Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Keep your ‘and from off the table!” said Skittles. “My five quid still says you be wrong!”

  “He’s beat ye, old man!” cried someone from across the room. “He’s beat ye at yer own game! Give ’im the note an’ don’t be a sore loser.”

  “Who’s talkin’ about losin’?” cried Skittles, spinning toward the voice. “I got another fiver I’ll lay ’gainst yours wot says you’re both wrong!”

  The owner of the voice strode forward, placed his own note in front of Skittles and said, “The serpent’s name was Satan, like the young fella said. Everyone in this room knows it. But if ye be givin’ yer money away, then I’ll be happy t’ oblige an’ take it from ye.”

  “Any other takers?” screamed Skittles, as if in a fit of passion. “Why can’t any of you dull-witted blokes tell me the right name?”

  A momentary shuffling ensued, during which several near Logan looked to him with questioning glances as if to ask, “Are ye sure ye got the right name, mate?” His confirming nod of self-assurance and confidence sent several hands in search of wallets. One by one, pound- and five-pound notes began accumulating on the table in front of Skittles, who continued to drink his ale and act more inebriated all the time. When the table contained some twenty or twenty-five pounds, suddenly Logan jumped up.

  “Wait just a minute! Something’s not right here. We’ve put our money on the table and have given our answer. But we still haven’t seen anything but that first five-pound note of yours! I don’t think you’ve even got this kind of money to cover these bets!”

  A murmur of agreement and approval went through the crowd. By now the attention of everyone in the pub was focused in the drama with Skittles right in the middle of it.

  Without saying a word, Skittles reached into his pocket and pulled forth a handful of notes, holding them aloft in a clenched fist that hid the fact that most of the bills were only flash notes. “Fifty quid, me doubting frien’s!” he said. “One month’s labor fit t’ break the back of any son of Adam!” Then as if producing his bankroll were tantamount to winning the questionable wager, with a self-satisfied expression of well-being, he raised his glass to his lips and swallowed down the remaining third of the pint.

  Looks of amazement accompanied low whistles and “ah’s” as Logan slowly returned to his seat, looking around as he did so with glances to those around him which conveyed, “This old duffer’s loonier than I thought!”

  “Now!” concluded Skittles, “I’ll put me whole wad up t’ prove I’m a smarter man than the parson here!”

  Within ten minutes the table was piled with the full fifty pounds in bets.

  “And now,” said a well-dressed man whose investment happened to be six pounds, “just where do you intend to find your proof? I don’t have all night to wait for my twelve pounds!”

  “Proof . . . get me a Bible,” said Skittles.

  A roar of laughter went up. “In this place!” yelled someone.

  Logan stood and approached the bar. “My good man,” he said to the pubkeeper, “would you by chance have a Bible on the premises? I need to show this well-intentioned but ignorant man where he is in error.”

  “The wife’ll have one up t’ the parlor,” the man replied.

  “Would you be so kind as to let us borrow it for a moment?”

  The man hesitated, but immediately received such prodding from his patrons that he turned and hastened up to his flat on the second floor. In two or three minutes he returned, and handed the old, black, leather-bound volume to Logan.

  “Thank you,” said Logan, who immediately began flipping through the pages toward the beginning of the book.

  “The Book of Genesis!” called out Skittles. “Who’s name were it wot gave Adam the apple?”

  “I told you before,” replied Logan, all eyes upon him, “that the serpent’s name was Satan. Now, if I can just find it . . .” he added, almost to himself, continuing to turn over the leaves of the Bible.

  “Chapter three . . . verse twelve,” said Skittles.

  Logan turned another page, stopped, read for a few moments in silence, then sank back to his chair looking as one stunned. By now the room had grown quiet.

  “Well, what does it say?” asked the six-pound investor.

  “Tell ’im, parson!” said Skittles, a grin of fiendish delight spreading over his face. Then he burst into a great peal of riotous laughter. “Read it, laddie!” he taunted. “Or shall I tell ’em wot it says?”

  Slowly and deliberately, and in measured tones so that there would be no mistaking his words, Logan began to read: “And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.”

  “It were Eve!” shouted Skittles with triumph. “Eve gave the bloke the apple, not the serpent!”

  “You said he!” objected one of the many victims.

  “I said, ‘I say you can’t tell me the name o’ who it was wot gave Adam the apple.’ That’s wot I said, as the Lord an’ Queen Vicky be my witnesses. Your young frien’ there, the know-it-all parson, he said it were the serpent, an’ then I said, ‘I bet you couldn’t tell me the name.’”

  Again Skittles burst out in uproarious laughter, then stood, clutching at his head; though the drunkenness was all part of the deception, he had still had a bit more ale than he was accustomed to.

  With the pub about equally split between the gloomy set who had taken the bait and followed Logan into the trap, and those who were now congratulating themselves that they had kept out of it, Skittles gathered up his winnings, with the humility of a peacock in full feather. He gave Logan a condescending pat on the shoulder, and a smug, “Sorry, old chap . . . you should stick t’ your preachin’ an’ stay out of dens o’ iniquity like this,” and with that he half-strutted, half-staggered out of the pub.

  Logan sat on for some time longer, ordering another pint and turning his dejected stares silently into the amber glass. His momentary newfound friends gave him cool glances, and the wan smile of apology on his lips whenever he did happen to look around did little to alleviate their reproachful looks. “Oh, well,” he said to himself, “a fool and his money are soon parted. You gullible dolts should have known better than to believe a good-for-nothing like me!”

  This was always the most difficult part of this particular dodge—knowing the right time to make an exit. Natural instinct urged him to hurry out on Skittles’ heels. But that would be too obvious. However, if he waited too long, someone might eventually put two and two—or in this case five and five—together.

  Therefore, he drained his drink in a leisurely fashion, glanced tiredly at his watch, and casually announced to no one in particular, “Just about time for the seven-ten.” He then rose, gathered up his newspaper, set his fedora back on his head, and exited. A number of stares followed him, but no one said anything or attempted to stop him. They all appeared glad enough to let him go.

  He found Skittles at their preappointed rendezvous in front of a newsstand about four blocks away. He ran forward, slapping his old friend on the back.

  “You did good, lad!” laughed Skittles.

  “I can never believe how they fall for it!”

  “They do every time,” replied the experienced sharp as he dug the wad of money from his pocket. As he did so he moved away from the stand to the darkness of an overhang at the edge of an alley. “An’ this time,” he went on in a subdued voice, “t’ the tune of fifty quid!”

  Logan could hardly restrain the whoop he felt like making as Skittles began counting off from the stack of bills. “’Ere’s your ’alf, Logan. You earned it!”

  Logan took the money and stood for a moment just admiring it. Most men had to work a month, sometimes two or three, at dirty, grueling labor for this kind of cash. He had gotten it all in less than an hour! Not bad, he thought as he pocketed the loot.

  Business out of the way and the exchange settled amiably, the two men began walking, unperturbed by the darkness and the deepening foggy dri
zzle. Their conversation turned to what they’d do with their new-found wealth. Skittles mentioned a new dress or possibly that ornate plum hat he’d seen his wife Molly admiring in a store window the other day. Logan figured he’d better pay his long overdue rent.

  Skittles stopped and laid an earnest hand on Logan’s arm. “Wot you need, my young frien’, is a good woman t’ spen’ your money on—that is, a good wife like my Molly.”

  Logan laughed. “That’s just like a married man—wanting to wish their misery on everyone else.”

  “I been with Molly thirty years now, an’ though there may ’ave been a bad day or two, there n’er were a bad week in the lot,” replied Skittles with a tone and look in his aging eyes that was deeply sincere.

  “And there’s the point!” Logan slapped the newspaper he had been holding against his hand for emphasis. “How many gems like Molly do you suppose there are in this world? Not many, I’ll wager! No thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t care to take my chances.”

  “Well, you’re a young strapper yet,” said Skittles, looking dreamily into the fog. “I ’spect the day’ll come when you’ll fin’ yoursel’ someone you’ll want t’ settle down with.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever become an upstanding businessman like yourself, Skits.”

  Now it was the older man’s turn to chuckle. “There are them wot consider certain aspects o’ my so-called upstandin’ business illegal, e’en though they’re pretty good about lettin’ you lay out bets if you do it all properlike.”

  “Well, at least you run it like a gentleman.”

  “’Ere’s where I turn for ’ome, Logan,” said Skittles as they reached a broad but deserted intersection. “Come with me an’ say ’ello t’ Molly. ’Ave some stew an’ tatties with us.”

  “Another time, Skits.”

  “Plans?”

  “Nah. It’s just too early for me to be in for the night.”

  “Suit yoursel’.”

  “Good night, Skits.”

  “You did good at Pellam’s, lad.”

  4

  Skittles

  That night Logan spent a bit more of his booty than he intended. Cards, dice, more ale, and a rather foolish sense of false invulnerability all combined to leave him penniless by the time he returned to his flat in the early hours of the morning. He had often been in this position and it caused him no great concern. A new day would bring new opportunities! He did, however, take special care as he passed his landlady’s door; he would just have to avoid her for a few more days.

  It was almost ten when he woke from a sound sleep. The dreary March clouds showed signs of trying to break up, allowing a few rays of sun to push through. But a steady north wind blew as if to warn that the lull in the weather would be short-lived.

  As Logan swung his feet out of bed, his first thought was of food; his stomach was sending out reminders that he’d have been wiser to do more eating than gambling the night before. But even a cursory glance about his flat would have told anyone that the last thing they’d expect to find there was a decent meal. It boasted but one room, which was reasonably tidy if only because there was so little present to clutter it up. Save for sleeping, Logan did very little in these quarters. His meals he either took with Skittles and Molly or in any of a dozen public houses of which he was a frequent visitor.

  His prospects for breakfast were slim if he remained where he was. In fifteen minutes he was dressed and on his way over to Skittles’ place. Besides the thought of a cup of tea with something solid to go with it, he wanted to confer with his friend on a new money-making scheme, made all the more imperative by his imprudent behavior the night before after they had parted.

  Skittles’ flat in Shoreditch was a hearty walk for a man with benefit of neither cab fare nor breakfast. And when he reached it, the climb up the tenement’s three steep flights of stairs left him panting as he gave several short raps on the door. The exercise had sharpened his appetite more than ever, but the moment Molly Ludlowe opened the door all thought of food vanished.

  “Molly, what is it?” Logan exclaimed.

  “’Tis Skittles,” she replied. “He got ’imself beaten an’ robbed last night—Ow! He’s all right,” she added quickly, seeing the look of panic that crossed Logan’s face. “Came in about midnight—dragged ’imself all the way up these curs’d stairs!”

  “Has he seen a doctor?”

  “Ow, he’d ’ave none of that—stubborn bloke that he is! He’d ’ave t’ be at death’s door t’ let a doctor go pokin’ aroun’ ’im—an’ that’s a fact!” Logan could see the pain hidden in Molly’s face behind her helpless outburst of frustration.

  “Did he talk to the police?”

  “An’ when might he ’ave done that, I ask you, Logan? He just come ’ome last night an’s been in bed ever since.”

  She paused a moment and looked toward the floor, averting Logan’s gaze, embarrassed for her shortness with her husband’s friend. But she was afraid for her man, and could not help thinking that perhaps it was because of his association with Logan and others like him that Skittles got into these jams.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” she added at length, “come on in.”

  Notwithstanding the occasional rough edges around Molly’s demeanor, the interior of her cheap little flat gave ample evidence that beneath her gruff cockney exterior beat the heart of a lady. Here was the kind of room anyone would count it a privilege to call home. Without the least hint of affluence, it was, even through the unmistakable signs of poverty, a place where the love that had gone into its arrangement could be felt. Crochet doilies lay on the threadbare arms of the sofa. A shelf of nic-a-bric and a few books sat against the far wall. And the pictures on the other walls—a few photos and a print or two of idyllic country scenes—had all clearly been chosen with care. It was hardly surprising that Logan felt more comfortable here than in his own flat.

  “Did he lose much?” asked Logan after Molly closed the door behind him.

  “Won’t say. He’s bein’ close about the whole thing. Said the bla’arts got away clean so wouldn’t do nothin’ to call a bobbie.”

  “That’s not like Skittles,” replied Logan, pondering Molly’s words. His friend loved a good story. And if it was true, all the better. Even if he had to embellish the actual facts, it gave him no less pleasure in the retelling. A good street mugging, especially if it was his own personal adventure, should have provided him with story material for weeks and be worth all the temporary pain. There must be some reason why he was being so tight-lipped. The moment the thought crossed his mind, Logan suspected what that reason undoubtedly was.

  “Can I see him?” he asked, glancing in the direction of the closed bedroom door.

  “He might be sleepin’, but you’re welcome t’ try. He’d no doubt like t’ see you.”

  “I won’t wake him.”

  Logan walked to the door and opened it slowly. He could do nothing to silence the squeak of its rusty hinges, however, and even before he poked his head inside he heard a moan from the direction of the bed. He approached slowly, and even in the subdued light of the room, Logan could tell that Skittles had endured more than an ordinary mugging. His friend looked more like a prize-fighter the morning after a rough ten rounds than an aging bookmaker. His usually florid complexion had taken on a bluish-gray hue, his thick nose was cut and battered, and his eyes—nearly swollen shut—made his friendly features appear almost sinister. Without his cap he looked much older than usual, somehow shrunken from his usual stature.

  At the sound of the door opening he turned his head, his eyes as wide as the swelling would permit. He glanced at the clock on the sideboard, tried to rise, then winced and fell back in pain.

  “Wot does the woman think?” he bellowed—or rather snarled, for the actual sounds which emerged from his pain-thickened lips were subdued and forced. “The day’s nigh gone—I’ll end me days in the poor’ouse if I sleep away the bleedin’ day!”

 
; “You’re feeling a mite better, I see?” said Logan hopefully.

  “’Course I’m better!” And as if to substantiate the truth of his words, Skittles struggled to work his way into a sitting position, and thence to his feet. But before he could complete the undertaking, he fell back against the pillow once more. “Blimey!” he hissed in frustration.

  “Won’t hurt you to take a day or two off, Skits,” said Logan, and as he spoke he reached down to try to rearrange one of the pillows.

  “No need t’ make such a fuss!” he replied, trying to shove Logan’s hands away. “I’m not a baby! The only real loss is me ’at, wot fell off in the close by the shop where the bla’arts jumped me. Now,” he added, trying to clutch at Logan who was still trying to fiddle with the pillows, “just give a ‘and. That’s all I need, an’ I’ll be up an’ out of ’ere!”

  “You just lie there!” said Logan firmly. “You should talk to a bobbie, Skits. Are you sure you didn’t see the blokes?”

  “I’m sure,” Skittles mumbled, and turned his head away.

  “Not a clue?”

  Skittles only shook his head in reply.

  “You’re sure?”

  There was still no answer, and in his friend’s silence Logan perceived the answer he had suspected from the first.

  “It was Chase Morgan, wasn’t it? Tell the truth, Skits.”

  “Leave it be, Logan.”

  “We can’t leave it be! Don’t you see—”

  Logan cut off his words sharply as Molly entered carrying a tray.

  “Thought you might be able to use some food,” she said to her husband. “An’ there’s plenty for you, too, Logan,” she added.

  “Breakfast in bed!” grumbled Skittles. “Now, that’s takin’ it a mite too far!”

  “An’ ’ere’s a cold damp cloth for that eye,” she went on, ignoring his grousing. “It’ll need stitches, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Skittles said nothing to her last remark, but appeared to soften as he detected the concern in her voice. He reached up and gave her hand a squeeze. The look which passed between them belied their verbal sparring and was filled with tenderness. A moment or two longer Molly fussed about the meal. Then, with a gentle admonition to Logan not to overtax the patient, she departed.