Peregrine Harker & the Black Death

by Luke Hollands

  “He cannot have just vanished, Harker,” he snapped viciously. “Where the blazes did he go?” He glowered at me with eyes full of fire. He was a quite different man. I held his gaze.

  “I haven’t a clue, I’m afraid,” I replied sincerely. He stared at me a moment longer before his face returned to its usual kindness.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “But after the events of last night I’m a little bit anxious for your safety as much as for my own. In this present climate it’s hard not to see thieves and murderers around every corner. How are you Harker? You must be terribly shaken.”

  I let Sir Magnus know I was well, if not a little bit confused and asked him if he had an explanation for the explosion.

  “I’m afraid, Harker, we’re still unsure as to what happened. We presume the smugglers caught wind of our plans and decided to kill two birds with one stone, namely destroy all traces of their treachery with a bomb, and take you out of the equation in the process. I hope last night’s events haven’t dissuaded you from helping me further?”

  I let him know they hadn’t. If my life was at risk, it would be safer to keep the might of someone like Sir Magnus on my side, after all I was in too deeply to pull out now.

  “Very good, Harker. I must say I think you are incredibly brave. I knew this would be a dangerous assignment, but I’m sorry old boy I didn’t realise quite how dangerous it would be. Which is why I have brought you this,” he said, taking a small cloth-wrapped package from his inner pocket, and a small cloth pouch. He passed them to me. The larger package felt heavy and cold, while the smaller pouch gave a metallic jangle. I began to unwrap the heavier package, but Sir Magnus stopped me.

  “Not here, Harker. Within those bindings you will find a loaded gun, a British Army service revolver. In fact it is the same one you used to scare away the criminal who chased you in my motorcar. In the pouch is extra ammunition, should you need it. Place the revolver in your pocket and keep it there at all times. Do not take it out unless you really need it.”

  I shuddered slightly at the thought of this brutal weapon sitting in my jacket, but did as I was instructed. Sir Magnus presented me with another package. A brown paper bag.

  “Perhaps it is an appropriate time for me to give you this,” he said handing it over. “It is a token of my gratitude and a token of my sincere apologies for the danger you faced last night.”

  I couldn’t resist a brief look inside. It was packed with crisp pound notes. Well, well, this was turning out to be quite an adventure.

  “I thought you might like that,” said Clayton, seeing my obvious pleasure. “Now then, I think that concludes our business here. It is probably best if you return home and stay there until we send further instructions.”

  There were many things I would have liked to ask about this incredibly confusing situation, but strangely only one came to mind. The issue of Louisa’s safety at the hands of Grey. I gave Sir Magnus a shortened version of my fears. I saw he was listening carefully. He nodded occasionally and when I’d finished, paused slightly before replying.

  “I thank you for your concern, Mr Harker, but I’m afraid it is most probably misplaced. I know a little of friend Grey’s past misdemeanours but I truly believe in the possibility of change. I believe Mr Grey has, shall we say, amended certain aspects of his character, since you last met. I admit he can sometimes appear obnoxious, and even repulsive, but I only see that as a virtue when he’s in such close proximity to my precious daughter. He will certainly not be winning her affections any time soon. Which alleviates at least one of my worries,” he concluded, leaving me feeling fobbed off. “Now then, Harker, please keep vigilant, and let me know if that Raja fellow or anyone else for that matter approaches you. It’s hard to know who to trust, and in my opinion it is better to trust nobody. Goodnight, Harker.”

  It was only a short distance from Hanover Square to my residence so I decided to walk to clear my head. The temperature had dropped again but it felt good to breathe in the bracing air. I was not much of a distance from the club when I swore I heard a pair of footsteps following me. I quickened my pace to see if they did the same. They did. Perhaps it was Sir Magnus? I stopped and turned to see who was on my tail, but there was no one there, just an empty street. I shrugged my shoulders, perhaps it was just my mind playing tricks on me again, but Sir Magnus’s words about being aware came to the front of my thoughts. I reached inside my jacket and gently freed the revolver from its bindings. The weight of the weapon in my pocket gave me some slight comfort. I turned and began walking, faster this time. But only seconds later I felt a vicious blow to the back of my neck, I fell down to the floor, winded and gasping for breath. There was another blow, and another, a fourth blow landed on the side of my skull. I raised my arms to cover myself and tried to rise, hurriedly scrambling for the revolver. More blows rained down, I turned to face my attacker, and received a clout in the face. Suddenly my revolver came into my grasp, I pulled it free and fired wildly. The shot lit up the night sky, but a moment later the world turned dark, very dark indeed as a final blow connected with my head and knocked me unconscious.

  19. Stop meddling

  My eyelids refused to open. Shapes were moving in the distance, silhouettes drifting towards me. I tried to force them to move, but the bright light snapped them shut. I persevered and eventually rubbed them open. Before me was a dazzling vision. Was it an angel dressed in white? Was this the end of my life? Was I in heaven? The vision spoke.

  “Father, quick, he’s coming to.”

  I recognised that voice. It was important, why was it important?

  “Father, hurry, he’s coming round.”

  It was Louisa! I dragged myself upright and took in my surroundings. I was lying on a sofa in a light and airy breakfast room, dressed in pyjamas and propped up with a mountain of cushions. For some reason a bandage was wrapped tightly around my head. I winced as I tried to move, then the memories of the previous night flooded back to me. The attack, the beating, I must get up, I tried to move again.

  “Be still Mr Harker, you must rest and build up your strength, here drink this,” she passed me a cup of delicious hot tea. I accepted it gladly. But before I could thank her Sir Magnus entered the room.

  “My dear boy, back with the world of the living at last, eh? We have been most worried about you, most worried indeed. Louisa here has nursed you through the night.”

  He then proceeded to fill in the gaps of my memory. It seems he’d been finishing a drink in the club when he had heard me fire the revolver. In the light of the business we had been discussing he rushed into the street, fearing the worst. That’s where he found me, huddled in a bloody heap and unconscious. At his orders I was transported back to his house where the young Louisa had insisted on tending to me.

  I wrenched myself upwards, an agonising pain shot through my ribcage. I took Louisa’s hand gently. “Thank you my dear, that was most kind of you.” she smiled warmly in reply. I suspected she was about to speak, but her father interrupted our silent moment.

  “My dear, would you please leave us for a moment? We have some most urgent matters to discuss.”

  I let go of Louisa’s hand as she stood up. I watched her leave the room. She looked more stunning than ever and I felt quite distracted. But there were more pressing matters.

  “Now Harker, I was perhaps a little lean with the truth in the presence of my daughter. There was one more thing. A note was found stuffed in the pocket of your overcoat.” He produced a small piece of folded yellowing parchment and handed it to me. I opened it to reveal a brief black inky message. It was short and simple: “STOP MEDDLING IN THE AFFAIRS OF THE BLACK DEATH.” I handed it back to him. “I think that gives us some idea who was behind this savage attack. There, I think, is also positive proof that our smuggler friends have you in their sights for something more serious. God only knows what they would have achieved had you not raised the alarm. I think it would be for the best if you remain here as my guest for a few d
ays. Now before you reject my offer, Mr Grey has had to take a short spell of leave. So you would be doing me a great favour by agreeing to stay, if only to help protect dear Louisa. I will arrange for some of your things to be delivered here post-haste.”

  I must say the thought of lounging about this beautiful house with Sir Magnus’s intriguing daughter was certainly appealing. I agreed straight away. And what a time it turned out to be. Those few days of rest and recuperation were some of the happiest I’d experienced for a long time. Each day Louisa dressed my wounds and applied fresh bandages. She helped me at meal times and read to me from the morning and evening newspapers. After a couple of days I was well enough to leave my bed. I spent that time wandering in Clayton’s rose garden. Louisa accom-panied me on my jaunts and each day we spent a few enjoyable hours in each other’s company. I learnt she was extremely well educated. We talked of the world, of her time in Paris and, in particular, modern politics. She revealed she was a keen supporter of the Suffragette cause for women’s rights and had even threatened to attend a rally, to the severe disapproval of her father. Those mornings together were bliss but like all good things I knew they had to come to an end.

  It was several days after the attack and I was starting to feel much better. I’d been for my usual morning wander. Louisa was not hungry, so I was breakfasting alone. I was enjoying kedgeree and The Times when Sir Magnus entered, breaking the silence. “How are you feeling, dear boy? You seem to have improved greatly.”

  It was true. I did feel a good deal stronger. And although I was enjoying my rest, I was also itching for a spot of action.

  “I’m afraid I need you to do something for me,” continued Sir Magnus. “Nothing too serious you understand, just keeping an eye on some business. But this time I am sure I can guarantee no explosions, no beatings, and no funny business.”

  “Certainly,” I nodded, keen to do whatever I could to get revenge on my attackers, no matter how small and insignificant the act. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

  “Well,” said Sir Magnus. “I’ve been consulting some of my sources and I have an inkling who the chaps were who threw you in that coffin. If we can catch them perhaps they will reveal the secrets of the Black Death. Now, if they are to be found anywhere, then it is at the Inn of Double Happiness. It is an illegal boxing den in Rotherhithe run by a gang of Chinese criminals where ruffians go to drink and gamble on the fights. If you are feeling up to scratch Harker then it would be most useful if you could go there this evening and see if you can spy them out.”

  20. Nightmarish faces

  As evening fell I found myself being driven deep into the heart of the Eastern slums, through cobbled dock streets and past stinking dwellings. We weaved our way through the vile alleys that lurk east of London Bridge, past gin shops and slop shops. The cab driver would only take me so far.

  “Down there, guvnor?” he chortled sarcastically. “You must be blooming joking, yer out of yer mind, guv. Here’s far enough.”

  I stepped out and took in my surroundings. Fog swirled round the dark passageway. A drunken vagrant lay collapsed near my feet. He was either unconscious or dead. Part of me suspected the latter. Litter was piled against the damp red brick walls that lined the evil looking street. Plastered on the damp masonry at random intervals were posters advertising raucous and debauched music hall acts. There were a few windows at head height, covered with sack cloth in a useless attempt at privacy. Fingers of sickly light filtered down from some of these openings, partly obscured by the grime-filled air. From one of the windows further down the passageway a curtain rustled, a figure poked out its head and proceeded to vomit violently into the street. What a charming place to spend an evening!

  I made my way deeper into this warren of woe, with only the feeble light of the odd sputtering gas lamp to guide me. I wondered how many poor souls had met a grisly end on a moonless night in these vile passage ways. Then ahead I saw what I was looking for. Sir Magnus had described the secret entrance to the boxing den in detail, and there it was in front of me. A row of small red Chinese paper lanterns was draped across the passageway like bunting. Below them was strung a scrap of wooden board with the words, “Double Happiness” painted on it in oriental-style lettering. I approached what looked like an opening, it was lit by a stinking naphtha lamp, a tattered red velvet curtain was nailed tightly across the doorway, the bottom of it was stained with the collected filth of the street. I brushed it open and found myself in a small black ante-chamber, no bigger than six-foot square. There was a crumbling wooden door in front of me and next to it a bell, which I rang. Within seconds a large swarthy looking Lascar, a gnarled oriental sailor, emerged. He was built like a boxer, almost as tall as he was wide, and looked very much like he’d just stepped into reality from a photograph in the Police Gazette. Not the kind of fellow one would want to meet in a dark alleyway, which was exactly where I happened to be. The giant cleared his throat with a vile cough and stared down his warty nose at me.

  “Ah, my good man, I wonder if I could come in?” I said gaily, in a brave attempt to hide my nerves. The fellow turned silently and went back through the wooden door, he held it open for me, and with that I was inside.

  Passing under the filthy curtain I had a horrible feeling something was wrong. Ahead of me lay a dark corridor, leading to a set of steps going down to what I presumed was a cellar. From the look of the posters on the walls, it certainly seemed I was in the right place. There were old bills advertising fights between characters with names like Slogger Pugg, Fists McGee and Crusher Bellows, their nightmarish faces etched in black ink, stared back at me. I felt a sudden shiver run down my spine, and the first inkling of doubt sprang into my mind. What was I actually doing here? Well, it was too late to think about that now. The hulking great man who had answered the door, led me down two flights of stairs and along another dingy corridor, before we came to a locked and bolted iron door. He drew back the bolts with his gigantic hands and ushered me inside.

  I began to feel very nervous. What did this fellow want with me in a dark, cold cellar, in this vile rookery of east London? He was about to give me an answer.

  “Your hat and overcoat, sir,” he said, taking me by surprise. When I had given him my garments he pointed to a rusty metal chair in the corner of the room.

  “Take a seat, sir,” he said, in his deep throaty voice. “The fight will commence presently. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

  With that he turned his back and left the room. Expecting the fellow to slam the door and lock me in I hastily followed him to the exit, but he did nothing of the sort, he simply continued walking and climbed the stairs at the end of the corridor. Well, perhaps there wasn’t any need to be nervous after all? I gave myself a ticking off, for lack of moral fibre, and made my way back to the dark little room to sit and wait, for whoever, or whatever it was that I was going to meet.

  Sitting down, I noticed a paraffin lamp and a soggy box of matches by my feet. That would do it, I thought, a bit of light would certainly lift my spirits. I struck five matches before I found one dry enough to light the lamp, then the room was bathed in a sickly yellow glow. I picked up the light, and decided to give my surroundings a bit of an inspection, to see if I could deduce any facts. The wall in front of me was taken up by a huge barn door, it may have been my imagination but I was sure I could hear some kind of hubbub coming from the other side, the sound of a crowd perhaps? I quickly dismissed that thought as nerves, and continued my inspection. Waving the lamp across the other walls I could see they were covered in old boxing bills, with the same hellish faces gazing back through the gloom. Then I stumbled across a poster that froze me to the spot and made my blood run cold. There in front of me, bearing that day’s date, was the billed fight for the evening. It read:

  TONIGHT’S

  GRAND BOUT

  THE CHAMPION

  JOE PUMMLEDRUM

  Vs

  THE YOUNG CHALLENGER

  PEREGRINE HARKERr />
  8:30 P.M.

  21. Anything goes

  I had walked into a trap. How could I have been so careless? How had these fiends learned of Sir Magnus’s plans? Well it was no use crying over spilt milk, I had about five minutes before I was due to go toe-to-toe with one of the toughest, fiercest brawlers in the whole of London. I had to make good my escape. I dropped the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and rushed straight for the open door, but just as I got to it, an unseen pair of hands threw it closed. I heard the rasp of bolts being drawn on the other side. Then from behind me there was another noise. It was the sound of the huge barn door opening. What I saw on the other side was utterly terrifying.

  I was below ground level looking into a ring made of rickety wood panels. Around the ring, standing above me, was a crowd of fearsome looking men. A series of candle lamps poured gloomy light on their terrifying faces. But the real frightener was in the ring. It was Joe Pummledrum, waiting to give me a hiding. The man was at least seven feet tall. He was stripped to the waist, the candlelight glinting off a mountain of muscle. He was gesturing to the crowd, firing them up into a frenzy, his eyes wild with rage and his fists clenched, ready to fight. Next to him stood a man in a tattered suit, and battered bowler hat. It may have been gloomy and dark, but it didn’t take me long to realise he was one of the men from the Cutler Street warehouse who had thrown me into the coffin. My guess was he was the deep-voiced one with the crooked teeth. He must have caught wind of my visit and staged this little show to finish me off. So, the hunted had become the hunter. He was certainly exciting the crowd.