Peregrine Harker & the Black Death

by Luke Hollands

  Praise for Peregrine

  “Somebody give the boy a medal!” – King Edward VII

  “He’s escaped from more sticky situations than I’ve slipped out of straight-jackets.” – Harry Houdini

  “Looks like he needs a good wash.” – Florence Nightingale

  “What a brain! Never have I seen such an ego.” – Sigmund Freud

  “Damn smart chap with a lovely bowling action to boot.” – W.G. Grace

  “More of a windbag than one of my airships.” – Count von Zeppelin

  “A cool charmer, able to melt the iciest of hearts.” – Scott of the Antarctic

  “Keeps his wits about him, while others are losing theirs.” – Rudyard Kipling

  “Scouting for trouble seems to be his speciality.” – Lord Baden-Powell

  “A little too revolutionary for my liking.” – Tsar Nicholas II of Russia

  Peregrine Harker and the Black Death

  Luke Hollands

  The right of Luke Hollands to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved

  © Sparkling Books Ltd 2013

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or places is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be copied electronically or otherwise nor transmitted by any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  1.1

  BIC code: YFC

  ISBN of e-book: 978-1-907230-49-3

  ISBN of printed book: 978-1-907230-44-8

  @SparklingBooks

  Luke Hollands is a former lion tamer, motorcycle stunt-rider and ruler of a small South American country. He is also a compulsive liar. He learnt how to tell tall tales while interviewing famous politicians, celebrities and criminals as a newspaper journalist.

  Thinking he should get a proper job he joined the BBC. Since then he has produced and presented quirky radio documentaries, appeared in the odd drama and danced on television dressed as a giant bear.

  He now makes wildlife films, some of which he briefly appears in, and has travelled the world, swimming in shark-infested waters, tramping through crocodile-stuffed lagoons and being eaten alive by various species of nibbling insect.

  Surprisingly for Luke, everything apart from the first sentence of this biography is actually true.

  London

  1908

  1. One-way ticket to hell

  Dr Quintus Crick was a traitor. A traitor and a thief to be precise. Which is why he was about to die.

  The good doctor had no way of knowing he was soon to meet his match, the brave boy detective Peregrine Harker. This was fortunate as young Peregrine was sitting but a foot from his delicately polished brogues, in the dining car of the express train to Dover.

  As the locomotive thundered towards the Kent coast, Peregrine studied the face of the man sitting opposite him. It was cold and clammy, like that of a dead fish; his lips were little more than a red scar, clamped tightly together, while his eyes were hidden behind a pair of round smoked glasses. Peregrine watched as the doctor raised a long thin bony hand and smoothed back a lock of his oily black hair.

  Catching Dr Crick had been the toughest case in Peregrine’s career. It had been a gruelling six months since the Prime Minister himself had asked Peregrine to look into the matter personally, and had promised him a knighthood for his troubles. The case had taken him on a merry dance through the cobbled streets of foggy London, to the bustling Souks of Constantinople and around the opera houses of Vienna. All the way he had been ably assisted by his beautiful companion, the ever-brave Miss Petunia Goodheart, the Prime Minister’s niece. Now, sitting here on the 9.15 from Victoria, he was finally face-to-face with the evil genius who had stolen none other than the Crown Jewels.

  Dr Crick took a sip of coffee from the bone china cup in front of him. His clammy features briefly contorted into a grimace.

  “Excuse me, young man,” he hissed at Peregrine, lisping through a set of crooked teeth. “Would you please pass the sugar bowl?”

  “Of course,” replied Peregrine smugly, sliding the bowl of sugar lumps across the table that separated them. “But only if you give me the Crown Jewels in return, you despicable bounder.”

  Dr Crick’s pale face briefly flushed red and he let out a world-weary sigh, less in desperation or fear, and more in mild annoyance, as if someone had just asked him to lend them a ten-bob note. He gave a brief manic chuckle.

  “I suspected they would send someone after me,” he spat viciously. “But I did not expect them to send a child. What makes you think I’m going to give you my spoils, boy?”

  “Because if you don’t,” said Peregrine, smiling in return, “you’ll be dead.”

  As soon as the words had left his mouth, Peregrine pulled back the hammer of the trusty service revolver he had concealed under the table. It was now pointing right at Crick’s stomach.

  “Ah, you mean to shoot me,” chuckled Crick, hearing the click of the revolver, “on a train, surrounded by witnesses. Well, I would like to see you try, young man; but unfortunately I shall not have that pleasure because long before you pull that trigger you shall be dead, killed by the poison I placed in your coffee. Yes, that’s right. I suspected you had been sent from Scotland Yard the very moment you chose to sit opposite me and while I shall be boarding a ferry to France this afternoon, the undertaker will be measuring you for a coffin,” he finished with a wild laugh.

  Peregrine sat quietly for a second and without a hint of fear on his stony face picked up his coffee cup and drank down every last drop in one satisfied gulp.

  “Ah, you are quite right, Dr Crick; there is something wrong with my coffee,” he said coolly. “It is a little too sweet for my liking. I never take sugar with a hot beverage, whereas you always do,” he said, reaching across the table and switching his cup for the doctor’s, “do you not?”

  Dr Crick’s face took on a puzzled look. Whatever was the boy blithering about, and then it hit him. He had poisoned his own coffee!

  “That’s right, Dr Crick; I switched our cups not ten minutes ago, as we passed through that tunnel. So while this afternoon the undertaker will be measuring you for a coffin, I shall be having tea and crumpets with the King himself.”

  Crick’s face turned even paler than before. He looked down at his cup, he had sipped at least half of it, more than enough for a fatal dose. He reached for his chest and let out a quiet agonising gasp. The boy was right, he could feel the poison working its deadly effects already.

  “You may kill me, boy,” he hissed. “But you will not be able to save your delightful companion Miss Goodheart. For in ten minutes she will be dead, crushed by the wheels of this train. She is tied to the tracks ahead of us, and there is nothing you can do to prevent her demise. I paid the driver and his crew to jump from their engine at Bekesbourne, I was to follow them shortly afterwards, but now it looks as if I shall be travelling to another place.”

  You will indeed, thought Peregrine, his mind racing, straight to hell you devil! And before the evil doctor had drawn his last breath Peregrine was up and running towards the front of the train. Clasped in his hand was Crick’s carpet bag, which he knew was packed full of the royal booty. In his haste, Peregrine sent a waiter with a tray of brown Windsor soup flying. The viscous substance landing in the lap of a rather bemused vicar. But he did
not dare stop, he had to save Petunia.

  Peregrine made it as far towards the front of the train as he possibly could, but there was no connecting door to the locomotive. He would have to climb outside. Taking the butt of his revolver he slammed it into the window next to him, sending shards of glass flying. A harsh wind came blowing into the carriage. He knocked the remaining shards clear from the window, before slinging the carpet bag across his shoulder and leaning out dangerously. He was thrown backwards by a blast of cold air. Bringing his free hand up to shield his face he could see something up ahead on the tracks. It was white and billowing in the breeze. It took him a while to work out what it was, but then the sickening realisation flooded over him. It was Petunia, in her long white flowing dress. Damn and blast it. She was a lot closer than he had expected. Even if he could reach the locomotive and find a brake, or extinguish the fire in the boiler, there was no way the thundering train would be able to stop in time. All was lost.

  And then he saw it. Salvation. Up ahead lay not only the prone body of his faithful companion, but also a set of points and a lever to throw them. One nudge of the controlling lever and the train would shift on to a parallel track saving Petunia’s life.

  There was only one thing he could do. He raised his revolver and checked the chamber, three rounds remaining. He would have to keep a steady hand, but if only one round hit the lever it might just work. Holding the revolver with both hands he rested his finger on the trigger, shut one eye, and took aim. When the lever was in his sights he held his breath, and then squeezed the trigger: BANG, BANG…

  2. Trouble brewing

  …BANG. A fist slammed on to my desk for a third time.

  “Harker! Harker, my boy! Rise and shine.”

  I opened my eyes, and then immediately shut them again, realising I had been asleep. I gradually opened first my left eye and then my right, taking in my surroundings. I was in the newsroom of the Evening Inquirer, my head resting on my notepad. Around me was the din of two-dozen clacking typewriters as busy journalists frantically recorded the day’s news.

  Through a rain-splattered window I could see a brown smudge of smoggy sky. Below, men in top hats and frock coats made their way along Fleet Street, with the occasional cloth-capped copy boy running alongside them.

  I was at my workplace in London.

  There was no train, no secret mission, and no Petunia. I had been dreaming again.

  I looked up and saw Reginald Morton, news editor of the Evening Inquirer, leaning over me. He picked up a tattered magazine from my desk and momentarily thumbed the pages.

  “I see you’ve been reading the Penny Dreadful again, Harker. Nothing but a load of fanciful tosh. Next you’ll be dreaming you’re a bally hero, instead of a simple hack. Well, there’s no time for that, I can tell you. The editor wants to see you in his office right away. Come on lad, jump to it!”

  I reluctantly stood up and made my way to the large mahogany door at the end of the office that bore the name:

  Jabez Challock – Editor

  I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles reached the woodwork a voice boomed from inside.

  “Harker, get in here now!”

  I slowly opened the door to find the familiar form of Jabez Challock sitting behind a large wooden desk. He was dressed in a garish checked suit, and a large pipe hung from his lips, blue smoke curling upwards, around his piggy face.

  Challock was a larger-than-life Yorkshireman with a fearsome reputation. He was well known in Fleet Street for his outrageous manners, impressive moustache and terrible wind. He was an editor who could terrify even the bravest of chaps.

  “Sit down, boy,” he grunted, pointing to a chair in front of a large mahogany desk.

  “How old are you, lad?”

  “Fifteen, sir,” I answered.

  “Fifteen, eh. And you’ve been a reporter with us for three months?”

  I nodded in reply, wondering what he was getting at. I was about to find out.

  “In the past twelve weeks you’ve been late for work five times, had a scrap in the newsroom twice and even been in trouble with the police.” His chubby cheeks wobbled as he spoke. “That’s not to mention how scruffy you look, you’re like a tall bag of bones with a straw mop on top.” He paused, narrowing his angry gaze. “But the worst thing Harker, the worst thing,” he continued, “are these tall tales you keep blithering on about. I’ve not had one decent bit of copy from you, lad, since you started. You’re too busy chasing make-believe tales of spies, thieves and saboteurs. None of which have been true. You’re living in a dream world, lad. And it won’t do, it won’t do at all.”

  I sat there silently, half expecting him to jump across the desk and hit me, but instead he opened a drawer and pulled out a wedge of papers. He looked at them with disgust.

  “Just look at this nonsense. Last week alone you tried to convince me a Dowager Duchess was selling stolen diamonds from the Cape, a group of anarchist lamplighters wanted to plunge London into darkness and there was a foreign plot to lace the King’s crumpets with arsenic. This is a newspaper, Harker, not a Penny Dreadful.

  “By all accounts I should throw your useless backside out of this office and kick you all the way to the workhouse. But I’m not a monster, lad. I know you’ve had some dark days recently with the death of your parents. Sir Michelmas Harker was one of the best explorers this country has ever seen and the reports he sent back to this newspaper were second to none. You may not know this, lad, but I promised your father if anything happened to him I would look after you. So when he and your mother, Lady Octavia, went missing in Peru, the least I could do was take you on. Which is why I’m going to give you another chance, only one mind, but a chance nonetheless to show me you can actually do what I pay you for.” He paused for a second and mysteriously pushed forward a dainty cup and saucer, full to the brim with steaming hot char. “Now then, my boy,” he said, losing something of his angry tone, “what do you know about tea?”

  “Tea, sir?” I said, perplexed.

  “Yes, lad, tea,” he replied, his angry tone returning. “Tell me what you know about the humble British brew.”

  “Well, apart from the fact I like to take mine with a dash of milk, not very much, sir,” I said, stalling for time. “From what I recall it is derived from the leaf tips of a rather particular plant grown in large plantations in India, famously in Assam and Ceylon. It is hand-picked and shipped to Britain on board tea clippers in large wooden chests. Great quantities of it pass through the wharves and docks in South London every day. Traders haggle over the price with the importers, buy what they can afford and distribute it across the nation, where it is sold in tea houses and penny bazaars to all and sundry. I would not be surprised if everyone from the lowest vagrant to His Majesty himself has at least one cup a day. In fact I would go as far as to say, after water, it is very likely the most popular beverage in the world,” I finished, rather pleased with myself.

  “Indeed it is, lad. Indeed it is,” replied Challock looking worried. “Which is why the assignment I am about to send you on is of the gravest importance. This humble little cup of stewed leaves and warm water is the oil that keeps the cogs of Empire moving smoothly. If you were to deny the humble British labourer his morning cup there would be riots on the streets of every major city from here to Rangoon; and, in a few months, I believe that very tragedy is about to happen. There’s trouble brewing and no mistake.”

  I chuckled at what I thought was a joke, but Challock’s face remained serious.

  “This is no laughing matter, Harker. You see, during the past few weeks, the keen-eyed of us, have been noticing tea prices shooting sky-high. If they continue to rise at this rate it won’t be long before the tea pots of the British Empire are dry. Even my wife tells me we might have to stop having it delivered to our house. This will not do, Harker. It will not do at all. Which is why I am commissioning you to get to the bottom of it all. I am giving you two weeks to find out why tea prices are on
the rise.”

  I felt like groaning. This was not the kind of thing a young lad should be doing, worrying about the price of consumables, he should be cutting a dashing figure around town on the hunt for stories that thrilled and excited his readers. Before my disappointment could grow any deeper, Challock brought me out of my funk.

  “I’ve already made a start for you, lad. You have an appointment with a tea trader called Clayton in Cutler Street in an hour, so you had better hurry.”

  With that he returned to looking at some copy, studying it intently as if I was not even there. I sat for a second wondering what I should do before rising and heading to the door. But before I could leave, Challock stopped me.

  “Oh, Harker. The deal is, lad, if you come back with the goods you can keep your job but if you fail, if you don’t do as you are told, and instead go off on the trail of armed villains and vagabonds, then don’t think of returning to this newspaper again. Good day to you, Harker. Good day.”

  3. Buried alive

  As my cab drew up at Cutler Street, I began to feel this assignment might not be quite as dull as I was expecting. The place was teeming with life and movement and colour. Above me brown-bricked warehouses towered six storeys into the murky winter sky. From every window and opening, labourers were busy at work, shouting and bellowing to their mates, their breath hanging in the wintry sky. Bales of fine coloured silks, crates of ostrich feathers, and barrels of wine were being hauled up from the ground, by clanking iron chains, and into the belly of the brick beast, where no doubt they were being carried off to sorting halls and showrooms. On the ground, packing-cases of bananas and chests of tea were being delivered by vans and carts at an almost constant rate. Boys younger than myself were running round each crate as it arrived, checking the numbers daubed on the sides against grubby lists clasped in their hands. The whole picture reminded me of an anthill.

  Stepping from the cab a bitter wind caught my overcoat. There was a touch of snow in the air, and I watched as it fell into the dimpled leather of my brogues. Pulling my collar up I stepped into the throng of people. Wherever there was space, men had lit glowing briers, and those taking a break were gathered around them drinking tea from chipped enamel mugs and smoking dog-eared cigarettes.