Death and the Arrow

by Chris Priestley

  “Who... Who are you to tell me what I know?” said the sergeant.

  Dr. Harker reached inside his coat and, with a flourish that made everyone round the table leap back in astonishment, he produced the tip and broken shaft of the arrow given to him by Dr. Cornelius.

  “It was a Mohawk arrow, was it not?” he shouted, and drove the point of the arrow deep into the tabletop.

  A ROBBERY IN AMERICA

  Tom, Dr. Harker, Ocean, and the sergeant all stared at the arrow tip jutting from the grimy wooden planking. The blade picked up the yellow glow of a nearby candle and shimmered as it trembled back and forth.

  “This is the arrow that was taken from the first victim—from Bill Leech’s body,” said Dr. Harker. “You knew him, did you not?”

  “That I did,” said the sergeant, mesmerized by the arrowhead. “That I did. He was trouble to me alive as well as dead. He was no more born to soldiering than I was to play the fool. Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here’s the rest of it.” Onto the table he tossed a broken arrow shaft with a set of feathered flights.

  “It’s a perfect match,” said Tom.

  “You broke this off, did you not,” asked Dr. Harker, “when you identified Bill Leech?”

  “I did. I knew that workmanship, that heathen craft. I’d seen Mohawk arrows aplenty in my time.”

  “But not in London.”

  “No,” said the sergeant. “Not in London, that’s very true. You’ve traveled in those lands?”

  “I have,” said the doctor. “Many years ago.”

  “But what’s all this got to do with this friend of yours that got done in?”

  “It was him that put the cards in their pockets,” said Tom.

  “Pickpocketry was his art,” added Ocean.

  “A diver, was he?” said the sergeant. “But was he arrowed too?”

  “No,” said Tom. “He was strangled. Please tell us what you know.”

  The sergeant once again took his eyes from the doorway and looked at Tom. He smiled a wry smile and turned back. “I do have an ache to tell someone,” he said. “Though, Lord knows, no one ever seems to benefit from the telling of the tale.”

  “All the same,” said Ocean, “sing out. Let’s hear it.”

  “Very well, then,” said the sergeant. “Leastways then when Ezekiel Quinn disappears from the world, there’ll be some who know his story.” He called out for another jug of gin and then sighed deep and long. “So here it is, boys, the Last Dying Speech of the Condemned.” He was still looking at the entranceway but he seemed to be seeing something else.

  “Well now, friends, it all goes back some years, back to the soldiering I did in the last war against the Frenchies in those godless lands across the waters.” He thanked the serving girl, who had brought him a fresh jug, and poured himself a drink. “The savages that live in those woods are fearsome cruel, I can tell you, and the French made evil use of them in that war.” He looked at Tom. “Be thankful that those eyes will never see the sights that these have, lad.” Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The sergeant took a long drink and filled his cup again.

  “Well, on with my tale. As we were in the service of the Crown, so were we in its pay. The bags of silver came all the way from England and it was given me as a duty to ensure the safe passage of this money to our troops inland. The silver was to be transported in a wagon guarded by eight outriders. I was to lead them.”

  “All that silver must have been a temptation,” said Ocean.

  “That it was, friend; but not to me. I was not always the fallen creature you see before you. But it was not easy to pick men for the task. I chose those I could count on in a fight, whatever else I thought of them. I even chose Shepton, God save me. A more vicious scoundrel you never did see, but what a fighter. He had a scar the whole length of his face to prove it, from his eyebrow to his jaw. An Indian tomahawk, it was. Most men wouldn’t have survived it, but Shepton wasn’t most men. Ah, but what a look it left him with; it made a hard face evil. No one ever forgot the sight of it.” The sergeant shook his head.

  “And there was a robbery?” said the doctor.

  “Of a kind, yes, there was. We were passing through forests—those forests so vast and so thick of trees, you could hide an army there unseen—when without warning, an arrow struck me in the back. It hit me here, near my shoulder, and come clean through to stick out five inches from my coat.” He pulled aside his collar and filthy shirt to show the scar.

  “I swung my horse round to see my men falling to the ground. I heard a shout of ‘Injuns!’ and saw Shepton galloping towards me. When he pulls up beside me, I see he has his hand to his belly and between the fingers there juts an arrow. ‘Get clear!’ he yells. ‘Save yourself! We’re done for!’ Then he gave my horse a slap on the rump and away I went. I thought to myself, Well, he might have been a rogue all his life, but he just saved my life. That I was sure of.” The sergeant took another swig of gin and shook his head. “When the troopers from the camp got there, they found every man dead—those that were there, at any rate. They’d been brutally treated . . . scalped. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Harker. “The cutting off of the skin and hair from the top of the head.” Tom shuddered.

  “Yes,” said the sergeant, with a grim look as if he were seeing it happen right there in front of him.

  “But you said ‘those that were there,’ ” continued the doctor. “Were not all the bodies found, then?”

  “Not all, no. Some had been taken by the savages for some devilish reason. Only their blood-soaked clothes were found.”

  “How many were taken?”

  “Five. Though what concern it can be of yours I cannot—”

  “And was Leech one of those taken?” said Dr. Harker.

  “Leech? Yes. I saw him fall and thought him dead. Somehow he must have lived. I can’t say how.”

  “And the silver. Was that gone too?”

  “The cart was gone when my men arrived. No doubt the Indians were working for their French masters.”

  “Maybe so,” said Dr. Harker. “And what action did the British army take over this incident?”

  “As soon as I was able, I showed one of our Indian scouts the arrow that had been pulled from me and asked him who had made it. To my surprise, he said it was the work of a nearby village, the work of natives who had never given us any trouble at all. Even so, they would have to be taught a lesson. It’s all these people understand, believe me.”

  “You attacked the village?”

  “You’ve seen the handiwork of those savages, sir. If we had let them go unpunished, it would have sent a message to their brethren that the British army was weak.”

  “So you killed them.”

  “Aye.”

  “Women and children as well?”

  “Aye, she-savages too, and their cubs. I don’t say it’s wholesome work, but it’s soldiering and that’s that. I sleep well enough. Or at least I did.”

  “Until you saw Bill Leech’s body?” said the doctor.

  “Until then, yes,” said the sergeant. “I had not been in London two days when I saw him. He was alive, then. At first I could not believe my eyes, and so I followed him. I was conspicuous in my uniform, so I was forced to hang well back. As it was, he looked twitchy and nervous. He kept pulling a card from his pocket and looking at it.

  “I thought I’d lost him when I turned a corner and found myself in an empty street. Then I heard a commotion coming from a courtyard nearby. I entered it and found two men standing over Leech’s body. One of the men was calling for a constable; the other was looking up—for the arrow seemed to have come from the clouds above—and saying, ‘It can’t be, it can’t be. I was right behind him when he fell.’ And you could see his point. There was only one exit and we stood blocking it. The courtyard was as empty as a preacher’s promise.” He took another drink. “One moment I’m following a man I thought to be arrow-shot in the Americas; the
next moment he lies dead at my feet by the selfsame method, a Death and the Arrow card spilling out of his pocket.” He shook his head. “I told the constable what I knew, and the newspapers took up the tale.”

  “I think you may have known the other arrow victim,” said Dr. Harker. “He had a musket-ball wound below his right shoulder.”

  The sergeant stared at him and shook his head in disbelief. “Benjamin Cooper,” he said finally. “Strong as an ox, he was. They pulled a ball from his back, and he didn’t so much as squeak.” He shook his head again, trying to make sense of it.

  “But why did you take the arrow?” said Tom.

  “Ah, well, I don’t rightly know,” said the sergeant. “There’s devilry here and no mistake. That arrow was Indian workmanship. Lord knows, I seen enough of it in my time. I ask you, how can that be?” When no answer came back, the sergeant wiped some beads of sweat from his forehead and licked his dry lips. “And that ain’t all. I am being followed.”

  “Followed?” asked the doctor.

  “I have been followed by . . . by . . . by a something . I can’t say what.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” said the sergeant, turning for another moment from the door to face them, “as you ask . . . I fear it to be some sort of magical creature let loose on me. I fear it to be a demon.”

  DEMON

  The word demon was left hanging in the air. Tom gasped and turned to look at Dr. Harker, but it was Ocean who spoke first.

  “A demon, you say?”

  “Aye,” said the sergeant.

  “You can’t really believe that, surely?” said Dr. Harker.

  The sergeant turned on him angrily. “Look, you know something of those people, those Indians. You know they have their magic men, the shamans—”

  “Yes, yes... but surely—”

  “They say they have the power to call upon demons to do their bidding. Well, I killed such a shaman in that raid. I run him through with my own sword. I think his demon comes now to avenge him.”

  “But what makes you think you are being chased by a demon ?” said Dr. Harker.

  “Because I seen him, that’s why.” The three listeners leaned forward eagerly. “I felt him watching me many times,” the sergeant explained. “But I only seen him the once. I was walking along the Tyburn Road when I felt his eyes on me. I spun round and for some reason I looked up, just in time to see him duck down behind a chimney.” Tom gasped. The three friends all looked at each other. “He was big, but fast with it. I don’t think it was any man up there.” The sergeant shuddered at the recollection. “Now I’ll thank you to leave me in peace.”

  “But—” began Tom.

  “Leave me alone, damn you!” shouted the sergeant, banging his pistol down on the table.

  “Come, Tom,” said Ocean. “Let’s get out of this crypt.”

  They left the sergeant to his vigil and climbed the steps leading up to street level. A balladeer was singing a song about a highwayman and his sweetheart, and they could hear cheers from the bear-baiting pit nearby.

  “Come on, gents,” said Ocean. “Let’s cross back to the north shore. I never feel right south of the river.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Dr. Harker. “Back to the City it is.”

  “But what do you make of it all, sir?” asked Tom.

  “Well, I do not believe that a demon stalks the streets of London, if that’s what you mean. There is logic in all this somewhere. Some sort of human logic. We just need to discover it.”

  “But the sergeant saw the attack. He saw his men killed,” said Tom.

  “He saw them fall,” said the doctor, turning away and walking briskly on ahead. “I do not believe that any of those missing men were actually killed, whatever the sergeant says. Do you remember what the man who attacked us called his cohort? Trooper! He called him trooper. And I do not believe that Bill Leech’s mother inherited any money. I think those men stole that silver. And if I’m any judge, it is the one called Shepton who is at the bottom of it all.”

  “But this Shepton, Doctor...,” called Ocean. “The sergeant saw him shot.”

  The doctor suddenly stopped in his tracks, groaned, and staggered backward, holding his chest.

  “Dr. Harker?” said Tom.

  Ocean grabbed hold of Dr. Harker as he fell back and, as he did so, they saw an arrow sticking out from between his fingers. The two friends looked wildly about them, trying to guess from which direction the arrow might have come. When they looked back, they found the doctor smiling.

  “He saw what he was meant to see,” said the doctor, showing them the broken arrow and feathered flight the sergeant had thrown on the table. “Seeing should not always be the same as believing, gentlemen.”

  With that, he set off toward London Bridge with a jaunty air, chuckling to himself, leaving Tom and Ocean staring openmouthed.

  Tom was in the printing house cleaning the blocks when Ocean burst in that same evening.

  “Master Tom,” he said, “we must get Dr. Harker and go back to the Ten-Killed Cat. I tipped the landlord some silver to tell me if anything happened to the sergeant and he’s sent word. Something’s happened, Tom. He says he’ll leave things be until we get there, so long as we’re quick. Will you come?”

  “Of course,” said Tom. “I must just tell my father, and then I’ll be with you directly.”

  But when he heard where his son was intending to go, Mr. Marlowe looked worried. “Tom,” he said, “I know you feel a need to find the men who murdered young Will, but . . .” He looked down at the floor, then cursed under his breath. “You’re all I have, Tom!”

  “I have to do this, Father,” said Tom.

  His father sighed. “I know it, Tom. I admire you for it. But take care.”

  “I will, Father, I will.”

  Tom’s father patted him on the shoulder and Tom left the print room.

  Ocean was about to follow him out when Mr. Marlowe grabbed him by the coat. “You take care of that boy, do you hear me?” he said.

  “No harm will come to Tom if I have any say in it,” said Ocean.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” said Mr. Marlowe.

  “I’d expect you to,” said Ocean.

  Dr. Harker was as keen as Tom to discover what had happened in Southwark, but none of them were keen to reacquaint themselves with either the sergeant or the gin cellar he was holed up in. Ocean whistled to a hansom cab, and it pulled up in front of them.

  “The Ten-Killed Cat in Southwark,” said Ocean. “And straight there, mind. We ain’t Italians.”

  “I don’t go south of the river,” protested the driver. “Not at this hour. . . .”

  “Get in,” said Ocean to Tom and Dr. Harker.

  “Hey!” shouted the driver.

  “Drive on, you rogue, or my friend here, who is a member of Parliament, will see to it that you lose your license—if you have one, that is!”

  After a few seconds’ thought, the driver moved off, muttering to himself about the unfairness of life and the troubles that cursed him, as cab drivers often do. Tom and Dr. Harker smiled in admiration at Ocean’s quick wit, and he smiled back, enjoying the praise.

  “A member of Parliament, eh?” said Dr. Harker.

  “And a fine one you’d make, I’m sure,” said Ocean with a grin. Tom laughed.

  “A little less from you, lad,” said the doctor. “I had half a thought to go into politics when I was younger.”

  “Well, we’re all thankful you had a change of heart, Doctor, for a greater set of rogues and thieves you couldn’t find outside of Newgate.” Dr. Harker smiled. “It’s no life for an honest man like yourself.”

  The cab pulled up outside the Ten-Killed Cat, the driver still muttering to himself. Tom, Ocean, and Dr. Harker got out and stood on the pavement underneath the creaking sign.

  “Wait here till we return,” said Ocean to the cab driver.

  “Ten minutes and no more,” he replied.

  Th
ey walked down the steps as before. The sergeant was just where they had left him. His eyes were still fixed on the door, his hand holding his pistol, the torn pieces of card lying next to it.

  But on his coat was another Death and the Arrow card, pinned there by the arrow that jutted from his chest.

  ECLIPSE

  It was only a day after the trip to Southwark and the discovery of the sergeant’s body when Ocean brought news of another victim. Dr. Harker went to view the body at Dr. Cornelius’s invitation. It turned out to be the man who had attacked them after their visit to the Arrow coffee house. If Dr. Harker was right in his calculations, then that meant there were only two of the men left.

  April 22 was the day of the eclipse and Tom set out along Fleet Street with a parcel of pamphlets to deliver on his way to Dr. Harker’s house. He and Ocean had been invited to view the spectacle from the doctor’s roof. A strange evening twilight was spreading over the city, even though it was eight o’clock in the morning, and birds, in their confusion, were heading home to roost.

  Tom walked briskly, eager not to miss anything and glad to have something to think about other than the grim business of the past few days. Without warning, a man stepped out in front of him and blocked his way. “What’s the hurry, lad?” he asked. Then Tom recognized him—the man with the cudgel who had attacked them in the alley when they emerged from the Arrow coffee house. A second man stepped out of the shadows. He had a long white scar running down the length of his face—a face every bit as evil as the sergeant said it was.

  “Shepton!” said Tom, instantly regretting that he had let the name escape.

  “Hark, Fisher!” said Shepton with a grin. “He knows my name.”

  “And now he knows mine, thanks to you.”

  “No matter,” said Shepton. “He shan’t tell, shall you, lad?”

  Tom threw the parcel in Fisher’s face and ran down the street, with the two men in loud pursuit.

  “Stop, thief!” cried Shepton. “He has my watch!”

  A passerby made a lunge for Tom, but Tom swerved round him and ducked down an alleyway, only to find a dead end. Shepton and Fisher appeared at the entrance, silhouetted against a pale gray sky.