Peregrine Harker & the Black Death

by Luke Hollands

  “Now then, Harker,” she said sweetly. “I would like you to have this.”

  Louisa produced a piece of paper and handed it to me. I looked down and the shock nearly floored me. It was a cheque for an incredibly large sum of money.

  “It is the proceeds from Sir Magnus’s last shipment of gold,” she explained.

  “But I couldn’t take this,” I said stuttering.

  “Please, Mr Harker,” she continued. “That gold has brought my family nothing but trouble and misfortune. I suppose I should declare it to the police, or to your friend Lieutenant Dearlove, but I know life has not been kind to you. I suggest you take it as payment for services rendered and we say no more about it. Now then, I’m sorry to have to say goodbye prematurely but I have a meeting with my lawyer. Dealing with the late Sir Magnus’s affairs is fast becoming a full-time occupation.”

  With that she leant over and kissed me softly on the cheek, before standing and moving to the door. I rose and grasped her hand gently before making my goodbyes.

  “Do come to visit me again, won’t you, Mr Harker?” she said as I departed.

  “You can count on it, my dear,” I said, as I stepped into the street and left for home.

  33. Not quite the end

  That was not quite the end of this wondrous tale. I was after all a journalist and I was a journalist with a tale to tell. Jabez Challock, my editor, had warned me to be back in his office within two weeks with a solid story, and a solid story I would give him.

  I returned to the offices of the Evening Inquirer to type my copy and submit it to the news desk. It must have passed almost unimpeded through a series of news editors and assistant news editors until it reached the back benches, where a conscientious sub-editor had brought it to the attention of the editor, and he then decided to bring it to the attention of me.

  “Harker!” I heard him cry from his office. “Get in here, boy, now!”

  I had been expecting such an outburst and picked myself up grudgingly to trudge into his office.

  “What the devil is this, lad?” he said, throwing my typed copy across his desk as I sat down. “I send you on a story about tea and you come back here telling tales about smugglers, murder, butlers with motor cars, stolen gold and a mysterious brotherhood called the Black Death. What the blast is this, Harker?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said sheepishly.

  “I’ll tell you what it is, lad,” he continued. “It’s bloomin’ dynamite, bloomin’ 24-carat, solid gold dynamite, lad. This is the best story I’ve read in years. This’ll make a name for you, my boy, and no mistake. What’s more it’ll shift papers like hot cakes. By the end of the week, I am going to be a very rich man, and you, my lad, will be very famous, what do you think to that, eh?”

  I couldn’t quite believe it. After all that had happened to me in that eventful fortnight I had put all dreams of becoming a successful journalist out of my mind, but now it seemed they were about to come true. Challock, however, had one more piece of news.

  “The only problem is, lad, I’ve had a message from the government. Seems they’ve got wind of your story and have sent someone down from Whitehall to have a look at your copy. I’ve got a bad feeling in my waters, lad. A bad feeling they’ll want to stop this little tale getting out. Now then, the chap they’ve sent to silence us is upstairs in the conference room. Smarmy looking dandy, he is. I want you to head up there and smooth things over. If you calm the waters lad you’ll be a bloomin’ hero, stir up trouble and you’ll be out on your ear. Well, what are you waiting for? Come on, my boy, there’s no time to waste, the compositors need to get this copy ready for printing.”

  I thanked Challock for what it was worth and dashed from his office. I ran up the rickety wooden stairs to the conference room and burst through the solid wooden double doors.

  “If you think after all I’ve been through, I’m about to spike this copy then I’m afraid…”

  But I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of the person sitting waiting for me. It was none other than Archie Dearlove.

  “Oh, hush, old man,” he said chuckling. “I’m not here to stop your story, all checks out to me, and what’s more my chiefs, in their wisdom, have agreed to let you publish it.”

  “Your chiefs?” I replied, a little confused, still shocked at his appearance.

  “Yes, my chiefs, old boy. You see, that is what I have really come to talk to you about. Now, I have a confession to make, Harker. I’m afraid I haven’t been all that honest with you this last fortnight, but with everything you and I have been through I thought it only fair to tell you the truth.”

  “The truth about what, Archie?” I said, taking a seat next to my old chum.

  “The truth about my identity, old boy,” he said rather mysteriously. “And, perhaps more interestingly a little truth about your own identity. You remember when, by chance, I found you trapped in a coffin, in that gloomy street. Well, it was not altogether by chance, old boy.”

  “Not by chance?” I said, a little bemused.

  “Afraid not, old man. You see, when I told you I was working for the Royal Navy, I held a little of the truth back. I do work for the Royal Navy but to be more precise I work for Naval Intelligence.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re a spy?” I said excitedly.

  “I’m afraid so. What’s more two weeks ago I was a spy on a most secret and daring mission, a mission to uncover the truth behind this smuggling malarkey. Now that tea nonsense you were looking into threw up the truth, the truth about the gold. I knew Clayton was involved somehow and I needed to breach his inner circle and gain his trust. There was no way he would allow a fellow like me to get close to him. I needed somebody who could ask awkward questions without raising suspicion, I needed somebody who would not give the game away and I needed somebody I could trust. In short, Harker, I needed you. After pulling some strings my office managed to get that old duffer Challock to send you to meet Clayton, and that my friend is how our adventure began.”

  I was dumbfounded. So Archie had been involved all along, the wily old fox.

  “But why me, Archie?” I quizzed.

  “Because Harker old chap I knew you had all the skills we needed. I remembered those summers we had spent together. You were quite the boxer, not to mention your fencing skills, pistol marksmanship and horse-riding abilities. You were the perfect choice. I knew you could handle any situation that arose which is why I picked you to help me solve this peculiar problem. It is also why I may be calling on you again, young Harker. I have a feeling this will not be the only case we will crack together, in fact I am certain of it. We’ll make a proper spy of you yet, and perhaps one day you’ll be as dashing, and as daring, as cunning and as clever as dear old me. So, old friend, after that little confession of mine, can you ever forgive me?”

  What else could I do? Archie and I had been through so much together, and the promise of being an exciting and courageous secret agent was something I could not ignore lightly. I offered my old friend my hand and shook his warmly.

  “Of course, I can, Archie.”

  After that Archie and I chatted a little longer about this and that before he made his excuses and left. I was in a fair old daze for the rest of the day and no mistake, my mind whirring with the prospect of action and adventure. I just about remembered to tell Challock the article was cleared for publication. The old buffoon whooped with joy as soon as the words left my mouth, and he hurried off to the back benches to oversee the careful design of the page.

  As for me, well it was time for me to head home for some well earned rest. But fate, it seemed, had one last little surprise left in store. As I was walking down the carpeted steps to the foyer I heard the most peculiar rumbling and grinding noise coming from the street. My heart skipped a beat as I suddenly realised where I had heard that noise before. I charged down the remaining steps and ran through the door. I was not wrong. There parked in the street was that magnificent motor car that had once been th
e proud property of Sir Magnus Clayton. It was chugging and purring away beautifully, drawing admiring glances from passers-by. There, standing next to the impressive machine, was the man who had saved my life more than once. It was Ignatius Woolfe, dressed in his smartest butler attire.

  “Sorry to trouble you, sir,” he said politely. “But Miss Louisa asked if I might deliver you this letter.”

  Woolfe reached into his jacket and pulled out a crisp folded sheet of lilac notepaper, on which Louisa had written a message.

  Mr Woolfe, she said, was looking for work. With Sir Magnus dead, and Mrs Herrick to take care of Louisa, Woolfe had no one to serve. I guessed this was little more than a ruse on Louisa’s part to provide me with a level-headed guardian, but she also made the valid point, that now that I had come into money, recruiting a butler was the done thing. Naturally the fine motor car was part of the deal, as were lessons in how to operate it.

  Well, there was a turn up for the books. I didn’t really hold with the idea of having serving staff, but Mr Woolfe was different. I was sure there were things he could teach me with a pistol that would certainly be invaluable, not to mention the prospect of driving lessons in his fine machine. I looked at the butler’s face. It was a face I had once thought pompous, but now looked the perfect embodiment of kindliness.

  “Everything in order, sir?” said Woolfe, only slightly looking down his hawk-like nose at me.

  “Yes, Mr Woolfe,” I replied. “Everything is in order.”

  “Very good, sir,” he said with the hint of a smile on his face. “Where to then, sir?” he continued, making his way to the motor car.

  “Home, Mr Woolfe. Home.”

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