“This ends tonight, Magnus,” he cried. “Whether I should die, or you should fall, this ends here and now. There has been too much heartache and too much misery. You have taken the lives of too many innocent people, and for what? A petty childhood feud? Or for a handful of riches?”
Sir Magnus listened to this speech with a sarcastic grin on his face, also stripping to his shirt sleeves in preparation for the fight. When Richard finished he let out a deep burst of laughter. “How damned pious and proper you really are, my dear brother. Do you seriously believe that moralistic clap trap, or is it for Louisa and Harker‘s benefit? I suppose that’s how you got your hands on that dead wastrel Kitty.”
No sooner had the words left Sir Magnus’s bitter mouth, than Richard was upon him. An expert lunge forcing his brother to take a leap backwards. In reply he gave some swift sweeps with the sabre which nearly took Richard’s head clean off. It was hard to believe, but Richard, the man who only moments before had been having trouble standing, was now displaying some very nimble footwork. He knew he was unable to parry the heavy blade more than once or twice at a push, for risk of shattering his feeble sword, so instead he was using his feet to avoid the need to do so. He was like a bobbing cobra, darting in and out, searching for a vulnerable spot and lunging towards it with precision and dexterity. Sir Magnus on the other hand knew the power of his blade and was lunging wildly. He may have been the healthy man, but a combination of good, rich living and a life lived in hate, had knocked his fitness. His eyes were burning with a manic hatred, and in the flickering candlelight he looked deathly and dangerous.
The pair wheeled like ballerinas, but they were engaged in a dance of death. They went up and down the aisle, and when they’d exhausted that territory they moved to the pews. Cunning and clever Richard directing the action there to use the benches as impromptu shields to give himself a breather. Then they were whirling back up towards the altar, gold cups and candlesticks flying towards the body of the dead vicar which lay between them. Richard was now beginning to look feverish, his blade darting in and out, searching for a place to attack, and then retreating before being met by the parrying swipe of the tougher blade. Suddenly he struck home. Sir Magnus leapt backwards, his free hand reaching straight to his shoulder, where a crimson stain was spreading across his white shirt. He looked down at it in disgust, before looking back at Richard who had paused his attack, perhaps hoping the blow had been fatal. It had not, for in a second Sir Magnus was upon him with a renewed force and vigour. He was like a lunatic unleashed, slashing his blade wildly like a scythe. It was only moments later he brought his mighty sword down on to Richard’s poorly matched blade, shattering it in two and sending the pieces tinkling to the stone floor. Richard leapt backwards, but lost his footing, and fell down. No sooner had he done so Magnus brought his sword to the poor man’s chest. But he didn’t run him through as we all expected. Instead he just held it there, the tip pressing into Richard’s sweat-drenched shirt.
“Now then, brother, I think that means I win,” mocked Magnus, “I think you will agree I was always destined to win and you, the poor destitute traitor was always destined to lose. But you are right, this struggle of ours should end tonight. I have humiliated you enough, have I not? Perhaps that is sufficient punishment.” And with that he reached out a hand to his brother who had stumbled onto the floor. What the blazes was Sir Magnus playing at?
Richard eyed his brother suspiciously before cautiously accepting his aid and grasping the outstretched hand for support. But as he was almost on his feet he snatched his hand back, quicker than if he’d caught it on a red hot coal. He grabbed his hand and raised it to his face, which suddenly turned very pale.
“You fiend,” he mouthed at his brother.
“Oh, what’s the matter, Richard? A little scratch, a little pin prick perhaps? You didn’t think I was really going to let you live, did you? No I thought it would be more pleasing to watch you die in the manner you had planned for me. A scratch from a thorn soaked in aconite and delivered with a benevolent handshake. That is what you had planned, is it not? It’s certainly how you got rid of that fool Melk and that fool Khan. Well, how does it feel brother, to know you have failed, to know death is coming and there is nothing you can do about it? Here give me your hand again.” The beast grabbed the poor man’s now weakened paw and shook it vigorously. Richard was too in shock to fight back. I guessed the deadly toxin was already entering his blood and spreading through his body, weakening his spirit.
Louisa screamed and tried to break free from Grey. “Stop it, just stop it, haven’t you done enough? Leave him, leave him in peace.”
“Come now, dear,” said Grey, a hint of laughter in his voice, “as my wife you really should learn to be seen and not heard.” He gripped her cheeks viciously between his thumb and fingers, in a brutal attempt to silence the poor girl. “Now my love, this does not concern you, so just you keep that pretty mouth of yours shut.”
Richard was on his knees now, but Sir Magnus still had hold of his hand, pushing the sharp poison-soaked thorn deep into his hand, from where blood had begun to drip and run down the poor man’s arm, staining the cuff of his shirt sleeve scarlet. I watched as Richard swayed, suddenly he wrenched his hand free and brought it to his chest, he looked like a drowning man struggling for breath. He was sweating heavily and had turned horribly pale. He turned briefly to Louisa and looked as if he was trying to mouth something to her, some parting message, but the words would not come out. Then he collapsed on to the church floor at the foot of the altar, his still body finally at peace.
31. One final shudder
A heady cocktail of grief and rage suddenly overwhelmed Louisa and she managed to break free. At this I too made a break for it, and charged at Grey, fists clenched. But we stood no chance against two armed men. Grey brought his gun up, and directed it at us. Sir Magnus brought his sword down and touched the tip against Louisa’s back, who was now kneeling, cradling her dead father like a child.
“Come now, my dear, cheer up. It is your wedding day, you should be full of the joys of spring. If the betrothal does not lighten your heart, then perhaps the honeymoon will, we‘ve booked you a room at a charming place called Holloway prison,” he said chuckling with mock sincerity, before turning to Grey. “Take her Vaughan, and see she does not escape again, I’ll take our friend, Mr Harker, here. It’s time we were leaving. We need to deliver these two wanted criminals into the hands of the law. If only we had caught them sooner they would not have been able to commit these two extra murders,” he said gesturing to the corpses of Richard and the vicar. With that we were both manhandled out of the church. I felt more than useless, but my mind was still racing, trying to concoct an escape plan. Fortunately, as we stepped into the night air I was handed one on a plate.
The sturdy church doors opened to reveal a thick carpet of white snow contrasting against the blackness of the night sky. Before me was a vision that thrilled my spirits. It was Archie Dearlove and, not only that, he was with another man. It was none other than Ignatius Woolfe, the butler.
Our sorry party paused on the steps. Sir Magnus gawped in disbelief. Dear Archie broke the tension.
“I say, a wedding party. Are you sure you couldn’t do with a couple of extra witnesses?” he said, flashing a winning smile.
Then the world exploded around us. It was all too quick to recall. All of a sudden Louisa and I were thrown free, our captors tossing us on the ground and discarding us in their haste to find cover behind the tombs and headstones of the graveyard. There was a flurry of gunfire from Archie and Woolfe who had also sought cover. I heard Archie’s voice bellowing over the shots: “Stay down, Harker, keep safe and we’ll find you.”
In the confusion I somehow lost Louisa. I saw her scurry behind a grave marked with a statue of a winged angel. There was nothing I could do, I would have to hope she was safe and find some cover myself. I ran behind a row of gravestones, keeping low. Shards of rock exploded in my face a
s bullets ricocheted off the stone memorials. I collapsed in a heap behind a particularly tall and wide tomb. Damn it, I had no means of firing back. I would just have to keep my head down and sit this one out.
I ventured a glance above the ornate stone sarcophagus that was providing my shelter. I could only see Grey. Sir Magnus had left him isolated by the entrance to the church. He was taking shelter behind one of the solid doors, but was firing back at intervals. I saw him dodge back behind the wooden barrier as he ran out of ammunition. He slumped behind the door in a seated position and reached into his pocket, I saw him pull out some rounds and load them into his weapon. Then he was up again and firing wildly. If only I had a gun of my own I could have ended his life there and then. Fortunately, Woolfe came to my aid, he leapt from behind his stone shelter and fired with deadly accuracy. Grey spun like a child’s whirligig, his hands leapt to his chest and he screamed a blood curdling last cry as he fell down. The doors of the church slammed shut.
“Bingo! Well done, Woolfe, old chap,” bellowed Archie. “Not bad for a butler.” But the celebration was short lived as Sir Magnus had manoeuvred himself to within easy range of the brave Woolfe and while our hero was distracted by his kill his master let fly a volley of shots of his own. At least two of them hit Woolfe square in the chest. By some superhuman effort he remained standing and fired back in a wild reply, but his aim was much impaired by his wounds and he missed by a mile. Magnus popped his head up, this time from a new position, and hit the little man again. I thought perhaps for a second Woolfe would remain upright, as strong and as hard as the stone statues around us. But those shots finished him off. He fell on to the iron-hard icy ground, his blood staining the fresh white snow a deep vermilion.
I lowered my head in despair. The poor butler, killed by his master, perhaps this was the end he had wanted, dying trying to make amends for helping this villain. But then, to my astonishment I heard a voice drift through the gunfire.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sirs, but I believe I may have been shot.” It was Woolfe, he was still alive! “Oh dear,” I heard him mutter to himself. “I am making an awful mess of this churchyard, there is blood everywhere.”
“Mr Harker, sir,” he continued. “Would you be so kind as to take my weapon and finish this regrettable little incident?”
With that I saw Woolfe’s gun come flying from between two gravestones and land on the snowy ground. Blast, he had thrown it out of reach. If only I could get it I might be in with a chance of finishing off Sir Magnus.
The snow fell about me, landing delicately on my skin. I watched my breath leaving my body and rising upwards. It was now or never, I would have to make a break for it if I was to grab the revolver. I counted to three and then in a blur of snow and steaming breath, lunged for the gun. I felt my fingers touch the cold metal and I grasped at it wildly. In one swift motion I picked it up and set it in my hand. As soon as I had my finger firmly on the trigger I spun to where I had last seen Sir Magnus.
“Right, the game’s up!” I shouted.
But then to my horror I heard his mocking tones from behind me, in the direction of the church entrance.
“I beg to differ, Mr Harker. I think the game is still very much afoot, but alas not for you, or for young Louisa here.”
Turning slowly, the sight before me filled my heart with despair. Somehow Sir Magnus had Louisa gripped tight to his chest as a human shield, with his revolver in hand.
“Over here, Mr Harker, that’s right and your friend better not try anything either. Now if you wouldn’t mind awfully, could you please both lay down your revolvers so I can blow your brains out, and, as you say, end this thing once and for all? No fast moves, mind; or else it’ll be the last thing Louisa will ever see. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
Brave Louisa was trying to struggle free, she shouted out in despair, “Just do it, Harker, shoot him, just kill him, if not for me then for my father, just finish it.”
“Peregrine, how do you want to play this old chap?” shouted Archie from behind a gravestone. “Just say the word and I’ll finish him.”
But how could I? How could I risk killing her? And so the four of us stood there stock still and silent in the cold night air, a gruesome stalemate. Finally, I lowered my arm. I heard Louisa cry out, telling me to stop, but I had made up my mind.
As I was bending down to lay my revolver on the floor something quite miraculous happened. The church doors burst open, there was a gunshot, then another, and another, and another. Sir Magnus‘s face suddenly contorted into a macabre grimace, his eyes wide open with shock. In his death throes, he let go of Louisa and span round to the direction of the gun shots. As he turned he stepped back, giving me clear sight of the gunman. It was Richard! I had no idea how he had done it, but Richard was on his feet and like some avenging angel he was standing there in the open doorway to the church with Grey’s gun in his hand, his face blank and void of emotion. I rushed forward to Louisa. The look on Sir Magnus’s face was one of horror and confusion. I saw his lips move, it looked like he was trying to say no, in defiance of what had happened. Then he dropped and joined his dead colleague Grey on the church steps.
“Father,” gasped Louisa, running to Richard’s side, throwing her arms around him and burying her face into his chest. The old man embraced her and held her close, he looked at me briefly and his mouth formed into the hint of a smile, but it was quickly replaced with a painful grimace, his body contorted, and he let go of his daughter. His breath was heavy and laboured.
Louisa gently supported his heavy weight as he shook again. She gently laid him down on the cold stone steps of the church and began loosening his shirt collar. “Father, what’s wrong. Are you hurt?” The old man looked at her tenderly and took her hand, before contorting again with pain. I crouched down by her side and removed my overcoat, draping it over Richard’s shuddering body. The old man opened his lips and began to talk, it was a hoarse whisper, but just loud enough to hear.
“The poison, it has not killed me yet, but I’m afraid it will, my dear. You see I predicted Sir Magnus would play such a hand. Earlier this evening I took a preventative measure. A draft concocted from Senna, a precaution once advised to me in India. Prepared in the correct way Senna staves the effects but it cannot stop the poison completely.” His eyes were becoming glazed, his speech more slurred and eccentric. “Senna Siamea, from the jungles of Siam, most useful in alleviating the effects of aconite poisoning.” He moved his head slightly and gazed lovingly at Louisa, he looked as if he had suddenly realised where he was. “I’m sorry my dear, forgive me, I am rambling away. There is not long left. I can feel the shadows coming now.” He convulsed again and his breathing suddenly became more erratic. I could see the tears in Louisa’s eyes and stretched out an arm to comfort her. The girl’s father saw she was in pain too. “No my dear you must not weep for me,” he said reassuringly. “I am at peace, for I have finally finished my task and I will soon be joining your mother.” He paused, drawing in breath. Everything now looked as if it was an effort. Louisa drew closer as he began to speak again. “I can see her now, she is right in front of me.”
His body gave one final shudder and his eyes began to look dull and lifeless, a brief quizzical look came over him and he looked up at Louisa. “Kitty?” he whispered, before becoming very still. The laboured breathing stopped. His face turned blank and lifeless. I reached out a hand and closed his eyes, before embracing Louisa as she wept for her dead father. It was over.
32. The grave of a traitor
A week or so later I was standing in the lobby of Sir Magnus Clayton’s house. As far as the world was concerned with Sir Magnus’s death, the house and riches would pass to his only known relative: his daughter, Louisa. And as far as the world was concerned her father Sir Magnus had died most admirably, defending her from an evil gang of smugglers. Sir Magnus was a knight of the realm and a member of the establishment, any mention of his criminality could bring scorn and derisio
n on the upper classes. The government was also most concerned about their treatment of Richard Clayton in India, concerned that they might be thought of as fools for sending the wrong man to prison all those years ago. It was therefore decided that some of the facts of the case be quietly hushed up.
A combination of pleading on Louisa’s part, and an intervention from Archie, spared me a hanging for my alleged crimes. Although I still had a fair few days of languishing in a frightful police cell in Whitechapel before my name was cleared. There would be no medals or royal praise for yours truly, even though I had exposed a criminal at the heart of the establishment. I was quietly hushed up and sent on my way.
Louisa had been whisked away in a flurry of ladies’ maids and servants and sent to bed to recover. She had, of course, dismissed this as a ridiculous idea but had still been confined to barracks. As soon as she had been able to, she’d requested an audience with me.
It was as I was reminiscing that Louisa, dressed respectably in mourning black, entered the room. As soon as she saw me her face lit up with a beaming grin. I am sure the events of the past weeks had taken their toll, but it did not show in her complexion. She reached out and gave me a warm hug.
“Ah, my saviour,” she said warmly. “Will you come and join me for some tea in the breakfast room? We have a great deal of catching up to do.”
She led me through to the sunny room and sat there, playing mother with a dainty china pot and a plate of tea cakes. We talked of this and that, until quite out of the blue she said: “He will be buried in an unmarked grave, of course, the grave of a traitor, while my make-believe father will be lavished with a hero’s farewell.” She paused, a distant look on her face. “It is of no matter, I suppose, for I never knew either of them really at all.” The room was silent for a period, and then she continued: “I hear Mr Woolfe is recovering well in hospital. He always was a tough old thing. I’m not quite sure how I’ll ever repay him, in fact, I’m not quite sure how any of us will. Running away from Sir Magnus like that, and searching out Lieutenant Dearlove in our hour of need, a most remarkable fellow.
Peregrine Harker & the Black Death Page 13