by Ben Hammott
Table of Contents
Note from Author
1st Chapter
BLIND PIRATE TAVERN
2nd Chapter
THE PLAN
3rd Chapter
SEBASTIAN DROOGE
4th Chapter
LURCH
5th Chapter
FURTIVE'S DISGUISE
6th Chapter
CRAKETT MURDERSIN
7th Chapter
CUNNING PLAN GLITCH
8th Chapter
CASTLE DROOGE
9th Chapter
SHADOW
10th Chapter
THE THIRD HUNCHBACK
11th Chapter
DIABLO
12th Chapter
AN UNEXPECTED GATHERING
13th Chapter
CHRISTMAS EVE BALL
14th Chapter
TWO BECOME ONE
15th Chapter
ESCAPE AND RESCUE
16th Chapter
FORCED ENTRY
17th Chapter
LOST INHERITANCE
18th Chapter
UNEXPECTED ARRIVALS
Epilogue
REST AND RELAXATION
The Lost Inheritance Mystery
Ben Hammott
The Lost Inheritance Mystery
by
Ben Hammott
Copyright 2016 Ben Hammott
Author can be contacted at: [email protected]
All rights reserved
Cover design by Keith Draws at keithdraws.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the copyright holders.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Note from Author
First of all, I would like you, the reader, to know that every single sale of one of my books gives me a thrill. That you have taken a chance on a relatively unknown author, (you brave adventurous soul,) and are willing to invest your time and money in something I have created, is an act I am most humbly grateful for.
What you are about to read is a humorous mystery thriller set in early 1900, which revolves around the search for a lost inheritance of vast wealth. Hope you enjoy the story and my English sense of humour.
Lastly, as with all new authors starting out on this adventure into the literary world, we do appreciate your comments and any reviews you may feel inspired to write. Please feel free to contact me with any comments you might have about the book via this email address: [email protected]
That's it, all finished, except to say, THANK YOU and I hope your time spent reading this book will prove to be an enjoyable experience.
Ben Hammott
BLIND PIRATE TAVERN
London, December, 1922
The thief, who liked to be known as Furtive Freddy, but, much to his dismay, was commonly addressed by those who had the displeasure of his acquaintance as Foul Freddy―the reason for which will soon become apparent―shunned the preferred dark colours of his shady profession. Vanity was to blame for his frowned upon decision. His chosen burglary profession was a night-time activity that left the days free for sleeping and Furtive and the sun total strangers. The result was his complexion had taken on a corpselike tone that he thought too much black accentuated. Due to this reason and his total lack of style and colour coordination, Furtive wore a green long-tailed coat over a gold patterned waistcoat, a collarless light blue striped shirt, brown and orange checked baggy trousers and a bright red neckerchief. The only black he conceded to wear were his boots, a crumpled top hat worn slightly at an angle, and the years of accumulated dirt stored under his fingernails.
Oblivious to his shortcomings, his eyes scanned the large old manor house emerging from the wispy mists that veiled the wild overgrown gardens, now more weed than bloom, and the fifty yards of scrub grass that concealed all memory of the once admired manicured lawn he would have to cross to reach it. Lit by the gloomy light of a typical English nightfall, the burglar took in its architectural features. Wooden steps led up to a railing-edged veranda that wrapped around two sides of the house; wooden columns set at intervals along the railing supported its dipped and sagging roof. At three stories high with sharply angled slate roofs and the highest story rising like a central tower with a small round window peering over the landscape like an all seeing-eye, it must at one time been a grand and impressive building. That time was long ago, possibly even before the man about to force his entry inside was born. The burglar received the impression of a habitation falling into senility, tired of its centuries of existence. Just like people, houses age, and though the process is slower, it is no less unavoidable; in both, decay is hastened by reasons other than the passage of the ticking clock. Lack of regular maintenance had caused the old manor house to age more speedily than it otherwise might have. The person responsible? Its current owner, Ebenezer Drooge. A man proud of his miserly personality and his name, which he believed had been inspired by a distant relation to that of Dickens's penny-pinching character.
Furtive's eyes rested on the single lit window seeping candlelight into the darkness. While he waited for it to be extinguished, his mind travelled back to the events that had brought him to this uncared for house.
Two weeks before he had been quietly sipping a beer in his favorite drinking hole, the Blind Pirate Tavern, one of the few drinking establishments that would still let him enter, when the door opened. Furtive was alerted to the opening by the cold breeze whooshing up his baggy trouser legs and the stench of filthy streets tainted with odours best left unimagined that clawed its way inside and promptly assaulted everyone's nostrils. Furtive tilted his head slightly to bring his furtive gaze upon the person who had just entered. He saw a man ill at odds with his surroundings. That he did not belong here was as obvious as a wounded haddock in a shark tank, though in this scenario, the haddock had a better chance of survival. Furtive watched the man with interest to see what would unfold.
The name of the "haddock" was Butler, which coincidently was also his profession. As soon as Butler had entered the Blind Pirate Tavern, he found his nervousness increase tenfold thanks to the murderous stares of the evil-hearted blaggards directed toward him. Slipping into his role quicker than he had the secondhand clothes he'd recently purchased from a drunkard―who seemed unfazed that his next drink, which he had hurriedly rushed off to seek out, would be purchased in his grubby underpants―Butler scowled, and with a brisk swipe of his hand, slammed the door shut. His next act of toughness was to spit on the floor, which he realized at that moment was something he should have practiced beforehand. Ignoring the dribble of spit running down the side of his shoe, he strolled as casually as he could, over to the bar. During a journey that seemed a lot longer than it actually was, he ignored the piles of vomit and bloodstains decorating the rough floorboards, the corpse in the corner with a gash in its throat deep enough to reveal the man's backbone, and the vicious stares of the rough-looking clientele. He was somewhat relieved when he finally reached his destination. He leant an arm on the sticky bar, formed what he thought was a menacing don't-mess-with-me posture and looked at the bartender, who not surprisingly looked straight back at him.
"Beer!" Butler said in the toughest voice he could muster, which actually for someone of his upbringing and present nervousness, was a fair attempt.
The barman, only mildly impressed, shook his head sadly and turned away to fulfill his customer's order.
Behind him, Butler heard the conversations in the room return to normal. His keen hearing picked out snatches of gossip that was far from normal and included topics he would rather have remained oblivious of.
The barman slammed the beer, more dirty-brown foamy sludge than anything in liquid form, on the bar. Butler's expression was not one that displayed an eagerness to drink the frothy brew contained in the glass, well at least that's what he assumed the vessel was; it was so encrusted with grime it was difficult to recognize its true nature.
Butler's unfortunate display of obvious dissatisfaction at what had been served up was not lost on the keen-eyed barman, who quickly formed a similar expression of his own. From nowhere, a knife appeared in his hand. A blur of a hairy tattooed arm later, its point was buried in the bar top. "Somethink wrong?"
Butler, already convinced by the barman's murderous tone that voicing a complaint would be a little unwise, thought the quivering bloodstained knife a hair's breadth from his hand was unnecessary overkill. He glanced at the corpse in the corner, the two rats chewing on its carcass, then back at the disgruntled barman and smiled. "Something wrong? Of course not! I was just contemplating the delicious savoring of the fine beverage you have presented me, my good man."
The barman's puzzled expression informed Butler of two things: first, the barman was uneducated and failed to comprehend words of more than one or two syllables, and second, and perhaps of more importance to his current predicament, he had slipped from his role of ruffian and stood out like a virgin bride at a funeral. He also became acutely aware of the hush that had again settled in the room and sensed every eye present was staring at him, except for the corpse's, though it did have a gaze that seemed to have followed his movements earlier. As far as he could see, and he was only looking as far as the door at this moment, he had two choices. He could either punch the rough, scar-faced, burly barman, grab the knife and with the weapon held menacingly―something he wasn't certain he could achieve―rush for the exit or bluff his way out of the situation.
He decided on the latter. If that failed, he would grab the knife and run for the door like his life depended on him reaching it, as it undoubtedly would.
His false laugh convinced no one in the room. "I is only joking with yer, yer ugly son of a fat hideous sow," he told the barman, an individual whose smile he suspected was rarer than a clean glass in his establishment. Committed to his course, Butler ignored the barman's murderous scowl and continued. "I did rob a man bout a week ago and that was 'ow he spoke, all posh like. Made me wanna stick him, it did." He mimicked a stabbing with his hand, accidently knocking his unhygienic glass of dirty froth across the counter.
The barman, surprisingly, appeared to believe the story. He shrugged and slid the glass back to his customer. "Drink!"
Butler dragged his gaze from the man of little words and fewer syllables, and directed them at the foul drink he had no inclination to pour into his body.
The barman leaned a little closer. "If there be nothink wrong wit me beer, drink it!"
Suspecting no blood was going to be spilt in the next couple of minutes, the conversation in the room returned to its gruesome talk of thievery, murder and everything in-between.
With the sensation of being tied to a horseless carriage hurtling down a steep hill toward a cliff with a very steep drop, Butler reached for the glass, clasped reluctant fingers around its grimy surface, and trying to show no hesitancy, moved it towards lips that silently screamed in protest. Though he attempted to prevent the germ-ridden glass from touching his quivering lips and tip the foul brew directly into his mouth, the barman foiled his plan when he grabbed the bottom of the tankard and tipped. With a reluctance he had never experienced previously or ever wished to again, Butler let the disgusting brew claw its way down his throat. Only when it was empty did the barman release his hold and stare at his customer expectantly.
Butler now realized the significance of the vomit littering the floor, and though he wished nothing more at that moment than to add a fresh patch, he knew to reveal his true reaction would probably end with his murdered body becoming company for the lone corpse in the corner. He smiled―more of a disgusted grimace really―and slammed the empty glass on the bar. Controlling the strong desire to gag, he wiped the dirty froth from around his mouth with the back of his hand and said as enthusiastically as he could, "Well, that was certainly somethink. I don't think I 'ave ever tasted its like."
A smile that had more in common with a sneer struggled to form on the barman's grim features. "Yep, yer not be the first to say that," he said, a little proudly, reaching for the empty glass. "Yer want another?"
Frantically, Butler struggled to think up a refusal that would neither offend the man nor bring about his own demise. Just when he thought it wasn't possible, an excuse flashed into his thoughts. So pleased was he with the idea he inadvertently voiced his pleasure,"Brilliant!"
The Barman's look was a quizzical one. "Was that a yes?"
"Eh, no. Of course it would be brilliant to have another, yet I find myself low on funds, so unless the next is free…" Butler prayed it wasn't.
In a blur of movement the glass disappeared under the bar ready for the next unfortunate customer to be served a revolting beer from an equally revolting vessel. The barman rested one hand on the knife and stabbed the other at Butler. "Yer better ave a penny to pay fer that fine ale yer just supped or things are gonner get a might ugly fer yer real quick like."
Though Butler could have presented a strong case about the man's ale being anything but fine, he kept quiet, fished a penny from his pocket and dropped it in a hand even grubbier than the tankard he had just drunk from, something that until that moment he believed to be an impossibility.
The barman glanced at the penny before slipping it into a pocket. "This ain't no charity house, so if yer skint, yer'd best be on yer way."
Though he had failed in his mission, Butler was rather eager to leave. Unfortunately, the hand that grabbed his shoulder decreed otherwise.
"It's alright, Scabs, 'is with me."
For some strange reason the barman slapped a hand over his nose, turned away and with a nervous hand gestured frantically for them to move away. It was obvious the barman was frightened of something, and as Butler knew it wasn't him, it had to be the newcomer. He found himself spun around. His first impression of the not particularly tall man dressed in clothes that failed to complement each other so drastically they could only have been chosen for that sole purpose, was not of fear, but puzzlement. From the lopsided slightly crushed top hat to the eye-offending trousers, the man was the image of a jovial tramp. Though the man's eyes remained shadowed by the wide brim, the amount of face Butler could see framed by greasy brown hair was absent of scars, somewhat of a rarity when compared to the tavern's present skin disfigured clientele.
"Over here," said the fashion-challenged tramp as he turned and walked away.
Butler's nose twitched and he checked the soles of his shoes. Both were free of the foul excrement he suspected may have been present. He watched the man walk toward the table positioned in the far corner of the room and noticed when he passed the seated ruffians, they leaned away from him and only returned to their former position when he had passed them by. To Butler it seemed the man was feared by all in the room. The man's lack of scars could be an indication he was a skilled fighter able to dish out punishment without receiving any in return. He could be just the sort of man he needed, but if not, he might be acquainted with the type of specialist he required and the reason for his presence in this rough area of London where thieves and murderers made their home.
Butler shot a glance at the door, and though he wished nothing more than to head through it, he instead walked over to the table where the man sat waiting for him. His stomach gurgled. He sighed; he had not seen the last of the foul brew and the thought of it pas
sing through his mouth once again was a nightmare he could never have envisaged before. He would ensure his master paid him a bonus for this, even if the miser wasn't aware he had.
Furtive watched the man he had been studying since he first entered approach and sit opposite. He had soon arrived at the conclusion the man was an imposter and not a ruffian like the rest of the rabble currently occupying the room; this man had breeding. Intrigued to discover the man's purpose to risk his life in such a dangerous place, he asked, "So…what brings a man like yer to a rough place like this?"
Butler felt the urge to recheck his shoes for something he might have stepped in, but resisted. "I be looking fer a certain type."
Unseen by the man across the table, Furtive's shadow-concealed eyebrows rose. "What sort of type might yer be seeking? And yer can drop the phony talk. I knows yer ain't one of us."
Butler was relieved to do so. Words spoken in such a manner felt dirty on his lips. "I am looking for a type that I thought might be you."
"What―handsome, intelligent and well dressed?"
Butler already knew the man fell short of two of the descriptions and wasn't certain the other wouldn't soon join them. "No, I need someone who knows their way around other people's houses, if you know what I mean?"
Furtive knew exactly what he meant. "So, this type yer're looking fer ain't exactly the law-abiding citizen type?"
Butler shook his head. "I would have no use for him if he was."
"It be a type with certain skills to do a job yer ave in mind."
Butler nodded.
"What sort of job?"
Butler leaned forward. An intake of breath from those in the room caused him to turn to discover everyone in the inn staring at them.
"Just ignore them," said Furtive. "They ain't got nothink better ter do than gawp."
Butler returned his gaze to the strange man and whispered, "I need some thieving done."
"Thieving, eh. What sort of thieving?"
Butler's nose twitched again. "I think you might have trod in something, I keep getting a whiff of something foul and unholy."
