Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure

by Hambling, David

  Broken Meats

  A Harry Stubbs Adventure

  By David Hambling

  Copyright © 2015 David Hambling

  ISBN #: 978-1-326-30775-2

  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

  Prologue: Shots in the Dark

  Chapter One: A Job for Harry Stubbs

  Chapter Two: The Visitor Arrives

  Chapter Three: A Tour of Norwood

  Chapter Four: The Séance

  Chapter Five: Of the Sorcerer Roslyn D’Onston

  Chapter Six: A Banquet and a Battle

  Chapter Seven: A Warning

  Chapter Eight: An Interview at the Convent

  Chapter Nine: The Death of Mr Yang

  Chapter Ten: The Breaking of the Circle

  Chapter Eleven: The Reanimation of Robert D’Onston Stephenson

  Epilogue

  This book is dedicated to all those who asked what Harry did next

  Before we enter into the subject of the occult art as practised on the West Coast of Africa, it will be well to clear the ground by first considering for a moment what we mean by the much-abused term ‘Magic’. There are many definitions of this word; and in bygone ages, it was simply used to designate anything and everything, which was ‘not understood of the vulgar’. It will be sufficient for our purpose to define it as the knowledge of certain natural laws which are not merely unknown but absolutely unsuspected by the scientists of Europe and America.

  “African Magic,” Roslyn D’Onston

  Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “Do good to bird and beast,

  But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.”

  “The Ballad of East and West,” Rudyard Kipling

  Prologue: Shots in the Dark

  Norwood, South London, 1925

  Purely by chance, I happened to be at the scene of the shooting that marked the beginning of those extraordinary events. At the time I was as perplexed as everyone else, and did not appreciate the full import of that bizarre incident until much later. Nevertheless, it put me in the fortunate position of being able to recount the whole affair not merely from a ringside seat but from inside the ring, so to speak.

  In this narrative, I shall attempt to shed light on matters including the tragedy at the Theosophist Circle, the truth about Yang’s ghastly death, and the ultimate fate of the man who called himself Roslyn D’Onston. Some of what I shall recount may sound incredible. I can only say that I report what I witnessed with my own eyes. Whether those eyes are to be believed is beyond my judgement.

  It started with Collins, who was, not to put too fine a point on it, an undersized individual. This lack of stature put him at a disadvantage in his chosen occupation. If you have to intimidate others, some solid beef is an important asset. Being well endowed with muscle, I have observed how my presence, when collecting debts, is generally sufficient to settle the matter. If a man knows you can pick him up by his lapels and hurl him across the room, he rarely gives you occasion to do so. Some small men have a particular gift for conveying threat verbally, which makes their size irrelevant. Collins, who lacked verbal as well as physical gifts, was forced to resort to other means. He carried a revolver, and let it be known to all that he carried a revolver.

  My quiet drink was interrupted by a scream from outside then a series of reports like squibs, from the alley beside the pub. This was not, I hasten to add, my regular, the Conquering Hero, but a smaller establishment in the same neighbourhood. I frequent it when I am seeking somewhere less boisterous. It is not unfriendly, but people keep to themselves, and conversations are conducted discreetly.

  “That’s shooting,” said my companion.

  Seconds later, Sally burst in, looking distraught. Collins was right behind her with a smoking pistol in his hand. “I’ve just shot Billy McCann,” he said, dropping the gun to the floor.

  You couldn’t top it for sensation. Within two seconds, the pub was in uproar. Someone took the gun Collins had dropped, and the landlord was telephoning the police. The whole pub was crowding round Collins and Sally or pushing outside to see the body.

  “Keep an eye on your wallet,” my companion advised. I took his meaning; a pickpocket could not have asked for a better distraction.

  To understand the situation you have to know a little of the grubby trade that takes place in the shadow of that pub. Sally, or one of Collins’s other women, is often to be found smoking at the entrance to the alleyway. Collins is never very far away, and if a man shows an interest, Collins will materialize to take his money and stand guard while Sally and her customer retire to the deeper shadows.

  People sometimes complain, but the landlord says he can’t do anything about it. He doesn’t let Collins or his women in the pub, but that’s just show; Walter has seen Collins slipping folding money to the landlord by the back door. Walter says that even the regulars who pass remarks about Sally and the others aren’t strangers to them. As for me, I make judgement on no man and no woman. We all have to earn our crust. Though, given how modern girls are said to lack any restraint, you would not have thought that the trade would continue to flourish. And after the educational talks on diseases that the army made us listen to, I’m surprised women like that can find customers. I suppose some men have uncontrollable urges. But I make no judgement.

  Collins was sitting in a doorway when he heard Sally cry out. He was alarmed, and he had his hand on the revolver in his pocket as he came around the corner. He found a man with Sally and, without any exchange of words, shot him six times at point-blank range. Just like that. As to why he had shot the man rather than remonstrating with him or merely threatening him, the only point on which Collins was clear was that it was Billy McCann.

  The other important point was that Billy McCann was already dead.

  Billy McCann had died of pneumonia the year before. He always had a weak chest and was prone to coughs, and this one just got worse and worse. Bill was no millionaire who could spend winter in the South of France. A cold spell and double pneumonia carried him off. He was a regular at the pub and had done business with Collins’s women. At least two of those present had been to McCann’s funeral.

  The three who had gone out to see the body were back. They said there was no one there, living or dead. There was not even, as far as they could tell, any blood from an injured man.

  “Something’s not right here,” said my companion. I could only agree.

  “I shot Billy McCann” was all Collins could say. His face was ashen. If it was acting, it was first-rate. “I had to.”

  Sally was sitting at a bench, cradling a glass of brandy someone had pressed into her hands, and attention now turned to her. Her rouged cheeks and bright lips were like stage makeup. In that lighting, she was as garish as a painted figurehead.

  “What happened, Sal?” the landlord asked, not unkindly. “Who was it?”

  She swallowed, and shook her head. When she tried to talk, she broke into sobbing. A minute later, she was still crying, the tears leaving dark streaks do
wn her face. The only words we could make out between sobs were “horrible, horrible.”

  The police constable arrived. He was an experienced older man who did nothing in a hurry. He took stock of the assembled company, nodding in recognition to a few of us before directing Collins outside to the scene of the crime. The rest of us, counting ourselves as material witnesses, gathered around them.

  “So, you were standing hereabouts,” said the constable, manoeuvring Collins into position. “And this individual was standing where I am now. About two or three feet away, like this.”

  “That’s right,” Collins agreed.

  “And you believe that you recognised this individual as the late Mr William McCann.”

  Collins nodded emphatically.

  “You shot him six times.”

  The constable turned around and used his electric torch to examine the wall behind him. Neither he nor any of those with him could find any bullet marks. Then he crouched down to examine the ground, which was entirely free from splashes of blood.

  “It was McCann. But he was huge,” Collins said unexpectedly. He looked around for a comparison and pointed at me. “Bigger than him even.”

  In life, Bill McCann barely came up to my shoulder. This was surely a case of mistaken identity if not sheer fantasy.

  “He wouldn’t stop coming. I kept shooting until he fell over.”

  “He’s not fallen over now,” the constable observed reasonably. When Collins made no reply, the constable indicated Sally, who had also been positioned in the correct spot. “You say you shot him because he was molesting this person.”

  Collins nodded.

  “She doesn’t show any signs of injury,” said the constable, holding the light close to Sally’s face and bare neck. Sally looked down, saying nothing. The constable refrained from asking her any questions.

  He looked around and found the landlord. “I don’t imagine that the weapon has been preserved.”

  Collins’s revolver, for which he did not possess a certificate, had indeed disappeared. The landlord had wrapped it in a towel and left it behind the bar, but now there was no sign of it.

  “I could arrest you for the negligent discharge of a firearm,” the constable told Collins. “But under the circumstances, it doesn’t seem necessary.” He turned to Sally. “I could arrest you, and you know what for.”

  Collins and Sally said nothing. Both were blank and shell-shocked.

  “Very sorry to trouble you, Officer,” said the landlord.

  The constable nodded slowly. He raised his voice for the rest of us to hear.

  “I don’t know exactly what has occurred here, but I will remind you gentlemen about the laws regarding creating public nuisance and the licensing of public houses.” We were all perfectly silent. “I trust you will not again disturb the constabulary without due cause. Now, drink up and go home. A good evening to you all.”

  “Never even took his notebook out,” observed my companion.

  We piled back into the pub, and the landlord declared a round of drinks on the house. The usual rule of quiet, individual conversation was suspended, and there was a brisk trade in speculation about the shooting. There was something feverish in the air; we all sensed that something unpleasant was at hand, and we wanted to keep it away with loud talking—like whistling in the dark to keep the ghosts away.

  The conversation was too rapid for me to keep up with. Some people had fertile minds, and the ideas came thick and fast. One theory was that Collins had fired into the air, most likely in an argument with Sally. It was harder to explain why she screamed first or why he would have come into the pub afterwards. Maybe Collins’s gun was loaded with blanks; that would have scared off an attacker. Surely, Collins would have been aware of what his gun was loaded with, though—unless there had been some jiggery-pokery, perhaps by Sally. The theories grew more elaborate.

  If, for the sake of argument, there had been someone there, and Collins had really shot him, the assailant must have been wearing bulletproof mail. Could any mail withstand six shots at close range? Strong opinions were expressed on both sides of the question, not all of them by men who had been in France and Belgium.

  Before long, someone voiced the possibility that had been hanging in the air all along: that the being Collins had shot had not been human at all but a phantom of Billy McCann. Those who were further into their evening’s refreshment, and perhaps of a more religious turn, took the view that McCann had been sent as a spectre or hellish visitation. It was a warning to Collins and Sally to mend their ways. That got a general round of approval. People didn’t mind any sort of evil thing out there so long as it wasn’t meant for them.

  Someone mentioned the Hammersmith Ghost. Then talk turned to Jack the Ripper, from thirty years ago, and how he always eluded the police and everyone out looking for him. Then it was Spring-Heeled Jack, who assaulted a girl on Clapham Common twenty years before that and was said to be bulletproof. Old stories about supernatural hoaxes and frauds were wheeled out, as well as supposedly genuine cases of hauntings.

  One man quoted that celebrated speech from the Bard about there being more things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in your philosophy, and we all agreed on that. Someone else said there was a lot of trickery and mischief about, and you couldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, and we all agreed with that, too.

  I was still chewing over these things on my way home when I noticed an old Army greatcoat in a doorway. There was no sign of an owner. I assumed it was some tramp’s bedding, and then I saw the holes in the front.

  I picked up the coat and brought it to the streetlight where I could see it better. A couple of handfuls of fine dirt—or ash—and pebbles were dislodged in the process. It was an old, stained coat, very much the worse for wear. It smelled of filth and urine. I held it at arm's length.

  I counted six scorch marks on the coat, with a fresh bullet hole in the middle of each. It had been shot at close range, but there was no sign of the wearer. There were not even any bloodstains, which led me to doubt if anyone had even been wearing it when it was shot. It looked to me like a practical joke.

  The police would not thank me for handing the coat in. They might arrest me for wasting their time with a hoax. I did not want to be laughed at for my gullibility. I could not think of anything to do with it, so I tossed the coat in the doorway and went home to my lodgings.

  If you had told me the truth of what had really happened, I would not have believed it.

  Chapter One: A Job for Harry Stubbs

  It was a lean time for me. After losing my clerical position at Latham and Rowe on account of the Shackleton case, I was not able to get another. My income suffered accordingly.

  I was obliged to keep an eye on every penny. The pub was a rare treat for me; I could not afford to have so many evenings out as before nor drink as many pints when I did go out. Arthur Renville had insisted on my taking a share of the money from the Shackleton affair. I kept the money in a cigar box under my mattress. Without regular work, I had to raid that cigar box more and more often. What would happen when it was empty?

  I applied for jobs everywhere, but there was not much going. I spent half my days filling in application forms and visiting offices and, occasionally, going for an interview. Men talked about the state of the economy and the devaluation the currency. All I knew was that for every clerical job I went for, there were ten men in the line ahead of me. And while my penmanship and arithmetic were up to scratch, if it was a choice between me and a man who did not look like a heavyweight boxer, the other fellow got the job.

  There were too many rumours about firms putting their clerks on part-time or cutting wages. My only real employment was in the debt-collection line. If work ran out there, I’d find myself carrying sandwich boards up and down the street, like so many others.

  At its most rewarding, debt collection is a matter of cornering individuals who are quite capable of paying up but prefer not to. These are me
n—or, very occasionally, women—who routinely withhold payment as a means of obtaining extended credit or to express dissatisfaction with their creditors. When faced with irresistible force, such a person will produce the money with more or less good grace, not infrequently peeling the notes off a large wad carried on his person.

  More often, one has to deal with poor wretches who cannot pay. It’s a degrading business for all concerned. I do not wish to become so hardened that I can be nonchalant about pulling the wedding ring off a sobbing woman’s finger, as one of my colleagues did on the day of the shooting. Her husband just watched, helpless to intervene or pay up. He was another who had lost his job and had borrowed unwisely. All that distress so some moneylender could get his fifteen per cent.

  When you come into the pub, it’s not pleasant when people start slinking away because they happen to owe money. People resent you even when you just collect what is owed—as though you have the power to let them off.

  Father would have been happy to take me back in the butcher’s shop, but my brother already worked there, and the business would have been stretched to support the three of us. I felt bad enough about the wrapped parcel of choice cuts that was pressed on me every time I dropped by.

  “We can’t have you fading away,” my father joked. But the parcels had become larger, and there was concern in his tone when he asked after my situation.

  I spent most evenings at the boxing gymnasium. It was an economical way of passing the time, and hard physical activity was the finest tonic in the world. Being unemployed made me feel less than a man; punching a heavy bag restored me. I was training so hard that there was a rumour I was going to stage a comeback. The rumour was fuelled by my enquiries about getting back into the ring, which I made just to see what the purse would be like. In truth, I did not like the feel of the thing. The fight game was fair and square when there was fame and glory to be won. But just boxing for a bit of money, when a person knew he'd never be champion, was a rank business.