The Elder Ice: A Harry Stubbs Adventure
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Authors: David Hambling
The Elder Ice
By David Hambling
For PRJH
Copyright © 2014 David Hambling
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in form or by any means without prior written consent of the author.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Contents
Round Four: The Consignment Man
Round Nine: The Slave of the Lamp
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Norwood, South London, 1924
This may seem fanciful to the reader, but the impression was real to us at the time. People living under civilised conditions, surrounded by Nature’s varied forms of life and by all the familiar work of their own hands, may scarcely realise how quickly the mind, influenced by the eyes, responds to the unusual and weaves about it curious imaginings like the firelight fancies of our childhood days.
Ernest Shackleton,
South: The Story of Shackleton's 1914-1917 Expedition
The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow—
They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go.
The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their furs to the trading-post: they sell their souls to the white.
The People of the Northern Ice, they trade with the whaler’s crew;
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few.
But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken—
Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men!
-
Rudyard Kipling
, The Jungle Book
Prologue
It will be convenient to state here the details of an incident of which I was unaware until much later.
It happened that late one evening, a man called Waters staggered into the Greyhound public house in Sydenham. He was well known there, and the occupants of the pub naturally assumed Waters already in drink. Barely coherent, he had to lean on the bar for support. He was in a state of some distress and saying the devil was after him. His listeners laughed, assuming some drunken, comical misidentification had occurred and suggesting his devil had been either a donkey or a dustman.
Then they saw the trickles of blood running from under his hat. They crowded round and persuaded Waters to stand still while one of the men took off his hat, stiff with blood, to inspect the injury.
The back of Waters’ head came off with it.
Waters slumped over, dead as a doornail, and dark, sticky gore spattered the witnesses. The landlady screamed and fainted dead away. An elderly man was struck with paralysis and had to be taken to hospital.
All of the witnesses agreed that the sudden and unnatural death was a sight of unutterable horror. They struggled to describe it to the police and preferred not to discuss it afterwards. Those hardened by the War said the death in that cosy pub was worse than the trenches.
The pub was closed the next week, and the week after. After that, they shut it down. The landlady, who had been reckoned a woman who could stand anything, had gone to live with relatives in Norfolk. She put the place up for sale, and when the Greyhound opened a month later under new management, the bar had been moved and the floorboards torn up to leave no trace of the event.
It happened that Waters was a known thief. Not a burglar exactly, but a man who kept his eyes and ears open, noting unlocked doors and unattended property and seizing such opportunities as presented themselves. All assumed he had come to grief whilst pursuing that occupation. Opinion varied on whether he had had some accident with machinery or whether a householder defending his property had assaulted him.
Exactly how the fatal blow had been dealt remained a mystery and a matter of speculation.
A folded page from an old book was found in Waters’ pocket. Those who had seen it described a sort of pentagram drawn in black ink. The inquest did not mention that. Perhaps it savoured too much of cheap fiction, and they feared the newspapers would have made a sensation.
As for the cause of death, the coroner recorded only that a cutting implement had been employed on Waters’ skull with fatal results. The coroner was a religious man and a lay preacher, and he said a good deal more off the record. When he told his audience he had seen the touch of the devil’s hand with his own eyes, they were inclined to believe him.
Another point not in the papers was that Waters’ last utterances included not only the devil but also the name “Shackleton”. Knowing that might have saved me from some of what followed.
Round One: The Antique Dealer
A bell tinkled above the shop door as I entered. Even though I had already removed my bowler, I stooped as I stepped inside. The doorway was not really so low, but the cluttered and shadowy interior gave an impression of smallness.
Hat in hand, I moved past stags’ heads and mahogany bookcases, candelabras, and stuffed pheasants under glass domes. A gentleman writing in a sporting newspaper once described my appearance in the boxing ring as “pachydermous”. That turned out to be his way of saying I reminded him of an elephant. Now I was an elephant in an antique shop, an animal more perilous than a bull in a china shop. I conducted myself accordingly, moving lightly and taking care not to disturb anything.
People compare many such shops to Aladdin’s cave, but this one must have been an Aladdin of the poorest sort. Very ordinary lumber, odd furniture, and statuary for which the appellation of antique is an honorary one filled the shop. There were display cases of semi-precious stones and odd knick-knacks of ivory and painted china, the ugly and unfashionable items of a few decades ago that clutter England’s antique shops. The well-arranged stock, I should say, made a good show. However, on my valuation—and mine is an informed one—the lot would not have fetched more than a hundred pounds. This was only Chichester and not London, but still I felt Mr Mellors’ emporium was second-rate. The large fireplace, perhaps the best feature, threw out a very welcome heat. It was February, and a hard one. I paused a minute to warm my hands on the fire.
A dapper figure, a man in his middle years sporting a neat moustache, appeared in a doorway to one side. He was not at all the hearty character I was expecting. His green jacket, of a decidedly foreign cut, matched with a burgundy cravat. His expression indicated displeasure.
“The wardrobe isn't going until tomorrow,” he said.
“Excuse me. Perhaps there is a misunderstanding. I should like to speak to Mr Mellors, if that would be possible and convenient at this time.”
“He speaks,” he said with an arch little smile, dancing away behind an aisle formed by Japanese screens. “I thought you were here to collect a wardrobe.”
I did not believe his deliverymen usually wore suits, ties, and wing collars. “If it would be possible to speak with Mr Mellors,” I persisted. “At his convenience, I would be obliged.”
China clattered as he rearranged something on a glass tabletop. “I don't know if it is convenient,” he replied at last. “Not today.”
I waited, and a minute later, his head reappeared around the screen.
“You'll only come back though, won't you?”
“I can return at a more convenient time, or in another place.”
“May as well be now, I suppose,” he said heavily. “What's it about?”
“Would you be Mr Mellors?”
“Would I be Mr Mellors? Look at Mellors Antiques.” His sweeping gesture took in the whole shop. “Who would be Mr Mellors in their right mind, I ask you?”
I took this as an affirmative. “It's about your brother. The late Sir Ernest Shackleton.”
“I know who my brother was, thank you very much.”
“It's concerning a pecuniary matter. As you know, he left a number of debts, and I am exploring certain aspects of one on behalf of a legal firm.”
“Are you now?” He relaxed slightly. “That’s a new one. This might take more than a minute. Cup of tea, Mr...?”
“Stubbs,” I supplied. “Of Latham and Rowe of Upper Norwood.” As always, I felt a twinge of pride. Harry Stubbs, the butcher’s boy, now the employee of a firm of solicitors. Harry Stubbs, who could barely read his name at school, entrusted with delicate legal matters.
“Upper Norwood,” he said with a sigh. “I supposed the Palace is still a social whirl? Do sit down, Mr Stubbs. The kettle’s just boiled.”
I selected a seat with some care. Much of the furniture, of spindly, insubstantial manufacture, was of a type more suited to display than providing support. It does not do to sit on antiques, not ones that creaked when I settled on them. I lowered myself onto a solid chest that doubled as a bench. I could hear Mellors filling the teapot next door.
“Your brother left some rather significant debts and no ready means of repaying them.”
Laughter brayed from the other room. “Dear old Ernest, the hero, the adventurer! He didn’t have the slightest notion of money. Forty thousand pounds in debt, can you imagine it? How could you or I ever spend forty thousand, Mr Stubbs?”
“He organised a number of expeditions to the Antarctic. I believe that accounts for the bulk of the expenditure.”
“He spent it indulging his whims, playing his big boys’ games. If you or I did that, we’d be called criminals. Nobody ever charged
him
with fraud. My brother was a marvel.”
“He intended to repay his debts.” I extracted the notebook from my breast pocket and turned the crisp pages. “He communicated to various persons his full confidence of it.”
“Pooh.” Mellors emerged with two steaming cups on a tray, placing one of them on a delicate table by my elbow. “He may have said that, but you know we're Irish, and Ernest kissed the Blarney Stone when he was a baby.” He broke into stage-Irish. “Sure and there'll be gold at the end of this rainbow, so there will, I've seen it myself, a whole crock of it, just spare me a thousand guineas for one more expedition... Do you think his backers believed there would be a financial return?” He pulled up a chair and resumed his usual voice. “Ernest made fools of everybody.”
“I dare say you're right.” I put the notebook aside and raised the dainty cup with some care, using my thumb and forefinger. The china was thin and translucent as eggshell. There was no milk, and the tea smelled strange and tasted stranger still.
“It’s camomile,” said Mellors.
It is in the nature of things that people treat you according to your appearance. If you look like a Duke, people will respect you. If you look like a nail, they will hammer you. As I look like a bear, so I expect them to bait me. “Very refreshing,” I said.
“And what was it you wished to ask me?”
“It is a mystery indeed how anyone would expect to find money in the Antarctic.” I paged through my notebook. “Sir Ernest was always interested in treasure, wasn't he? And he hinted to sundry people that he had brought something back, from, I believe, the Endurance expedition.”
Mellors was listening, his head cocked slightly to one side.
“Now he only retuned from that expedition with what he was carrying on his person.” I consulted my notes and the calculations I had made with the aid of a ready reckoner. “If we suppose that it was gold, which is priced at twenty pounds sterling per ounce Troy, then even three pounds of gold would be worth nine hundred and sixty pounds and ten shillings. It’s a very considerable sum of money, but it doesn’t approach the amount needed for his purposes.”
“I can tell you’ve made a thorough study of this, Mr Stubbs,” said Mellors gravely.