The Head in the Ice

by Richard James

  “He cheated, sir,” Hardacre growled. “Pure and simple.”

  Biddel thumped his fist down hard on his Bible. “I will not have insubordination aboard the Nimrod, Mr Hardacre,” he growled. Hardacre fell silent, though his eyes still burned with a dangerous disobedience. “In matters such as these,” continued the captain, “I defer to a higher authority than maritime law.” His great fingers leafed through the pages of his Bible until he found a marker he had placed there earlier. He had plainly rehearsed his arguments. Placing a pair of half moon spectacles upon his nose, Biddel read from the yellowing pages, tracing each word with his finger so he did not lose his place. It was an endearing affectation, thought Henderson from his corner. “Timothy; Chapter six, verse ten; For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” The droll captain leafed through the pages again, pulling at another marker to find his place. “Proverbs tells us, “Wealth gained hastily will dwindle.”

  “Chapter and verse will not get my coinage back. Nor my week’s worth of rum, neither.”

  “Your coinage is forfeit. It will be divided among the purser, myself and Doctor Henderson.” Hardacre let out a low, rumbling growl. Captain Biddel rose from his chair and leaned towards the two men. “I will not have gambling aboard the Nimrod!” At this, Hardacre launched himself with a mighty roar at Perryman. Grabbing the unsuspecting able seaman by his tousled hair, he proceeded to kick, punch and bite his quarry with almost animal-like ferocity. It took the captain and two ratings to hold him down. While Perryman slid unconscious to the floor, Biddel hollered his orders to his men. “Take this beast to the brig and there let him stay without food or water for three days and nights. If he is disagreeable or resists confinement, feed him to the sharks!”

  As Jeb Hardacre was dragged from the room, globules of spittle and blood flying from his foaming mouth, Doctor Henderson was left to tend to Perryman’s wounds as best he could.

  Once at port in Bengal, the crew worked hard to load the sacks of jute to be transported home and sold. As Henderson sat on the dock, reclining in his deck chair reading, he would occasionally lift his gaze to survey the industry around him. The harbour workers bustled their way between makeshift, ramshackle offices, directing the crew to warehouses full of the golden, sinewy fibre that was to be the Nimrod’s load for the voyage home. It amazed the doctor that such an innocuous cargo could be so valuable, but Captain Biddel assured him that, with the rise of the Merchant Navy, jute was in demand. If dried and twisted, it could make excellent rope. If pressed and woven it could be sewn together to make strong sacks. Henderson marvelled that fortunes could be made in the production and sale of such base material, but he was willing enough to believe the captain when he told him it was so. As he drew the brim of his hat further over his forehead to shade his eyes, Henderson let his imagination wander to the future and how he might expect to spend his fortune.

  Three days passed quickly and without much by way of incident. Henderson swiftly found a routine by which to live that included morning trips into the Bengali interior. Before the sun was at its highest, he would find and sketch flora and fauna indigenous to this particular coast. Trees, shrubs and palms provided shade and shelter for snakes, spiders and a greater variety of insects than Henderson had ever seen. Within those three days, he drew and catalogued no fewer than fourteen species of beetle alone and carefully collected specimens of the more interesting poisonous plants for future study. Henderson had heard how natural poisons could be harnessed for medicinal purposes and he hoped to be a contributor to the field. Local myth had it that a particular compound of plants even had the capacity to give the appearance of death in subjects still living. On one such expedition inland, he halted in the shade of a magnificent Knema bengalensis tree to watch a herd of elephants pass on their way to a watering hole. It was on such occasions that he cursed himself for neglecting to pack his box camera. Henderson made the most of his time ashore knowing that, within a mere thirty six hours, he would be condemned again to share the company of another dozen or so men of varying worth and sobriety.

  On the final night at port, Henderson was napping in his quarters. The exertions of the morning had taken their toll and, after a light lunch of curried vegetables, he had sought the refuge and cool of his cabin. Having written up the day’s discoveries in his journal, Henderson kicked off his shoes and lay back in his hammock. Motes of dust danced lazily in the beams of the sun that entered through his porthole, a luxury afforded him on account of his standing with the captain. Just as he drifted into sweet oblivion, a cry served to raise him from his slumbers. At first he was disoriented, caught somewhere between sleeping and waking. Sweat had drenched his clothes in spite of the cool in the room and his throat was dry. Swallowing hard, Henderson leaned upon one arm. The cry came again, and this time, he could discern it was a cry for the captain. Swinging from his hammock with a single, practised movement, the doctor stepped into his shoes and jammed his wide-brimmed hat upon his head. As he stepped into the short corridor beyond his cabin and turned towards the main deck, Henderson was knocked aside by a hurrying Jeb Hardacre. The galley porter barrelled past him to the lower decks breathing hard, but not before Henderson had noticed he was trying his best to conceal a sharp blade in his apron. As Henderson stepped blinking into the early evening sun, he was greeted by such a commotion that at first it was difficult to ascertain exactly what had happened. Looking down through the large hatch in the main deck into the hold, Henderson saw several men struggling to lift a large crate of jute from the planks. A rope swung wildly from a crane above his head. Catching the end in his hand, Henderson could see the fraying hemp had been cleanly cut through with a knife.

  “Doctor Henderson!” Captain Biddel was calling up at him from below decks. Casting his eyes downwards, Henderson could see the captain had his shoulder to the large crate in the hold. “This crate must weigh a ton and there’s a man caught beneath it. He’ll need your help!” As the doctor looked closer, he could plainly see the lower portions of a man protruding from beneath the container. A slick of dark red blood was seeping into the planks below.

  Henderson sprang down the steps at speed. Those not engaged in moving the huge crate gave way and he was soon pressing his weight against it. With a final heave it moved to reveal the crushed remains of one of the ship’s crew.

  “Perryman.” It was clear he was dead. Several of the men blanched at the sight of the body and one or two ran to the sides of the ship to heave the contents of their stomachs into the sea. It was plain to Henderson that Hardacre had wrought a deadly revenge for Perryman’s misdemeanour.

  Arrangements were made with the Governor of Chittagong that Perryman be buried in a grave near the makeshift local church. A simple service was held at which there were some three or four attendees including Henderson, Captain Biddel and a vagrant who, it appeared, had made his home in the hallowed ground of the churchyard. Using a finger to lead his eye across the page, Biddel read a favoured passage from his Bible and Henderson threw a handful of dry dust upon the simple coffin when he had finished. As distressing an interlude as it had been, the doctor was keenly aware that the crew of the Nimrod had been lucky enough to come this far with only one fatality among them. The fact that this death, as Henderson was sure, had been caused by another member of the crew only served to make the fact more bitter still.

  One evening after dinner some three weeks into the voyage home, there came a visitor to Henderson’s cabin. Just that day, the Nimrod had successfully rounded the Cape of Good Hope. Henderson was only too aware of the sea’s reputation in these parts and had led the galley in a toast of thanks to the captain at dinner. Biddel had accepted the compliment with all due modesty. Now, the young doctor sat at the desk in his quarters to continue cataloguing the various specimens he had gathered in the forests of Chittagong. For much of the evening, he had been consumed with a line drawing of an indigenous plant, lulled by the pitching and creaking of the ship as it breasted the waves of the g
reat Atlantic Ocean. As he paused to draw upon his pipe, he heard the faintest knock at his door. Henderson let go his pen and swivelled on his chair. “Come!” he barked. At this, the door swung slowly open on its salt-rusted hinges to reveal Jeb Hardacre, filling the frame with his bulk. Henderson stood gingerly, his fingers involuntarily twitching at his side.

  “No need to call for help, doctor,” rumbled Hardacre. “I’ll do you no harm if you can help me.”

  Henderson looked closer at the kitchen porter before him. The nut-brown colour had gone from his face to be replaced by a sickly pallor. Beads of sweat stood out against his forehead. His beard was straggly and matted. The pupils of his yellowing eyes were wide and his breathing shallow. As he stood in the door in his regulation overalls, Henderson could see that Hardacre was but half the man he had been some days previously.

  “Are you ill?” he enquired gently, taking the spectacles from off his nose and placing them carefully on the table beside him. His movements were slow and studied so as not to alarm the figure that stood before him. “Are you sickening for something?”

  “That I am,” replied Hardacre, a sudden shiver passing through his body. Henderson was beginning to recognise the symptoms of an all too common ailment.

  “And how can I be of assistance?” Henderson kept his distance. He was relieved to see Hardacre remain at his door rather than attempt to enter the room.

  Hardacre cleared his throat of phlegm. “Time was that the men would share their provisions with me,” he rasped. “Before the accident with Perryman. And now my own supplies are spent.”

  Henderson’s eyebrows rose. “Provisions?” he asked, knowingly.

  “The Tincture.”

  So Henderson had been right. Hardacre was exhibiting signs of opiate withdrawal. It occurred to the doctor that he could take advantage of the situation. Bravely, he turned his back on the man at the door and gazed at the heaving horizon through the porthole above his desk. “What is the word on Perryman’s death?” he asked. Behind him, Henderson heard a deck plank creak as Hardacre shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  “They have their suspicions,” he growled, “and have had nought to do with me for weeks.”

  “I would say their suspicions are well-founded, wouldn’t you?” Henderson turned slowly to the door. “Did the captain order a search of your quarters, Hardacre?”

  “He did not.”

  “Had he done so, would he have recovered a very particular knife?” Henderson was sweating now, too. He knew he was playing with fire.

  “There’s many a sailor aboard the Nimrod with a knife.”

  “But none with so murderous an intent as you. And while every man was running to Perryman’s aid, you were running away. If it were brought to light, you’d surely hang.” Henderson was making his way across the cabin as he spoke. Opening the door to an elaborate bureau that stood quite at odds to his otherwise sparse quarters, he drew a bottle containing a reddish brown liquid from a compartment together with a long silver box.

  “And how might a man prevent such a thing?” rumbled Hardacre from the door.

  Henderson gestured to his visitor that he might enter the room. Shutting the door behind him, Hardacre took a step into the middle of the floor, keeping his head low for fear of hitting it upon the low beams of the ceiling. The doctor opened the box to reveal a syringe in three parts. Moving to Hardacre, he carefully rolled up the sleeve on the man’s left arm and used a rubber tube from another compartment to tie a ligature just above the elbow. Turning to assemble the syringe, Henderson then drew a quantity of the liquid from the bottle. Peering closer, Hardacre could plainly make out the word printed on a label on its side. Laudanum. The beginnings of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth in anticipation.

  “I think you could be of use to me once ashore,” Henderson began as his needle made contact with the skin on Hardacre’s forearm. “I wish to make a reputation for myself as a surgeon, but I lack experience.” The needle slid easily into a vein. “Upon my return to England, I shall need access to cadavers. So that I may learn my craft.” Hardacre’s eyes began to flicker as Henderson squeezed his thumb on the syringe.

  “I could find them for you.”

  Henderson released the ligature to allow the drug full flow. Hardacre shuddered as the laudanum was delivered. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and a deep sigh shook his body. The doctor withdrew the needle and placed it in a dish on the bureau. “You are to come to me every three days at this time. I shall be waiting.”

  “Then your silence is assured? With regard to Perryman?” Hardacre fixed an unwavering gaze on the doctor. Henderson nodded.

  “If the bargain is maintained, you will live a free man.”

  “Then I am in your debt.” As Hardacre turned to leave the cabin, he was interrupted by a gentle cough. In the fading evening light of his quarters, Doctor Henderson was holding up the bottle of laudanum, a sly smile on his face.

  “Doubly so, it seems.”

  XXIV

  Fall From Grace

  Bowman’s head was spinning. His vision was narrowing to a point as he gulped for breath, clutching at his chest. “Such a practice is wholly illegal,” he gasped, his brows knotted all the tighter. He had barely heard the doctor’s story above the seething tumult of the river below, but the salient points had been clear.

  Henderson threw back his head and laughed, the rain falling from his head in fine droplets to his shoulders. “I envy you your view of the world, inspector. The law is an artifice, drawn up by those who do not have to live within its bounds.” Henderson released his grip on the bridge to wipe the moisture from his face. “Hardacre escaped capture once ashore. Perhaps he thought me false in my intent and feared I would hand him over to the authorities. I would never have done such a thing, of course.” He puffed out his chest, “I, inspector, am a man of honour and principle.”

  The doctor’s hubris was astonishing, thought Bowman from the road. “And by chance,” he called, “you found him.”

  “I have never put my trust in chance, Inspector Bowman. After three years at sea, I found myself in practice at St John’s Wood and in need of specimens on which to perfect my craft. In my line of work, I often deal with the most unsavoury of individuals. It was easy enough to make discreet enquiries of my own. I was quite the investigator.” Henderson chuckled to himself as if he were doing no more than sharing a private joke with a colleague. “The greatest criminal on the South Bank and I had him in a most unfortunate position. I found him and reminded him of our bargain.”

  “He agreed to provide you with certain services.” Bowman glanced at the edges of the bridge for any sign of Sergeant Graves. Outwardly, he hoped, he was presenting a calm countenance. Inwardly, he was panicking, unsure whether he could stand the confusion any longer. He clutched at his head as if to stop the world turning about him. There was a chill in his blood. As the doctor continued, the detective inspector fancied he could hear horses’ hooves.

  “Let’s not bandy words, inspector. He provided me with bodies for dissection. Criminals, I expect. I cared not where they came from. In return, he would visit me periodically for his medication.”

  Bowman narrowed his eyes. “I was not thinking of those kind of services.”

  As the rain had eased, so the city around them had come to life. Bowman could see people hurrying along the Embankment towards Westminster. He fought the impulse to call for help. He must not show weakness. Soon, those on the south bank would wish to cross the river. The inspector knew he had only minutes to ensure Henderson’s safe recovery. He couldn’t risk untimely interruptions from curious members of the public. The doctor was leaning out dangerously over the river, his face into the wind and his coat tails flapping behind him.

  Henderson turned his troubled eyes to the inspector in a silent challenge. Even from this distance, Bowman could tell he was under the influence of some powerful narcotic. “When I turned Mary away from our home, my wife turned cold towards me.
There was no place for me in her heart, nor in her bed neither.”

  “You procured women from him, didn’t you? In return, you sated his opiate addiction.” Bowman dared to stagger nearer his quarry. Again, he heard the sound of approaching hooves but this time, there was something else. The rattle of a carriage. As his mind was pulled back to that fateful night in Whitechapel, Bowman fought to remain in the present.

  “And I had my favourites. But a week or so ago, he sent another, and that proved my undoing.” Releasing his grip again, Henderson let go a scream and swung dangerously out over the river. Even over the churn of the waters below, the sound carried to the banks. Those who heard it stopped and turned their attention to the bridge. Enthralled by the spectacle of a man clinging to its side, some quickened their step towards the scene of the commotion. There was no hope now of this being resolved beyond the public gaze, thought Bowman. He took the opportunity to step closer to the doctor, fighting every impulse to turn and run. His legs felt weak and he thought that he might vomit. There were mere yards between them. In the meantime, Henderson’s scream resolved itself into a word at last, a word that seemed to be torn from the very depths of the doctor’s tormented soul.