The Elder Ice: A Harry Stubbs Adventure by Hambling David

Author:Hambling, David [Hambling, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2014-07-26T23:00:00+00:00

Round Six: The Irishmen

As I came down to breakfast next morning, the landlady informed me a small boy was waiting to see me in the parlour at my leisure. He was to transmit his message only to me in person, she said, a trifle sniffily.

Going through, I recognised Arthur Renville's eldest, a fine-looking young chap of eleven years, sitting in a hard-backed chair as straight as a guardsman. He stood up and addressed me with the authority of a bonded messenger. “Begging your pardon, Mr Stubbs. If you come with me directly, you will learn something to your advantage.”

“What would that be, then?”

“Can't tell you, sir.”

“Where will you take me?”

“Can't tell that either, sir.”

The boy had been well schooled.

“Just so,” I said. “Young Renville, are you permitted to tell me if you have breakfasted yet?”

“No, sir—I mean yes, sir, I can tell you, and no, sir.”

The fried eggs looked very tempting, and I was loathe to leave them. I requested the landlady make the toast up into a parcel of egg sandwiches. She wrapped them in kitchen paper and passed them to Renville’s boy while I pulled on my boots and buttoned up my coat.

It was a fine morning but sharp. There was no frost on the lawns. Shops were unfastening their shutters preparatory to opening, and clerks, labourers, and shop girls on their way to work filled the streets. The younger Renville led me rapidly up Central Hill, towards Westow Hill. We continued for some minutes.

“Is it far? Hadn't we better get a cab?” I asked.

“No, sir. Cabbies tell tales.”

We turned off down Woodland Road then into a lane that terminated at a stableyard. Arthur Renville the elder stepped out of a stall, flicked a cigarette aside, and saluted us. “You hurry off home now,” he told the boy. “You've done a good job. And remember—not a word to anyone, even Mother.”

I relieved the boy of the parcel of sandwiches, passing him one. The lad dashed off at the double, eating as he went. I supposed he would be late for school, but only a brave teacher would punish Arthur Renville’s boy without his permission.

“Morning, Arthur. What's the S.P.?”

“I think we've got your Irish,” he said without the slightest humour or triumph in his voice. He led me into a straw-covered paddock. I was expecting to find them trussed up like chickens with Arthur’s minions standing guard, but nobody was there. At least, nobody living. As I looked down, I saw with a shock the three of them, half buried in the straw, as lifeless as sacks. When I strode forward for a closer look, I received a second shock.

All three had been cleanly decapitated, the heads lying next to the bodies. The heads had fallen, or more likely been moved, so the faces were visible. I recognised at once three of my assailants from outside the Conquering Hero: the heavyweight Mickey, his associate who had tried to club me with so little success, and the one who had tried to run.

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