The Elder Ice: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (8 page)

I considered the proposition, tried to gauge what she was asking of me and what was at stake. “My position at Latham and Rowe,” I started.

“Put it out of your mind.” She shook her head. “I have submitted my resignation, ‘for personal reasons’ with immediate effect, and it has been accepted. I have destroyed the paperwork relating to the Shackleton legacy. If you go back, you will not have a post, and there are likely to be some difficulties over your employment there. Our bridges are well and truly burned, Mr Stubbs. We must look forward.”

The mention of Shackleton’s name made me think of him and the Imperial Trans-Antarctic
Endurance
Expedition in 1914. When the Endurance had been stuck in the ice for months and then crumpled like an empty tin can, Shackleton’s dream of crossing the Antarctic disappeared – the pressing matter then was how they could ever get home alive.

The gardeners had dug two rows, and in that time, my dream of being a lawyer’s clerk had sunk. What of my life I could salvage? “You mentioned wealth,” I said.

“Yes. Again, I can explain more later. But you may trust me when I say there will be more money than you can imagine.” Mrs Crawford’s eyes were steely blue, and she had a quality about her you might call resolution. If she were a man, she might have been a leader.

“It is not that I doubt you, but I feel a more thorough explanation of how this wealth is to be obtained, and the legalities of the situation, are in order.”

Mrs Crawford blinked. “Legalities? Mr Stubbs, we are to retrieve some property which rightfully belongs to the Shackleton estate, and which was stolen—with violence, I might add—from you yourself. As we are still acting pro tem for Latham and Rowe, we are entirely on the side of the law. And I assure you the finder’s fee will be a king’s ransom at the least.”

The proposition had become much simpler. I was to continue acting just as before, in pursuit of Shackleton’s mysterious treasure. “Why have you told me this?” I said at last. “Why not just issue another letter under Mr Rowe's name?”

“Firstly, because I need to be part of the expedition. Secondly, because you will become party to some extraordinary information, and I wish you to be prepared for it.”

The prospect of vast wealth, and getting a little of my own back on the individual who struck me from behind, both enticed me. But the lure of adventure really drew me on. The same that lures a man to step into the ring, heedless of the risk that he will be beaten black and blue. “Will you at least tell me why we may not conduct matters through the usual channels for recovering stolen property from a malefactor?”

“When you sensed a presence in the summerhouse, it was no illusion. And those misfortunate Irishmen did not die by any normal means, as you must realise.”

“Who killed them?”

“Not ‘who’ but ‘what’. A force that the regular authorities are singularly ill-equipped to deal with. You needn't frown so, Mr Stubbs. I have my own sources of intelligence, and I’m confident of bringing matters to a successful conclusion. If,” she added, “you are with me. That will mean following my instructions promptly and without question.”

“I can do that.”

“I was sure you could. You will hear some very strange things this morning. I want you to ignore them as far as possible, and keep your attention riveted to the men with whom we are dealing. They are exceptionally dangerous. Take your eyes off them, and we’ll both have our throats cut.”

Her frank language took me aback. Mrs Crawford was not at all the woman I had taken her to be. She might have been Boudicca, with the sun glinting from her auburn pompadour under her hat.

“I am with you,” I said at length.

“Good man. Now, may I ask you to fetch a cab and meet me at the entrance to the park here?”

“Very good, Mrs Crawford.”

I hurried off with a strange feeling of exaltation. I was not looking back to the ruined career behind me; I was looking forward to the encounter to come, with the prospect of danger and riches. The sun was sparkling on the frosty lawns, and I was gambling everything. I believe I might have started whistling.

Round Eight: The Collector

We left the cab two streets away from our destination. Mrs Crawford walked ahead of me at a smart pace, swinging her rolled umbrella purposefully. I followed with slow strides, one step to her two.

“You recognise the address?” she asked, stopping outside a town house with a brass knocker in the shape of a fist. The area had once been respectable but was now less so; I knew it well from my debt-collecting days, knew how little money there was on this street. A curtain across the road jerked.

“The collector,” I said. “The one who buys anything Shackleton touched.”

“Exactly. Harcourt is his name. We require the element of surprise, so I’ll ask you to break the door down, if you please, Mr Stubbs.”

Doors, as I have said, have a largely symbolic value in repelling intruders. That said, some are more stoutly secured than others. I put my fingertips close to the jamb, gauging its strength and where it was bolted. I took a half step back and directed a kick at the lock.

The deadbolt was all that held it; at my impulse, the door flew open. Metal fittings clattered across the stone floor beyond.

“Meredith, we’re in,” I said, a line from an old song that always seems very apt on these occasions.

“The bailiffs have come and they mean to collect,” declared Mrs Crawford, stepping over the threshold into the bare, shadowy hall. I judged it cheap accommodation, left unfurnished. “Mr Stubbs, kindly intercept anyone who attempts to interfere.”

She had barely spoken these words when a man in shirtsleeves and braces came through a doorway to my right. He grabbed a walking stick leaning in one corner and was raising it to strike at me when I hit him with a straight left to the abdomen, a right to his chin, and a left to the side of his face. It was instinctive boxing but sound. When you work the drills long enough, the combinations come out right without having to think. He was only a small man, and it was a clean knockout.

I recognised my would-be assailant from the fight outside the pub. The fourth of the Irishmen, the man with the knife. No wonder his face was already bruised.

“His name is Connell, and he’s a criminal known to the police,” said Mrs Crawford. “Keep hold of him.”

I patted Connell for a knife and found nothing. We had caught him unprepared.

Then she turned and called up the stairs in a ringing voice, “Good morning. I am Mrs Geraldine Crawford, from the firm of Latham and Rowe of upper Norwood, representing the creditors to the estate of the late Sir Ernest Shackleton. I have reason to believe that you are in possession of property pertaining to the estate, and I wish to discuss the matter.”

“You had better come upstairs, then,” came the quiet reply.

We could not see the speaker, who was up on the second landing. Mrs Crawford indicated I bring the man who had attacked me; I half-dragged, half-carried him, and we went upstairs at a brisk pace.

A tall, sandy-haired gentleman with a moustache greeted us on the landing. He was wearing a good tweed suit and a watch chain. I would have said he was fifty.

“Roger Harcourt,” she said.

“Geraldine Crawford,” said the other. “And I'd like to mention that if you attempt violence, my associate will be forced to restrain you.”

I must have cut a menacing figure, coming out of the shadows and tossing aside the still-stunned Connell with one hand. He took a step back.

“Purely a precaution,” Mrs Crawford went on. “I do want to talk to you, Mr Harcourt, and I don't want you doing anything precipitate to prevent our talking.”

“Indeed.” Harcourt showed us in to a room furnished sparsely and rather cheaply with second-hand items. A bachelor’s room, the study or workroom of a man with varied interests. A side table held decanters and a dozen glasses, none of them clean. An odd assortment of old books, well bound and perhaps valuable, packed the shelf behind him, but nothing else in the room indicated wealth or taste.

The large table at one end, which I instantly identified as a collection of items relating to Sir Ernest, was the room’s most remarkable feature. There were skis, winter coats, travelling chests, an ice axe hanging from its leather thong, even pairs of snowshoes like crude tennis rackets.

Harcourt scowled at Connell, who took a seat in the corner. I went to search Harcourt for weapons, but Mrs Crawford indicated it would not be necessary. He sat behind the desk, and we sat in front of it in mismatched easy chairs, as though we had come into his office to make a request.

The desk was spread with an unusual display of impedimenta: a wooden case of jewellers’ screwdrivers, a long wooden pointer, a corkscrew, a penny whistle, a magnifying lens, an old hearing trumpet, a candle and matches, and a many-bladed pocketknife with a scaling instrument extended. I thought of the tray of assorted items in Kim’s game. Only the ashtray full of cigar stubs made sense. A notebook, a couple of books whose titles I could not see, and a scrap of ancient leather marked with a five-sided pattern or picture, also lay there.

“Mr Harcourt is the younger brother of Sir Edward Harcourt of Effra Hall,” Mrs Crawford informed me. “He was a friend of Ernest Shackleton for some years. Mr Harcourt, this is my associate, Mr Stubbs.”

Knowing who he was, I could see his type. The younger brother, a man without any trade, profession, or prospects. He had to make his way by means of his social connections and the opportunities and knowledge they afforded. I knew his sort as gamblers, at the ring and the racetrack. A few of them were always about. They patronised fighters or owned shares in horses. Many of them played cards with those who could afford to lose. Harcourt’s face showed signs of years of late nights and drinking. Judging from his surroundings, I would say he was not a successful gambler.

Harcourt’s gaze barely flicked over me, as though I was merely a hired thug. A more sensitive man might have been insulted, but his assumption was understandable, especially given the state of his front door.

For my part, I belatedly recognised him as the man with the bushy beard in the train from Chichester and in the Conquering Hero. The beard was a false stage prop, no doubt.

“What may I do for you, Mrs Crawford?” he asked, completely composed. “You must have a good reason for forced entry into a man's house.”

“Let us start with the piece of property you took from Mr Stubbs last night.”

Harcourt had the nerve to raise an eyebrow quizzically. “Exactly what property would that be? It's well known that I pay for any souvenirs of Shackleton, so perhaps someone was hoping to get something they could sell to me. I hope that Connell and his disreputable friends didn't rob you.” He looked over to the bruised man. “I wouldn't know anything about it.”

“There are three dead men at a stables this morning,” said Mrs Crawford, changing tack. “I know how they died.”

“Do you indeed?”

The faint smile about his lips troubled me. I had not expected that type of interview. Harcourt was likely a murderer, but Mrs Crawford was chatting as politely as though he was a social acquaintance.

“They died by the disruption of protein molecules by resonant radio waves,” she said coolly. “Proteins bind together our muscles, ligaments, and other connective tissue. If the molecular bonds within them are broken, they lose their strength. Tissue under tension will part. A narrow beam of radio waves can cut through such tissue like a hot knife through butter. Even to the degree of beheading a man.”

He nodded slowly, evidently re-appraising her. “Needless to say, it was not my doing. They were warned. But like Pandora, they heedlessly opened the box. Connell and I arrived five minutes too late.”

“Mr Waters died the same way.”

“You are well-informed,” he said.

“I had his body dug up especially. The damage to his skull was most unusual.”

“Didn’t have too many brains in the first place,” said Harcourt drily. “He was another greedy fool. He could have saved me two years if he’d have told me what he was doing.”

I had not heard of Mr Waters. I later learned he had died in the Greyhound public house two years previously.

“You didn't bring the police, so I assume you can only have come for one reason. How much do you want?”

She shook her head. “I believe we can work together. I think we have the same aim.”

“What makes you think I need your assistance?” Harcourt demanded.

“Because you are not yet seated on a golden throne playing with a bowl of diamonds the size of goose eggs.”

“Ha! Quite so... but I repeat my question. How can you help?”

It seemed to me that we were in a position to demand our property. But Harcourt felt otherwise, and Mrs Crawford evidently agreed, as she did not simply order him to hand over the object of our quest. These two believed some sort of cerebral sparring was necessary.

“I can help you realise the value of what you have.”

“I've a half-share in this,” said Connell. “So you’re dealing with me as well.”

Mrs Crawford turned her gaze on him. “Do you actually know what it is you have, or has Mr Harcourt kept that to himself?”

“It’s a container for valuables,” said Connell. “And it’s worth a pile of money. But it's booby-trapped.”

She waited, but he had nothing more to add. As Mrs Crawford had guessed, he was as ignorant as I was. Connell and I were the corner men in this bout. We had nothing to do but watch the match between our principles, who were still finding their distance.

“Let me tell you my story,” she said.

“Some years ago, an Oxford professor of classical studies was looking into the antecedents of Homer’s odyssey. As you might know, there are several incidents—the Cyclops, the lotus-eaters, the Old Man of the Sea—which are common to the
Odyssey
and the voyages of Sinbad in the
Arabian Nights
. Some believe the stories migrated from Greece to Arabia; the professor believed the opposite. He gathered many versions of the stories, and as he did so, he noted various correspondences and changes over time.”