The Man From Hell

by Barrie Roberts

  Back to chapter thirteen

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Until mechanised refrigeration became widespread there were only two ways of chilling food and drink. One was the ice-making machine, a device which required cranking by hand for a long time. The other was the ice-house. These were brick-lined, underground chambers into which ice was stacked in winter in such quantities that, hopefully, it would last through the summer. As well as cutting ice on local water in cold winters, suppliers brought shiploads to Britain from Europe, Scandinavia and even from the lakes of North America.

  Back to chapter eighteen

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It is the case that convicts at Norfolk Island became so desperate that they drew lots in the kind of ‘suicide club’ described by Connors. Eventually the authorities began sitting courts on the island, believing that it was the trip to Sydney and the chance of escape that fired the practice, but it did not die out because, for some, it was the certainty of death that appealed to them.

  Back to chapter twenty-one

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Difficult as it is to confirm the authenticity of this narrative, a pointer may be found in Holmes’ statement that he had been a pupil of Maître Bencin. W. S. Baring-Gould, in the biography already cited above, asserts that Holmes’ family spent two periods living at Pau in the South of France. The second period began, he says, in 1868, when Sherlock was fourteen, and it was then that his father enrolled him with Maître Alphonse Bencin. Unfortunately, Baring-Gould never revealed the source of his information.

  The above notes reflect my researches so far but do not, I am afraid, absolutely confirm Watson’s authorship of the narrative. However, I would point out that this story originates from the same source as the two others which I have edited, both of which contained better confirmations of their authenticity. I would argue that if they were the work of Dr Watson, so is the present account.

  Barrie Roberts

  1996

  Back to chapter twenty-three

  Also Available

  THE VEILED DETECTIVE

  by

  DAVID STUART DAVIES

  AFGHANISTAN, THE EVENING OF 27 JUNE 1880

  The full moon hovered like a spectral observer over the British camp. The faint cries of the dying and wounded were carried by the warm night breeze out into the arid wastes beyond. John Walker staggered out of the hospital tent, his face begrimed with dried blood and sweat. For a moment he threw his head back and stared at the wide expanse of starless sky as if seeking an answer, an explanation. He had just lost another of his comrades. There were now at least six wounded men whom he had failed to save. He was losing count. And, by God, what was the point of counting in such small numbers anyway? Hundreds of British soldiers had died that day, slaughtered by the Afghan warriors. They had been outnumbered, outflanked and routed by the forces of Ayub Khan in that fatal battle at Maiwand. These cunning tribesmen had truly rubbed the Union Jack into the desert dust. Nearly a third of the company had fallen. It was only the reluctance of the Afghans to carry out further carnage that had prevented the British troops from being completely annihilated. Ayub Khan had his victory. He had made his point. Let the survivors report the news of his invincibility.

  For the British, a ragged retreat was the only option. They withdrew into the desert, to lick their wounds and then to limp back to Candahar. They had had to leave their dead littering the bloody scrubland, soon to be prey to the vultures and vermin.

  Walker was too tired, too sick to his stomach to feel anger, pain or frustration. All he knew was that when he trained to be a doctor, it had been for the purpose of saving lives. It was not to watch young men’s pale, bloody faces grimace with pain and their eyes close gradually as life ebbed away from them, while he stood by, helpless, gazing at a gaping wound spilling out intestines.

  He needed a drink. Ducking back into the tent, he grabbed his medical bag. There were still three wounded men lying on makeshift beds in there, but no amount of medical treatment could save them from the grim reaper. He felt guilty to be in their presence. He had instructed his orderly to administer large doses of laudanum to help numb the pain until the inevitable overtook them.

  As Walker wandered to the edge of the tattered encampment, he encountered no other officer. Of course, there were very few left. Colonel MacDonald, who had been in charge, had been decapitated by an Afghan blade very early in the battle. Captain Alistair Thornton was now in charge of the ragged remnants of the company of the Berkshire regiment, and he was no doubt in his tent nursing his wound. He had been struck in the shoulder by a jezail bullet which had shattered the bone.

  Just beyond the perimeter of the camp, Walker slumped down at the base of a skeletal tree, resting his back against the rough bark. Opening his medical bag, he extracted a bottle of brandy. Uncorking it, he sniffed the neck of the bottle, allowing the alcoholic fumes to drift up his nose. And then he hesitated.

  Something deep within his conscience made him pause. Little did this tired army surgeon realise that he was facing a decisive moment of Fate. He was about to commit an act that would alter the course of his life for ever. With a frown, he shook the vague dark unformed thoughts from his mind and returned his attention to the bottle.

  The tantalising fumes did their work. They promised comfort and oblivion. He lifted the neck of the bottle to his mouth and took a large gulp. Fire spilled down his throat and raced through his senses. Within moments he felt his body ease and relax, the inner tension melting with the warmth of the brandy. He took another gulp, and the effect increased. He had found an escape from the heat, the blood, the cries of pain and the scenes of slaughter. A blessed escape. He took another drink. Within twenty minutes the bottle was empty and John Walker was floating away on a pleasant, drunken dream. He was also floating away from the life he knew. He had cut himself adrift and was now heading for stormy, unchartered waters.

  As consciousness slowly returned to him several hours later, he felt a sudden, sharp stabbing pain in his leg. It came again. And again. He forced his eyes open and bright sunlight seared in. Splinters of yellow light pierced his brain. He clamped his eyes shut, embracing the darkness once more. Again he felt the pain in his leg. This time, it was accompanied by a strident voice: “Walker! Wake up, damn you!”

  He recognised the voice. It belonged to Captain Thornton. With some effort he opened his eyes again, but this time he did it more slowly, allowing the brightness to seep in gently so as not to blind him. He saw three figures standing before him, each silhouetted against the vivid blue sky of an Afghan dawn. One of them was kicking his leg viciously in an effort to rouse him.

  “You despicable swine, Walker!” cried the middle figure, whose left arm was held in a blood-splattered sling. It was Thornton, his commanding officer.

  Walker tried to get to his feet, but his body, still under the thrall of the alcohol, refused to co-operate.

  “Get him up,” said Thornton.

  The two soldiers grabbed Walker and hauled him to his feet. With his good hand, Thornton thrust the empty brandy bottle before his face. For a moment, he thought the captain was going to hit him with it.

  “Drunk on duty, Walker. No, by God, worse than that. Drunk while your fellow soldiers were in desperate need of your attention. You left them... left them to die while you... you went to get drunk. I should have you shot for this – but shooting is too good for you. I want you to live... to live with your guilt.” Thornton spoke in tortured bursts, so great was his fury.

  “There was nothing I could do for them,” Walker tried to explain, but his words escaped in a thick and slurred manner. “Nothing I could–”

  Thornton threw the bottle down into the sand. “You disgust me, Walker. You realise that this is a court martial offence, and believe me I shall make it my personal duty to see that you are disgraced and kicked out of the army.”

  Words failed Walker, but it began to sink in to his foggy mind that he had made a very big m
istake – a life-changing mistake.

  London, 4 October 1880

  “Are you sure he can be trusted?” Arthur Sims sniffed and nodded towards the silhouetted figure at the end of the alleyway, standing under a flickering gas lamp.

  Badger Johnson, so called because of the vivid white streak that ran through the centre of his dark thatch of hair, nodded and grinned.

  “Yeah. He’s a bit simple, but he’ll be fine for what we want him for. And if he’s any trouble...” He paused to retrieve a cut-throat razor from his inside pocket. The blade snapped open, and it swished through the air. “I’ll just have to give him a bloody throat, won’t I?”

  Arthur Sims was not amused. “Where d’you find him?”

  “Where d’you think? In The Black Swan. Don’t you worry. I’ve seen him in there before – and I seen him do a bit of dipping. Very nifty he was, an’ all. And he’s done time. In Wandsworth. He’s happy to be our crow for just five sovereigns.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Hardly anything. What d’you take me for? Just said we were cracking a little crib in Hanson Lane and we needed a lookout. He’s done the work before.”

  Sims sniffed again. “I’m not sure. You know as well as I do he ought to be vetted by the Man himself before we use him. If something goes wrong, we’ll all have bloody throats... or worse.”

  Badger gurgled with merriment. “You scared, are you?”

  “Cautious, that’s all. This is a big job for us.”

  “And the pickin’s will be very tasty, an’ all, don’t you worry. If it’s cautious you’re being, then you know it’s in our best interest that we have a little crow keeping his beady eyes wide open. Never mind how much the Man has planned this little jaunt, we’re the ones putting our heads in the noose.”

  Sims shuddered at the thought. “All right, you made your point. What’s his name?”

  “Jordan. Harry Jordan.” Badger slipped his razor back into its special pocket and flipped out his watch. “Time to make our move.” Badger giggled as the key slipped neatly into the lock. “It’s hardly criminal work if one can just walk in.”

  Arthur Sims gave his partner a shove. “Come on, get in,” he whispered, and then he turned to the shadowy figure standing nearby. “OK, Jordan, you know the business.”

  Harry Jordan gave a mock salute.

  Once inside the building, Badger lit the bull’s-eye lantern and consulted the map. “The safe is in the office on the second floor at the far end, up a spiral staircase.” He muttered the information, which he knew by heart anyway, as if to reassure himself now that theory had turned into practice.

  The two men made their way through the silent premises, the thin yellow beam of the lamp carving a way through the darkness ahead of them. As the spidery metal of the staircase flashed into view, they spied an obstacle on the floor directly below it. The inert body of a bald-headed man.

  Arthur Sims knelt by him. “Night watchman. Out like a light. Very special tea he’s drunk tonight” Delicately, he lifted the man’s eyelids to reveal the whites of his eyes. “He’ll not bother us now, Badger. I reckon he’ll wake up with a thundering headache around breakfast-time.”

  Badger giggled. It was all going according to plan.

  Once up the staircase, the two men approached the room containing the safe. Again Badger produced the keyring from his pocket and slipped a key into the lock. The door swung open with ease. The bull’s-eye soon located the imposing Smith-Anderson safe, a huge impenetrable iron contraption that stood defiantly in the far corner of the room. It was as tall as a man and weighed somewhere around three tons. The men knew from experience that the only way to get into this peter was by using the key – or rather the keys. There were five in all required. Certainly it would take a small army to move the giant safe, and God knows how much dynamite would be needed to blow it open, an act that would create enough noise to reach Scotland Yard itself.

  Badger passed the bull’s-eye to his confederate, who held the beam steady, centred on the great iron sarcophagus and the five locks. With another gurgle of pleasure, Badger dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a brass ring containing five keys, all cut in a different manner. Scratched into the head of each key was a number – one that corresponded with the arrangement of locks on the safe.

  Kneeling down in the centre of the beam, he slipped in the first key. It turned smoothly, with a decided click. So did the second. And the third. But the fourth refused to budge. Badger cast a worried glance at his confederate, but neither man spoke. Badger withdrew the key and tried again, with the same result. A thin sheen of sweat materialised on his brow. What the hell was wrong here? This certainly wasn’t in the plan. The first three keys had been fine. He couldn’t believe the Man had made a mistake. It was unheard of.

  “Try the fifth key,” whispered Arthur, who was equally perplexed and worried.

  In the desperate need to take action of some kind, Badger obeyed. Remarkably, the fifth key slipped in easily and turned smoothly, with the same definite click as the first three. A flicker of hope rallied Badger’s dampened spirits and he turned the handle of the safe. Nothing happened. It would not budge. He swore and sat back on his haunches. “What the hell now?”

  “Try the fourth key again,” came his partner’s voice from the darkness.

  Badger did as he was told and held his breath. The key fitted the aperture without problem. Now his hands were shaking and hepaused, fearful of failure again.

  “Come on, Badger.”

  He turned the key. At first there was some resistance, and then... it moved. It revolved. It clicked.

  “The bastards,” exclaimed Arthur Sims in a harsh whisper. “They’ve altered the arrangement of the locks so they can’t be opened in order. His nibs ain’t sussed that out.”

  Badger was now on his feet and tugging at the large safe door. “Blimey, it’s a weight,” he muttered, as the ponderous portal began to move. “It’s bigger than my old woman,” he observed, his spirits lightening again. The door creaked open with magisterial slowness. It took Badger almost a minute of effort before the safe door was wide open.

  At last, Arthur Sims was able to direct the beam of the lantern to illuminate the interior of the safe. When he had done so, his jaw dropped and he let out a strangled gasp.

  “What is it?” puffed Badger, sweat now streaming down his face.

  “Take a look for yourself,” came the reply.

  As Badger pulled himself forward and peered round the corner of the massive safe door, a second lantern beam joined theirs. “The cupboard is bare, I am afraid.”

  The voice, clear, brittle and authoritative, came from behind them, and both felons turned in unison to gaze at the speaker.

  The bull’s-eye spotlit a tall young man standing in the doorway, a sardonic smile touching his thin lips. It was Harry Jordan. Or was it? He was certainly dressed in the shabby checked suit that Jordan wore – but where was the bulbous nose and large moustache?

  “I am afraid the game is no longer afoot, gentlemen. I think the phrase is, ‘You’ve been caught red-handed.’ Now, please do not make any rash attempts to escape. The police are outside the building,awaiting my signal.”

  Arthur Sims and Badger Johnson stared in dumbfounded amazement as the young man took a silver whistle from his jacket pocket and blew on it three times. The shrill sound reverberated in their ears.

  Inspector Giles Lestrade of Scotland Yard cradled a tin mug of hot, sweet tea in his hands and smiled contentedly. “I reckon that was a pretty good night’s work.”

  It was an hour later, after the arrest of Badger Johnson and Arthur Sims, and the inspector was ensconced in his cramped office back at the Yard.

  The young man sitting opposite him, wearing a disreputable checked suit which had seen better days, did not respond. His silence took the smile from Lestrade’s face and replaced it with a furrowed brow.

  “You don’t agree, Mr Holmes?”

  The young
man pursed his lips for a moment before replying. “In a manner of speaking, it has been a successful venture. You have two of the niftiest felons under lock and key, and saved the firm of Meredith and Co. the loss of a considerable amount of cash.”

  “Exactly.” The smile returned.

  “But there are still questions left unanswered.”

  “Such as?”

  “How did our two friends come into the possession of the key to the building, to the office where the safe was housed – and the five all-important keys to the safe itself?”

  “Does that really matter?”

  “Indeed it does. It is vital that these questions are answered in order to clear up this matter fully. There was obviously an accomplice involved who obtained the keys and was responsible for drugging the night-watchman. Badger Johnson intimated as much when he engaged my services as lookout, but when I pressed him for further information, he clammed up like a zealous oyster.”