I remember little of our drive after the bridge jump. My strange saviour took the most peculiar route to my mystery destination. I guessed it was to lose any potential followers, and it must have worked, because not only were we uninterrupted in our drive, but I completely lost track of where we were. I remember we crossed the river again by Westminster Bridge and headed north in the direction of Mayfair. After around an hour of driving we arrived in an impressive street of tall white-fronted houses. My driver slowed and pulled into a narrow-walled back street.
“Wait here please, sir,” he said, pulling up at an impressive set of wooden doors set in a red bricked wall. He jumped out and opened them, before diving back in the vehicle and driving us into a small courtyard, the floor of which was strangely made of wood. I was about to find out why. I’m not quite sure how he did it, but the man next to me triggered some device which suddenly sent the whole floor beneath us sinking into the earth. The whole courtyard was an elevator. What a trick!
Our descent was a short one and we arrived with a click and a bump as the hidden machinery ground to a halt. The motor car was still running, and as soon as we were level he pulled forward and switched off the engine. The platform behind us rose again as if by magic.
“Well then, sir,” said my companion. “We had better get you to your meeting.”
With that he led me from the car and towards a rickety staircase lit by a gas lamp. Looking about I realised we were in a large vaulted cellar. For some strange reason one whole section had been cordoned off with iron bars. I suppose it was some kind of store area, but it looked an awful lot like a prison cell. I hoped it was not for me.
The top of the stairs appeared to end in a wall, but my strange friend gave it a little push, and to my astonishment a door-sized panel opened up. I could see from the portion of the opposite side on show that it was a revolving bookcase. Well, the plot was certainly thickening.
On the other side of the secret door was a most pleasant drawing room. There were the usual shelves stocked with leather-bound books, etchings hung on the wall of battles from the Peninsular War to the Sudan, interspersed with a fine pair of stag antlers, a stuffed and mounted fish and a picture of the late Queen. There was fresh coffee in a fine copper pot on a desk in front of me and behind the desk presumably the man I’d come to see. He had a face of pure kindness, a slight smile playing on his lips and his eyes raised, peeking over the top of a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He looked like a naughty schoolboy who had just played a satisfying prank on a teacher. He was wearing a purple velvet smoking jacket and was sitting cross legged with his hands resting on his top knee. He had dark hair, flecked in a most distinguished way with the odd lock of grey. Perched on the top of his head at a jaunty angle was a red fez. He let out a brief chuckle, before standing up and reaching out his hand.
“My dear, dear Peregrine, it is an absolutely spiffing pleasure to meet you.” How did this stranger know my name? He noticed my obvious surprise. “Dear boy, there are many things I know about you, but how rude of me, I haven’t even told you my name, have I? It’s Magnus Clayton, or if we are being formal, Sir Magnus Clayton of the Indus Star Importation Company and we were meant to meet two days ago, but from what I hear you’ve been having a rather interesting time.”
At this point he was interrupted by the driver who whispered something into his ear.
“Ah,” continued Clayton. “We can talk about that at greater length presently, but first let me apologise for your journey here today. I hear it was an eventful one. It was fortunate I sent Mr Woolfe here to collect you. He’s rather good with my toy. Magnificent machine, isn’t she? Built by Benz, she has 200 horsepower under her bonnet and the body of a thoroughbred. Mr Woolfe here is my butler, among other things, he has saved my skin many a time. Well, now, before we continue our business shall we have some coffee?”
I nodded and took a seat in front of Clayton who poured two cups of steaming black liquid before dismissing Mr Woolfe.
“Mr Harker, I understand you have been engaged by your editor to investigate the rising cost of tea prices, and that from your investigations thus far you have been involved in a little bother concerning my company. Well, I believe we have the same aim Mr Harker, and here’s why. I believe my company has been infiltrated by smugglers and I mean to find out who they are and stop the blighters.
“It all began a few months ago when certain shipments started to go missing at sea. This was followed by records and ledgers being altered at my London offices and then reports from my foremen of strange goings on late at night at my warehouses. Try as I might to get to the bottom of it, I keep finding myself confronted by a brick wall of silence from my staff, who I am sure are involved. I even travelled to India last month to get to the bottom of this bother, but I discovered not a hint of impropriety. As I’m sure you can imagine, buying a consignment of tea and only receiving half of it is rather costly, which is why I had to increase the price of tea. Being a rather large and powerful importer, I am sorry to say that my actions impacted on the whole market. But the matter of tea prices seems trivial compared to what happened next.
“I am aware you know the name Sanghar Khan. Yes, I see by your face you do. Well that man used to be among my staff in India, and a bad apple he was indeed. When all this trouble began I thought he may have had something to do with it, so I had Mr Woolfe keep an eye on him. Which is how I heard of his death. I was about to head straight to the police, that was until I received this telegram.”
At this Clayton passed me a piece of paper bearing the following message: “Speak to the authorities and your fate shall be the same as Khan’s. We the Black Death shall make it so.”
He took it from me before continuing his story.
“As I am sure you can understand I was terribly concerned. What was I to do? Well I decided avoiding the police was probably the best course of action and instead decided to contact one of my former employees, a German fellow by the name of Melk. Melk was something of a fixer of problems for my company, before he decided to leave my employ and pursue a career in politics in his homeland. Being an extremely powerful and influential man I thought he could be of assistance so I invited him to England to help me. Well, from what I hear Herr Melk died in his hotel room early this morning. Yes, he was the fellow you discovered earlier today. Mr Woolfe was watching him too. As soon as I heard of his death I decided there was only one thing to do. I had to contact you.”
What the blast could this powerful businessman want with a boy reporter? I obviously had a puzzled expression on my face, because Clayton quickly explained.
“I can see you are shocked, my boy. But what am I to do? I cannot contact the police for fear of losing my life. My insurers do not believe my predicament and will not pay out, and to cap it all Britain is in uproar at the price of tea. So when I heard you were coming to pay me a visit the other day, I was rather glad. That’s it, I thought, that’s what I need, a young enquiring mind. A journalist who can help me solve this tricky little problem. Mr Woolfe would have brought you straight from your rooms in Soho this morning had Herr Melk not involved you in this business. And there’s the rub Mr Harker, you are already deeply involved in this irksome matter, so how about you dig a little deeper. What would you say if I asked you to help solve this mystery for me?
I was flabbergasted. Me, a scrawny young orphan being asked to thwart an international conspiracy?
“But why me?” I said, finally managing to speak.
“I thought you’d ask that,“ he replied smiling slightly. “Well there are three very clear reasons Mr Harker. To begin with you witnessed the first murder and you were present at the scene of the second. Like it or not you are already involved Mr Harker. I should think the people who committed these crimes would not think twice about adding you to their list of targets, and I should imagine they already have. It would be better for you if you joined forces with me. Secondly you are a journalist. You have access to every walk of life and you have a plausible reason to be present at any situation. You also have the necessary skills to find answers to certain questions I may need answering. Thirdly I have investigated a little of your upbringing, Mr Harker. I know of your summers spent shooting, fencing and boxing. You have all the training you need to be of service, but perhaps I am rushing you, I understand this must all be a bit of a shock. Perhaps I should give you some time to consider my little proposition. Shall we say a day? You can find me at the Oriental Club, Hanover Square, tomorrow evening. I shall look forward to your visit. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to discuss a few matters with Mr Woolfe in private, so I would appreciate it if you could find your own way out.”
Sir Magnus rose, shook my hand warmly and gestured towards the door. More than slightly shocked, I stood up and made my exit.
It was as I was leaving the room I realised I had absolutely no idea how to leave the building. The fine town house was like a maze with a multitude of doors and corridors offering endless opportunities to get lost. I must admit, I have a poor sense of direction at the best of times, but this was hopeless.
After making a series of wrong turns I found myself walking along a particularly dark stretch of portrait-lined hallway. It was then I heard the first of a series of almighty thunderclaps. It was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
Could this be some attempt on the life of my potential new employer? Were there assassins even in this safe place? Well if I was considered strong enough material to tackle deadly criminals, then by rights I should act. I broke into a run in a desperate bid to find the attacker. I shot up a flight of deeply-carpeted stairs and headed along a landing lined on one side by tall windows. A quick glance told me I was somewhere near the top of the building, the grey smog-shrouded expanse of the capital spreading out below me.
The hammer-crack rang out again. It could only be coming from behind the white-gloss door directly in front of me. I grasped the brass handle, took a deep breath, and swung it open, only to find myself staring down the barrel of a smoking gun.