The Further Adventures of Langdon St. Ives

by James P. Blaylock

  “I ain’t heard nothing,” he said, making a key-turning motion in front of his lips. “I hate the bloody Tipper. Nothing but cuffs and curses from the likes of him, and him a bleeding midget, begging your lady’s pardon.”

  “And don’t let the mail coach go on without us,” Tubby said, giving him another half crown, which he accepted gleefully, it apparently being his lucky day.

  With that we left our bags in his care and went along down the High Street in a singular hurry, but silent as phantoms, past two blocks of miners’ cottages, with more set behind them in rows. The village was quiet on the damp Sabbath evening, people staying indoors, which was to the good if Alice had some sort of mischief on her mind. She has as much pluck as does St. Ives, although she is, if I might say it, far easier to look at than the Professor, who is growing tolerably craggy as the years pass. Alice has what might be called a natural beauty, which strikes you even if she’s just come in out of a storm or from mucking about in the garden. She’s moderately tall, very fit, with eyes that are just a little bit piercing, as if she sees things, you included, particularly clearly. Her dark hair is perhaps her best feature—perpetually a little wild and refusing to stay pinned down, something like the woman herself. I write all this in the interests of literary accuracy, of course. My own betrothed, Dorothy Keeble, a beauty of a different stamp, would tell you the same about Alice, who has become her great good friend.

  The Tipper’s hovel sat conveniently alone, a good distance below the rest of the village, partway down a grassy decline: our good luck, for we wouldn’t be easily heard or seen. It was just as the boy had described it, right down to the junk pile and the badly hung door with its makeshift hinge, which you could see easily enough in the moonlight that shone on the front wall. We were crossing the last patch of ground when we saw a glim of light inside the hovel, right along the edge of a curtain, as if someone had opened the slide on a dark lantern to see what he was about.

  “Here’s a bit of luck,” whispered Tubby. “He’s sneaked back after his swag, I’ll warrant, before clearing out. I’ll just see to the front door, and you two go around to the back, eh? He’ll have a bolt-hole. No doubt he’ll make for the woods.”

  We set out without a moment to spare across the wet grass, thankful for the curtains on the window, which would hide us as well as they would hide the Tipper, if it was him mucking around inside. Tubby of course carried his blackthorn stick with him, but I had no sort of weapon, and neither did Alice. There in the weedy trash, however, lay a serendipitous length of rusted pipe, which I snatched up in passing. Despite my rough treatment aboard the train, the idea of similarly bashing anyone with a length of pipe didn’t much appeal to me, although the idea of the Tipper slipping away from us appealed even less, and I was determined to do the useful thing.

  We had scarcely taken up our position outside the rear door when there was the crash of the front door coming down, a shout from Tubby, and the sound of running feet. I raised the length of pipe and was moving forward when the door flew open and the Tipper hurled himself down the several wooden steps, wearing a slouch hat and carrying a canvas bag. He was clearly intent upon making for the safety of the woods, which would have been easy enough if it were only Tubby in pursuit. I stepped in front of him, however, crouching down, drawing back the piece of pipe like a cricket bat. He endeavored to slow himself, but gravity had helped impel him down the steps, and now the hillside was doing the same. He rushed at me headlong, swinging the canvas bag and slamming me on the shoulder with it, knocking me sideways. I swung my piece of pipe as I fell, clipping him neatly on the back of the leg behind the knee. The bag flew out of his hands, sailing away toward Alice as he sprawled forward. Alice picked the bag up, and the thing was done.

  Tubby came out then, puffing and blowing like a whale. “Looks like a pawnbroker’s shop inside,” he said.

  Miraculously, despite his tumble, the Tipper still wore his slouch hat, which Tubby plucked from his head now, cuffing him twice across the face with it. “You’re in the presence of a lady, you goddamned rascal,” he said, and then he sailed the hat away down the hill, where it settled over the top of a moonlit stone. The Tipper looked at us hatefully, a human bomb about to detonate.

  Alice tugged open the drawstrings of the bag and peered inside, reaching in and pulling out two of the asbestos caps and tossing them to me. “Sydnee’s silver,” she said, taking another look. “Tableware and candelabra.” She reached inside and drew out a clasp purse, which she snapped open. “Jewelry—Sydnee’s jewelry—and a good lot of coin. Here’s my broach, too, and my necklace….”

  “You crawling piece of filth,” Tubby said to the Tipper, raising the blackthorn stick menacingly. The Tipper cringed away, certain that he was about to be pummeled, but Alice sensibly shook her head at Tubby.

  “Into the house with him,” she said, “quickly.”

  In an unwise moment I latched onto the Tipper’s coat, twisting it in my fist and yanking him to his feet. More quickly than I could follow, he snatched a dirk from a scabbard in his boot and took a swipe at my arm, tearing through the sleeve of my coat. I felt the blade slice through skin, a sharp pain, and a wash of warm blood on my forearm. In my surprise I let go of the handful of coat and reeled back, sitting down hard. The Tipper lurched away toward the woods again, running like a hare. Tubby swarmed past me in pursuit, but it was an uneven race, and by the time I had joined in, gripping my bleeding arm, the Tipper had already disappeared into the shadow of the forest.

  Tubby returned, looking immensely unhappy. I could do nothing but apologize, although of course there was no point in it. None of us had seen the dirk, after all, and it might have gone even worse for one of us if things had fallen out differently. “I’m all right,” I said, when I saw Alice’s anxiety. I pressed my coat and shirtsleeve hard against the wound and gave her my best smile.

  In we went without another word. The Tipper’s lantern was still lit, sitting where it had sat when Tubby pried open the door, which hung out across the threshold now, aslant the bottom hinge. The place was littered with stolen goods—porcelain objects, bric-a-brac, paintings, furs and other garments. The Tipper had been a busy little thief. How he intended to flee with the goods I can’t say, unless he had a cart waiting somewhere. Perhaps he had returned merely to take out the coin and the jewelry and meant to leave the rest. We didn’t have time to puzzle it out, for we couldn’t brook any delay. Our mail coach would soon be standing idle on our account, and we had an aversion to calling attention to ourselves and even more of being left behind.

  We dressed the wound on my arm with gin and with a silk scarf as a bandage and went out through the back door again, shutting it after us, Alice carrying the canvas bag. I felt first rate, I can tell you, despite my sliced-up arm. We had put our hands on the swag and had two more caps into the bargain, should we need them. We hadn’t ended the Tipper’s depredations, but we’d taken some of the wind out of his sails—real progress, it seemed to me, and the whole job hadn’t taken a half hour.

  The coach waited in the yard, the horses stamping and whinnying, the wind out of the south with the faint smell of salt on it. John Gunther stood with our luggage looking anxious. When he saw us he hurried across, holding out what appeared to be a stiffish envelope. Alice took it from him.

  “A man give this to me directly you went down to the Tipper’s,” the boy said. “He was an ugly article, with a head like the moon.”

  “Dressed in brown tweed?” I asked him.

  “That’s the one.”

  “The Peddler!” I said to Tubby as Alice slipped a largish photograph out of the envelope, tilting it toward the gas lamp to see it clearly. Something came over her face then, and it seemed to me that she went as pale as she had been when she had walked into the inn an hour ago. She steadied herself and handed me the photograph, which reeked of chemicals. It was of Langdon St. Ives, lying in a wooden coffin. At first I thought he was dead, and I simply couldn’t breathe, but he
was not. He was evidently mad, his eyes opened unnaturally wide, as if he were staring at some descending horror. His forearms were raised, his hands half closed so that they appeared to be claws. At the bottom of the photograph, in a scrawl of grease pen, were the words, “Belle Tout Light. Eleven in the morning. Bring the stone.”

  The meaning was clear. They hadn’t sent the message with Alice when they allowed her to flee from Heathfield, because they intended to underscore the demand with the photograph, which was a hellish obscenity. They had made a tolerably quick business of it—anticipated our movements, too, as we stumbled about imagining ourselves to be acting, when in fact we had inevitably been acted upon.

  I tipped the photograph into the flame of the gas lamp until it blazed, burning down to my fingers before I dropped it to the cobbles of the courtyard and ground it beneath my heel. My recently elevated mood had vanished. I regretted letting the Tipper get the better of me. I regretted Tubby’s having prevented me from going into Heathfield alone. I regretted not having been at the Inn when the Peddler delivered the photograph. The night was suddenly a hailstorm of regrets. I told myself that I might yet see the whole crowd of villains hanging from gibbets, but it was cold comfort.

  Alice very calmly asked John Gunther if he would do us one final service. She even managed to smile at the boy, who was staring at my bloody coat sleeve now, apprehension in his eyes. After our departure, Alice told him, he was to fetch the constable and say that he had been out taking the air when he’d seen someone coming out through the Tipper’s door, which was broken from its hinges, and making away downhill. She put another coin into the boy’s hand, and he nodded reassuringly. The three of us turned to the coach, as impatient as the coachman to be on our way. Our business in Blackboys was at an end. The authorities would find the leftover swag before anyone else thought to loot the place. When sanity returned to Heathfield, as it perhaps already had, the Tipper’s victims might at least recover what they’d lost.

  The three of us climbed into the empty coach, which swayed as if on heavy seas as Tubby hoisted himself aboard. The driver hied-up the horses and away we went down the road toward Dicker, rattling and creaking along. The moon was high in the sky now, and the forest trees along the roadside shone with a silver aura, the wind just brisk enough to move the branches.

  CHAPTER 8

  On the Side of the Angels

  ST. IVES ABRUPTLY came to himself, waking up fully sensible, but with no idea where he had been a moment earlier. Now he lay in the back of a moving wagon that smelled of hay, and in fact he rested comfortably enough on that substance, looking up in the faint light at what was apparently tightly stretched canvas. His hands and feet were bound, although the rope that connected his ankles had some play in it, enough so that he could hobble if he had any place to hobble to. He could recall the scuffle at Heathfield, and Alice’s flight, but precious little else since then, aside from a suspicious memory of having met the Queen, who had taken the form of an immense jackdaw wearing a tall golden crown. Other memories flitted through his mind—a trip to Surrey in a cart drawn by a pig, a flight over London on an enormous bullet fired out of a cannon on Guy Fawkes Day, a descent into the depths of hell where he held a long conversation with a crestfallen devil who looked very much like himself. He knew that he had been insane and that he was now in the hands of his enemies, but whether for hours or days he couldn’t say. Nor could he tell in which direction the wagon traveled, only that they moved at a moderate pace, bumping and jostling along over an ill-maintained road.

  After a time the driver reined in the horses, and all was momentarily still. St. Ives closed his eyes, feigning sleep. The gate of the wagon clattered downward, and as the night wind swirled in around him there was the swishing sound of the canvas being drawn back. The wagon dipped on its springs as someone climbed aboard, and then there was the sharp reek of ammonia under his nose, and his eyes flew open involuntarily. A voice said, “That roused the bugger,” and immediately he was dragged bodily off the back of the cart and dumped onto the ground, still bound.

  For a moment he lay there, wary of being kicked, but the men—the Peddler Sam Burke and the man with his arm in a sling—walked off and left him to his own devices. He sat up, grateful to breathe clean air, and looked up through the trees at the moon riding at anchor amid a flotilla of stars, which told him that they were traveling south. Beachy Head, he thought, smelling the sea on the wind now. It was pretty much the same moon that had risen last night—only a few bare hours having passed since he had been taken. They weren’t on the Dicker road by any means, but were on a broad sort of path through the forest, little wider than the wagon.

  In a small clearing nearby, his companions had set up a low table, with a Soyer’s Magic Stove alongside it, the wick already lit. The Peddler was just then filling a kettle with water, which he set on the stove, and then from a basket he took out candles, a teapot and cups, a loaf of bread and a piece of what looked like farmhouse cheddar, all of which he set out on the table, arranging it neatly, as if he took particular pleasure in what he was doing. He lit the candles and nodded with satisfaction.

  The other man watched him with a derisive scowl. “A man would think you were a miserable sodomite with those pretty ways of yours, Peddler,” he said.

  “Some of us are what they call civilized, Mr. Goodson,” the Peddler told him. “My old mother was particular about serving tea. She had the idea that it was proof positive we were descended from angels rather than the much-lamented apes. ‘I’m on the side of the angels,’ she’d say, taking out the china teapot. She didn’t have the pleasure of knowing you, of course, Mr. Goodson. You might have changed her mind for her. Cup of tea, Professor St. Ives? Rather later than is customary, but we make do in our crude way.”

  St. Ives saw no reason to answer.

  “Ah, I forgot that you were bound hand and foot, Professor. Not at all conducive to holding a teacup. We might untie our captive friend’s hands, Mr. Goodson. Loop a noose around his neck first, however. Then you can lead him into the trees so that he can relieve himself in Mother Nature’s waterless closet. The tea should be steeping by the time you return. We’ll give the Professor something more fortifying—a restful glass of brandy, perhaps.”

  “Get your old mother to lead him into the woods,” Goodson told him, nearly spitting out the words. Then he stepped across to the short-legged table, picked up the entire cheese, and took a great bite out of it, spitting the chunk into his hand and setting the cheese back down. He stood there chewing like a cow and glaring at the Peddler, who calmly removed a long clasp knife from his pocket, opened it, and sliced off the ruined corner of the cheese, which he flung over his shoulder. He flipped the open knife neatly into the air, moonlight glinting off the blade, and let it fall onto the table, where it stuck quivering.

  “The Doctor would particularly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Goodson. Indeed he would. He’s a generous man, the Doctor—a generous man. No one moreso when good work’s been done.” The Peddler looked steadily at Goodson, who seemed to be reconsidering his ways. After a moment he swallowed what he was chewing and walked unhappily to the wagon, where he drew out a length of rope. His arm being in a sling, he awkwardly tied a slipknot into the end of it and then stepped across and dropped the loop over St. Ives’s head before drawing the noose tight. Then he untied the Professor’s hands, all the time staring into his face with a dark look.

  “Up you go, cully,” he said, hauling on the rope, and St. Ives had to scramble to his feet to avoid strangling. For all that, he was grateful enough for the short jaunt into the trees, and for more reasons than one. He looked out for Mr. Goodson to let his guard down, and he meant to cause him some real harm before the Peddler could join the fray. But the man had the rope wrapped half a dozen times around his good hand, and would without a doubt keep St. Ives on a long tether, pulling him taut at the first hint of a false move. With his feet hobbled, the Professor would have little chance of prevailing, but ev
en so, he watched for his chance, determining to force the issue while the odds were close to even.

  When they returned to the clearing again, the Peddler was standing at the wagon, pouring brandy into a cup. He nodded cheerfully at St. Ives. “Night-cap, Professor? Best you drink it while your hands are free. There’s more dignity in it.”

  Clearly the question was meant as a command, and St. Ives took the cup as if he were happy to oblige, tasting the brandy before consuming it, the bitter flavor of chloral nearly making him spit. “Cheers,” he said, and he pitched the brandy into the Peddler’s face, spun around so that he was facing Goodson, and grabbed the line, yanking Goodson forward and off balance, slamming him on the nose with his knee, hard enough so that the man’s head snapped back and he fell, the rope still wrapped around his hand. St. Ives was dragged forward, despite yanking savagely to free himself. The Peddler’s arms wrapped around his chest just then, and he was lifted bodily off the ground, getting in one last boot-heel blow that caught Goodson in the forehead.

  Goodson got up more slowly the second time, blood flowing from his nose. “Hold him still, Peddler,” he said. Securing the coil of rope even more tightly around his hand, he drew back his arm and hit the Professor savagely on the cheek, the rope cutting into his flesh. He would have struck him again if the Peddler hadn’t turned away.

  “Fetch the funnel,” the Peddler told him brusquely. “Give the rope to me.” He set St. Ives down, took the line from Goodson, and quickly tied St. Ives’s hands behind him again, so that his hands were tethered to his neck now. He pushed him back toward the bed of the wagon, still squinting his eyes against the sting of the brandy that St. Ives had flung into his face. “You’d best sit down of your own accord, Professor, or I’ll let Goodson have his way with you. That’s it. Now lie down on the straw there.” He bound the Professor’s feet tightly now, doing a neat job of it, then walked over to where the cup had landed in the dirt and picked it up. He took a satchel from Goodson, from which he removed a bottle of French brandy, followed by another small bottle, clearly from a chemist’s shop, and a funnel with a long tube. He knocked the cup against the side of the wagon by way of cleaning it, and then poured brandy into it along with a heavy dose of chloral. St. Ives lay there looking up at the moon again, weighing the odds without any real hope. Resistance was useless. Better to bide his time. When the Peddler told him to open his mouth, he did it. The Peddler was middling accurate with the funnel, sliding it neatly into the Professor’s throat and pouring the contents of the cup into it, and even though the liquor bypassed his tongue, St. Ives nearly gagged on the fumy bitterness of the chloral.