Death and the Arrow

by Chris Priestley

  Dr. Harker had come to the railings of the churchyard to see what the matter was. “Tom!” he called. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” said Tom after a moment. “It’s nothing.” He gave one last look up and down the empty street and then walked back to join the doctor.

  “What’s troubling you?” said Dr. Harker.

  “I thought I saw someone.”

  “Ah, Tom,” said the doctor kindly. “Grief can play all kinds of tricks.”

  Tom guessed the doctor’s meaning and shook his head. “No, Dr. Harker. Not Will. The man I saw was real enough. And he did not want to be seen.”

  The doctor shot a quick glance back to where Tom had been standing. “But you did see him, Tom? Would you know him again?”

  “No, sir,” said Tom. “He hid his face. He was a big man, though—very big.”

  Just then Tom and the doctor became aware of someone standing next to them. They turned and saw that it was one of the mourners; a young man, only a few years older than Tom.

  “Dr. Harker,” he said. “And Master Marlowe. I have been asked to come across and give our thanks to you sirs for what you’ve done today. There’s not many who would have done the same, and we thank you for it. I thank you for it. Will was as good as family to me and I miss him sore as burning.”

  “It was the least we could do, Mr. . . .”

  “Carter is my name,” said the man. “Ocean Carter.”

  “Ocean,” said Tom with a smile. “Will often talked about you and was always singing your praises. He wanted to be like you, I think.”

  Ocean’s eyes loaded with tears. “Thank you kindly, Master Marlowe,” he said.

  “Call me Tom.” They shook hands.

  “If I can ever be of any assistance to either of you gents, just let me know. They know me in the Red Lion Tavern in Seven Dials. You can leave a message for me there.” With that, the young man turned and walked down the path and out of the churchyard.

  Eventually the other mourners began to leave, each one shaking Dr. Harker’s and Tom’s hand in turn. When they had all gone, Tom turned to the doctor. “Dr. Harker, I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me—and for Will.”

  “I was happy to do it, Tom,” said Dr. Harker with a smile. “I only wish I could have known Will. He was obviously quite a lad, much loved by those who knew him.”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “I think he was. He was loved.” Dr. Harker patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “I have another favor to ask of you, Doctor,” Tom went on.

  “Ask away.”

  “Will you help me find out who killed Will?”

  Dr. Harker smiled a wry half-smile, then looked up at the sky for a minute before turning back to say, “Yes, Tom, I will. But it might be dangerous. . . .”

  Suddenly Tom became aware of a figure bent over Will’s grave. “Hello?” he called out nervously. The man did not reply and Tom started to walk slowly toward him. “Hello?” he said again. The man turned to face him; it was his father.

  Neither father nor son spoke for what seemed like minutes.

  “Tom?” said Mr. Marlowe at last.

  “Father.”

  “I’m not good at talking, Tom, you know that,” said his father, seemingly to his own shoes. “I print other folks’ words all day long, but the ink just seems to dry up when I try and make my own. Oh, I’ve got plenty of words in here,” he said, patting his chest. “I just can’t seem to get them out.”

  Tom smiled. “Let’s just shake on it, then, shall we, Father?”

  “That would be just fine,” said his father, and they shook hands. “I must get back now, Tom—there’s a lot on.” And he hurriedly stuffed a paper package into Tom’s hand, tipped his hat to Dr. Harker, and walked briskly out of the churchyard.

  Tom opened the package. Inside the paper was the pocket watch his father had given him. On the paper was printed, in an elegant typeface, the words “You are a good lad, Tom. Your mother would be proud of you.”

  DEATH AND THE ARROW CARDS

  "So what shall we do first?” asked Tom impatiently a few days later, breaking the ticking silence in Dr. Harker’s study. The doctor sat back in his chair and put the tips of his fingers together, tapping them gently one against the other.

  “Well, Tom,” he said, “first of all we have to look at the facts at our disposal.”

  “But . . . but we don’t have any facts,” said Tom, looking puzzled.

  “On the contrary, we have lots of facts. We simply do not know, for the moment, what they mean.” Tom looked even more puzzled. “Come, come, Tom. What do we know?”

  Tom furrowed his brow and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I suppose we know that Will was murdered.”

  “Excellent. We know that Will was murdered,” said Dr. Harker, blushing slightly as he realized how harsh the words sounded. “Sorry, Tom.”

  “It’s fine, sir,” said Tom, managing a weak smile. “I know what you mean.”

  Dr. Harker nodded. “But,” he went on, “we don’t know why or by whom.”

  “That’s what I mean,” sighed Tom. “We don’t know anything. Anything useful.”

  “Ah, but we know about the card, do we not?”

  “The Death and the Arrow card. Yes,” said Tom. “We know that someone has been killing people and leaving cards on them. But how will that help us find whoever murdered Will?” Tom got to his feet and went over to the window. “Could it have been the Mohocks?”

  “I don’t think so. It is beyond their wit, I think. Besides, between you and me, Tom, I think the newspapers make too much of the Mohocks. These scare stories sell papers, lad, but this is too deep for drunken rakes.” Tom looked out of the dusty windows at the sea of rooftops.

  “Try to think, Tom, of anything Will might have said that could give us a clue. You told me he had a job?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “I was, well, surprised. And he was a little put out by my surprise.”

  Dr. Harker smiled. “Did he tell you what the job was?”

  “No . . . he told me it was secret and that he could not tell.”

  “A secret, you say?” said Dr. Harker. He was playing with the curls at the end of his long powdered wig— something he always did when deep in thought. “Did he tell you anything about the job? Anything at all?”

  “No,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Nothing.” Dr. Harker sighed and closed his eyes. “No! Wait!” Tom shouted suddenly, making the doctor jump and almost tug the wig from his head. “He did! He did say something.” He frowned with the effort of bringing back the words; the exact words. “He said . . . he said . . . yes, that’s right—he said it was the opposite of what he normally did.”

  Dr. Harker leaned forward. “That is very interesting, Tom, is it not?”

  The doctor stood up and looked out of his window. Tom was pleased to have said something of interest, but he failed to see why it was of interest. Dr. Harker turned and, seeing the bafflement on Tom’s face, he smiled. “And what was it that Will normally did?” Tom blushed. “Come, come, Tom. It is no secret, is it? And Will was not embarrassed by his profession, now was he?”

  “He was a pickpocket, sir.”

  “That he was, Tom, and by all accounts a very skilled one,” said Dr. Harker, patting Tom on the shoulder. “Now, what would the ‘opposite’ of picking someone’s pocket be, I wonder?”

  “Putting something into someone’s pocket?” said Tom, who instantly felt that he had said something stupid. And when Dr. Harker slapped his palm against his forehead, he was sure of it. But no . . .

  “That’s it!” cried the doctor. “He was putting something into pockets. So, Tom, can that fine brain of yours hazard a guess as to what that something might have been?”

  “The cards!” gasped Tom, surprising himself with the thought.

  “The cards.”

  “But why?”

  “Why indeed? Well,” said Dr. Harker, sitting down once more, “suppose you were hunting a group of men—” />
  “Hunting?” said Tom.

  “Yes, hunting. Suppose you want them to know they are being hunted. You want them to fear for their lives, but you do not want to be seen.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Tom. “What has this to do with Will?”

  “Everything,” said Dr. Harker. “Because you hire a pickpocket—one whose skills you have seen and admired—and you get him to place cards in the pockets of the men you plan to kill.”

  “Will!” exclaimed Tom.

  “Precisely. The cards are designed to instill fear and panic into the recipients. They are calling cards from Death himself!

  “The Death and the Arrow cards,” muttered Dr. Harker, getting to his feet. “Come, Tom. Let’s take some air.”

  And so the two of them left the house, walking silently together for a while in the mild spring morning, the doctor tipping his hat and saying good morning to passersby, as he always did. They ambled along in no particular direction—or so Tom thought.

  Finally he broke the silence. “Dr. Harker?”

  “Yes, lad?”

  “Do you think Will was killed by one of the men he gave a card to, or by the man he was working for?”

  “I do not know,” said Dr. Harker. “There is still so much we need to discover. For instance, Tom, why do the cards show Death holding an arrow?”

  “Because that is how the murderer kills his victims?” said Tom.

  “Yes, yes,” said the doctor. “But why does he kill them with an arrow?” Tom looked confused and Dr. Harker smiled and clapped him on the back. “If the murderer wanted to simply frighten those men, then why not simply show a figure of Death? Death can be shown with an arrow, a scythe, a sword, or nothing at all. He could have killed them in any way he chose. Using arrows seems an awful lot of trouble to go to. No, Tom—the arrow must have some significance in this whole business.”

  “But what significance?” said Tom.

  “We do not know. We need to find out more about the Death and the Arrow victims. They hold the secret to their murderer and to Will’s.”

  “But how shall we do that, Dr. Harker?”

  “Well, I think we may find some small degree of illumination in this establishment. . . .”

  Tom noticed that they were now standing outside a coffee house he had never seen before. In fact, he had been so wound up in what Dr. Harker was saying, he had no idea where in the city they were.

  “Remember the first victim, Tom—the man called Leech. Do you remember Purney asked, quite correctly, how it could be possible for the man to have been killed once by natives in America and then a second time, here in London?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “But —”

  “Well, there are few certainties in life, Tom, but one thing you can be sure of is that a man cannot be killed twice. Either he was not killed in America, or the man who was killed in London was not Leech.”

  “But his own mother identified him,” said Tom.

  “That she did, Tom. But was she telling the truth? Let us find out, shall we? She owns this very coffee house.”

  Tom looked at Dr. Harker and smiled. He really was a remarkable man. “But how did you find her?” he asked.

  “Oh, it really was not very difficult. The constable who took the details was more than happy to talk for the price of a jug of gin. Shall we go in?”

  “After you, Dr. Harker,” said Tom with a grin.

  “Most kind, Tom,” said Dr. Harker, pointing upward with his cane. “And perhaps you might care to look at the sign on the way in.”

  Tom followed the direction of the doctor’s cane and there, hanging from a sinuous tangle of wrought-iron curlicues, was the coffee-house sign—a gleaming golden arrow!

  THE ARROW COFFEE HOUSE

  The clientele of the Arrow coffee house was not as distinguished as that of The Quill; in fact, several of the faces that turned to greet them as they stepped inside would not have looked out of place in the Condemned Hold in Newgate, and Tom was glad to see that Dr. Harker was carrying a sword as well as a cane.

  There was a furnace of a fire in the hearth and yet the room still seemed damp. The stone-flagged floor had a greenish tinge, and the plaster walls were cracked and stained. The ceiling was low and made even lower by massive oak beams.

  They sat down at an empty table next to the bow window and Dr. Harker raised his hand for some service. A tall woman crossed the room and bid them good day. The bottom of her dress was tattered and damp where it had brushed the slimy floor.

  “Well now, gentlemen, what’s it to be?” she said with a crooked smile, her face whiter than her teeth.

  “I shall have a coffee, and my friend here will have—”

  “I should like a coffee also, Dr. Harker,” interrupted Tom.

  Dr. Harker smiled. “Very well, then. Two coffees, my good woman.”

  “Two coffees it is, then, gents.”

  When she returned with the drinks, Dr. Harker blocked her path back to the counter. “Tell me,” he said, “do I have the honor of speaking to Mrs. Leech?”

  Her smile disappeared and was replaced by an expression more fitting to the face. “Who wants to know?”

  “Forgive me,” said Dr. Harker, getting to his feet. “My name is Dr. Josiah Harker and my friend here is Thomas Marlowe. May we offer our condolences on the untimely death of your son.”

  “You knew my Bill?” said the woman, looking them up and down. “That don’t seem likely, now, does it?”

  “I can see you are a woman of great intelligence, and so I will get to the point.” Dr. Harker pulled back a chair. “Please, won’t you join us? We will, of course, pay for your time.” He produced a small velvet bag and tipped out a pile of silver coins.

  “Very well, then,” said Mrs. Leech, sitting down and grabbing the coins. “Spit it out. I ain’t got all day. Sarah,” she shouted, “bring us some brandy!”

  “Mr. Marlowe and I are seeking information. We are trying to identify the murderer of a friend of ours.”

  “Was he shot by an arrow an’ all, then?” said Mrs. Leech, taking the bottle from the serving girl and pouring herself a drink.

  “No, no, he was not. But he did have the card—the Death and the Arrow card.”

  Mrs. Leech took a generous gulp of brandy and stifled a sob. “That damned card. I wish they’d never showed me it—it still gives me the shivers.” Tom knew exactly what she meant, and he smiled at her in sympathy. Suddenly her face seemed to mellow a little. “Look, I know he wasn’t what you might call a good man, my Bill, but he was a proper son to me all the same.”

  “I’m sure he loved you very much,” said Dr. Harker. Mrs. Leech drained her cup and poured another. “That he did, Dr. Harker, that he did.”

  “Do you think his death might have something to do with the coffee house?” asked Tom.

  “The coffee house?” said Mrs. Leech, looking suspicious once more.

  “What with it being called The Arrow, I mean,” said Tom. He looked at Dr. Harker for support, but Dr. Harker’s face was expressionless and his eyes were fixed on Mrs. Leech.

  “Oh, that,” she said, wringing her hands and trying to force a smile. “It was Bill’s idea. It was his idea of a joke.”

  “A joke?” said Dr. Harker.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Leech nervously “I . . . I . . . just . . . Bill laughed at the strangest things. Of course, it wasn’t so funny after all, was it, what with the way he was. . . .” And she drained another cup.

  Dr. Harker looked about him. “I have never come across this coffee house, Mrs. Leech. Have you had it long?”

  “Not long, no,” she said. “I came into a bit of money a couple of years back. A rich uncle died and didn’t forget his little niece. I was a seamstress down Spitalfields way afore that.” She looked past them with watery eyes. “Matter of fact, I miss it sometimes. It was hard work, but we had a laugh, if you know what I mean. I don’t know as I belong here, if you want to know the truth of it, sirs.”

&n
bsp; “Then why—?” began Tom.

  “It was Bill’s idea, wasn’t it? And now he’s dead, and I’m stuck here with these miserable so-and-sos. I hope you finds whoever done for Bill—and your friend.” Mrs. Leech got rather shakily to her feet.

  “But—” began Tom, about to tell Mrs. Leech that there were two murders, but Dr. Harker interrupted.

  “It must have come as an awful shock to hear of Bill’s death.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Leech, wiping away a tear with her handkerchief. “Yes . . . it was. . . .”

  “Especially as he was supposed to have been killed two years before—in the selfsame fashion.”

  Mrs. Leech looked up slowly from behind her handkerchief. Her eyes were cold and black, her face even whiter than before. “Jake . . . Bull-nose . . . Skinner . . .” Each man rose at his name. “Please show these gentlemen to the door.”

  “I have a sword!” said Dr. Harker, rising to his feet, but the men did not seem very impressed. Dr. Harker nudged Tom and started backing toward the door. “We were just leaving, weren’t we, Tom?”

  “Y-yes,” said Tom, standing up and joining the doctor.

  The two of them edged backward to the door and made a hasty retreat to more familiar territory; they didn’t stop until Tom finally lost the urge to look over his shoulder.

  “So, Tom,” said Dr. Harker as they walked through an alleyway near the Strand, “what have we learned today?”

  “To carry a loaded pistol?” replied Tom.

  Dr. Harker laughed and slapped him on the back. “About the murders, Tom. What have we learned about the murders?”

  Tom went over the conversation with Mrs. Leech in his mind, searching in vain for something she had said that they did not already know.

  “Tell me, Tom, did she seem like someone who had recently lost a son?” said Dr. Harker.

  “Yes,” replied Tom. “I believe she did.”

  “I agree, Tom. She may have been lying about the source of her fortune—a rich uncle indeed! — but she was truly grief-stricken. And what does that tell us?”

  Tom thought a little and then smiled. “That the first victim was Leech.”