Peregrine Harker & the Black Death

by Luke Hollands

  It must have been no more than twenty minutes before the odd creature I’d witnessed earlier returned. I had a sudden sense something was horribly wrong. Archie, however, carried on our conversation, oblivious to the way the strange beast was painfully hobbling across the room.

  “Crikey, old chap, she was a real stunner. Petunia I think her name was. Anyway…”

  But I wasn’t listening. I had suddenly caught a glimpse of the faltering figure’s face. Perhaps it was just drunkenness, but there was something grotesque about it, a combination of intense horror and pain.

  “…and I asked her where she’d bought the blasted thing from, and do you know what she said? You’ll never guess, you know.”

  And how right Archie was, for at that moment the shuffling bundle of rags drew back his head and let out the most blood-curdling of screams. The whole room froze and turned to where he stood.

  “Good God,” cried Archie. “What the devil’s the matter with him?”

  The room fell silent, every face turned to where the strange figure stood. His face was hideously contorted, his lips seemed like they were trying to move. He was definitely trying to mouth something, but what?

  “Speak up shipmate,” someone shouted across the room.

  “What’s he tryin’ to say?” another bellowed.

  And then as if answering their calls the man began to speak. It was hard to understand him at first, but as he continued he became louder and more hysterical.

  “A ghost,” he hissed, his language heavily accented, Indian perhaps? “A ghost in the darkness. A ghost has come. Come to kill us all.” His hands tightened on his clothing, almost ripping the rags from his chest. “The poison, the poison, it burns.”

  All around the room quizzical faces turned to look at each other, what did the fellow mean? There was more.

  “The Black Death,” he hissed, even more laboured this time. “The Black Death has come. Death, there will be death. I have seen…”

  God knows what the madman was on about. Before he could continue he collapsed on the nearest table. Tankards and beer went flying as he broke into a fit. His body convulsing sickeningly.

  “Heavens,” cried Archie, rushing to the now still form. His hands drifted to the creature’s throat. “He’s dead.”

  A swell of murmuring began to ripple round the dim room. Archie motioned for me to come forward.

  “Harker,” he whispered. “Look at the blighter’s face, there’s foul play afoot here and no mistake.”

  He was right. The fellow’s face was wrenched into a horrific leering grin. His lips drawn back over his black, rotting teeth.

  “Quick, that man…There was another man, the back room,” I said, stumbling over my words with excitement.

  “Come on, then,” shouted Archie, drawing his revolver and disappearing towards the back room. “Let’s get the blighter!”

  Just before I gave chase something made me notice the dead man’s filthy hands. They were disgustingly curled, like a pair of beastly claws, but more importantly, in his right hand was clasped a piece of paper. I grabbed it and slipped it into my pocket. A closer inspection would have to wait, for the chase had begun.

  6. Under attack

  The door to the back room was locked when we tried it. Archie unlocked it with two shots from his service revolver, the wood around the lock splintering with the force of the rounds. A hefty kick and we were in. The room gaped back at us, empty except for a rickety old table, three chairs and two filthy glasses. On the table smoke curled slowly upwards from a recently extinguished candle.

  “The candle, Harker,” cried Archie. “See the way it’s melted?”

  I failed to see anything significant, something I made clear to my pal.

  “That candle, Harker, has been alight in a draught. Look at the way it has melted. It has been extinguished by a breeze. The window, quick!”

  And he was right. The small window in front of us appeared to be shut but had been closed without being secured, as if it had been closed from outside. We were through in seconds and into the narrow alleyway behind the drinking den. The hunt was under way.

  It was a bitterly cold night and our breath hung in the air as we paused in the darkness. Somewhere across the river the sad cry of a steam horn drifted towards us. It was met by an answering blast of a deeper, more mournful, tone. Silence, until somewhere in the distance there was a scuffling, then something smashed. And with that we were off again. The alley led downhill to the river and widened up to a series of cobbled walk ways by the water’s edge. To our right, store houses and ropes loomed up out of the darkness; to our left was the river, murky and black as pitch. Steam cranes lined a quiet wharf, towering menacingly like gallows in the night sky. A full moon cast long sinister shadows.

  “We’d better split up,” whispered Archie, before slipping into the darkness. Then I was alone. I could hear his footsteps quickly disappearing, and then silence. The only noise was the gentle slap, slap of the river against the quayside. I paused, allowing my senses to adjust to their surroundings. I held my breath and listened as intently as possible. What was that? A scraping sound? Very faint, but definitely there to my right.

  I tip-toed along the cobbled walkway, my heart pounding in my mouth and there, in the distance, was something dark crawling along the top of a wall. It must be our prey trying to escape. I began to move as quickly and quietly as I could, conscious of the noise my boots were making on the cobbles. I quickened my pace, but when I reached the spot where he’d been, there was no sign. I tried to reach up and climb the wall, to check the other side, but there was no way I could do it alone, I would need Archie. I stuck my fingers in my mouth and gave a shrill whistle. I waited a few seconds, but no reply. I tried again, but received the same silent answer. Then, all of a sudden a huge weight landed on my shoulders, throwing me to the floor. A dark shape blocked out the moonlight and in my stunned state I didn’t realise I was under attack. I turned my head just in time to see a black-gloved fist slam into my nose, and then there was darkness and the night sky covered me like a blanket.

  7. The mysterious symbol

  It was morning before I came to. The blow had pretty much knocked my brains for six. And so it was I awoke in a dock workers’ infirmary, a grubby little place full of stern nurses and disapproving doctors. A rather perplexed Archie Dearlove and a rather serious looking police constable were crouched over me.

  “Morning Harker,” beamed Archie. “Have a drop of this, it’s medicinal,” he said, handing me a hip flask half-full of sugary rum. I took a long swig and spluttered as the fiery liquid filled my mouth. I was about to hand the flask back to Archie when the stern officer of the law snatched it from my grasp.

  “That’s enough of that, lad, I’d rather you kept a clear head, so as you can answer some questions,” he said, in a not-at-all friendly way.

  “Now steady on, old man,” said Archie, snatching the flask back and slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Chap’s been in a nasty jar, he’s had seven bells knocked out of him and the last thing he needs is a jawbation from you. He’s in no state to answer questions. As an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy I…”

  “It’s quite alright constable,” I said, interrupting Archie, who was only trying to bargain his bashed-up comrade some peace, “fire away.”

  The policeman, harrumphed, clearing his throat before licking the tip of his pencil and turning to a fresh page in his pocket notebook. He cast Archie a stern look as he did so, before giving me an obviously fake smile.

  “Now then, Sir,” He began. “What’s all this carry-on about a foreign gent being murdered?”

  I thought it best to keep my account of the night as brief as possible.

  I told the officer I’d been having a quiet evening with an old friend when I saw a man collapse. Being an upstanding citizen I made it my business to investigate the possibility of an attacker. While doing so I must have slipped and knocked myself unconscious. No I did not see anyone sus
picious, no I did not see any clues as to the dead man’s identity, and no I would rather not appear at any official inquest.

  The officer eventually left, but only after a bit more hurrying from Archie. When I was sure he was gone I recounted the real version of events for my friend.

  “Well, I say,” said Archie after a pause. “This is most irregular, you’ve certainly livened up my existence no end!”

  “There was one more thing,” I said, motioning for him to pass my coat which had been draped by my bedside. I pulled out the small piece of paper I’d taken from the dead man’s hand. “I didn’t have a chance to look at this, but it could be useful.”

  Before I unfolded the scrap of dirty white parchment I gave it a little sniff, to see if there was any residue smell. There was a hint of something, was it the sea? I gave it a closer look, but apart from some spots of general grime and muck there were no distinguishing fingerprints or signs. I unfolded it carefully, only to be left even more confused when I saw what was scrawled on the other side. It was a symbol, and one I had never seen before. To describe it simply: it was a triangle, with its point facing downwards, set inside a circle. The circle was then set inside a square. The symbol had been drawn roughly, in thick black ink.

  “I say, do you think this could be the sign of some secret group?” Archie piped up. “Tell you what, leave it with me and I’ll have some of our back room chaps check it out. Now, I should imagine you’re rather keen to head back to your home, what?” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Your fingers will be itching to get to your typewriter no doubt. But I have to ask you as a friend not to send any copy to your editor just yet. A hint of this business in the press and these smugglers could go to ground and we’ll never catch them. I promise you can have your scoop as soon as we’re done, but best to hold off for now. I’ll make sure the local news chaps don‘t catch wind of this, and I’ll put the frighteners up those dock lads. No one will hear of this before you tell them, I promise.”

  I grudgingly agreed. If it had been anyone else I would have said no straight away, but I knew I could trust Archie.

  “Come on then,” he said. “I’ll help you make a break for it. You’ll be back home and scribbling before the police even realise you’re gone, and if they have any questions, they’ll have me to answer to.”

  Within minutes I was up out of bed, dressed in nothing but pyjamas and my damson coloured frock coat, with Archie’s rather large sea boots on my feet. It’s fair to say I looked like a madman. He also slipped a fiver in my pocket to take care of any expenses, or to help sweet talk anyone who might wonder why a boy was wandering the streets in his undergarments. With that I was out of the infirmary window and shimmying down a drainpipe to freedom.

  8. The man with the cigar

  I was soon back at my rooms in Soho, having only had to dodge one suspicious looking police constable, and a gaggle of young ladies coming out of a tea room. But I paid little thought to my appearance. All I could think about was that terrible looking creature from the night before, and his horrific death. What was I caught up in?

  As soon as I reached my home I quickly dashed inside. As I was rushing to close my front door, something, or rather someone, caught my eye. Across the road, almost hidden in the shadows, a rather large man, with sandy blonde hair, was lighting a cigar. It was not this that caught my attention, but the fact he was looking not at his cigar, but directly at me. I put it down to my attire, I was still half-dressed from my visit to the infirmary, and thought nothing more of it, hurrying inside and locking the door behind me. Thank heavens, I was back in safe warm surroundings once again.

  Nestled on Broad Street my humble dwelling is arranged on two levels. There’s a couple of cosy bedrooms upstairs and an airy living-come-dining room below. It may be a small and tatty affair but it’s homely enough. I’m especially fond of the lower level which is furnished with a large comfy sofa, a fetching Moorish carpet and row upon row of books line the walls. A crackling fire is near enough always alight in the grate and can be enjoyed from one of two Windsor chairs which stand in front of an ornate mahogany mantelpiece. It’s the perfect den to retreat to after a day’s scribbling and really should be beyond my means but I can afford it only because of money I inherited following from my parents’ death, so it is something of a small consolation.

  Thinking nothing of food or sleep, or a change of clothes for that matter, I rushed to my bookshelf and took down a dozen volumes of encyclopaedias, almanacs and educational tomes. Before I could even begin to write this story I needed some idea of the foe I faced. As the fearful looking chap was dying he had mentioned something about the Black Death. I scoured the pages in front of me checking the reference, finally alighting on an entry about The Plague. It was a gruesome description of the horrible sickness that ravished Europe in the middle ages, killing half the population in the world. There were pictures of skeletons, and drawings of dead bodies covered in horrible looking boils.

  “The Great Plague,” read the entry, “was the most devastating pandemic in Christian history. Also known as the Black Death due to the terrible bruising and blackening of the victims before death and the fear and terror it caused in the hearts of the civilized world.”

  At first I thought I had a promising lead, but then I remembered the man at the inn had mentioned something about poison and, on second thoughts, his corpse may have looked gruesome, but it was certainly not bruised and smothered in boils. Then, at the end of the article something else caught my attention: “The devastating impact of the Black Death,” it read, “has led some unsavoury groups to adopt it as the title for their organizations. Such groups include anarchists, terrorists and criminal brotherhoods.”

  Then I remembered the mystery symbol found on the corpse, the triangle set inside a circle, set inside a square. Perhaps that was the mark of some evil criminal gang? I hurriedly began searching through a large stack of old newspapers I kept to help me research stories. Perhaps this symbol had been mentioned before? I trawled through each page carefully checking every story. It was several hours later while I was reading a frightful article on a group of Italian stranglers that I suddenly heard a rather peculiar noise coming from downstairs. It was a scraping and jimmying sound. I ignored it at first, but it was still there a few moments later. I was not sure if it was just my nerves, but it sounded as if someone was trying to break in. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Was someone coming to get me? Would I end up like the man in the Pickled Starfish? I was certainly not about to let that happen. I picked up my cricket bat, which was lying discarded by the mantelpiece, kicked on a pair of Arabian slippers and tip-toed out of my rooms and down the stairs towards the front door.

  Evening had drawn in and the house was in pitch blackness, with the only light coming from the street lamps outside filtering through the frosted glass panel above the front door. I froze, there it was again, the same noise. There was definitely someone on the other side of the door. I could even see the round door knob juddering, as if someone was trying to turn it from the other side. Right, I decided, it was time to be brave. If there was a ruffian on the other side of the door, he was about to get a taste of willow from a cricket bat in the chops. I sneaked as quietly as possible to the door and waited for the knob to stop moving. When it had I gently reached down and unlocked the door. I raised my cricket bat and counted to five. As soon as I reached one, I threw the door open violently and swiped my bat viciously ahead of me. But an empty doorway gaped back sarcastically. There was nobody there. I checked the dark, gloomy street, but that too was empty. I would have passed the incident off as nothing more than my nervous imagination, but as I was locking the door I swore I could smell something. Yes, there it was, cigar smoke. Perhaps the man who had been watching me from the street earlier in the day had not been so innocent after all.

  9. Your life is at stake

  My suspicions were confirmed early the next morning when I was awoken by the sound of the postman. I received two l
etters that morning. The first was delivered officially, with a stamp and an address. It was from Archie. It seems a morning’s snooping had led him to discover the dead man’s name. He’d been identified by some dockers as a foreigner by the name of Sanghar Khan, a well-known trickster and magician, who apparently kept food in his belly by performing magic shows for sailors and stevedores. He was a pretty nasty fellow by all accounts and not well liked, but his tricks were second to none and kept many a man entertained. Of those who knew him, it was thought he was Indian.

  Archie also had some idea of the cause of death, kindly given to him by the police physician. It had been confirmed as poisoning. Most likely something mysteriously called aconite poisoning. Aconite he explained was a particularly nasty substance from the East. The physician who had inspected the corpse was unable to determine how the fatal dose had been administered. His hunch was injection.

  But it was not Archie’s letter which unnerved me. There was a second letter. It had not been delivered by the postman. It was a piece of paper, folded in half, with only my surname written on the outside in blue ink. Someone must have slipped it under my door. My mind jumped back to the night before. Perhaps there had been somebody outside and they had left the letter? I hurriedly unfolded the paper.

  It was letterheaded, carrying a typed address for a hotel in Piccadilly I had never heard of. Underneath the address was a hand-written number I took to be the sender’s hotel room. Then my heart skipped a beat as I read the message below: “I know who murdered the man at the docks. I know about the Black Death. My life is at stake. Your life is at stake. If you know what is good for you, you will meet me at my hotel. Please come at once. I will be waiting.”