The Revenge of Colonel Blood

by Mark Jackson

  The Inspector stood up and pulled on his coat. When in doubt, act.

  South of the river others were also looking for clues. Battle was still searching the warehouse. He stooped, making a find.

  “Mac! Here!”

  Mac turned back towards Battle’s low voice.

  Battle looked pleased, as he pointed to the side of a crate tilted amid the remains of a small fire. It was blank. Mac frowned. Battle’s grin widened as he raised a stamp and hammered it onto the frame. The imprint read Messrs. Hodges and Horillo, Importers and Exporters. Mac’s eyes bored into the words. His fingers tightened on the coin.

  Laird, his hands resting on his cane, was standing in front of ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex’, one of the centrepieces of the Natural History Museum. It was part of the most magnificent collection of dinosaur skeletons in the world. Laird appeared to be studying the creature’s powerful jaws.

  “That’s what the Empire has become, Amon Kruger, a dinosaur.”

  The Afrikaner took a sharp intake of breath. He looked uncomfortable with Laird using his name, but Laird was oblivious.

  “Soon, it, too, shall be extinct.”

  Kruger’s eyes narrowed.

  “Extinct. Yes. When you proposed this… It can be done. The British Empire humiliated. Stripped of pride,” said Kruger.

  Laird came out of his reverie.

  “We have a problem.”

  Kruger was surprised and slightly uneasy.

  “All went smoothly.”

  Laird turned his attention to the ancient bones casting a shadow over them.

  “The warder at the Tower, McDonald. Your man didn’t kill him. He knows you’re Boers. He and two other yeoman warders went AWOL. They are looking for you.

  “I have taken certain steps. The authorities are looking for them, but it would be better if they do not find them.”

  Kruger’s scar was livid.

  “Warders? From the Tower? These are old men…”

  Laird did not let him finish.

  “These are the cream of the British Army. They all fought in South Africa. Probably everywhere else in the world.” Laird’s tone was icy.

  “One of them, McDonald, is the Gordon Highlander, the man who killed your father on the ridge at Bulwana.

  “McDonald.” Kruger was still with quiet, a killer statue.

  Laird tapped his cane.

  “Shot him out of his saddle before I could intervene.”

  Laird shot a glance at Kruger to check he had his attention. Muscles worked along Kruger’s jaw-line.

  “Report.” Laird’s voice snapped at Kruger.

  Kruger pulled himself out of shock with difficulty.

  “The goods will leave London in two hours. The rendezvous is set.”

  “Good.”

  “What of McDonald?”

  Laird smiled, but, angled beside him, Kruger could not see Laird’s expression and its cruelty.

  “Steps have been taken.” Laird seemed dangerously calm.

  “Steps? What…”

  Laird’s cane tip struck the floor.

  “Leave me two men. I’ll deal with McDonald and his merry band.” Kruger’s eyes burned into Laird, but the peer was unfazed. He stood studying the giant skeleton before him, as Kruger wheeled away, striding down the hall. Keilty stepped away from an exhibit and followed.

  Laird remained staring up at the skeleton, transfixed. Little more than 30 feet away, Thomas was watching him.

  “I’d like to drop you right now, M’Lord,” whispered Thomas, his hand brushing where his weapon was concealed in his waistband.

  Kruger emerged through the museum’s large wooden doors. He stopped at the top of the steps, running his fingers along his scarred cheek. Kruger walked briskly down the steps and into the street. Keilty came out from the building and followed him. The Irishman’s gait was leisurely, while Kruger strode down the street. Keilty was still trailing him. Kruger kept walking. The South African stopped in front of an underground station. He glanced backwards. No sign of Keilty. To Kruger’s right, leaning against the station wall was the Irishman. His face obscured by the newspaper he was reading. ‘Body found in Serpentine’ read the headline.

  Kruger looked at his wristwatch. Disquieted, he moved on. Keilty handed the paper to someone passing, who nodded his surprised gratitude. Keilty smiled fractionally and walked after Kruger.

  A cab drew up in front of Laird’s townhouse, allowing Laird to clamber out. Another cab passed as he did so and Thomas watched the lord climb the steps to his residence. Thomas pulled his cab into the kerb and waited.

  The two police officers, Inspector Reeves and Sergeant Tucker stood uncomfortably in Laird’s study. Lord Laird was seated in his armchair. He regarded them balefully.

  Inspector Reeves cleared his throat.

  “Well, M’Lord. We won’t detain you any longer. Thank you for your assistance.” Reeves’s nervousness showed.

  “Thank you, Inspector, for taking the trouble to come and deal with this matter personally.”

  The Inspector nodded.

  He gathered his courage under Laird’s pale blue eyes.

  “One final matter, sir. We just wanted to know what you’d like doing with the body, M’Lord.”

  Laird’s eyes were cold, but his voice quiet and mild.

  “Argyle had no blood family. Campbell and I were his family. Have the body delivered here, Inspector.”

  The officers looked uncertain, but under Laird’s powerful gaze they wilted.

  “Of course, sir, as you wish.”

  The police officers, feeling themselves dismissed, nodded and turned away. They were at the door when Laird stirred to speak again.

  “Inspector. Were there any signs of a struggle?”

  The officers stopped.

  Inspector Reeves checked, hesitating slightly.

  “No, sir. Some coward knifed him in the back. Besides that, not a mark on him, sir. The only strange thing is that his wallet was still on him. The thieves must have been disturbed, M’Lord.”

  Laird nodded slowly as his hand turned the wolf ’s headed cane. He was deep in thought as the officers trudged out.

  Laird looked to the servants’ bell, but Campbell appeared without him even reaching for it.

  “Shall I pack for you, Sahib?”

  Laird nodded deliberately.

  His mind was elsewhere. Back in time, remembering when Argyle first joined his service.

  “Campbell, tell that insolent cook that we will be away for some time.”

  Campbell nodded and turned away.

  “Campbell!”

  The manservant stopped.

  “When did Argyle join us?”

  “India,‘89. With us since then, Sir.”

  “With us in China,” said Laird.

  Campbell did not answer.

  “Knew the Oriental techniques, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Laird’s nod was a knowing one.

  “Whoever killed him must have been very good, Campbell. Very quiet and very quick.”

  Laird turned his cane.

  “Expect two visitors tonight.”

  Outside Laird’s house, Thomas watched as the two police officers stood looking somewhat out of place on Laird’s doorstep.

  The two officers glanced back at the imposing door behind them. A world once again closed to them.

  Sergeant Tucker cleared his throat.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but he didn’t seem too upset. Nor surprised neither.”

  “He’s a war hero, Sergeant. Hardened to it.”

  But Reeves’s face said something different.

  Kruger walked across the concourse at Euston station. Keilty paused at the south entrance, watching.

  In the centre of the busy railway station, Kruger halted beneath a large clock. He checked his watch before turning towards the ticket office.

  He looked left and right, noting the number of police constables and military police. Again he co
nsulted his watch. He paused again, as if sensing something.

  Keilty entered the station. He, too, noted the men in uniforms. He pulled his cap further down and moved slowly through the crowd. There was no sign of Kruger, causing a flicker of concern on Keilty’s face.

  Kruger walked down the crowded platform past the engine of the regal Highland Spirit. Kruger passed two police officers. They noted his scar, but paid him no further attention. He sauntered past a passenger carriage, with Skinstad seated at the window.

  Keilty moved along the entrances to the platforms, scanning for Kruger, reading the destination signs as he did so.

  His frown was growing.

  Kruger moved along the platform, before climbing into a carriage. Moments later, two figures jumped down from the carriage that Kruger had just climbed onto. Both were young, fit men, with strong walks. One of them was Janni. The other, Halle, bore a pockmarked face.

  Keilty lit a cigarette. He scanned the crowd and spied Janni and Halle heading out of the station. He nodded as if making a decision, sidestepped two police officers and followed the two Boers.

  Laird was sitting in his drawing room, sipping sherry. His face was drawn, as he studied the clock on the mantle, 3pm, and compared it with his own silver timepiece. His smile was cold and triumphant.

  One hundred yards from Laird’s residence, Thomas was dozing in the cab when Keilty rapped on the door.

  “Wake up, old timer.”

  Thomas jerked upright.

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  Keilty looked at him.

  “I lost him, Evan.”

  Thomas lost control.

  “Hell and damnation!”

  Keilty looked calmer.

  “Scarface left Laird two minders.”

  Keilty nodded towards Laird’s house. Janni and Halle were walking up the steps. The door opened and Campbell towered over the young Boers, beckoning them to enter.

  Thomas smiled crookedly.

  “Reinforcements. You stay on Laird. If he makes a move stick with him and, Ged, he may be our only lead.”

  A clerk, Mr Timms, a dapper man with a small moustache, was filling in a ledger. The offices of Messrs. Hodges and Horillo, Importers and Exporters were well established, the walls lined with dark mahogany cabinets; exotic and expensive.

  At the ring of a bell, Mr Timms looked up towards the front door. There was no one there. Mr Timms was perplexed. He returned to his books.

  A cough.

  A startled Mr Timms jolted upright. A well-dressed Thomas looked enquiringly down at him.

  Timms recovered.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Timms noticed another man, with his broad back to him, casting an eye around the small office.

  Timms tried again.

  “Sir?”

  Thomas stuck out his hand.

  “Townsley.” Thomas’s voice betrayed no accent.

  He pumped Timm’s hand. The clerk grimaced slightly.

  “Timms. General Manager.”

  Thomas nodded, appraising the clerk.

  “Mr Timms. My colleague and I are considering using your firm for a forthcoming business venture. We hope that this venture will prove mutually beneficial.”

  Thomas leaned in.

  “Extremely beneficial.”

  Timms nodded and glanced across at the tall, bear-like figure, who was still prowling. McDonald turned and smiled at him, but that only served to make Timms more nervous.

  Thomas indicated the back office. Timms looked again at McDonald. He was torn, but allowed himself to be guided by Thomas into the back office.

  “Of course, Mr…”

  Thomas gave him an encouraging smile.

  “Townsley. With a ‘y’.”

  McDonald continued his scanning of the office.

  Thomas sat back in one of the fine leather chairs and signalled that Timms should take a note. Thomas was leaning back further, getting into his role.

  “Next month looks most likely. Pending certain details being finalised,” Thomas halted to check he had the clerk’s full attention.

  Timms nodded and looked up. He was startled. McDonald was standing over him, his eyes assessing the room. Mac’s eyes focused on a small safe.

  Thomas fixed the small man in his sights.

  “Would you mind putting your terms in writing, please?”

  “Now?”

  Thomas smiled. So did Mac.

  Chapter Eleven

  Enfields, Treason and Plot

  Even in the gloom that followed dusk the sign above the door of Messrs. Hodges and Horillo, Importers and Exporters, glistened. Pressed into the shadow of the front door of the merchants, Battle and McDonald edged closer to the door. Thomas waited with the cab across the road.

  He looked up and down the street. He nodded, urging them to hurry.

  Battle pulled out a heavy bunch of skeleton keys. The keys jangled in spite of his care.

  Mac nudged him.

  “Quiet, man.”

  Battle tried another key. Mac looked impatient. Battle tried a third key.

  “Patience, Mac.”

  The key slid in and the lock turned. Battle grinned at Mac. McDonald moved forward. Battle checked him then opened the door for him.

  “Age before beauty.”

  Thomas nervously watched them disappear inside.

  Inside the inner office, Battle was crouched by the safe, running his gloved hands over it and pursing his lips. He placed a small bag on the floor. McDonald was standing at his shoulder.

  Battle looked thoughtful. He pulled up a stethoscope to his ear and listened to the safe just above the combination disc.

  Mac cleared his throat. Battle looked up at him and frowned. Mac frowned back and swung away impatiently.

  Battle flexed his fingers and gingerly turned the disc.

  Another turn. Battle nodded to himself, concentrating deeply.

  McDonald’s voice was a low husk.

  “What’s keeping you?”

  Battle broke his concentration.

  “It’s been a long time. I was only 16 or so.”

  McDonald straightened.

  “Well, we haven’t got that long.”

  Inside the George and Dragon, a large public house frequented by servants and tradesmen, Keilty stood casually at the bar. The barmaid gave him an encouraging smile. Keilty smiled back shyly. He took a sip and glanced around, his ears straining.

  “I tell you. Not so much as a by your leave.” The voice was indignant, slightly arched. It was a house servant, perhaps a cook, bitter and proud.

  Keilty turned and located the voice’s source. The cook was a short, dumpy woman, her hair tied back; strands of grey wire.

  “He’s just upping and flaming well going back up to Scotland.”

  Cook was sitting with a couple of cronies. Keilty smiled into his beer and angled towards them.

  The Highland Spirit hurtled along. A feat of modern engineering, it could reach speeds of up to 70mph.

  Sturm walked along through a busy carriage. He was looking for someone. He reached where Skinstad was sleeping and prodded him, none too gently.

  Skinstad jolted awake. Sturm leaned close.

  “He wants you.”

  Skinstad looked surprised, but quickly stood and followed the big man.

  Outside a small green cabman’s shelter, a shadow approached. The hut resembled an overgrown garden shed. There were more than 50 dotted across London. Built through charitable donations to provide a hot meal and shelter to London’s cab drivers.

  A knock was signalled on the door. Two strikes then two more. The door opened and the shadow swept inside.

  Ted stepped back to let in Keilty, the shadow.

  Battle, McDonald, Jack and Thomas were clustered around a small narrow table. On the flat wooden surface were four revolvers, a line of knives, four Enfield rifles and boxes of ammunition – a small arsenal. Keilty sat across from them, taking in the narrow confines of the wooden panelled s
helter. As was his custom, Keilty sat facing the door. Battle picked one of the Enfields and slipped back the breech.

  Thomas looked at Ged.

  “Scotland.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Scotland.” Mac nodded.

  McDonald passed across the document they had ‘acquired’ at Hodges and Horillo.

  “He’s going to Drumgoyne.”

  Battle’s confusion added to his annoyance.

  “Where the ruddy hell is that?”

  “On the Isle of Glengoyne. Where I was born.”

  This only added to Battle’s bewilderment.

  “Isle? You mean?”

  McDonald was amused.

  “Yes, Tommy, we’ll have to get a boat or you can swim.”

  Battle shook his head.

  “Forget that for a game of soldiers.”

  Keilty and Jack laughed. Thomas smiled at Battle, but Mac, despite the joke, remained serious.

  “The wolf is taking the prize to his lair and that is where we are going to trap him.”

  Mac gripped the doubloon. He flicked it in the air and closed his fist around it.

  Sturm was leading the way along the locomotive’s swaying corridor. He stopped at a carriage door and knocked, opened the door and indicated for Skinstad to go in.

  Kruger was sitting in the shadows. Skinstad nodded to him and sat down opposite.

  Kruger stared out of the window. Skinstad studied him. He was a touch unnerved. Kruger spoke without looking at Skinstad.

  Kruger’s voice was low, distant.

  “When we took the jewels at the Tower, you failed me.”

  Skinstad’s face tensed, but Kruger forestalled him.

  “You fought with a warder. Not a soldier, but an old man. He’s still alive.”

  Skinstad swallowed and picked his next words carefully.

  “He fell. It was dark. We didn’t have any time. I’d wounded him.”

  Kruger was contemptuous.

  “You scratched him.”

  Skinstad stared at his commander. Kruger leaned forward, his scar was revealed. It was ugly, and at this moment, Kruger looked deadly.

  “You failed.”

  Kruger’s knife flashed across Skinstad’s face. He was left with blood running down his cheek. Skinstad controlled his urge to reach up and touch the wound.