Part 1 of the Interactive novel ends with a mysterious visitor. This is your chance to decide who that visitor is. There is 8 to choose from.
Before you decide the visitor read the latest instalments by clicking below
Harvey Dixon
By the time I entered the parlour the Professor had already taken a seat opposite our guest – a boy in his mid to late teens. Long limbed and gangly he looked as if he had a recent growth spurt stretching his body without gaining any weight. His dark eyes stared out of a drawn face with prominent cheekbones beneath his thick dark hair. He casually leant back in his chair looking as if we were the ones coming to him for help. As I crossed the room his eyes flicked up to me.
“Harvey Dixon, sir,” the boy said thrusting a gloved hand forward. “Professor Ashcroft I presume?”
“You would be correct,” the Professor said. “I do not normally take guests without an appointment. However, Miss Stubbs informs me of your insistence that your business is urgent.”
“I would not be here if it was not, sir.” The boy looked at me with contempt. “First it would be appreciated if you could send your boy for some refreshment? It has been a long morning and my throat is dry.”
I looked at the boy in disbelief. He could only be a year or two older than me and we have never met before, yet he had the audacity to speak about as if I was his underling.
Dora Frost
“Be careful with this one, Nicholas,” Gertie said her eyes flicking to the parlour door. “She’s trouble.”
“How do you know?” I asked. Had she too gained the gift of prophecy?
She shrugged. “I just do.”
Apprehensively I entered the parlour. The Professor was circling the room as if inspecting the room for the first time. A girl in her mid to late teens dressed in grey dress and a black pinny sat in the armchair beside the fire her legs crossed and her hands resting on her knees. Her fair hair hung in a loose bun. There was an intelligent sharpness to her bright blue eyes. She watched the Professor with a look of amusement.
“You can stop checking. I ain’t stolen anythin’ if that’s wot your worried about.”
“One can never be too sure with uninvited guests,” the Professor said.
“I ain’t a thief.”
The Professor raised his brow.
“Well I ain’t a thief when there is nothin’ worth nickin’” She caught my eye and smiled playfully. “ And who would you be?”
“Nicholas Briggs. I’m Professor Ashcroft’s assistant. And you are?”
“Of no interest to us,” the Professor interrupted. “It is time for you to leave.”
“I need your help. The name’s Dora. Dora Frost and I’m in a spot of bovver.”
Jean Hexam
With a sense of dread, I followed the Professor into the parlour. A teenage girl sat in the chair by the empty hearth. Impassively she watched us take the chairs opposite. She was small, delicate, the very personification of a pixie. Her hair was dark and cut short. Her green eyes flicked between us, scrutinising us in every minute detail. I could feel her weighting us up getting the measure of us. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
“And you happen to be?” the Professor asked breaking the silence.
The girl’s gaze settled on the Professor. “My name is Jean Hexam.”
“Hexam?” the Professor repeated. “As in Christopher Hexam?”
“Yes. He was my father.”
“Was?”
She nodded.
“I am sorry to hear. He was a good man.”
“Well now he is a dead man,” she said matter-of-factly. She saw the look of surprise in our eyes. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I loved my father and I will grieve him, but now is not the time. He would not want me to which so much at stake. My father taught me that at times emotions are a weakness that can smoother clear thought and dull the wits. And now I need my wits and help like never before.”
Estelle Marlowe
I watched the Professor push open the parlour door and step inside. He left the door open for me to follow.
“You couldn’t close the door, dear. It is a dreadful draught that you’re letting in, ” an old woman’s voice croaked.
I shuddered thinking of the banshee. Had she come for me here? A hand dropped on to my shoulder and I stiffened.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of little old ladies now,” Gertie said. I gave her a dirty look. She laughed. “Go on you are letting a draught in.”
I stepped into the parlour closing the door behind me. The Professor had taken a seat opposite an elderly lady in a bath chair. Small and dumpy the woman sat in the wicker seat with a thick woollen blanket over her legs. She wore a set of round framed glasses. A middle-aged woman with grey hair sat in a chair beside her. She had the same round face. Perhaps her daughter though the elderly woman looked old enough to be her grandmother.
“We’re you born in a barn boy?” the elderly lady said. “Go on close the door. Before I catch a chill.”
“Yes ma,am.”
“There’s a good lad,” she said. She looked at the Professor and sighed. “Children today weren’t like this in my day.”
“Nicholas is a special case of ineptitude,” the Professor said. “ So, Mrs?”
“Marlowe. Mrs Marlowe, that’s all.”
Celia Martin
The Professor froze in the open doorway of the parlour. He stiffened with surprise as he stared into the room his mouth open and his eyes wide. Coming to his senses, he ran a hand through his hair, sucked in his stomach and puffed out his chest. With his shoulder raised, head held high, he marched into the room like a prize cockerel.
Gertie shook her head. Rolling her eyes she muttered something about, “men,” as she headed for the kitchens.
I hurried into the parlour to find the Professor talking to an elegant, beautiful woman. Her dark wavey hair was pulled back into a soft round bun at the back of her neck. She wore a navy dress with a voluptuous skirt pulled out by the crinoline in a rounded mass of fabric that exaggerated the thinness of her waist. The neckline of the dress was low enough that many would deem it in appropriate.
“Oh, it was no problem at all,” she said smiling. Her hand rested on the Professor’s
forearm for a split second.
He smiled at her gormlessly. “Well, even so I am terribly sorry for making you wait, Miss?”
“It’s Mrs,” the woman replied. The Professors smile faulted. “Mrs Martin. Although please call me Celia. Mrs Martin reminds me of my mother-in-law and my late husband.”
“You are a widow?”
With a coy smile she nodded.
“I am so sorry to hear,” the Professor said sounding far from it.
Ambrose Nesbit
Our guest stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back staring out of the window.
“You have come seeking my assistance?” the Professor asked as he entered the room.
The man slowly turned to face us. He was in his late fifties wearing a top hat and traveling coat. Bowing he removed his hat. His hair had receded to a grey halo just above the ears. As if he had some quota for the quantity of hair he had to retain on his head he compensated for his baldness with a large fluffy mustache. He wore a sharp suit but judging from the cut he was a servant. A well to do one at that. The gold cufflinks and a gold pocket watch hinted at that.
“My name is Ambrose Nesbit,” the man said. “I come here at my employers request. My employer has business regarding a matter that…. Let’s just say defies explanation.”
“And your employer is?” the Professor asked.
“I do not think that it is necessary to share at the present moment. It may be something that I can divulge at a later stage, but for now my employer would like to remain anonymous. What you need to know is that my employer has a vested interest in the matter at hand. A matter that needs your expertise.”
Edgar Swift
Frowning the Professor stood at the parlour door his hand resting on the handle. He nodded towards the room. I pressed my ear to the door. I could hear footsteps pacing back and forth like a caged animal. There was more. A faint muttering as if somebody was rambling to themselves.
The Professor gestured for me to stand back. He pushed the door open. The corner of the door hit the man that had been pacing in front of it. He left out a muffled cry and stopped mid-stride. He looked at us with relief, as if genuinely glad to see us.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” the man said. “I wouldn’t normally do this, but you must understand I have nowhere else to go. No one else would believe me.”
“We will see about that,” the Professor muttered.
The man’s relief was a fleeting look for his expression darkened. His face was pinched and worn. He could only be in his thirties but he looked as if the weight of the world had aged him prematurely.
“Please, sir. I need your help. I know it is hopeless, but I must try something. You’re my last chance.”
“Very well. Start with your name?”
“Edgar Swift.”
Jack Tapley
Neither the Professor or I had expected to find the small filthy boy perched on the edge of the sofa. Every inch of him was caked in soot and dirt from the straw-coloured hair beneath his flat cap, to his bare feet that poked out from the bottom of his baggy trousers. Only the whites of his sharp blue eyes were clean. He looked as if he had spent every one of his ten years of life up to his neck in filth.
The Professor grunted with disapproval or perhaps it was disgust at the filthy boy. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the dark patch by the boy’s leg. Unknowingly the boy had transferred some of the dirt and grime to the Professor upholstery.
The Professor tensed. The boy cowered under his stare. I stepped forward. The boy wrapped his arms around himself. The boy’s nerves had turned to fear. He had come to us for help and been greeted with the Professor hostility. He reminded me of a beaten dog that cowers the instant a hand is raised.
“I’m Nicholas Briggs,” I said offering the boy my hand.
The boy looked at it with trepidation. I smiled reassuringly. His small dirt ingrained fingers closed around my hand.
“Jack Tapley,” he said.
“How can we help you, Jack?”
“I suggest we start with a bath,” the Professor said.
Now that you have read a little about each character choose the one that you would like to be the Mysterious Guest
Vote Close Monday 2nd February 2026 GMT
Part 2 published Thursday 5th February 8pm GMT
The Interactive Novel 
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