Peregrine Harker & the Black Death

by Luke Hollands

  I examined the name and address I had been given for my appointment. By the look of things I was to meet someone by the name of Sir Magnus Clayton in an office on the fifth floor of a crumbling building known as the Old Bengal Warehouse. With a little help from an errand boy I made my way to the entrance. It lay in a dark cobbled road behind the main row of warehouses. A couple of flickering gas lamps were already alight. Thank goodness they were. Despite being the middle of the day, the sun was hidden behind a thick screen of smog and cloud, and without their guiding lights I would have been stumbling over my own feet. For some reason I suddenly felt quite afraid. The situation was not made any more appealing by the appearance of a funeral hearse parked up ahead. Two black horses, with black feathered plumes attached to their foreheads, stood in front of a black windowless carriage. On the kerb next to the hearse was the unmistakable shape of a coffin. A shudder ran down my spine.

  I went to move off, but my curiosity stopped me. Why would someone be collecting a coffin from a dock warehouse? Why had they simply discarded it by the roadside? More importantly, why was I not already investigating? Well, there was nobody about, so now was my chance. As I walked towards the ominous box, Challock’s words rang in my ears: ‘If you don’t do as you are told, don’t think about returning to this newspaper ever again!’ That may well be the case, I pondered, but just one look surely wouldn’t hurt, and anyway who gives a fig about tea: coffins are much more interesting.

  I quickly glanced round the street, checking the coast was clear, then made my way to the long box. Keeping in the shadows to remain unseen I knelt down to take a look. It was a most peculiar affair, shoddily made out of rough wooden planks. There were gaps between the slats and I could just see through. The faint light from a nearby gas lamp caught on something inside. Whatever was in there, it was certainly not a body. It looked almost metallic, glinting in the gloomy light. I would need a closer look. If only I could get it under the light of the gas lamp, I would have a better idea of its contents. There was only one thing for it, I would have to move the coffin. Putting both hands on the end of the casket I tried to give it a shove, but it stayed fast on the frosty kerb. I tried again, putting all my weight behind it, my legs and arms straining for all they were worth, but it refused to budge even an inch. Whatever was inside, it was extremely heavy.

  I had just about made up my mind to open the thing and take a peek when I suddenly heard a noise from behind me. It was the approaching sound of shuffling feet. I had to hide, and fast. I stopped what I was doing, dropped to the floor and rolled under the carriage. It was dark beneath the hearse, dark and cold. I could feel the damp, frozen, cobbles beneath me and my nostrils were full of the pungent hay-like smell of the horses in front. I could hear the steps coming closer, and then, out of the fog and gloom appeared two sets of booted feet. There was a puffing and groaning noise, as if the mystery pair were carrying something heavy. Then their arms came into view as they lowered an object to the ground next to me. It was another coffin.

  “Cor blimey, what the blast’s in these caskets. I almost bust a lung carting ’em down them stairs,” said a voice. It was high-pitched and nasal, but there was something chilling and vicious about it.

  “Never you mind, boy,” replied a completely different voice. This one deep and throaty, like the growl of an untamed beast. “You know the rules. No looking in the boxes, and no asking questions, unless you want to end up floating face down in the Thames that is.” At this the pair chuckled. I heard the rasp of matches and then caught a whiff of tobacco smoke as they lit cigarettes.

  “Speaking of which,” said the high-pitched man. “What did happen with old Bert?”

  “Well, according to the Peelers, he was just another floater. Accident at the docks they said. But between you and me, lad; it was my hands what done him in. Right round his scrawny neck.” The pair laughed again. “He was off to see the boss, weren‘t he? Going to tell him he’d found something going on down here. Silly old duffer. What did he expect?”

  The high-pitched man let out a frightened laugh.

  “You wouldn’t do me in, would yer?” he said nervously.

  “Of course not, boy,” came the reply. “As long as you don’t go looking in them boxes.”

  There was another nervous laugh. “Now come on, we better get these shifted before anyone sees.”

  With that the pair threw their cigarette ends on the floor and stubbed them out under their grubby shoes. Right then, I should have been thinking of my safety, but all I could think about was the amazing scoop I was about to write. I had a confession of a murder, not to mention the mystery contents of the coffins. If only I had been paying attention. As the pair bent down to pick up the casket resting by the kerb, I suddenly caught a glimpse of a grimy face turned towards me.

  “Here, who the ’ell are you?” It was the squeaky-voiced man, who was quickly joined by his companion, a grubby, chubby-faced brute missing most of his teeth.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve got ourselves an eavesdropper,” the other man chuckled. “And we know what happens to them.”

  Before I had time to think, a strong pair of hands gripped my ankles and yanked me towards them. Within a second I was hauled up against the carriage, my face pressed against the glossy black woodwork, my arms held firmly behind my back.

  “Shall I tell you what happens to eavesdroppers, lad?” the deep-voiced man continued.

  “You won’t if you know what’s good for you,” I spat, trying to keep up a sense of bravado. My captor let out a horrid laugh.

  “You’ve got spirit, boy, but that won’t help yer,” he chuckled. “Not when you’re buried alive.” I heard him turn to the other man. “Fetch me a coffin and be quick about it.”

  No matter how hard I struggled I couldn’t escape. I struggled and squirmed, but the scoundrels had me gripped tightly. Behind me I heard a scraping and clattering noise. Then all of a sudden I was thrown backwards and shoved to the floor. At first I didn’t realise what had happened, but then it dawned on me, I had been shoved into one of the wooden boxes. I just caught a glimpse of two evil faces grinning above me, before a rough wooden lid was thrown on top of me. I tried to kick out, and force my way from the coffin, but it was no good, they were nailing it shut.

  “Right, lad, we’re off, we got business to mind, but we’ll be back for you later,” said the deep-voiced man. “Don’t you go running off now,” he laughed. “We wants to have words with you, before we send you six feet under.”

  With that I heard the trundle of the undertaker’s carriage pulling away from the kerb. Then I was alone. This was not good. This was not good at all. I was trapped fast in the coffin. It was so small I could hardly move, my arms were held close to my sides, and the lid was a hair’s breadth from my nose. There was no escape. My only way out would be to get help. I shouted out in panic, bellowing and bleating until my throat was raw but my calls were in vain. Why had I not paid attention to Challock? Why had I not simply followed his instructions to do as I was told? They say curiosity killed the cat. Well it looked like it was about to finish me off too.

  After half-an-hour of sweating and panicking I heard the trundle of the undertaker’s carriage returning. This would be my only chance to get free. If they so much as lifted the lid for a second, I would kick out with all my strength and try to wrestle free from the coffin.

  I heard the carriage stop and then a pair of footsteps. I readied myself for action. The footsteps came closer and closer, until they were right beside me. Then, thank God, I heard a scraping and a knocking and the lid was torn from the coffin. I kicked out with all my might, and looking up saw the body of a man go flying. I was free. I jumped to my feet and flew at my attacker, grabbing him round the throat. It was only then I realised the man who had opened the coffin was not one of my attackers. Looking back at me was a vision from my past. At first I didn’t quite recognise him. His face had aged since we had last met, but how could I not remember that beaming
smile and those piercing eyes? It was unmistakably Archie Dearlove.

  4. It’s all about smugglers

  Archie Dearlove was not only my cousin, he was a close childhood pal and the most dependable brick one could wish to meet. It was ironic, the last time I’d seen him we had been playing at pirates. Now he was standing in front of me, dressed in the uniform of a Royal Navy officer. I’d never thought of Archie being much older than me, even though he was, by at least five years. Looking at him now he seemed very grown up. By the uniform he was wearing and the strip of braid that trimmed his cuffs his proper title was Lieutenant Archie Dearlove of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  “My God, Archie, is it really you? What the devil are you doing here?” I stuttered, completely baffled, dropping my hands from around his neck.

  “Good to see you too, old boy,” he chuckled heartily, pulling himself up. “Although I’m not so sure of the welcome, but I’ll forgive you given the circumstances. Now hurry, into my carriage, there’s no time for explanations I’m afraid, I’m expecting those ruffians back any second.”

  It took me a while to move, the shock of Archie’s arrival had frozen me to the spot. It had been such a long time since we had seen each other, but I eventually made my way to the carriage, my mind reeling.

  Archie had been there at the saddest moment in my life: the tragic death of my parents. My mother and father were intrepid explorers. They travelled the world visiting fascinating places, writing books and drawing maps. They went everywhere, from Rangoon to Peking and from Constantinople to Cuzco. Sometimes I would go with them on their adventures, it was the most exciting life a young boy could dream of. Other times I would stay in Britain and eagerly wait for them to return from some distant corner of the world. But on one of those occasions they didn’t return. They were last seen paddling up the Orinoco River in South America. Their bodies were never found. I remember the newspaper headlines vividly: THE LOST EXPLORERS. If that wasn’t enough of a tragic event, what followed afterwards certainly was. I was packed off to a series of terrifying boarding schools, each one of them like a fearsome prison. Outside term time I lived with a collection of stuffy old aunts, uncles and second cousins. It was truly an awful time, that is until I was sent to stay with Archie.

  Archie’s father, Sir Oliphant Dearlove, was only distantly related to my father, but he had always been treated as an uncle. After being thrown out of the houses of all my real aunts and uncles for talking back, fighting, and generally being a brat, I was packed off to Sir Oliphant’s mansion in the Sussex countryside. He was a captain in the Royal Navy and spent a lot of time at sea. This meant Archie and I often had the house and the grounds to ourselves. I remember those long summers well. Archie taught me how to box like a prize fighter, fence like a swordsman and fire a pistol with expert precision. We camped in the grounds and lived by eating nuts and berries. Sometimes we would borrow his father’s dinghy and sail along the South Coast or take a pair of horses from the stables and ride across the South Downs. But no matter how good life was at Archie’s, I still had to go back to boarding school afterwards. Back to the beatings, the bullying and the bad grub. Eventually I was so sick of it I decided to run away and set up life in London. I had a little money left to me by my parents, enough to take a small flat in Soho, and when Challock heard I was in town he took pity on me and offered me a job. My father had written reports of his travels for Challock’s newspaper and, for some reason, the fearsome editor felt he owed me a debt of honour. Which is how I became a journalist.

  It had been a few years since I had seen Archie properly. Shortly after we’d parted he’d set his heart on joining the Royal Navy. Now here he was, dressed in an officer’s uniform and sitting next to me in a carriage, having freed me from a coffin, and the clutches of an evil pair of ruffians.

  “Right, now we’re on the move, you’d better tell me what the devil you were doing in that box,” said Archie seriously. There was a stern look on his face.

  I briefly ran through my assignment. As I explained the situation Archie nodded politely and did not interrupt. When I had finished he sat quietly for a second with his eyes closed, deep in thought. After a few moments he opened them.

  “Well, Harker, I’m afraid this little assignment has got you caught up in something very, very dangerous. If I tell you why I am here, you must promise to keep my name from the newspapers. In return, I can offer you an adventure, and the biggest scoop of your career.”

  I nodded in agreement, already feeling the shock of my imprisonment in the box disappearing, and the excitement of chasing a big scoop taking its place.

  “Very good,” said Archie. “Well, to put it simply, it’s all about smugglers. Very dangerous smugglers to be precise, and I think your tea story has something to do with it.

  “As I’m sure you have guessed by my uniform, I did eventually make it into the Navy. After messing about in boats for a few years I decided the sea life wasn’t really for me, all that hard tack and swabbing the decks, so I opted for a shore posting. Well, the only thing going was a special new post working alongside the customs and excise men, making sure our ports and dockyards were all shipshape and above board.

  “During the last few months we too have noticed the rising cost of tea, and it’s been a bit of a worry, as I’m sure you can imagine. God only knows what would happen if the nation couldn’t have a cup of char in the morning. But there’s more to it than that. We think the tea prices are being affected by smugglers. Somehow tea shipments are just disappearing. We checked all the records for shipments for the past few months and something curious is happening. They’re registered as leaving India in vast quantities, but when the ships reach Blighty, it appears the tea has vanished, and been replaced by other cargo. In some cases it is coffins, which are notoriously hard to gain permission to search. I’ve tried to quiz some of the crews, but they shut up shop before I can even pop a question. They’re as thick as thieves the lot of them. Last week the Navy sent a ship to board one of these cargo boats in the middle of its passage, and what did they find? They found tea, just as they should have, but when the boat reached London, the tea had vanished. Tons of it just disappeared into thin air. That’s why I was at the warehouses in Cutler Street, looking into that chap Magnus Clayton’s business. He seems to be involved, but I can’t quite work out how. Now I know for certain his business is tied up in it somehow, just look at that damned close run-in you had with those ruffians. They certainly had something to hide. Now, did you get a look at their faces? Do you think you would be able to point them out if you saw them again?”

  Well, the street had been so gloomy and dark, I wouldn’t have been able to recognize my own face, if I had seen a reflection, let alone the faces of two strangers. But there was something about their manner that made me think I could spot them in a crowd, and I certainly remembered their voices. That was good enough for Archie.

  “Right, then,” he said. “That settles it. I’m taking you for dinner at the Pickled Starfish. I see you’ve never heard of the name. Well, to rough-necked sailors and salty sea dogs in these parts it’s their favourite drinking den. If we’re going to find those chaps anywhere, it’ll be there.” He paused for as second, checking his watch. “My goodness, is that the time? We had better be heading there straight away.”

  With that we sped off into the fading evening light. The adventure had begun, and if I knew then what turn of events were about to unfold, I would have jumped out of that carriage without a second thought.

  5. Ghost in the darkness

  The Pickled Starfish was a lonely inn by the edge of a gloomy corner of the Thames. It was dark when we arrived, and I was desperate to get into the warm surroundings of the pub.

  According to Archie this riverside drinking den had once been used by the Royal Navy for everything from offices to ships’ stores. It was eventually sold to raise money to build new warships and had been bought by an enterprising ex-sailor who’d decided to earn a little by selling
a lot of cheap booze.

  I took a table in a dark corner and waited while Archie ordered a ginger beer for me and a sherry for himself. The long vault-like apartment was full to bursting with old hands, new hands and some even without hands. It was a wild place, full of wild people.

  “Well, here we are then, Harker,” said Archie, sitting down next to me smiling. “Playing together again, just like the old days, eh; although the stakes are a little higher this time. Now keep your eyes peeled and let’s see if we can catch the blighters.”

  As the night wore on we worked our way through mounds of doorstep ham and chutney sandwiches washed down with delicious ginger beer. Every so often I would cast a glance about us in the hope of spying our wanted men, but it was to no avail so we passed the time by talking of the old days and of days yet to come. The conversation had reached a natural lull when I noticed a most peculiar fellow. Then again it would have been hard not to.

  I spotted him as soon as he walked in. I say “walked in,” but it was more like a crawl. His skin was much darker than those around him, and it was more than just weather-beaten. It was pock-marked, and cratered to the extent he could almost have been the victim of an acid thrower. It was the most fearsome face I’d ever seen, and I didn’t like the cut of his jib at all.

  The odd creature slid across the floor, checking over his shoulder all the way, before slipping into a back room, his grubby hands struggling with the brass door handle. Shortly afterwards a more ordinary gentleman crossed the floor and entered the same room. I say ordinary, but there was something slightly odd about him too. He was dressed in a heavy black suit, a black silk tie and a pair of black leather gloves, topped off with layers of scarves, mufflers and cloaks. A little over the top I thought, even with the cold weather. I dismissed the pair as part of the colourful bunch of characters one usually finds down by the docks and instead settled into a conversation with Archie.