The Devil in Amber

by Mark Gatiss

  ‘Formed a little attachment, have we? How sweet. Look behind you.’

  I whirled round. We were standing before the cells, and curled in the bunk that lay alongside the wall was Aggie, sound asleep. Her face was pale beneath the crop of dark hair. I moved towards the bars but the policemen held me back.

  ‘She’s fine,’ cried Flarge. ‘Flesh wound in the shoulder. But the charge of aiding and abetting a wanted felon might be more difficult to shrug off.’

  ‘She was coerced,’ I lied. ‘You can let her go.’

  ‘I might at that. She was useful as bait to trap you. Beyond that…’

  My spirits rose. Like his odious master, Flarge couldn’t know of her importance. Aggie might be freed and could simply vanish, thus depriving Mons of his ‘Perfect Victim’.

  ‘Alas,’ said Flarge, ‘I would be exceeding my powers. She’s to be taken back to London to be properly questioned by the RA. You too, of course. Now. We must be off. Daley, get those derbies on nice and snug.’

  ‘Sure thing, Mr Flarge,’ said Daley with unpleasant relish. ‘Nice to see you again so soon, Mr Box.’

  I ignored the tick.

  The coppers pinioned my arms roughly behind my back and the little Domestic clapped on handcuffs that pinched pinkly at my wrist. The other end he clapped onto his own arm.

  ‘I believe,’ I said at last, ‘that I’m entitled to telephone my solicitor.’

  ‘We’ll arrange that whilst you’re on the train to London,’ snapped Flarge.

  I shook my head. ‘Oh no. There’s no telling what you chaps have got cooked up for me. I’d rather do it here, in front of this honest yeoman.’ I nodded towards the fresh-faced constable. ‘I am only asserting my rights, am I not, officer?’

  The constable glanced over at Flarge. ‘He is right, sir. I can soon get a call through the exchange—’

  ‘No, that’s perfectly all right. No decent solicitor will be up at this hour.’

  ‘Mine will,’ I urged. ‘He won’t mind getting out of bed, at any rate.’

  Flarge shook his head. ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘It would be the proper procedure, sir,’ murmured the boy. ‘I shouldn’t like to have to face the sergeant when he gets back and—’

  ‘All right, all right!’ barked Flarge. ‘Just get on with it.’

  Daley took me by the elbow towards the desk where, with considerable gentleness, the noble copper asked me to furnish him with the number of my solicitor. I gave it to him and he wrote it down with infinite slowness using a blunt pencil. The figures were rounded and childish. He glanced nervously at me, clearly overwhelmed by the big case that had dropped into his lap, his cheeks flushing in the way only a boy’s can.

  Flarge threw himself down in a big swivel chair, arms tightly folded, glaring at me until the call was put through.

  The constable handed me the cold black receiver. There was a crackle on the other end and then a familiar voice.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Box here,’ I said crisply. ‘Look here, old thing, I seem to have got myself in a bit of bother. Oh, read about it, have you? Yes, well, all a lot of nonsense of course but I’d be rather glad of your…representation. Uh-huh. Somewhere in Norfolk, I think.’

  My solicitor’s voice sounded as though it were coming from several fathoms beneath the ocean. ‘London train,’ I said in response to the solicitor’s question. ‘Well, any minute now.’

  I was conscious of my captors listening to every word. I flashed them a pleasant smile. ‘Right-oh. Thanks. Yes, thanks awfully. How’s Ida? Oh, really?’

  Flarge rolled his eyes and began to get to his feet.

  ‘Yes, well, I’d bring her, certainly. And try prunes. They always do the trick.’

  Flarge’s hand came crashing down on the telephone. ‘No more chit-chat. You’ve been indulged long enough, Box. Come along.’

  Daley began to drag me towards the doors. The boyish constable moved to the cell door, unlocked it and shook Aggie by the shoulder. She groaned and feebly attempted to push the lad away.

  I glared at his back but refrained from speaking. Flarge stood back, made an elaborate bow as Daley yanked at the cuffs, hustled me out of the station and into the bleary dawn.

  It was a wonderful sky, black night splashed with pink like an unknown Whistler, and I wished I could have seen it under kinder circumstances. As Daley pushed me down the steps, I spotted the owners of the stolen motor, still brandishing their fishing rods, standing before the rust-coloured church and deep in conversation with another policeman. One of the anglers, a great red-faced walrus of a chap, pointed at me as I emerged onto the steps and there was much swearing and muttering about my ‘bloody cheek’.

  To my horror, there was also a knot of be-trilbied reporters, and as I was led in cuffs to Flarge’s waiting car, a cascade of flashbulbs went off in my face. I held up my free arm to shield myself but the ravening mob got exactly what they wanted: ‘noted painter arrested for murder after daring Atlantic flight’. Mrs Croup would be thrilled. I was the new Crippen!

  I glanced round and saw the ghastly look of satisfaction on Flarge’s bruised face. The door to the station swung open and the policeman emerged, holding by the arm a dazed–and possibly doped–Agnes Daye, her pretty face slack with sleep. Then I felt Daley’s gloved hand on my head, the girl and I were pushed into the motor and we were off.

  Percy Flarge had got what he wanted. All I had to look forward to was the gallows.

  18

  Night Train To Death

  The railway station we puttered into was large and busy, enveloped in billowing steam from numerous clanking engines, glimpses of gay livery visible between the clouds, pistons flashing like horse-brasses.

  With alacrity Flarge and Daley pushed Aggie and me through the crowds. The poor girl didn’t seem to know where she was and offered no resistance, shambling along like a zombie, her arm in a neat sling.

  If anyone noticed I was cuffed they didn’t show it. Scarcely looking up from my shoes, I was only aware of a cloying mass of snow-wetted coats and pale faces beneath dark hats. We passed a couple of steam-shrouded carriages until we reached an old chap, his uniform bright with buttons, his hand on the handle of the train door. Like the constable, he was clearly relishing his moment in the sun helping out what he took to be Scotland Yard.

  ‘Mr Flarge, sir?’ he cried, touching his cap. ‘All’s prepared, sir, as per your instructions.’

  ‘Thanks,’ grunted Flarge. ‘Let’s get them in.’

  Flarge stood guard as the door to the carriage was hauled open and Daley stepped inside, pulling me up after him. I made no attempt to resist, merely glancing around at the bustling station. This was the rummest set-out imaginable. It was all so impossibly normal! How could these people be going about their daily business whilst I was being led away to face arrest and probable execution for a murder I had not committed? Even more startling had been those snatches I’d seen of another world, a shadow world of spirits and such that I could scarcely conceive as possible in the twentieth century. And yet here were these worthies, these bankers and clerks and type-writers boarding the same train that would lead them to mundane routine.

  The compartment was dark and stank like damp dogs. There were six seats and Daley and I took up one pair, the short chain between the cuffs that bound us catching tight over the armrest. Flarge and Aggie settled into the green upholstery opposite, the girl drifting immediately into unconsciousness. She was very pale and there were unhealthy dark rings under her eyes.

  The railway official shot me once last look, a queer mixture of awe and disgust, then slid the glass door to.

  Flarge crossed his feet one over the other and opened a newspaper. ‘Well, isn’t this nice?’

  I heaved a deep sigh. ‘Why are we taking the train, Flarge?’

  ‘Speed is of the essence, old thing,’ he said, snapping the paper outwards so that it billowed like a sail. ‘I say, you’re all over The Times. Would you care to see
?’

  ‘No, thanks. Any chance of a cigarette?’

  He smiled nastily from beneath his bindings. ‘If you’re very good.’

  All four of us lurched forward slightly as the train began to pull away from the station. Aggie stirred and groaned. Flarge looked her up and down.

  ‘Quite a dish, old man,’ he said, hatefully. ‘Dear me, I wish you’d make up your mind which way you incline. A chap struggles to keep up.’

  ‘Story of your life, Percy,’ I retorted.

  He grunted mirthlessly.

  Putting my free hand to the window, I rubbed at the steamed-up glass, the condensation squeaking beneath my fingers. The terminus–and freedom–slipped away as we steamed out, melting into a blur of colour then a monotonous succession of telegraph poles.

  I pretty soon fell into a reverie, rocking from side to side as the train crawled south.

  Aggie, looking very beautiful and vulnerable, curled into a tight ball on the fusty upholstery, a little pulse beating in her slender throat. I’d promised her a better life away from the Stiffkey yet all I’d succeeded in doing was thrusting her into the hands of her enemies.

  ‘Twice’ Daley fell into a doze, his yellow-gloved hands folded over his belly, his ferrety face occasionally enlivened with little twitches like that of a sleeping puppy.

  After a few hours, Flarge relented and allowed me a smoke. I inhaled deeply on one of his expensive Turkish numbers and felt heaps better, though it made me slightly dizzy after so long without. The short winter day faded with miserable rapidity and electric light suddenly sprang into life above our heads.

  Daley’s eyes flickered open and he looked about as though unsure of his surroundings. I gave him a cheery wave with my free hand and he shot me back a look of undiluted East-Coast venom.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’d care to chat?’ I opined to Flarge, picking shreds of tobacco from my teeth.

  My nemesis was invisible behind the paper. He seemed engrossed in the football scores. ‘What about?’ he said at last.

  ‘About this trumped-up bloody charge, of course,’ I cried. ‘And why you seem so keen to believe in it.’

  Flarge collapsed the paper onto his lap and I saw fragments of lurid headline. Humming a little tune–he seemed in a very gay mood–he began filling his pipe. In a short while, a haze of cherry-smelling tobacco smoke conjoined with the harsher stuff from my fag, hovering over us all like ectoplasm.

  ‘I just do as I’m told, old boy,’ said Flarge blandly, jamming the pipe into the corner of his mouth. ‘Something you should have considered doing a long time ago. It was inevitable you’d get tripped up.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with Sal Volatile’s death!’ I insisted.

  ‘That’s not what the evidence says, old dear. Wouldn’t be the first time a chap from the RA has abused his privileges, of course, but I think it’s the only time anyone’s tried to cover up a domestic murder as being all in the line of duty.’

  ‘Must we play these games?’ I sighed. ‘I’m not really in the mood, to be honest. I could pretend I don’t know what you’re up to, we could exchange quips and bons mots till the cows come home, but we both know what’s going on over on that island.’

  Flarge’s brow wrinkled. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t let him bamboozle you, sir,’ muttered the Domestic.

  ‘Shut up, Daley.’ Flarge looked irritated from beneath his sticking plaster. ‘What’re you talking about? What island?’

  I sighed wearily. ‘The convent! Your chum Mons and his fascist goons. I didn’t realize you’d added Satanism to your list of hobbies.’

  Flarge bit on the pipe with an unpleasant clack. ‘You really are raving. Perhaps the papers have it right. Balance of the mind disturbed, and so forth.’

  Daley liked the sound of that and chuckled, raising a gloved hand to his tiny teeth.

  I suddenly remembered the fragment of the Jerusalem Prayer and my hand flew to my trouser pocket. Daley twisted in his seat to stop me but Flarge didn’t flinch. ‘It’s all right,’ he said mildly. ‘It isn’t there.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ I said.

  ‘The relic, of course! Worth a king’s ransom, so I’m told. Ah!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Got it! You were in league with that fellow Volatile. You both conspired to get the silk whatsit off that Hubbard chap and divide the spoils. He tried to double-cross you so you shot him. Good job we searched you thoroughly or we’d have missed the damn thing.’

  ‘As you did last time.’

  Flarge dipped his head. ‘As you say. The first and only time you will best me, Box, old chum.’

  I dragged on the stub of my cigarette. ‘That blasted hankie’s only part of the puzzle, Flarge, and you know it!’

  ‘Charmin’ little thing, don’t you think?’ continued the blond nit. ‘All those doodles embroidered on. Like that ruddy Frog tapestry. What’s the one? With poor old King Harold gettin’ his daylights poked out.’

  I looked hard at Flarge. Did he really know nothing about the truth behind this? Could he possibly be as silly an ass as he appeared?

  ‘So where is it now?’ I asked.

  Flarge sucked on his pipe and let his gaze drift to the ceiling of the compartment. The tobacco smoke was shifting restlessly above the luggage rack like a restless spirit. ‘Mr Daley here has it nice and safe. Until it can be returned to its rightful owner.’

  ‘Mons?’

  ‘Now there you go again. You’re quite fixated on that fellah. What on earth makes you think it belongs to him?’

  I had no chance to enquire further. There was a terrible, tortured screech of metal on metal and I pitched forward, my face almost burying itself in Flarge’s lap. Daley fell forward, his knees thumping against the uncarpeted floor of the carriage, and he uttered an unmentionable Yankee oath.

  The screaming of the brakes continued for a full minute as the train ground to a shuddering halt. Aggie didn’t even stir. The lights flickered, then died.

  Flarge pushed me off him and leapt to his feet, cocking a pistol. Daley got up and twisted the handcuff chain painfully as he forced me back into my seat.

  ‘You all right, Daley?’ said Flarge, outlined starkly against the bluey light coming through the fogged-up window.

  The flunkey nodded. ‘Shoo-er, Mr Flarge.’

  With a stuttering crackle, the lights came back on. Flarge looked about, weapon raised. ‘I don’t like this. Wait here.’

  Great plumes of steam were hissing past the window as the stalled train marked time. Flarge slid back the compartment door, stepped out into the corridor, glanced quickly up and down it, then pointed the gun at my face. ‘If you try anything,’ he warned, ‘anything at all, Daley will you shoot you down, you understand?’

  ‘You make yourself abundantly clear, Perce,’ I cried.

  The door crashed shut over Flarge’s scowling face.

  I glanced over at poor Aggie, still curled up in her seat, then shrugged and smiled cheerily at my guard. ‘Well, Mr Daley. It’s just the three of us now—’

  ‘Shut up, you lousy faggot,’ he began–then his head snapped round at the unmistakeable sound of gunshots from outside the train. ‘You heard what Mr Flarge said. I’ll blow you away if you get clever.’

  ‘Charmin’,’ I retorted. ‘But I can’t get clever, Mr Daley. I am clever.’

  And the lights winked out again.

  In the sudden darkness, I was instantly all over the little creature, battering the heel of my hand against what I took to be the fleshier parts of his face as he struggled to aim his Colt.

  We toppled over Aggie–she merely grunted–and onto the floor. I fell awkwardly and Daley’s whole weight hit me square in the chest, the dusty carpet scraping at my cheek as I struggled to get back my wind. Daley succeeded in raining several solid punches into my gut, whilst my fists met merely empty air.

  Scrabbling desperately at the upholstery, I failed to raise myself up and was beginning to funk when, remarkably, I found salvation. I spotted a li
ttle red glow and my splayed finger-ends touched Flarge’s pipe, forgotten in the crisis, the bowl still warm and smouldering with tobacco.

  More shots rang outside. Daley’s knee found my crotch and he leant heavily forward. It was agonizing.

  ‘Now I got you, Mr Box,’ he spat.

  I could smell the sharp metallic tang of his Colt as he jabbed it into my face. I tugged at the old upholstery, sending up clouds of dust as I struggled desperately to roll the pipe towards me. At last I gained purchase and grasped the blasted thing. I settled the bowl in my palm and then lashed out with main force towards my assailant.

  My weapon met almost no resistance and I would’ve assumed I’d missed had it not been for Daley’s sharp, surprised cry. I moved the pipe a little and there was a dreadful soft, wet sound.

  He fell forward and, in the pitch blackness, I touched his face. The still-warm bowl of the pipe was projecting from his left eye socket. I’d driven the stem of the pipe right into his brain.

  Oh, Christ, I thought. That’s torn it.

  There was no time to hang about. Reaching out towards Aggie, I felt for her face and slapped at her cheeks.

  ‘Aggie!’ I urged. ‘Aggie, my dear. Wake up!’

  There was no response. I tapped her face again, gently at first then gave her a good crack across the chops. She moaned and stirred, but clearly whatever Flarge had doped her with was infuriatingly efficacious.

  What the hell to do?

  With athleticism born of desperation I dashed to the exterior carriage door, dragging Daley’s dead weight still chained to my wrist. More cries and whistles and gunshots sounded from outside. I pushed down the window, leant out, grasped hold of the handle and swung open the door.

  Clambering down into the freezing night, my boots crunched on the chippings of a parallel rail line. The handcuff chain was stretched taut over the threshold of the doorway, Daley’s corpse still slumped on the carpet within. I knew I couldn’t linger–Flarge might be back any moment–but I obviously wouldn’t get far with this great lump attached to me.

  First of all, I leant back in and scrabbled in the dead man’s pockets in search of the key. But trace of it there was none. Instead, I found the silken relic–even in the dark I could feel the familiar ragged edges–and stuffed it into my trousers before grabbing Daley’s gun. Could I blast off the chain, freeing myself? Hardly. In the pitch blackness I would be more likely to shoot Aggie or myself in the foot. If a train came along, the perfect solution would present itself, the lumbering rolling stock making short work of the chain. But I could hardly hang around all night waiting for the blasted eight thirty-eight to Cromer to flash past and, besides, my own wrist would have to be uncommonly close to the rail.