#Malengine
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jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
Originally employed purely as a diversion, he has become valuable to them for his ability to pull off the apparently impossible using stagecraft (the elevator pitch for the Malengine novel - there is a Malengine novel - is "Victorian 'Mission: Impossible'").
December 1, 2025 at 11:14 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
Your torment continues...
3. "The Black Council," said Malengine heavily. Of course it would be the Black Council; Miss Elodie Vesperine was one of their agents and rarely did work for anyone else. The Black Council was the dark heart of organised crime within London, comprised of brilliant, ruthless minds that did not appreciate it when their offers of work were not accepted. Malengine knew that, whatever they wanted, he would have to agree to it. "Oh," said Miss Vesperine, full of mock concern, "don't say it like that, sweet Richard. It's a simple job, for a good fee." She linked her arm with his, to the inexpressible envy of Harris. "Come, walk with me while I tell you about it." So they strolled arm in arm, the pretty young woman of fashion, and the gaunt middle-aged vulture of a man, while the dour Harris tramped disconsolately behind. "You have doubtless heard of Mr Felicitus Hugg," said Miss Vesperine. "Of course. The entrepreneur and philanthropist. Self-made, yet famously modest. A boon to the poor and needy through his charitable works. What of him?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I don't kill people, Miss Vesperine. If the Black Council want him dead, they have other creatures for the job." "No, no. Attend; on Christmas morning Mr Hugg has called together friends, family, and assorted charities. His intention is to give away the greater part of his fortune." "How very generous," said Malengine, wishing he was a friend of Hugg. "Your job," said Miss Vesperine, "is to stop him." 4. "Stop him?" said Richard Malengine. "Whatever for?" "Yours is not to reason why," said Miss Vesperine, "yours is but to do or..." "Die?" "Or explain your failure to the Black Council, which is much the same thing. Don't worry, Malengine. I'm sure you'll think of something. Oh, you shall need this." She reached into her reticule and extracted a notebook. "The Council's file on Felicitus Hugg, in convenient digest form." Malengine accepted the book with ill grace and proceeded to thumb through it with his free hand. "They ask too much," he said. "How am I supposed to convince a stranger to do as you ask with so little time to formulate a strategy? Why, it's Christmas Eve tomorrow. Why such short notice?" Miss Vesperine shrugged. "Perhaps the Black Council only found out yesterday. I do not know, and it is unwise to ask. In any case, how difficult can such an endeavour be? Threats or blackmail should turn the trick." "You haven't read this, have you?" said Malengine, waggling the notebook at her. "His life is spotlessly clean, and he has the ears of many of the great and good. There is nothing with which to blackmail him, and he would be off to the police at the first hint of a threat. No. It's impossible. Perhaps with more time..." "Time," Miss Vesperine reminded him, "is of the essence." "Then there's nothing. He has no vices, no weaknesses but for his books, no... Wait!" Malengine paused, rereading a paragraph. "He is fanatical upon the works of Charles Dickens," he said slowly. "I believe... I believe I may have a plan after all."
December 14, 2024 at 1:04 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
MALENGINE'S ADVENT ADVENTURE

Being a Seasonal Tale of Victorian Villainy in Twenty-Four Acts

by Jonathan L. Howard (not a gentleman)

(©Jonathan L. Howard 2013-24)
1. Richard Malengine was being taunted by a turkey. The turkey was profoundly dead at the time – slaughtered, plucked and hanging from a hook outside Burley the Butcher's shop in Magdalene Court. Thus, its taunting was a very passive thing, but nevertheless, taunt it did. Malengine, a former actor turned master criminal in a series of events too unlikely to recount here, looked up at the turkey and scowled. He was a tall man, with a thin aesthetic face, and if he looked disreputable in his worn winter coat and crooked top hat, that is because he was. He stamped his feet in the snow in an effort to keep them warm. "I thought," said the man by his side, "bein' a master criminal and all meant you'd never be skint, guv." This was Harris, Malengine's sidekick and general skivvy, wrapped in his overcoat and scarf, steaming gently beneath a stained bowler hat. "I am temporarily monetarily embarrassed," said Malengine, his gaze never leaving the turkey. "The business with the forged Vermeer did not work out quite as well as expected." "You got chased up Charing Cross road by an auction room full of dealers," said Harris, "'oo all wanted to kill you." "Yes. Not quite as well as expected." Malengine sighed. "It's going to be a thin sort of Christmas, I fear, Harris. Two days to go and we barely have two farthings to rub together." "Fear not, my darlings," said a voice behind them, causing Malengine to jump and Harris to lurch very slightly. 2. The newcomer was a young lady, pretty, fashionably attired, and reeking of money. That all of that money came from the proceeds of crime was not lost upon Malengine. "Miss Vesperine. How delightful to see you," he said, plainly not delighted at all. "Hullo, Miss," said Harris, smirking at her with the unrealistic optimism of a troll making eyes at a princess. "Good morning, Mr Malengine, Mr Harris. The season's blessings upon you." She glanced up at the turkey. "Buying in provisions for Christmas day?" Malengine was just preparing a clever lie to hide their current poverty when Harris said, "No, Miss. We're skint. Utterly b’rassic. Not a penny to our names." He noticed Malengine glaring at him. "What?" "Ah," said Miss Vesperine sweetly. "The rumour was that your Vermeer coup did not entirely go to plan." "He almost got run through by an auctioneer with a fifteenth century Damascened steel scimitar." Harris nodded appreciatively. "Very classy." "Don't exaggerate," snapped Malengine. "Nobody tried to run me through with a scimitar. The very thought!" Then, in an undertone to himself, "A scimitar is more of a slashing weapon." "As I said," continued Miss Vesperine over him, "never fear. I thought you might be open to suggestions for a quick bit of work to see you through." "Good oh," said Harris, rubbing his hands together in their fingerless gloves. "Work?" said Malengine. "For whom, exactly?" Miss Vesperine's coquettish smile grew slightly malicious. "Why, the Black Council, of course."
December 13, 2024 at 4:25 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
MALENGINE'S ADVENT ADVENTURE, with the original artwork and typesetting. The text is included in the alt.
Image: Against a red field, a black digit "1" hangs upside down from a white meat hook. Richard Malengine was being taunted by a turkey. The turkey was profoundly dead at the time – slaughtered, plucked and hanging from a hook outside Burley the Butcher’s shop in Magdalene Court. Thus, its taunting was a very passive thing, but nevertheless, taunt it did. Malengine, a former actor turned master criminal in a series of events too unlikely to recount here, looked up at the turkey and scowled. He was a tall man, with a thin aesthetic face, and if he looked disreputable in his worn winter coat and crooked top hat, that is because he was. He stamped his feet in the snow in an effort to keep them warm. “I thought,” said the man by his side, “bein’ a master criminal and all meant you’d never be skint, guv.” This was Harris, Malengine’s sidekick and general skivvy, wrapped in his overcoat and scarf, steaming gently beneath a stained bowler hat. “I am temporarily monetarily embarrassed,” said Malengine, his gaze never leaving the turkey. “The business with the forged Vermeer did not work out quite as well as expected.” “You got chased up Charing Cross road by an auction room full of dealers,” said Harris, “’oo all wanted to kill you.” “Yes. Not quite as well as expected.” Malengine sighed. “It’s going to be a thin sort of Christmas, I fear, Harris. Two days to go and we barely have two farthings to rub together.” “Fear not, my darlings,” said a voice behind them, causing Malengine to jump and Harris to lurch very slightly.
December 1, 2025 at 11:14 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
This is Richard Malengine, a former actor upon the late Victorian stage specialising in villainous roles who, by a series of unexpected events, becomes a master criminal (where meanings of "master" include "slightly crap").
December 13, 2024 at 4:25 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
It's the twoth of Decembermas, and you must all be punished for that thing you did, so here's the next bit of "Malengine's Advent Adventure."
Against a red background, a black number 2. Laid upon it in white is a somewhat fanciful scimitar that follows the lines of the digit's middle curves. The newcomer was a young lady, pretty, fashionably attired, and reeking of money. That all of that money came from the proceeds of crime was not lost upon Malengine. “Miss Vesperine. How delightful to see you,” he said, plainly not delighted at all. “Hullo, Miss,” said Harris, smirking at her with the unrealistic optimism of a troll making eyes at a princess. “Good morning, Mr Malengine, Mr Harris. The season’s blessings upon you.” She glanced up at the turkey. “Buying in provisions for Christmas day?” Malengine was just preparing a clever lie to hide their current poverty when Harris said, “No, Miss. We’re skint. Utterly borassic. Not a penny to our names.” He noticed Malengine glaring at him. “What?” “Ah,” said Miss Vesperine sweetly. “The rumour was that your Vermeer coup did not entirely go to plan.” “He almost got run through by an auctioneer with a fifteenth century Damascened steel scimitar.” Harris nodded appreciatively. “Very classy.” “Don’t exaggerate,” snapped Malengine. “Nobody tried to run me through with a scimitar. The very thought!” Then, in an undertone to himself, “A scimitar is more of a slashing weapon.” “As I said,” continued Miss Vesperine over him, “never fear. I thought you might be open to suggestions for a quick bit of work to see you through.” “Good oh,” said Harris, rubbing his hands together in their fingerless gloves. “Work?” said Malengine. “For whom, exactly?” Miss Vesperine’s coquettish smile grew slightly malicious. “Why, the Black Council, of course.”
December 2, 2025 at 10:30 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
The plot thickens, just when you thought it was pretty thick already.

No. Wait. That came out wrong.
The number four in black lying prone against a red background. A curtain rope is tightly drawn around the four's central crosspiece as if... *gasp* somebody garrotted it! “Stop him?” said Richard Malengine. “Whatever for?” “Yours is not to reason why,” said Miss Vesperine, “yours is but to do or...” “Die?” “Or explain your failure to the Black Council, which is much the same thing. Don’t worry, Malengine. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Oh, you shall need this.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a notebook. “The Council’s file on Felicitus Hugg, in convenient digest form.” Malengine accepted the book with ill grace and proceeded to thumb through it with his free hand. “They ask too much,” he said. “How am I supposed to convince a stranger to do as you ask with so little time to formulate a strategy? Why, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Why such short notice?” Miss Vesperine shrugged. “Perhaps the Black Council only found out yesterday. I do not know, and it is unwise to ask. In any case, how difficult can such an endeavour be? Threats or blackmail should turn the trick.” “You haven’t read this, have you?” said Malengine, waggling the notebook at her. “His life is spotlessly clean, and he has the ears of many of the great and good. There is nothing with which to blackmail him, and he would be off to the police at the first hint of a threat. No. It’s impossible. Perhaps with more time...” “Time,” Miss Vesperine reminded him, “is of the essence.” “Then there’s nothing. He has no vices, no weaknesses but for his books, no... Wait!” Malengine paused, rereading a paragraph. “He is fanatical upon the works of Charles Dickens,” he said slowly. “I believe... I believe I may have a plan after all.”
December 4, 2025 at 10:13 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
I have a series character, Richard Malengine, a once lionised actor of villainous roles in the 1880s who fell upon hard times and ended up becoming a very unwilling agent of the Black Council, a murky group that operates organised crime all across Britain and its empire.
December 1, 2025 at 11:14 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
By the way and apropos to nothing but my writing career and other such trifles, I'm currently without lit. agent representation. Should any perspicacious agency wish to pick me (and this novel) up, drop me a line. I've a tonne of material here and want to crack on.

Back to Malengine.
December 1, 2025 at 11:14 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
Prepare to gasp, for suddenly a wild PLOT TWIST appears!
A posh domed food cover being lifted to reveal a lovely seasonal meal of carrots, potatoes, and the number 23. The background is red, the vegetables white, the numbers black. Mid-morning found Richard Malengine and his man Harris standing in the snow, looking up at the turkeys hanging outside Burley the Butcher's shop in Magdalene Court. "It seems very unfair, somehow," said Malengine. "We move Heaven and Earth – almost literally – to do this job for the Council, and end up the only ones out of pocket on Christmas Day." "That turkey there'd go very nice with potatoes and turnips," said Harris. His stomach rumbled. "What is our Christmas dinner?" "Potatoes and turnips," said Harris. "You're right, guv. It don't seem fair." They continued to look at the turkey. "We are criminals, you know," said Malengine finally, as if he'd just remembered. "We could always just... steal a turkey." Harris shifted his attention from the plucked birds to his employer and gave him a look of partial disbelief and partial pity. Malengine saw the look and felt ashamed. "You're right, Harris. We're supposed to be a step above such petty fare." His stomach rumbled. So intent upon the turkeys were they, that they didn't hear a tread in the snow behind them until it was too late to run away. "There you are!" cried a familiar voice in triumph. Malengine and Harris turned to find themselves in the very unexpected company of Mr Felicitus Hugg. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Malengine! You're a difficult man to find in a hurry." Given he had a price on his head, Malengine was astonished he could be found at all, never mind in a hurry. "You... we... I... must be going," he managed to blurt. "Come along, Harris." "Wait, my good man," said Hugg, laughing. "I'm here to thank you."
December 23, 2025 at 11:14 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
Well, all good things must come to an end. Unconnectedly, so must this.
I hope you've enjoyed suffering the psychic injury this has inflicted as much as I've enjoyed meting it out, although if you haven't, may I just say that I don't care.
23. Mid-morning found Richard Malengine and his man Harris standing in the snow, looking up at the turkeys hanging outside Burley the Butcher's shop in Magdalene Court. "It seems very unfair, somehow," said Malengine. "We move Heaven and Earth – almost literally – to do this job for the Council, and end up the only ones out of pocket on Christmas Day." "That turkey there'd go very nice with potatoes and turnips," said Harris. His stomach rumbled. "What is our Christmas dinner?" "Potatoes and turnips," said Harris. "You're right, guv. It don't seem fair." They continued to look at the turkey. "We are criminals, you know," said Malengine finally, as if he'd just remembered. "We could always just... steal a turkey." Harris shifted his attention from the plucked birds to his employer and gave him a look that was partial disbelief and partial pity. Malengine saw the look and felt ashamed. "You're right, Harris. We're supposed to be a step above such petty fare." His stomach rumbled. So intent upon the turkeys were they, that they did not hear a tread in the snow behind them until it was too late to run away. "There you are!" cried a familiar voice in triumph. Malengine and Harris turned to find themselves in the very unexpected company of Mr Felicitus Hugg. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Malengine! You're a difficult man to find in a hurry." Given he had a price on his head, Malengine was astonished he could be found at all, never mind in a hurry. "You... we... I... must be going," he managed to blurt. "Come along, Harris." "Wait, my good man," said Hugg, laughing. "I'm here to thank you." 24. "Thank me?" said Malengine suspiciously. "For what?" "Why, for last night's performance, of course," said Hugg. "No, no, don't try to deny it. It was masterful, a very enjoyable piece of theatre. You know, I think there might be a future for audience participation productions like that." "You are mistaken, sir. I don't..." "I have enjoyed the theatre for many years. You think I wouldn't recognise the great Richard Malengine?" Hugg laughed. "You were s’pposed," said Harris, accepting defeat, "to be out yer face the 'ole time. You wasn't s’pposed to be fit to recognise anyone." "Well, I didn't at first. But then that sot of a doctor gave me some sort of a stimulant. I was suddenly as sharp as a needle. I quickly understood some sort of deception was under way, and it might not go well for me if I let on that I was fully aware. So I poured away the narcotic and replaced it with water while the doctor was talking to you." "Oh, good Lord," said Malengine. "That blithering idiot Fenwick." "I heard all about the fraudulent charities and the terrible scrape into which poor foolish Fred had got himself. This morning I let the former know my opinion and, as for the latter... Well, he was never very happy in the Exchequer, so I have offered him a partnership in my business." "What?" said Malengine. "He's resigning from the Exchequer? But that means..." "Your employers will no longer have an interest in him. Best for all concerned, yes? I'm grateful, Malengine. Here," and he placed a bag of sovereigns in Malengine's hand. "Merry Christmas, gentlemen! And my compliments to the 'Bellamor sisters,' should you see them. Remember me fondly to them!" He departed a happy man, leaving Malengine speechless. Harris, ever practical, plucked the bag from his dumbfounded master’s hand and climbed the three steps before the butcher’s shop. At the doorway, he paused to grin at Malengine, and observed, "Gawd bless Us, Every One!"
December 24, 2024 at 5:47 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
This meant writing a Christmas story in 24 small chunks, each ending on a cliff-hanger of greater or smaller proportions. Christmas means Dickens and I thought Malengine would be the ideal character to run roughshod over a sort-of parody of A CHRISTMAS CAROL. Here, then, presented over 24 days is...
December 1, 2025 at 11:14 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
This will continue until you learn your lesson, or it's the 24th of the month, whichever comes first.
The number 10, rendered in white against a red background. The bases of both digits are sponged in black, and an abandoned make-up sponge lies betwixt them. The ghost of Jesmond Malarkey sat at a make-up table that Felicitus Hugg would not have recognised as belonging to the house, and started to remove his spectral pallor with a damp sponge. "How do you think it's going?" said Malarkey as he transformed into Richard Malengine. "Very nicely so far," said Miss Vesperine, the Ghost of Christmas Past for one performance only. "Fenwick's drug has done a wonderful job. Poor old Hugg doesn't know whether he's coming or going." She wandered to the door to watch proceedings in the bedchamber. "Though I’m sure he’ll work it out." "Can I watch?" asked Harris, wreathed in black crepe and a prodigious top hat upon his head. "You may not," said Malengine. "I would also thank you to remain in character. You are the Ghost of Christmas Future, Harris, and as such you do not speak. You simply gesture and look imposing." "No insult intended," said Miss Vesperine, "but isn't he a little short to be imposing?" "Yes. 'Ence my imposing 'at," said Harris. He sidled into the shadows of the bedchamber to watch anyway, ignoring Malengine's order. Malengine was too busy changing costume to notice, "When they're done, make sure he gets a second dose of the drug to keep him in a mesmeric fugue," he said. "Clear away the props, and we shall set up for the next act while he's in a daze." He smiled a little smugly at Miss Vesperine. "I must say, it's all going remarkably well." Harris re-entered. "Guv," he said. "Bit of a hiccough in the plan." Malengine looked at him icily. "Oh?" "Yeah. He's dead."
December 10, 2025 at 4:58 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
It's Christmas Eve, and the only subject on everyone's lips is "It's the last episode of MALENGINE'S ADVENT ADVENTURE tonight!" You lucky people. Let me just take the opportunity to wish you all the season's greetings, and if Christmas is a thing that you do, I hope that you have a merry one.
The curtain falls on this Advent calendar almost literally. A white curtain descends to obscure the black number 24 against a red background. Encore! Encore! “Thank me?" said Malengine suspiciously. "For what?" "Why, for last night's performance, of course," said Hugg. "No, no, don't try to deny it. It was masterful, a very enjoyable piece of theatre. You know, I think there might be a future for audience participation productions like that." "You are mistaken, sir. I don't..." "I have enjoyed the theatre for many years. You think I wouldn't recognise the great Richard Malengine?" Hugg laughed. "You were supposed," said Harris, accepting defeat, "to be out of your face the 'ole time. You weren't supposed to be fit to recognise anyone." "Well, I didn't at first. But then that sot of a doctor gave me some sort of a stimulant. I was suddenly as sharp as a needle. I quickly understood some sort of deception was under way, and it might not go well for me if I let on that I was fully aware. So I poured away the narcotic and replaced it with water while the doctor was talking to you." "Oh, good Lord," said Malengine. "That blithering idiot Fenwick." "I heard all about the fraudulent charities and the terrible scrape into which poor foolish Fred had got himself. This morning I let the former know my opinion and, as for the latter... Well, he was never very happy in the Exchequer, so I have offered him a partnership in my business." "What?" said Malengine. "He's resigning from the Exchequer? But that means..." "Your employers will no longer have an interest in him. Best for all concerned, yes? I'm grateful, Malengine. Here," and he placed a bag of sovereigns in Malengine's hand. "Merry Christmas, gentlemen! And my compliments to the 'Bellamor sisters,' should you see them." He departed a happy man, leaving Malengine speechless. Harris, ever practical, plucked the bag from his dumbfounded master’s hand and walked into the butcher’s shop, only pausing at the doorway to observe, "Gawd bless Us, Every One!" THE END
December 24, 2025 at 7:21 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
No escape for you, nyahahahah ect ect ect. Day 3 of the interminable #AdventAdventure.
A black number 3 against a red background, encircled by a pair of white opera gloves. “The Black Council,” said Malengine heavily. Of course it would be the Black Council; Miss Elodie Vesperine was one of their agents and rarely did work for anyone else. The Black Council was the dark heart of organised crime within London, comprised of brilliant, ruthless minds that did not appreciate it when their offers of work were not accepted. Malengine knew that, whatever they wanted, he would have to agree to it. “Oh,” said Miss Vesperine, full of mock concern, “don’t say it like that, sweet Richard. It’s a simple job, for a good fee.” She linked her arm with his, to the inexpressible envy of Harris. “Come, walk with me while I tell you about it.” So they strolled arm in arm, the pretty young woman of fashion, and the gaunt middle-aged vulture of a man, while the dour Harris tramped disconsolately behind. “You have doubtless heard of Mr Felicitus Hugg,” said Miss Vesperine. “Of course. The entrepreneur and philanthropist. Self-made, yet famously modest. A boon to the poor and needy through his charitable works. What of him?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I don’t kill people, Miss Vesperine. If the Black Council want him dead, they have other creatures for the job.” “No, no. Attend; on Christmas morning Mr Hugg has called together friends, family, and assorted charities. His intention is to give away the greater part of his fortune.” “How very generous,” said Malengine, wishing he was a friend of Hugg. “Your job,” said Miss Vesperine, “is to stop him.”
December 3, 2025 at 11:23 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
Oh, dear. You've all plainly been so extraordinarily bad this year that Father Christmas has put you on the "Special Measures" sub-paragraph of the Naughty List, AKA more of this story.
13. The rôle of Fred Satchel was performed by an actor called Digby Crouch. Crouch was generally considered too broad a performer for anything but pantomime, but he was all Malengine could find at short notice. "Heh, heh, heh," said Crouch in the character of Fred Satchel, already giving Malengine a sour feeling that he should have searched harder. "I can't wait for Uncle Felicitus to die, the sooner I can spend all his money on women and drink. Heh, heh, heh!" Both Hugg and Malengine looked at "Fred," silently appalled, although for different reasons. "But... but Fred has always been so solicitous about my health and longevity," said Hugg. "Heh, heh, heh! Uncle thinks I'm so solicitous about his health and longevity. But I'm not really," said Fred, as if he'd heard. "He can't hear us, can he?" asked Hugg. "No," said the Ghost of Christmas Present, very pointedly for Crouch's benefit. "He is entirely unaware of us." A new figure detached itself from the shadows, hobbling inexpertly on a stolen crutch. "Good heavens!" cried Hugg. "Is that my darling nephew, Tiny Tom?" "Oh, papa, do you speak of Uncle Felicitus?" The new speaker was intended to be in the high fluting tones of a boy, but none of the urchins had proved up to the rôle. Thus, it was delivered in the harsh Estuary tones of Harris. Shorts did not suit him at all. "Yes," said the ghost slowly, apparently not entirely convinced himself, either. "I can 'ardly wait for the old boy to pop 'is clogs, an' then we can have ‘is money," said the young lad with the very hairy legs and a voice like gravel being emptied from a sack. "Heh, heh, heh!" 14. "Tiny Tom!" Felicitus Hugg cried out in dismay. "How can he say such things? And what's happened to his accent?" "Yes. Well," said the Ghost of Christmas Present, extemporising wildly, "people often talk differently depending on the company in which they find themselves." "But he sounds like a docker," protested Hugg. "Heh, heh, heh!" said Tiny Tom. "When we are rich, papa, I shall follow you into a life of booze and ladies. I shall 'ang around brothels and taverns bein' all dissolute, like. Heh, heh, heh! 'Urry up and die, Uncle Felicitus!" "And why do they keep going, 'Heh, heh, heh'?" asked Hugg. The Ghost of Christmas Present had no idea, so he changed the subject. "See what vipers you have nourished at your bosom!" he cried. "See what ungrateful monsters wait impatiently for your bounty!" "But I was going to give Fred a great sum of money on the morrow," said Hugg. The Ghost of Christmas Present leaned close and whispered, "You may as well pour it in the gutter." Hugg and the ghost looked upon Fred Satchel and Tiny Tom for a long minute, during which the pair went "Heh, heh, heh!" at one another, having run out of scripted material. "Well, this changes everything," said Hugg finally. "I shall give his share to the charities I am inviting tomorrow." "That would be an excellent solution," said the ghost. "Good." "Would that the charities profiting by your largess were anything but hives of greed and embezzlement." "What?" The lighting shifted and the shadows deepened. When it became light enough to see again, they were somewhere else.
December 19, 2024 at 4:21 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
And so the curtain comes down on the play within the play. A cold Christmas morning, laden with cold Christmas realities, awaits our heroes ("heroes" being a highly subjective term).
The number 21 rendered in black upon a red background. The number two wears a bowler hat in the common style. The 1 wears a top hat with aplomb. Both hats are black. “That went rather well, I think" said Richard Malengine as they quickly gathered up their belongings from the home of Felicitus Hugg. "It did," agreed Miss Vesperine. "I shall say as much in my report." "What if 'e doesn't do what they want 'im to?" said Harris, replacing his very tall top hat with his habitual bowler. "I mean, 'e might do anything." "True," said Miss Vesperine, "but the Council's orders were simply that his opinion of his nephew and his charities should be turned toward the negative and he should be encouraged to stop his philanthropy. Those goals have been achieved. We did as they desired, and the Council will not punish us if subsequent events do not play out as they hoped. Our part in this is done." "For which I am very thankful," said Malengine. "Do we have everything? Then let us be gone." And so the troupe, with a couple of wrists slapped for trying to steal small mementos from the house, slipped out into the frosty air of Christmas morning, with dawn still an hour away. They stopped on a street corner a quarter of a mile away from the home of Felicitus Hugg. Malengine paid off Doctor Fenwick, the ladies of Covent Garden, Mr Gideon the theatrical artificer, and Digby Crouch, this latter with an inner admonition never to hire him ever again. The troupe broke up for the first and last time, scattering off beneath the gaslight in all directions. "When do I get paid?" asked Malengine of Miss Vesperine. "When the report is accepted. That will be in the new year, I'm afraid, Richard. Even criminal masterminds need a holiday."
December 21, 2025 at 10:45 AM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
*Thwack!*
"17!"
"Thank you, sir! May I have another?"
*Thwack!*
"18!"
17. "Never let on what I'm about to tell you, Richard," said Miss Vesperine. "It is worth more than our lives. Frederick Satchel made some unwise investments earlier in the year. To cover his considerable losses, he had to borrow money." "From whom?" asked Malengine, already sure that he knew the answer. "Agents of the Black Council. They don't want high interest from him, or even a monetary repayment at all. They want information." "Ah," said Malengine, who was not nearly as foolish as he sometimes appeared. "He works in the Exchequer." "He has access to important financial figures before they are made public. Using that information, the Council will be able to manipulate the markets. If he does this for them once, they can blackmail him to do it again and again. Until then, his debt is the only hold that they have." "And then they heard that he was going to come into this Christmas windfall, enough to pay off the debt, I presume?" Miss Vesperine nodded. "That could not be allowed to happen." "An ugly business," Malengine sighed. "But why don't they just have Hugg there murdered?" "His will favours his nephew, and there was no time to falsify a new one." Miss Vesperine smiled bleakly. "If it's any compensation, tonight's playacting is the least brutal solution to the problem." Now Malengine smiled, just as bleakly. "I see. You prevailed upon the Council to try this? You are a soft-hearted monster, Miss Vesperine… and I thank you for it." It was a back-handed compliment, but kindly meant, and Miss Vesperine's smile warmed at it. "Well," she said, "it is Christmas." 18. Felicitus Hugg struggled up from unconsciousness with the scent of smelling salts inexplicably in his nostrils. The room was cold, cold as the grave, cold as clay, and he shuddered. The only illumination was from ugly yellow tapers clutched in "Hands of Glory" – the preserved hands of hanged felons fashioned into holders – that filled the place with a dim, weird light, the light of corpse candles. A thin mist hung close to the floorboards of his bedchamber, swirling and eddying in the slightest breeze. In the midst of this ghastly scene rose the awful figure that Hugg knew must be the last of the spirits – the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. He couldn't help thinking the spirit had been a great deal more impressive when Dickens wrote about it. But, while there was little of the dreadful presence of the original, this one did, at least, have a terrifyingly tall hat. "Woo," said the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, sounding ever-so-slightly like Tiny Tom. "You are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us?" The Spirit thought about this for a moment. "Yus," it said, and then, "Woo." Deep in the shadows, Richard Malengine rolled his eyes and Miss Vesperine fought down an attack of the giggles. The light bloomed into a phantasmagorical green, and Hugg became aware of other people there. There was his nephew Fred Satchel, playing the libertine with the Kensington Ladies Charitable Society for the Protection of Dumb Animals. Hugg squinted slightly, looking at faces; was it possible that three of the Kensington ladies were the Bellamor sisters of recent and fevered memory?
December 21, 2024 at 4:32 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
13! Unlucky for some! You lot, for example.
Black digits forming the number 13 against a red background. Both digits lean upon crutches. “Fred Satchel" was actually one Digby Crouch, an actor usually considered too broad for anything but pantomime. He was, however, all Malengine could find at short notice. "Heh, heh, heh," said Crouch, already giving Malengine a sour feeling that he should have searched harder. "I can't wait for Uncle Felicitus to die, the sooner I can spend all his money on women and drink. Heh, heh, heh!" Both Hugg and Malengine looked at "Fred" silently appalled, although for different reasons. "But... but Fred has always been so solicitous about my health and longevity," said Hugg. "Heh, heh, heh! Uncle thinks I'm so solicitous about his health and longevity. But I'm not really," said Fred, as if he had heard. "He can't hear us, can he?" asked Hugg. "No," said the Ghost of Christmas Present, very pointedly for Crouch's benefit. "He is entirely unaware of us." A new figure detached itself from the gloom and shadows, hobbling inexpertly on a stolen crutch. "Good heavens!" cried Hugg. "Is that my darling nephew, Tiny Tom?" "Oh, papa, do you speak of Uncle Felicitus?" The new speaker was intended to be in the high fluting tones of a boy, but none of the urchins had proved up to the rôle. Thus, it was delivered in the harsh Estuary tones of Harris. Shorts did not suit him at all. "Yes," said the ghost slowly, apparently not entirely convinced himself, either. "I can 'ardly wait for the old boy to pop 'is clogs, an' then we can have ‘is money," said the young lad with the very hairy legs and a voice like gravel being emptied from a sack. "Heh, heh, heh!"
December 13, 2025 at 2:44 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
One of these days I'll finally place this novel. It's not bad, I think. #RichardMalengine
Behind him, Harris looked at the silhouetted profile of his employer – in the special sense of somebody who gives you work to do and pays you as and when he can – with something that approached as close to dismay as his brick-like personality would allow. He'd stuck with Malengine through thick and increasingly thin for reasons that touched both on inertia and an irrational belief that the actor was bound for a greatness far beyond anything Harris could dream of for himself. This was nothing as shallow as reflected glory, but rather the duty of a squire to a knight errant. Perhaps he would end shattered by a blow from a giant's club, or die in some awful wilderness, which is to say, anywhere outside London. But it would be a destiny fulfilled, and Harris was proud to be the only one in his family ever to have a destiny to fulfil, as opposed to merely a criminal record or rickets.
November 22, 2025 at 2:02 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
It's the 17th! Everyone's favourite prime number!

Yes, it is.
The number 17 rendered in black digits against a red background. The digits are wearing very fashionable button-up boots. Presumably they're going on afterwards to somewhere very chic, I'll be bound. “Never let on what I'm about to tell you, Richard," said Miss Vesperine. "It is worth more than our lives. Frederick Satchel made some unwise investments earlier in the year. To cover his considerable losses, he had to borrow money." "From whom?" asked Malengine, already sure that he knew the answer. "Agents of the Black Council. They don't want high interest from him, or even a monetary repayment at all. They want him to supply information." "Ah," said Malengine, who was not nearly as foolish as he sometimes appeared. "He works in the Exchequer." "He has access to important financial figures before they are made public. Using that information, the Council will be able to manipulate the markets. If he does this for them once, they can blackmail him to do it again and again. Until then, his debt is the only hold that they have." "And then they heard that he was going to come into this Christmas windfall, enough to pay off the debt, I presume?" Miss Vesperine nodded. "That could not be allowed to happen." "An ugly business," Malengine sighed. "But why don't they just have Hugg there quietly murdered?" "His will favours his nephew, and there was no time to falsify a new one." Miss Vesperine smiled bleakly. "If it's any compensation, tonight's playacting is the least brutal solution to the problem." Now Malengine smiled, just as bleakly. "I see. You prevailed upon the Council to try this? You are a soft-hearted monster, Miss Vesperine… and I thank you for it." It was a back-handed compliment, but kindly meant, and Miss Vesperine's smile warmed at it. "Well," she said, "it is Christmas."
December 17, 2025 at 4:47 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
It is Book Quotation Wednesday, and the word is "air." Here, have a wee chunk from ye unpublished Richard Malengine novel. Messrs Malengine and Harris (the housetrained thug who acts as Malengine's manservant) are entering into a den of deep iniquity beneath the streets of London.
#BookQW
"Colonel," said Miss Vesperine as she drew near. "Ma'am," he replied, and smiled the smile of a mannered blackguard at her. "You are expected. After you." He stepped aside, and waved her through. With some trepidation, Malengine followed her. The man's smile moderated somewhat as his attention fell upon Malengine. There was a distinct air of being weighed and found wanting that Malengine did not like at all. Then the Colonel's gaze fell upon Harris, and immediately fell off him again, which was very much the usual procedure for a first encounter with Harris; a momentary impression of "That bollard's wearing a hat," and then onwards.
September 13, 2023 at 1:41 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
And so we arrive at the two thirds mark and the home straight beckons. Can you feel the excitement? No, that's not excitement. You're going to need some antacid for that.
A black number 16 against a red background. The 1 digit is wearing a crown, a mace of state leans against the 6, and a jewelled orb lies upon the ground. These are the primary three items of the British Crown Jewels. What can it mean? Harris was uncharacteristically quiet as he changed back into his Ghost of Christmas Future costume, "Guv," he said finally, playing with the brim of his ridiculously tall top hat, "I can't say as 'ow I'm very comfortable with what we're doing 'ere." Malengine paused in removing his rubicund "Christmas Present" makeup. "No," he agreed. "There's good honest crime, and then there's this. It seems very mean-spirited." "Not having second thoughts, are you, gentlemen?" said Miss Vesperine appearing unbidden. "I have nothing against taking from the rich to give to... well... me," said Malengine, "but we're taking money from charity and from the man's own flesh and blood with this endeavour. I cannot say I am very happy to be involved." "Nor I," said Harris. "Well, well," said Miss Vesperine. "And this from the fellows who stole the Crown Jewels." "We gave those back," said Malengine. "Eventually." "Calm yourselves." Miss Vesperine went to stand over the comatose body of Felicitus Hugg. Then to Malengine and Harris she said, "The Black Council won't thank me for telling you, but perhaps you should know. The playacting in there was close to the truth about the charities. We know them to be badly run, tending into the felonious in some. He really is wasting his money with them." "Why should the Council care about that enough to want all this folderol enacted?" "They don't," said Miss Vesperine. "That's all by the bye. What they really want is to keep the money away from Fred Satchel." "Satchel?" said Malengine, astonished.
December 16, 2025 at 6:10 PM
jonathanlhoward.bsky.social
Look! You're 20.83333333333333% of the way already! You can do this! I believe in you!
A group of five white barrels against a red background. A black number 5 is hiding not very successfully in one of them. From his current base of operations in a cellar beneath a wine merchants in Hammersmith, Malengine worked feverishly to draw the threads together of the plan he had in mind. The odds against it working were long, he knew, but at least the Black Council would not be able to suggest he did aught but his best. He was also keeping scrupulous records of his expenses against the working capital with which he had been furnished. While the Council approved of embezzlement in the usual course of things, they took a dim view of it when practised upon them. Harris bustled in, carrying brown paper packages. "I done me errands, guv" he said, setting them down carefully. "Mrs Minch has run you up the togs you ordered, I talked to Dr Fenwick and he mixed up some stuff that he says will likely do the job. He also said, if it kills the patient, that’s your look out." "How drunk was he?" Harris see-sawed his hand. "Seen ’im worse. Watched ’im make the stuff an’ ’e weren’t slapdash about it. Gave ’im your regards and a pint of gin to be gettin’ on with." "Splendid. Did you manage to find Gideon?" "Course I did. 'E was in 'is workshop, as ever. Very excited by your plan. 'E'll have the stuff 'ere by midday tomorrow on 'is cart." "He's a good man, he'll be here on time. Covent Garden?" "Got the same ladies as last time. Reliable, they are." "Excellent." Malengine leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced. "Now I just need a few urchins, and the curtain can rise!"
December 5, 2025 at 10:57 AM
horrorarchives666.bsky.social
Solace Drop Final Taste of Upcoming Album With Crushing New Track: Malengine (The Scaffold).
Read all about it and watch the video on the Black Metal Archives.
#doommetal #heavymetal #undergroundmusic #metalcommunity #metalfamily #metalsky #musicsky
Solace Drop Final Taste of Upcoming Album With Crushing New Track: Malengine (The Scaffold)
New Jersey doom metal veterans Solace have unleashed a massive, vintage heavy metal assault with their final advance single, Malengine (The Scaffold). The...
horrorarchives666.com
June 12, 2026 at 4:14 PM