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A cacophony of furious barking from Mr. Ginger’s dogs pierced the air, heralding the arrival of a grotesque figure. This creature, barely reaching the table’s height with his hunched form, was Old Parr. His head, too large for his body, was crowned with a wild tangle of rust-black hair peeking out from a strangely shaped seal-skin cap. His hands and feet, disproportionate to his stature, hung like twisted branches, and his long arms seemed to stretch unnaturally, almost touching his ankles. His spine curved, and his head seemed to sink into his chest. While his face bore traces of middle age, closer scrutiny revealed the marks of extreme oldness—his flat, broad nose, a long upper lip, projecting jaws, and a retreating forehead lent him an almost simian appearance. Despite his dull, swarthy complexion, his eyes gleamed with a sharp, cunning light.
His attire mirrored his eccentricity. Donning cast-off tawny tights from his time as a theatre performer, an elastic shirt with bat-like wings attached to its sleeves, and a blood-red tunic cinched at his waist, he cut a bizarre figure. His diminutive form was wrapped in a greatcoat whose tails swept the floor like a sinister train.
As the commotion settled, Mr. Ginger and the Tinker erupted into laughter at the sight of Old Parr, finding amusement in his odd appearance, while the Sandman’s expression remained stoic.
Their mirth was short-lived as the dwarf, in a shrill, strange voice, questioned, “Did you summon me just to mock?”
“Certainly not, deputy,” the Tinker hastily replied. “Here, lazy-bones, rum and water for all.”
The drowsy youth sprang into action, fetching the spirits and water as requested. Glasses were filled, and the Tinker offered his guest a steaming glass, urging him to make himself comfortable.
Opposite their table stood a dilapidated staircase, leading to a locked door midway up. This door, guarded by Old Parr, marked the entry to a branching staircase and a narrow passage to the bedrooms, each securely locked and windowless. No lights were permitted, adding to the eerie ambiance.
Appeased by the drink, Old Parr settled near the locked door, shedding his greatcoat to reveal his impish attire. The dogs, sensing his otherworldly presence, howled in fear, requiring Ginger’s intervention to calm them.
When silence finally reigned, the Tinker, exchanging sly glances with his companions, broached the subject. “Deputy, we’ve been debating a matter you can settle for us.”
“Let’s hear it,” squeaked Old Parr.
“It concerns your age,” the Tinker pressed on. “When were you born?”
“It’s been so long, I can hardly remember,” Old Parr replied, his tone sullen.
“You must have witnessed many changes,” the Tinker persisted, waiting for the potent liquor to loosen the dwarf’s tongue.
“I have indeed,” Old Parr began, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “I’ve seen London rise and fall, seen it grow into the vast metropolis it is today. Believe it or not, this very neighborhood was once a verdant field, surrounded by hedges and trees. Saint Giles’s, a quaint village, stood where now we have this bustling Rookery. And Covent Garden, now a market, was once a park-like garden, stretching from Saint Martin’s Lane to Drury House, a mansion nestled amid a grove of majestic trees.”
Ginger let out a long, low whistle. “The place must be utterly transformed!” he exclaimed.
Old Parr’s gaze turned distant as he delved into the city’s metamorphosis. “Describing London’s changes in my time would take weeks,” he mused. “The Thames itself, once crystal clear, now resembles a muddy swamp. Once, its banks were lined with verdant gardens, and its waters teemed with splendid vessels and luxurious barges. Now, all of that is gone.”
“The river must have been a paradise for those jolly watermen near Blackfriars,” the Tinker chimed in, his voice carrying a mournful tune. “But the steamers have taken their place, leaving nostalgia in their wake.”
“Indeed,” Old Parr nodded. “I lament the loss. The city has grown mighty, yes, but its beauty has waned. I recall the grandeur of the Strand, lined with noble houses, and the opulent goldsmiths’ shops in Lombard Street and Gracechurch Street. Those were days to remember.”
“But London is what it is now,” the Tinker shrugged. “No turning back the clock.”
“Not likely,” Old Parr agreed, signaling for a refill.
Ginger, eager for tales of old, shifted the conversation. “And what of the king, whose name these little beauties bear?” he asked, patting the heads of his two spaniels.
“Old Rowley?” Old Parr’s eyes brightened. “I served in his time, witnessed his love for both women and canines. But that’s a tale for another day.”
Stolen story; please report.
“I’d wager you’ve seen more than most,” Ginger said, puffing his pipe thoughtfully.
Old Parr chuckled. “More than I care to admit. Walking through these streets, unchanged in name but not in spirit, is a surreal experience. If only you could glimpse the London of old, you’d find it hard to settle for the present.”
“You speak like those penny-a-liners,” Ginger teased. “But you make me yearn for those bygone days.”
“If you lived then, you’d likely be found at Paris Garden or the bear-baiting pits,” Old Parr retorted. “Men may change their fashions, but their natures remain.”
“According to your tale, you’ve lived well over two hundred and seventy years,” Ginger remarked, a hint of skepticism in his tone.
Old Parr chuckled. “My body may be hearty, but my mind wanders at times.”
“Perhaps more than a wander,” Ginger hinted, eyeing him curiously. “It’s not natural, you know, to have lived so long.”
“Maybe not,” Old Parr conceded. “But it’s how it is.”
Their conversation drifted, haunted by visions of an ancient city lost to time, mingled with doubts and mysteries surrounding the enigmatic Old Parr.
The air in the room grew thick with intrigue as Ginger probed the mysterious Old Parr. “If you’ve lived so long,” he began, stretching leisurely, “why aren’t you better off, as folks say?”
Old Parr’s response was silence, his face hidden in his hands, wrestling with unseen emotions. Ginger persisted, his curiosity piqued. “If you won’t tell us, how can we believe you?” he pressed.
The Tinker chimed in, attempting to soothe the tense atmosphere. “We believe you, deputy. Tell us your tale,” he urged, his eyes flicking to the Sandman for affirmation.
With a sigh, Old Parr relented. “Fate has not been kind,” he confessed gruffly. “I’ve had my chances, but they all led to ruin. It’s my destiny.”
“Hard fate indeed,” the Tinker sympathized. “But what of your longevity? How do you explain it?”
The dwarf’s eyes gleamed with a hint of defiance. “I served Doctor Morehouse, an alchemist from Queen Bess’s era,” he began. “He sought not just gold but the elixir of life.”
“I’ve heard of such pursuits,” Ginger interjected, his tone tinged with skepticism.
Old Parr continued, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “Night and day we toiled, until on the last night of the sixteenth century, a wounded young man arrived. He drank the elixir and walked out renewed, as if death had never touched him.”
The Tinker’s eyes widened, exchanging knowing glances with the others. The tale spun by Old Parr hinted at secrets beyond mortal comprehension, weaving a tapestry of mystery and wonder in the dimly lit room.
In a room thick with shadows and the scent of age-old secrets, Old Parr’s voice carried a weight of ancient sorrows as he continued his tale. “As soon as he was gone,” he recounted, his voice a whisper edged with dread, “I raced to the laboratory. There lay Doctor Morehouse, lifeless. I debated my next move—should I hunt down his killer, the young man? But what use? Then, my eyes fell on the table, a phial empty, a glass receiver holding a transparent liquid, and I hesitated. I drank the elixir of immortality, feeling fire course through me. The room came alive, dead eyes staring, skeletons rattling, and I lost myself to terror. When I regained my senses, all was still, but a curse clung to me.”
The Tinker leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “Have you ever met the young man who drank the elixir?”
Old Parr’s eyes widened, fear flickering in their depths. “Never.”
“Remember his name?” pressed the Tinker.
“It eludes me,” admitted the dwarf.
“Anthony Darcy,” declared the Tinker, watching for a reaction.
Old Parr’s shock was palpable. “That was his name! But how do you know?”
The Tinker’s smile was sly. “We know more than you think. You might be useful, proving facts against him.”
The dwarf’s agitation grew. “What facts? Against whom?”
“One more question,” continued the Tinker. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Undoubtedly,” affirmed Old Parr. “He haunts my dreams.”
“Shall we involve him?” the Tinker consulted his comrades.
“Aye,” murmured the Sandman.
“Wait,” cautioned Ginger, uncertainty clouding his features.
“No waiting,” insisted the Tinker. “Examine these papers.” He handed Old Parr a pocketbook. “Share your thoughts.”
In the midst of their conversation, a sudden disturbance shattered the eerie calm of the room. A hand thrust through the banisters, shrouded in heavy black drapery, seized the dwarf by the neck, lifting him off the ground despite his frantic struggles and piercing screams.
Chaos ensued. The dogs barked wildly, one of them trampling over the drowsy waiter who had been resting on the coals. The Tinker, cursing fiercely, lunged for the dwarf’s legs but was too late. In an instant, the dwarf vanished, leaving behind only a sense of dread and confusion.
“What in the devil’s name just happened?” exclaimed Ginger, his eyes wide with shock. “And look! The old man took the pocket-book with him! It’s as if the devil himself snatched him away. Perhaps his time was closer than he knew.”
“I’ll retrieve him or that pocket-book, mark my words!” declared the Tinker, rushing up the stairs and climbing through the opening where a banister had been removed.
In the darkness of the gallery, the Tinker called out, his voice echoing in the empty space. No response came, no sign of the dwarf could be found. Meanwhile, the others gathered below, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty.
As the Tinker continued his fruitless search, venting his frustration with every step, the landlord arrived with the Sandman and Ginger, the latter accompanied by his still-barking dogs. The drowsy waiter, now wide awake and carrying a flickering candle, completed the anxious group.
Despite their thorough search, no trace of the dwarf or any clue to his disappearance emerged. Astonishment and dread hung heavy in the air.
“What could have happened?” the landlord muttered, his expression grim.
“It’s like the devil himself spirited him away,” the Tinker muttered, his frustration evident.
“I saw only a hand and a cloak,” the Sandman added.
“I swear I saw hoofs,” the waiter chimed in. “And gleaming eyes!”
“It’s a mystery,” the landlord concluded. “No one could have entered or left unnoticed. Old Parr always secured the rooms.”
“All hope is lost,” sighed the Tinker. “And our plans with it, I fear.”
“Not so fast,” Ginger interjected. “The old man left this paper behind, dropped from his pocket-book as he fled. It might hold some answers. Let’s return downstairs. There’s nothing more to find here.”
Agreeing with his sentiment, they descended back to the lower room, their minds filled with dread and unanswered questions.