
He grabbed for Sheila, too late as she leapt from the window, careful to bend her legs and roll as she hit the thick carpet of pine needles and dried gum leaves blanketing the back yard. Without a pause, the Goth chick kept rolling back to her feet and took off like a cheetah after the fleeing murderer.
"I'll give it to Sheils, she's brainless, I mean fearless," said Terri.
Then she and Colin raced back down the steps to start around the side of the weatherboard house and started after Deeming and Sheila Bennett.
After half an hour or so, Terri and Colin had lost track of the two people ahead of them and stopped for a breather. After getting her breath back, Terri rang through to Donald Esk and asked him to bring his three Alsatian crosses, Slap, Tickle, and Rub, to try to find their tracks.
Nearly forty minutes later, Don Esk turned up with the three dogs, as well as Stanlee Dempsey, and Jessie Baker, all three police sergeants under Terri's command.
Terri quickly filled them in on what had happened, then they set off after Deeming and Sheila.
"I'll say this for Sheils," said Jessie Baker, a huge ox of a man with flame red hair, "what she lacks in brains, she makes up for in courage."
"You do realise, she outranks you?" asked Don Esk, a powerful, forty-year-old man with shoulder-length dark brown hair.
"And she certainly will, once we tell her what you said," teased Stanlee Dempsey, a huge raven-haired man.
"Less nattering, girls, more following tracks," said Terri.
"She called us girls," said Jessie as they ran through the forest, almost dragged along by the excited, yelping Alsatian crosses.
By the morning, they had run from Lenoak to Glen Hartwell, then on toward the edge of Theodora Avenue, until reaching the now kicked open chain-link gate of the Shady Rest Cemetery.
"Something tells me that is Sheils's handiwork," said Colin as they raced into the cemetery, with Slap, Tickle and Rub still yelping excitedly.
"Shut up, you dumb mutts!" cried Jessie.
"At least it makes a change them running toward danger, instead of away from it, like the last couple of times," said Stanlee Dempsey.
"Hey, they can't be brave all the time," said Don.
After heading down Linlithrow Street, the main drag of the cemetery, they turned right into A'Beckett Drive, where they found an exhausted-looking Sheila Bennett sitting upon one of the concrete graves.
"Don't tell me, you lost him after all that?" asked Terri.
"Nope, he's in there," said Sheila, pointing to the next grave.
"Murray Senkans," said Stanlee, reading the grave's name. "Murray wasn't a psycho; he was a cop, like us."
"A damn good cop," said Donald Esk.
"I don't care," said Sheila, "that's where he is. I almost had him when he lay down on that grave and sank slowly through the concrete and vanished."
"By the way, that was a great drop and roll back there," said Colin.
"You scared the Hell out of us," said Terri, "we thought you were gonna shatter both legs, if not break your back."
"Nah, they taught drop and roll at the police academy; it was one of my strengths. Besides, I figured if he could drop down one storey, so could I."
"So what do we do now?" asked Stanlee.
"Open the grave to see who is inside it," suggested Colin.
"Won't we need a court order to do that?" asked Jessie Baker.
Terri considered for a moment, then said, "Yeah, I guess so. You lot stay here and see that Sherlock Holmes, or whoever he is, doesn't escape. Colin and I will go see Don Frazer."
After Terri and Colin left, Stanlee said, "I can't believe the Chief actually considered opening it without a court order."
An hour later, Terri's police-blue Lexus GX drove up with Terri, Colin, Don Frazer and Father Thomas Montague from St. Margaret's church in Blackland Street.
"Did you get the court order, Chief?" asked Sheila Bennett.
"Yes," confirmed Don Frazer, the mayor of Glen Hartwell and the local magistrate. A tall, heavily built man, dressed like a typical English country squire. "But on condition that I'm here to watch over what you do."
"Yes, agreed Father Montague," we don't want you desecrating the grave of Murray Senkans, a fine officer, and a good Catholic man."
"I don't think he trusts us Protestants," Sheila whispered to Colin.
Ignoring the comment, the priest said, "And I also brought along a few litres of holy water. If a revenant has taken up residence in poor Murray's grave, holy water along with the right prayers will destroy it."
"Won't that also hurt Murray's remains?" asked Jessie Baker.
"A good Catholic man like Murray? I should say not!"
"Okay, open up the grave," ordered Don Frazer.
"How?" asked Stanlee Dempsey.
"Oh yes," we also brought along three crowbars, tied to the roof rack of the Lexus," said Terri, pointing. "So come on, you big, strong men."
"Whatever happened to women's lib?" teased Don Esk, as he, Jessie, and Stanlee went across to grab the two-metre-long crowbars.
"I'll take one of them, if you like," offered Sheila.
"No, thanks," said Jessie, "we big, strong men can handle it."
Even with three big, strong men with full-sized crowbars, it took nearly ten minutes to remove the heavy concrete top of the grave without breaking it. Inside, they found the almost mummified remains of the dead cop. No sign of Frederick Deeming.
"Well, of course, there's no sign of the murderer," said Father Montague. "If he's a revenant, he is only visible when he wants to be."
So saying, he held up the four-litre glass bottle and started chanting, while splashing holy water liberally across Murray Senkans' remains.
A hellish scream rang out from the grave, as rolling white smoke gushed out of the grave. For just a few seconds, the visage of Frederick Deeming appeared in the roiling smoke, before it burnt away and the screaming stopped, as Deeming's revenant was burnt away from the unharmed remains of Murray Senkans.
"Expertly done, Father," praised Sheila.
"I've had plenty of practice since Mr. Klein came to Glen Hartwell."
"I am not a monster magnet!" said Colin angrily.
"No, he's a babe magnet," said Terri, snuggling up to him. "Isn't that true, my handsome Englishman?"
"Yes, it is," agreed Colin, making everyone laugh.
"Well, I guess that's that," said Stanlee Dempsey.
"Not quite," said Don Frazer. "You still have to put the lid back on Murray's grave."
"Yes, you big, strong men," said Terri, making everyone except Jessie, Stanlee, and Donald Esk laugh again
"Did Germaine Greer die in vain?" teased Jessie Baker.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia