O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Chapter Twelve

  Forces of Evil

  Samantha’s home was normally a short walk from the ferry dock but it took the family almost an hour to plough through crowds of people. Many expressed their outrage at what had happened. She cringed at the loud demands for the engineer’s lynching. It seemed pointless to tell them of the explosions. Apparently, only those on the water had heard and felt them. It was unlikely anyone would listen to a girl.

  Others made a point of shaking her father’s hand and thanking him for saving his passengers. “You’re a hero, Daddy,” Grace said.

  He shook his head in his usual modest way. “News travels fast. I just reacted as anyone would. We had to get away from the wave. It would have swamped us.”

  “Nevertheless,” his wife said, clinging to his arm. “You’re my hero.”

  “I couldn’t save Brock, though,” he replied, putting an arm around Samantha’s shoulders once they were safely home. “I’m so sorry, darling girl.”

  Guilt worsened the horror already constricting her throat. “Thank you, Daddy,” she murmured.

  “She didn’t love him anyway,” her sister insisted, shrugging off her fur-lined pelisse. “And let’s face it, none of us liked him.”

  “Grace Anne Hindley,” their mother exclaimed, helping her husband to remove his overcoat. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  Samantha buried her head against her father’s shoulder. “It’s true, though,” she sobbed. “I planned to break off the engagement.”

  Her father rubbed her back. “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry about that. Your mother and I never understood what you saw in him. However, he didn’t deserve what happened to him today.”

  Samantha nodded woodenly. “I began to realize it was a mistake on Christmas Day. He was no fun at all.”

  “And then you met the sergeant at the dance,” Grace declared.

  “You’re not helping,” Mummy said. “Come with me and we’ll put the kettle on. We could all do with a good cup of tea.”

  Samantha’s father handed her a kerchief. “Before all hell broke loose, I noticed you seemed to be getting along well with the policeman.”

  Expecting censure if he’d seen them kissing, she nodded as she blew her nose. “I really like him.”

  “He’s a very nice chap, but that’s quite a limp he has.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” she replied truthfully.

  “I suppose it’s better than having a son-in-law with only one eye,” he said.

  She gaped in outrage, until she saw his wink. “You’re a tease, Daddy.”

  He laughed as he offered an arm to escort her into the kitchen. She inhaled deeply, thankful for a father who could make her smile on even the bleakest day.

  “I suppose your young man had to hurry off to the police station,” her mother remarked as she set out teacups and saucers on the kitchen table.

  “He’s not my young man,” Samantha retorted, though she harbored a secret desire it might be true. “He has a hunch who’s behind the crime.”

  “I have a few ideas myself,” Daddy said. “Too many anarchist groups around these days. If it’s not the Fenians clamoring for Home Rule for Ireland, it’s the…”

  Samantha barely listened as he expounded on his theories about politics. Her mother brewed tea. They carried everything into the parlor and ate slices of Christmas cake with their tea.

  It all seemed normal, and yet her world and the world she lived in had changed. “It seems especially cruel to commit such terrible murder at this time of year,” she mused aloud.

  Her father patted her hand. “Since the beginning of time, there have been evil forces at work. I suppose we believe this Victorian age is more civilized, but those forces will always be there, ready to disrupt and destroy. That’s the reason we must cling to the spirit of Christmas. Goodwill and all that.”

  “And there’ll always be men like Sergeant Cullen ready and willing to fight for good,” her mother declared, surprising them all. “Though I doubt a policeman makes a very good living.”

  Samantha struggled not to laugh. Her mother’s thoughts tended to fly hither and yon at the best of times, and this had been a trying day. “I think we are getting ahead of ourselves,” she said. “I’ve just met Parker.”

  Nevertheless, before their relationship developed, she should consider his prospects. That notion flew away like chaff on the wind when her father announced, “I knew the moment I met your mother she was the one for me.”

  Parker purloined a truncheon from the rack and concealed it under his cloak. “I’ll be back shortly,” he informed the duty constable. “In uniform.”

  The lad nodded. “Right you are, sir.”

  Lying to the eager youth didn’t feel right, but Parker had no intention of sitting at his desk all day.

  Irish blood flowed in his veins and he’d a hunch the American would head straight for the local Irish pub, perhaps to rendezvous with fellow conspirators. There was only one such establishment in the area, out on the Gloucester road. There was no choice but to hail a passing hansom, but he asked the driver to let him off down the road aways.

  In Bristol, patrons of pubs like the Pig and Whistle tended to be leery of newcomers, but he was confident he could pass for an Irishman, especially if the place was crowded.

  Fortunately, the smoke-filled room was packed; the main topic of argument was the day’s catastrophe—as he might have expected. He was eventually able to order a glass of beer in what he hoped was a passable Irish accent, and elbowed his way through the throng. The men were so engrossed in loud disagreements about the catastrophe, no one paid him much attention as he sipped his ale.

  He was probably the only person to notice two men enter who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Their eyes darted here and there and they seemed reluctant to separate from each other. The older man put Parker in mind of a weasel. He’d wager they weren’t Irish, especially when they set about looking for someone without procuring a drink. It appeared they knew none of the patrons, so they couldn’t be regulars.

  Leaning on an old barrel stowed in a dark corner, Parker took the weight off his bad leg and watched the newcomers, excitement building in his gut when they found the person they sought—the American from New York.

  His scowl indicated he wasn’t glad to see them. In fact, a heated argument soon ensued, though nobody else in the pub paid attention. “Things didn’t go according to plan, did they, boyo?” he muttered under his breath. He’d lay odds the bridge was supposed to be destroyed before the train embarked on its journey. Nevertheless, people had died terrifying deaths.

  The disagreement intensified when the American handed over what looked like a wad of bank notes. He was left with no doubt these men were responsible for the heinous crime and fully intended to take them into custody. He smoothed a hand over the hidden truncheon. Fury gripped him when he remembered Samantha’s abject fear. The wretches were fortunate she hadn’t been hurt. He’d have beaten their brains to pulp.

  He’d never felt so protective, nor so possessive of a woman, but he breathed deeply to rid himself of the anger. He needed to keep his wits about him. At least a mile from the station, he was faced with the unenviable task of arresting three able-bodied murderers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  You’re Pinched

  Parker’s first instinct was to follow the two men as soon as they left the pub, but he was glad he’d waited when the American nodded to two unsavory characters standing nearby. They returned the nod, gulped down their ale and left.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out the accomplices were in grave danger. Parker had no doubt the man from the United States was the organizer. If he left to follow, there was a risk of losing track of the main culprit. But, without the henchmen, there’d be little chance of proving the American’s guilt.

  He hurried out of the pub, relieved to see the thugs still in sight. He gripped the handle of the truncheon and followed at a distance. His hear
t skipped a beat when one of the thugs looked back over his shoulder, but he kept walking, hoping they wouldn’t consider a man with a pronounced limp a threat.

  More houses came in sight as they approached the village of Aust. However, Parker was already sweating and doubted his leg would carry him much further at this pace. He resorted to something he never did. He prayed.

  Rounding a corner a few yards further on, he nigh on shouted Alleluia when a tall red structure with a gas lamp atop it came into view—one of the newly installed police call boxes. The key issued to every officer was in his pocket but it was unlikely anyone at the station would answer the telephone, even if the contraption actually worked as it was supposed to. He might have considered the box useless, except for the fact a uniformed officer stood next to it. Parker limped over, noting the lad was a special constable. “Sergeant Cullen, Aust police,” he explained breathlessly, revealing his truncheon. “I’m in pursuit of the men responsible for the bridge disaster.”

  The youth squared his shoulders. “Special Constable Whitney, sir. What can I do to help, sir?”

  Parker thanked his lucky stars he’d encountered a brave soul. People said you couldn’t trust the specials like the old time coppers, but this young man appeared to be the exception. “Call the station. Tell them what I’ve told you. They must send every available officer. Then follow me. I might need your help.”

  Satisfied the special constable already had his key in the lock, Parker hurried on with renewed hope. His prayers had been answered. Maybe there was something to this Christmas goodwill thing after all.

  His optimism faltered when he entered a back lane. The thugs had attacked; one was kicking his victim who lay curled up on the ground. The other was wrestling with the Weasel. Parker had only two weapons at his disposal—his truncheon and whistle. And, he hoped, the element of surprise. Gripping the whistle between his teeth, he took courage from the ghastly memory of the train plunging into the river. He limped towards the melee, only raising his truncheon and blowing the whistle at the last possible moment.

  Surprise registered on the face of the kicker a moment before Parker summoned his remaining strength and backhanded him with the truncheon. There was a satisfying crunch when the lead-lined weapon connected with his face. He crashed to the ground, bloodied hands held to his shattered nose.

  The second thug gaped sullenly at his fallen comrade, his hands fisted in the jacket of his victim. Apparently, the sight of Whitney running towards them, his truncheon raised, was enough to deter further brutality. He wrenched a wad of bank notes from the man’s pocket then threw him aside. He helped his cohort to his feet and the two lumbered off.

  “You’re pinched,” Parker declared, securing the Weasel with the handcuffs Whitney gave him.

  The fellow pulled against him, trying to get to the other man who lay alarmingly still. “Gwilym,” he rasped.

  Whitney knelt to check the pulse of the man on the ground. “Still breathing, sir.”

  “Did you get through to the station?” Parker asked breathlessly.

  “I did, sir,” Whitney replied proudly. “Help is on the way.”

  “Gwyddel felltigedig,” his prisoner wailed in Welsh. “If the cursed Irishman has killed my son…”

  Parker decided to get to the heart of the matter. “He set you up. I assume he wasn’t pleased you bungled the explosion.”

  One blackened eye sealed shut, the Welshman nodded. “Hundred quid we was promised. Then he gives us fifty and says we should be happy with it. Wasn’t my fault the dynamite he brought from America didn’t work properly. Now, we’ve got nothing. Just save my son, and I’ll tell you everything. If I’m to face the noose, I’ll take that bleeding Yank with me.”

  Reinforcements arrived in time to hear the wretch’s confession. Satisfied he’d done all he could as the prisoner was taken away and a stretcher brought for his injured son, Parker fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He feared his leg might never function properly again.

  Looking none too pleased, the chief constable chose that moment to come upon the scene.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Hero of the Hour

  The day after the disaster, Samantha came downstairs for breakfast.

  “You look terrible,” her mother remarked.

  “I didn’t sleep much,” Samantha replied with a yawn as she sat at the kitchen table.

  “Not surprising,” her mother said, putting a consoling arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be a long while before any of us can forget what we witnessed yesterday. If ever.”

  Samantha stared at the boiled egg in the eggcup on her plate. “I don’t think I have the energy to even slice off the top.”

  Her mother did the honors. “I’ve cut your toast into little soldiers, just how you like them. You must eat.”

  Samantha dipped a strip of toast into the yolk, thankful for loving parents. “I just wish I’d had a chance to tell Brock I wasn’t going to marry him.”

  “No use thinking that. He died not knowing you’d changed your mind.”

  “But then he might not have gone on the train.”

  “You can tie yourself in knots feeling guilty, Samantha, but his death wasn’t your fault. I just hope they catch the monsters who are responsible. Maybe there’ll be something in the paper. Your father has gone to get the early edition from the newsagents.”

  “I hope they mention Daddy’s heroism,” Grace said as she joined them.

  “That would be nice,” their mother said.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, startled when the front door slammed.

  Grace rose. “Must be Daddy back from…”

  “Wait until you read this,” their father exclaimed as he rushed into the kitchen, brandishing the newspaper. “They’ve caught the men responsible.”

  “Already?” Samantha asked, puzzled by her father’s broad grin. “Have the detectives arrived from Scotland Yard?”

  “They haven’t. A local bobby caught the perpetrators.”

  Samantha’s throat went dry. Parker had promised to track down the murderers, but…

  “Your Sergeant Cullen is the hero of the hour,” her father announced, spreading the newspaper in front of her.

  Samantha skimmed over the lead article, her mother and sister reading over her shoulder.

  “What are Fenians again?” Grace asked.

  As she read the details of Parker’s heroic deeds, Samantha only half-heard her father’s explanation. Her heart filled with pride. Clearly, Parker hadn’t allowed his limp to hinder his investigation.

  “It takes a brave man to do what he did,” her father opined. “Especially with his…er…disability.”

  “Seems to me there must have been a lot of sleuthing required too,” Samantha added. “He told me he had a hunch, and he obviously followed it.”

  “Look at that,” her mother said, pointing to a paragraph further down the page. “It isn’t the first time he’s saved the day.”

  Close to tears, Samantha read the details of Parker’s heroism in thwarting an assassination attempt against Queen Victoria. It mentioned the injuries he’d suffered and the medal Her Majesty had awarded him.

  “Cor,” Grace said, chewing a mouthful of egg and toast. “He’s met the queen.”

  “He really is a hero,” Samantha murmured.

  My hero.

  Parker had sacrificed a great deal for queen and country. Yet, he’d never bragged about his bravery. He came across as just an ordinary man. Nor had he allowed his disability to interfere with his pursuit of justice. Her admiration for him grew by leaps and bounds. She hoped he would keep his promise to see her again.

  Once the chief constable learned Parker had apprehended the men responsible for blowing up the bridge, he quickly got over his annoyance at the flouting of a direct order. He claimed to have had a gut feeling the disaster wasn’t an accident.

  Moore advised Parker to go home and get some rest, but he wanted to be present at the Weasel’s i
nterrogation. He had to make sure the American was implicated and an arrest warrant issued.

  The local doctor bound Gwilym Preece’s broken ribs and his father kept his promise to reveal the details of the plot to blow up the bridge. “Shoulda known better than to get mixed up in Fenian business,” the Welshman muttered. “Froze our balls off for nothing.”

  It transpired the train wasn’t supposed to be destroyed, but that didn’t lessen the enormity of the crime. A contingent of policemen was dispatched to the local hotel, only to discover the American had fled.

  “I’ve telephoned Scotland Yard,” the chief constable announced, tweaking his mustache. “Given your description, and the information of his cohorts, they’ll track him down. He won’t escape to his own country. The ports will be watched.”

  It seemed Whitney’s all-important call from the police box had changed Moore’s mind about the recently invented telephone.

  Parker secured the key to the tiny cell and freed his uncle. Judson lay on his bunk staring into space, though it was the middle of the night. Parker sat beside him and explained the plot and the arrests, but got the feeling his uncle wasn’t really listening. “You must be devastated by what happened,” he said, “but at least you know we got the men responsible.”

  “Years wasted,” his uncle lamented as Parker helped him rise and don his coat. “I’m not a young man, you know, Nephew. This was my last bridge. It can be replaced, but lives lost cannot. Those unfortunate people on the train…”

  “Let me take you home,” Parker replied. “You need to get some rest.”

  His uncle nodded. “Then, first thing tomorrow, I’m going to contact the families of those who died so horribly. Something must be done for them.”

  It was the first time Parker had heard Judson voice any kind of concern for others. He clapped a hand on his uncle’s knee. “Especially since it’s Christmas.”

  A smile replaced Judson’s puzzled frown as he extended a hand. “Of course. Thank you for exonerating me.”