Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure

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 down 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.