The Elder Ice: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (6 page)

“Don't worry, Harry. It doesn’t do to be too clever. And this Dr Evans woman—anything suspicious about her?”

“She would have kept talking about her tar-di-grades for as long as I cared to listen. But I'm blowed if I can see what they have to do with anything else.”

“Did you think about gold? One gold nugget would be worth a king’s ransom.”

“But the weight of gold...”

“It is not the value of the sample; it’s the vein of gold it points to. The Antarctic could be the next Klondike, except it’s a sight harder to go prospecting there. It could be worth millions.”

“I’ll look into that. I did have one thought of my own. The other evening I was reading an account of Robert Falcon Scott's ill-fated expedition of 1912.”

“I don't think anyone ever actually says 'ill-fated', Stubbsy.”

I paged through my notebook to the section I had copied out. “What caught my attention was what was found on Scott after he died. It seems he had been collecting some particular stones.”

“What sort of stones?”

“That great explorer filled his pockets with fossils. Even though they had to shed as much weight as possible, those fossils were of the greatest value. Scott collected these fossils from the Beardmore Glacier the behest of a Dr Suess, who I understand to be an Austrian geologist. The reason being, these fossils prove the theory of continental drift, inasmuch as they are the remains of tropical plants. This proves that Antarctica once enjoyed a warm climate, a finding of not inconsiderable significance.”

“Maybe so,” said Arthur. “But how do you convert that into pounds, shillings, and pence? I never heard of a trade in them, not like artworks and gemstones. Fossils are more what you call curios. On the other hand, those four Irish weren't set on you for curios.”

“I suppose not.”

The bearded man who had been following me must have put them up to it. They thought either Brown had handed me something or had given me some information that made it worth attacking me. If only I knew what they thought I had.

Arthur must have been thinking along the same lines. “There’s money in this,” he said. “You keep your eyes peeled, Stubbsy, and mind what you’re up to.”

Round Five: The Summerhouse

I was most concerned about the possible repercussions when I submitted my report. I agonised about whether I should mention the brawl outside the Conquering Hero. In the end, I felt it must be relevant to the case. I feared Mr Rowe would be shocked that an employee should be engaging in a fracas, even cloaked in the terms with which I expressed it. Scuffles whilst collecting debts were common, but that was another case entirely.

I did have one straw to clutch at, and I took down some of the files relating to Shackleton. For the first time, the weight and volume of my own reports impressed me. I blushed to see the untidy early ones, all blots and crossings-out, and the workmanlike jobs I was now turning out satisfied me more.

I was looking for a gold mine. Shackleton did mention finding grains of gold on one mud sample, but the expedition geologist, Bibert Douglas, offered a more authoritative statement. He talked extensively with Shackleton on this exact topic and oversaw the analysis of the mineral samples, too. I doubt Shackleton could have put one over on him. Douglas was categorical about the lack of gold, silver, or other precious metals in any of their samples, however optimistic his superior had been.

I was on my way to replacing the files when Mr Rowe chanced to pass on his way out of the office. He was alone, so I decided to speak up. “Begging your pardon, Mr Rowe, sir,” I began.

“Hmm, what is it?” He seemed surprised rather than annoyed that I had importuned him.

“I merely wished to reassure you, Mr Rowe, of my continuing fidelity to the firm.” I fumbled for words. “I do hope that my recent report will not have created any bad impression, as I’m sure you will take the full circumstances into account.”

“Ah well, yes, of course I will. I have realistic expectations. Was that all you wanted to ask?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Well, well, keep up the good work, er, Stubbs.” He nodded politely and continued on his way without a single word of reproach or even warning about my behaviour. That was better than I could have hoped. Afterwards, a new fear took me—perhaps he had not even read my report yet. But Mrs Crawford assured me he had read it and that he understood fully the unorthodox nature of the assignment and the nature of the incidents that consequently attended it.

“He thinks very highly of you,” she said. “He told me he was quite satisfied with the progress of the Shackleton case.” She passed me a thick manila envelope marked “private and confidential” and advised me not to read it until I was out of the office. Mr Rowe had used more precaution than usual to conceal my work from my colleagues, and on examining the contents, I discovered why.

Disputes and legal difficulties often hedge action to recover rightful property. If a thief steals your gold watch, are you permitted to burgle it back? Volumes and volumes of law books on the shelves at Latham and Rowe were devoted to this very topic, and it has provided ample employment for lawyers over generations.

In this instance, Mr Rowe assured me that stealth and subtlety would be the most expeditious approach, and that the old adage about possession being nine parts of the law was a valid one. That was not quite the first time I had accepted such a commission, but it was unusual. For such a mild-looking man, Mr Rowe had a surprising streak of the bandit about him; before I joined the firm, I had no idea that respectable solicitors employed such tactics. Truly, I was undergoing an education.

This assignment would require the utmost discretion and a solid pry-bar.

The pry-bar is a useful, I might say indispensable, implement to the modern housebreaker. It is a stout tool forged from Sheffield steel, curved into the shape of the letter
J
, with flat prongs at each extremity. These can be inserted into the narrowest crevice, and the operator can exert very considerable leverage—enough, if he has any muscle, to open any ordinary door or window. I do not include those doors or windows reinforced against just this sort of attack. Because of its compactness, one may easily conceal the pry-bar beneath an overcoat, wrapped in a hand towel for padding and hooked over the shoulder.

If the pry-bar has a disadvantage, it is that possession of such an implement is difficult to explain to the custodians of the Law. Whenever I have recourse to one, I borrow it from an acquaintance in the building trade who has legitimate cause for it. If one were discovered in my lodgings, questions might be asked.

My friend was obliging as ever and quickly extracted the said implement from his toolbox. “Now don't go doing anything I wouldn't do, Harry.” He winked at me as he handed it over.

A man who is in debt but possesses some form of portable wealth is in a different situation to regular persons. He can't put it in the bank, or even keep it at home, because debt collectors, creditors, bailiffs, and others are most likely to look there. He has to hide his wealth away, like an old-time pirate burying his gold. Like the celebrated Captain Kidd, in fact, a man who Sir Ernest clearly admired in some of his capacities.

It is a matter of some interest in my line to observe how little we need to do to protect things of value. The rule of law is so deeply ingrained that the mere suggestion of a barrier is sufficient to deter all but the most determined. Fences so low you can step over them defend our gardens, and even our front doors are made of flimsy wood that gives way to an insistent shoulder. Of course, stealth is also a consideration, which is why a pry-bar is a useful appendage for forcing a window. Breaking the glass attracts attention. Though of course plenty of thieves will break a plate-glass window with a hammer to get what they want.

The question then was where Sir Ernest would hide his putative valuables. Not at home, clearly, and perhaps not even with his mistress—with any of his mistresses. No, we are creatures of habit, and when we find a good hiding place, we tend to stick to it, even if it’s from our childhood. I was to try my luck with Sir Ernest’s oldest cache.

There was a good moon and a cold wind that night, both of which favoured me. The chill breeze meant few pedestrians were about, and nobody would look twice at a man in a heavy overcoat with his bowler hat pulled forward against the wind.

I glanced behind me once or twice. The guilty flee where none pursues, or so they say. If I had encountered a constable, I might have babbled like the most obvious guilt-wracked criminal. Fortunately, I saw none.

With the application of the pry bar to the chain, the locked side gate to the garden popped open with a small metallic screech and little resistance. I tossed the broken lock aside, opened the gate, and stepped cautiously through.

The only illumination was the light from the sky, enough to find my way across the lawn to the square bulk of the summerhouse. That lock was broken, no need for the pry bar. Stepping inside onto floorboards, I closed the door behind me, feeling for the electric torch in my pocket.

In the almost absolute velvet darkness, I knew I was not alone. By that sixth sense which warns us a room is occupied before we even see the occupant, I felt a presence nearby. It was a chilling moment. I'm not afraid of anything I can see, but there was menace in the darkness. I felt like a grave robber at a haunted tomb.

I stayed motionless, not even breathing, trying not to give my position away. The other would have seen my silhouette and known where I was, but I hesitated to move for fear of making a sound. There was no blow, no shot, but I had the sense of being scrutinised in spite of the intense dark.

I brought the torch out and snapped it on. The circle of yellow light illuminated heavy garden chairs stacked together awkwardly, and a folded garden parasol. I swept it around the small room, and the shadows leaned and bent, forming suggestive shapes, but it revealed no human presence.

I breathed again, but oddly, the sense that I was not alone persisted. I swung the torch to and fro. Odd that a few shadows should scare one usually unmoved by physical danger!

The light fell on a narrow, oblong box that I took for a coffin, and I almost dropped the torch. Then I saw the lettering on it: “Harrison Bros: complete garden croquet set: mallets, hoops and balls: an entertainment for young and old.” As harmless an object as you could imagine.

But still, I did not like the way the shadows moved. And while I could not hear any breathing, there was a kind of murmuring, so faint it might have been the rushing of my own blood, but it rose and fell like distant waves. It was not an external sound, and it was not internal, either. It was like the sound of a seashell held up to your ear.

My foot touched something on the floor. It was a wooden baton, of the type used by conductors or professors. I did not understand its presence.
Could it have fallen from above?

I swallowed and felt the lump in my throat. With an awful sense of premonition, I slowly tilted the torch and looked upwards at the shape I sensed looming right over me. My mind had already formed an image of it, a huge spider with legs that spanned the width of the summerhouse, poised over me. Not quite a spider, but something that writhed… I forced myself to look upwards before the image could take shape and my imagination overwhelmed my courage.

There were plenty of cobwebs but no spiders, unless they were small ones. Nothing but the wooden struts supporting the roof that, at the edge of vision, might give the suggestion of a spider shape—at least to an impressionable eye in the dark.

I had half a mind to get out there and then. Instead, I steeled myself and followed the instructions, finding my way to the fourth floorboard from the left-hand wall. After looking about the place once more with the circle of light, I directed the torch to the floorboard and discovered the place where it was loose. Underneath it was an empty space and—yes!—a container. I reached in and pulled out a dusty old biscuit-tin.

The murmuring in my ears rose. As I whirled the torch about, the shadows whisked together for an instant before dispersing. An illusion, of course, but a disturbing one, and I left that summerhouse at some speed, the door banging behind me, the biscuit tin tucked firmly under my elbow. I was across the lawn and through the gate too, out onto the street and, as I thought, safety.

I stopped to catch my breath under a streetlight, exhaling streams of steam like a horse. The feeling of being watched, of another presence, was as strong as ever. I whirled around, but no one pursued me. Two workmen passed by on the other side, deep in conversation and passing a bottle between them, but that was all.

That nagging sense of another presence stayed with me as I walked on. I suspected it had to do with whatever was in that biscuit tin, as though a haunted thing, if that made any sense. My instructions had warned me not to open whatever container the hidey-hole concealed but to return it unopened to Mr Rowe. Perhaps it was a fragile thing he did not trust to my sausage fingers. More, perhaps, he was afraid the glittering prize would seduce me and I would refuse to give it up.

Or perhaps the treasure was in some way perilous.

The box did not feel like it contained a living thing. It did not grow warm. But there was a sense of... something. A boxer learns to trust his instincts, to dodge the punch a split second before his opponent’s glove moves. And something about that box stirred my instincts down to the marrow of my bones. The big spider that loomed over me in the summerhouse was looming still, something watching me intently from a direction I could not fathom out.

Because I had the sense of that presence, I was slow to notice when someone came up behind me. I did not turn until the last second, just in time to see the blur of motion and the arc of an arm swinging towards me in the dark, followed by that jarring impact.

I have taken many blows to the head. The gloved fist and the naked fist have their own distinct sensations, as singular as the bouquet of claret or Beaujolais to the wine connoisseur. This, however, was the more powerful but slightly padded blow of a sandbag or blackjack. It caught me awkwardly but solidly enough to send me reeling and falling the long way down to the gently yielding turf, trailing, it seemed to me, a long stream of stars as I went.