The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes

by George Mann

  “Then what was it?” asked Rutherford, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “A submersible,” replied Newbury, “a massive, cylindrical, underwater vessel, listing just beneath the surface of the waves. It was clearly drifting, derelict, and there was evidence of huge scars in its flank.”

  “Scars?” asked Rutherford.

  “Yes, deep parallel scratches in the metal. I had no idea what weapon could have left such a mark. It was clear to me, however, that it was the wreckage of this submersible that the Titanic had struck as she attempted to navigate the ice.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rutherford. “Why cover it up? Why did all the reports claim it was the iceberg that did for the ship?”

  “Because the thing that had destroyed the submersible was still there, in the water, waiting for us,” Newbury replied, shuddering at the recollection. “We didn’t know that at the time, of course. The captain ordered the engines to be restarted, and the ship moved off again.”

  Newbury reached for his glass and took another long swig of his drink. He looked pale, as if by forcing himself to relive those fateful moments he was once again stirring up powerful emotions he had long ago suppressed.

  “Unbeknownst to the passengers, of course, the Titanic was at this point taking on more water than she was capable of withstanding. The engine rooms were already filling with water. We were doomed from that moment, even before the creature struck.”

  “Creature?” Rutherford echoed, surprised.

  “Indeed, Mr Rutherford. A beast of the sort you have never imagined, and you should hope that you will never meet.” Newbury met Rutherford’s gaze and held it for a moment, and the look in his eyes was so intense that Rutherford knew that he was deadly serious. After a moment he turned away.

  “For a while I stayed there, huddled on the deck against the spray, watching the dark waters churn far below with the passing of the great liner. Everything seemed to return to normal, and I could have almost believed that I’d imagined it all, the vision of the drifting submersible and the tortured scream of rending metal I had heard as the ship had struck it. But then the Titanic began to list dramatically to the right, and it was at that point I realised she was going down. The engines cut again, and this time there was an outbreak of panic amongst the passengers below.”

  Newbury smiled sadly. “The reports were quite accurate about this, I fear, Mr Rutherford. The whole affair was terribly mismanaged. First-class passengers, now startled from their dreary existence beneath, began to spill out on to the deck, pouring forth in a torrent of shrill chatter and evening wear. Some of them were wearing lifejackets and carrying their belongings—others were still dressed only in their finery.

  “The crew were panicking now, too, of course, and were calling for women and children to take to the lifeboats. It came to me then that I had to find Miss Karswell. I had to ensure she took her place upon one of those rafts. She was a brave and stubborn woman—not unlike Miss Hobbes—and she would not volunteer herself for a place unless goaded, believing that she stood a better chance than most in the water and giving her own place up for another. I knew this because I knew her. The Titanic was sinking, however, and I would not allow such a remarkable woman to go down with the ship. I had to find her.”

  “And did you?” asked Rutherford, crushing the stub of his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray on Major Absalom’s desk.

  Newbury nodded. “Yes. But I was too late. The press of people on deck was already proving untenable. I pushed my way through the chaotic morass of limbs, searching the crowds for a glimpse of her face. The lifeboats were being lowered and cast adrift, many of them only half full, but I knew she would not yet be aboard one of them.

  “As I fought my way towards the other end of the deck I heard the very fabric of the vessel groan beneath me, and the ship lurched. I was nearly knocked from my feet by a sudden jolt, only keeping myself upright by virtue of the metal railing, which I grabbed at frantically to hold myself steady. When I looked up again, I saw her.”

  Newbury took a deep breath. Rutherford could see that he was trembling, and so took up the bottle of brandy, refilling Newbury’s glass.

  “Thank you, Mr Rutherford. I think I might indulge in one of your American cigarettes after all, if I may?”

  “Of course.” Rutherford placed the open tin on the table beside Newbury’s glass. Newbury reached forward and took one. He studied it for a moment, and then pulled the ignition tab and took a long, deep draw.

  “She was standing no more than thirty feet from me, a stricken look upon her pretty face. She looked entirely lost and alone, and I think perhaps more vulnerable than I had ever seen a woman look before, or since. It was the look of a woman who knew she was going to die, and was furious at her own impotence to do anything about it.

  “It took a moment for her to see me there, still clinging resolutely to the railing, and when she did her eyes widened in shock and she opened her mouth as if to call to me. I pushed myself away from the railing, intent on fighting my way towards her, when the first of the tentacles came lashing out of the water, whipping across the deck just in front of me and sending me sprawling backwards across the deck.”

  “Tentacles? The creature?” said Rutherford, appalled.

  “Indeed so. The limb of some dreadful Leviathan from beneath the waves. It must have been as big as the ship itself, and as its limb thrashed and splintered the deck before me, I realised it was wrapping itself around the ship. I glanced round to see more of the thick, slimy proboscises flicking over the railings, curling around the funnels. Whatever the thing was, it had the ship in its clammy embrace and, as the deck lurched beneath me once again, I understood that it intended to drag the Titanic down into the watery depths.”

  “Good Lord,” said Rutherford. “I had no idea. How did you get away? And what of Ms. Karswell?”

  “I scrambled unsteadily to my feet. By now I’d realised that the ship was lost. Even before the beast had struck she’d been taking on too much water. Everybody was screaming, throwing themselves overboard in an effort to escape the thrashing limbs of the creature or make it to the life rafts, which were now spreading out in a concentric circle around the Titanic, cast adrift on the midnight ocean.

  “There was no sign of Clarissa. Either she’d gone overboard, or she’d been caught in the devastation caused by the thrashing beast. I tried to find a path through to where I’d last seen her, but the deck was splintered and broken and proved impassable. The ship was being dragged down quickly now, tilting wildly, and I was left with little choice. I had to try my luck in the water. I could only hope that Clarissa had done the same.”

  “Were you wearing a lifejacket?”

  “No. I was still in my evening suit. I shed my jacket and threw myself overboard, hoping beyond hope that I could get myself clear before the ship was entirely submerged and I was pulled under by the current.”

  “But what about the beast?” asked Rutherford. “Weren’t you afraid that it might try to drag you under too?”

  Newbury shook his head. “No. The beast was too busy with the ship. That was the far greater prize. I was but a mote compared to the immensity of the creature and the ship. It would barely have noticed me as I splashed into the ice-cold water, gasping for breath.”

  “Did you make it to one of the lifeboats?”

  “I did. The women dragged me aboard, shivering and barely able to speak, and when I looked round the last thing I saw before unconsciousness took hold was an immense, cyclopean eye beneath the surface, glaring up at us as we rowed frantically away from the drowning ship.”

  “So this creature—it was responsible for the damaged submersible? And so, indirectly, for the loss of the Titanic?” said Rutherford, barely able to comprehend the gravity of the tale that had just been laid out before him.

  “One can only assume,” said Newbury, “but it seems the only likely explanation. One might even imagine that the submersible was left there purposefull
y, as if the beast had sensed our approach and had laid out its trap.”

  Rutherford slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. That a creature so terrible might still exist out there in the ocean depths... no wonder the truth had been covered up. If it were ever to get out that monstrous things such as that were prowling the depths of the Atlantic ocean, no one would ever set foot aboard a steamship again. He wondered how many other vessels lost at sea had suffered a similar fate.

  And then it struck him. Newbury had not told him what had become of the woman. “Ms. Karswell,” he said, urgently, “did she also make it to one of the lifeboats?”

  Newbury glanced away, unable to look Rutherford in the eye. “No,” he replied, solemnly. “She did not. I searched for her on the rescue ship, and again when we returned to shore, but she was nowhere to be found. I hoped for many years that, somehow, she had found her way to safety, that she might find a way to reach me, but it’s been so long... and I’ve heard nothing. Not even an idle word in a report, or the slightest fleeting reference. And believe me, I’ve looked. No, Mr Rutherford. I fear Miss Karswell was lost to the icy depths when the Titanic went down, and the world is a much emptier place without her.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rutherford, unable to find any other words. He could see from the expression on Newbury’s face that the man was still deeply pained by the loss. But then... He felt in his pocket for the note. Could it be?

  Newbury sighed. He took the ticket that Rutherford had given to him earlier, glanced at it again, and then cast it onto the table beside his drink. “I hope you can understand, Mr Rutherford, my less than enthusiastic response to your suggestion that I take a cabin aboard the Argus. What is it for, anyway? What’s the nature of the mission, that an old man like me might be dragged out of retirement?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Sir Maurice. We don’t really know,” said Rutherford, failing to suppress a grin.

  “I’m sorry?” said Newbury, perplexed.

  “The ticket was delivered here this morning, addressed to you. It was in a plain manila envelope, and the only other thing it contained was this note.” He handed the folded slip of paper to Newbury. “We had no idea what it might mean,” Rutherford continued. “At least, not until...” he trailed off, watching the other man as he studied the note.

  Newbury was silent for a long moment. “Well, I’ll have to go, won’t I?” he said, grinning broadly. Then he was laughing, and Rutherford could see the misty tears forming in the creases of his eyes. “Can’t see as I have any choice.” He handed the slip of paper back to Rutherford.

  Rutherford beamed. “No, Sir Maurice,” he said, laughing. “I can’t see that you do.” He glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand, the single, neat line of copperplate written there in black ink, an invitation to an old friend:

  ARE WE TOO OLD TO DANCE?

  THE MAHARAJAH'S STAR

  LONDON, FEBRUARY 1933

  Rutherford hadn’t expected the house to be quite so impressive.

  It was Georgian, and had probably once been a farmhouse, but sometime in the course of the last century it had been swallowed by the expanding girth of the metropolis. Now it was surrounded by regimented ranks of Victorian terraces, just another old house on the outskirts of London, a relic of a bygone age. That, he supposed, was progress.

  He took a long draw on the stub of his cigarette and then flicked the still-smouldering butt out of the window. He was sitting behind the wheel of his car, the engine gently sighing as it settled after the long drive. He was tired and cold. He hoped the professor would offer him a hot drink, but in truth he was expecting a frosty reception. The whole situation was rather delicate. The professor had been a much-respected government agent. To have someone go poking around in his past, asking questions about events that happened thirty years earlier... Well, Rutherford knew how he would feel about it if it were him.

  Rutherford stretched his aching neck and climbed out onto the pavement, locking the car door behind him. His breath made ghostly shapes in the frigid air as he tramped up the gravel path towards the front door. It swung open before he’d even had chance to mount the steps and an elderly butler peered out, his balding pate gleaming in the sunlight. “Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance?”

  Rutherford cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m here to see Professor Angelchrist. Is he home?”

  The butler narrowed his eyes. “Your name, sir?”

  “Peter Rutherford. I’m here on behalf of the British government. I believe the professor may be able to help with my enquiries.”

  “Very good, sir. Please come in. I’ll see if the professor is available for visitors.”

  Rutherford smiled and stepped into the hall, dipping his head to avoid bashing it on the low beam over the door.

  Inside, the cavernous hallway was dimly lit and ticked ominously with the workings of innumerable clockwork machines. Rutherford sensed movement in the dark recesses behind the staircase, but couldn’t discern anything because of the poor light. He waited by the door for the butler to return, feeling a little uneasy.

  “Professor Angelchrist will see you in the drawing room, Mr Rutherford,” the man said when he reappeared a moment later, giving a slight wave of his hand to indicate the way.

  Rutherford thanked him. He passed along the hallway, stopping before the drawing room door. He rapped loudly, twice.

  “Come.” The voice from within the room was stately and firm, but cracked with age.

  Rutherford pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The professor was sitting by the hearth in a leather armchair that seemed to dwarf him, giving Rutherford the impression he was smaller than he probably was. His hair was a shock of startling white, and he wore a short beard and wiry spectacles. Dressed in a morning suit, his liver-spotted hands were folded neatly on his lap. He looked up and smiled at Rutherford, beckoning him to the chair opposite his own.

  “Good day to you, Mr Rutherford. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.” He held out his hand and Rutherford reached over and shook it firmly. “These old legs aren’t what they once were.”

  Rutherford smiled. “Of course,” he said, taking his seat.

  “You’re here on behalf of the government, eh? Secret Service, by the look of you.” The old man’s eyes flashed with amusement, but then he looked suddenly serious. “You’ve come for it, haven’t you?”

  Rutherford frowned. Direct and to the point. He hadn’t been expecting that. “It?” he said, feigning ignorance.

  “Come now, Mr Rutherford. Let us not patronise one another. I know you’re here for the Maharajah’s Star. I always knew someone would come, one day. I’m only surprised it’s taken so long.” The old man leaned forward in his chair, fixing Rutherford with a firm stare. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Rutherford shrugged, and nodded. “So you admit you have it here?”

  Angelchrist gave a crooked smile. “What do you know of the Star, Mr Rutherford?” he replied, avoiding the question.

  So, they were going to play a game. Rutherford found himself warming to the old man. “That it once belonged to the Maharajah of Jodhpur, a man renowned for his love of beautiful things. During the course of his reign the Maharajah amassed a great wealth of treasures from all around the world. Precious jewels, ancient relics, famous works of art. That sort of thing. But the Star was always his most prized possession, so valuable, so precious that none of his servants were even allowed to look upon it. No one but the Maharajah himself even knew what it was. He kept it locked inside a specially constructed cabinet in his treasure room, and he kept the key on his person at all times, even when he slept. Legend has it many thieves foolishly attempted to steal the Star, but the Maharajah, wise to these interlopers, had installed a hundred clockwork warriors in the treasure room. Anyone who broke in was cut to ribbons by their flashing blades.”

  “Very good,” Angelchrist said, reaching for his pipe and knocking out the dottles in his pal
m before discarding them in the fire. “Go on.”

  “When the British went in after the ’57 rebellion they discovered the palace had been ransacked. The treasure had all gone, the clockwork warriors had been destroyed and the Maharajah lay murdered in his bed. But the thieves had failed to locate the key that still hung around the neck of the Maharajah’s corpse. It was retrieved by the British soldiers and eventually found its way back to London on the airship Empress’s Grace. The treasure could not be traced, however, and although the occasional, solitary item turned up on the black market, it remained a mystery as to what had become of it.”

  Rutherford paused as the butler appeared in the doorway bearing a silver tea tray. Angelchrist beckoned him in, and the butler came forward and set the tray down on a low table. He beat a hasty retreat. “It’s about this point in proceedings when your name, along with those of Sir Maurice Newbury and Miss Veronica Hobbes, is first mentioned.”

  Angelchrist grinned. “Sir Maurice Newbury! What a remarkable fellow.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  Angelchrist nodded. “Oh, yes. Newbury, Miss Hobbes and I, along with Sir Charles Bainbridge, were involved in far more than just the matter of the Maharajah’s Star. Newbury opened my eyes, Mr Rutherford, to the secret world that exists in the shadows, just beneath the veneer of civilisation.”

  “So what of the Star?” Rutherford prompted.

  “You must understand that in those days, thirty years ago, the government and the monarch were at odds with one another. Publicly, of course, all was well, but beneath the surface a power struggle was taking place. In 1902 I was working for the fledgling Secret Service. Newbury and the others were agents of the Crown. But we knew one another well and had helped each other on many occasions.” Angelchrist paused for a moment while he lit his pipe. “When word came that the Maharajah’s treasure had turned up in London in the hands of a criminal gang, both myself and Newbury were charged with retrieving it. As we had on so many prior occasions, we agreed to pool our resources. It didn’t take us long—with the help of Bainbridge and Scotland Yard—to discover where the treasure was being held. It had arrived on a steamship, disguised as cargo, and was in the possession of a gang of smugglers and pirates who maintained a warehouse out by London Docks.”