Now Reading ‘Bloody Business’



Scribed by: CB Ash | Just joining us? Bloody Business starts here! Most recent, here!

And so, we come to the end of “Bloody Business”. I really hope everyone enjoyed it! This was one I really could sink my proverbial teeth into. One of the parts I’ve enjoyed with this one was placing our crew out of the Brass Griffin and onto dry land for a bit. Especially a place as Edinburgh of the mid-1880s! If you ever get a chance, look up some of the events, descriptions and happenings of that time. Just amazing stuff.

For example, some links for you all …

A website devoted to Greyfriar’s Bobby:

The White Hart Inn, where Captain Hunter, Moira, William and eventually Dr. Llwellyn spent a few days …and if any of you ever visit there try the haggis, it really tastes great! :

There is quite a bit more, Leith Docks, Grassmarket, the hauntings in the Greyfriar’s Kirkyard and other places are still there to be found. Sadly, some locations, such as the Cattle Market, have long since been torn down. Today there are plenty of apartments where the cows once came to market.

But I digress! While this is the end of “Bloody Business”, there is more to come with Tales of the Brass Griffin. The next story, “Dead Men’s Tales” is about to begin. While you enjoy “Dead Men’s Tales”, be on the lookout for “Bloody Business” coming out in PDF format, Kindle format, and printed/bound format. There you’ll be able to re-read the story, including … the Epilogue! Which, as always explains just a little more about the story, and touches on some subtle details and threads I wove through the story.

So, until then, and until the next Monday morning, here is a brief excerpt from “Dead Men’s Tales” (be warned, it’s draft and in bad need of editing) … enjoy!

The cold, morning November winds off Scotland’s Eastern coast danced through clouds of smoke and stirred burnt rigging, slowly making the ropes shudder in the wind. Sailcloth lay strewn about the blackened deck of the Fair Winds, collapsed into burnt piles where it had been torn from the masts above. Overhead, the gasbag of the ship remained tight, straining against rigging frayed by grapeshot. Here and there, the dead bodies of crew members lay still and silent, like so many scattered, bloody and broken toys.

From out of the smoke, Captain Anthony Hunter eased over the railing like a dark spectre, pistol drawn and at the ready. Once his tall boots touched down on the abused deck, he reached beneath his worn brown longcoat to tug at the tether that trailed out behind him in the smoky veil, checking to make sure it was still attached to the Griffin’s rail far behind him.

Kneeling down, he brushed his leather-gloved clockwork hand over the worn deck tenderly, with a great respect. The charred wood flaked at his touch, crumbling between the artificial fingers of his left hand. All around, he could hear the ship crying out, with faint cracks and groans in the pre-dawn. They were the sounds of a ship nearly beaten to death.