Free The Elder Ice: A Harry Stubbs Adventure by David Hambling

they could ever get home alive.
    The gardeners had dug two rows, and in that time, my dream of being a lawyer’s clerk had sunk. What of my life I could salvage? “You mentioned wealth,” I said.
    “Yes. Again, I can explain more later. But you may trust me when I say there will be more money than you can imagine.” Mrs Crawford’s eyes were steely blue, and she had a quality about her you might call resolution. If she were a man, she might have been a leader.
    “It is not that I doubt you, but I feel a more thorough explanation of how this wealth is to be obtained, and the legalities of the situation, are in order.”
    Mrs Crawford blinked. “Legalities? Mr Stubbs, we are to retrieve some property which rightfully belongs to the Shackleton estate, and which was stolen—with violence, I might add—from you yourself. As we are still acting pro tem for Latham and Rowe, we are entirely on the side of the law. And I assure you the finder’s fee will be a king’s ransom at the least.”
    The proposition had become much simpler. I was to continue acting just as before, in pursuit of Shackleton’s mysterious treasure. “Why have you told me this?” I said at last. “Why not just issue another letter under Mr Rowe's name?”
    “Firstly, because I need to be part of the expedition. Secondly, because you will become party to some extraordinary information, and I wish you to be prepared for it.”
    The prospect of vast wealth, and getting a little of my own back on the individual who struck me from behind, both enticed me. But the lure of adventure really drew me on. The same that lures a man to step into the ring, heedless of the risk that he will be beaten black and blue. “Will you at least tell me why we may not conduct matters through the usual channels for recovering stolen property from a malefactor?”
    “When you sensed a presence in the summerhouse, it was no illusion. And those misfortunate Irishmen did not die by any normal means, as you must realise.”
    “Who killed them?”
    “Not ‘who’ but ‘what’. A force that the regular authorities are singularly ill-equipped to deal with. You needn't frown so, Mr Stubbs. I have my own sources of intelligence, and I’m confident of bringing matters to a successful conclusion. If,” she added, “you are with me. That will mean following my instructions promptly and without question.”
    “I can do that.”
    “I was sure you could. You will hear some very strange things this morning. I want you to ignore them as far as possible, and keep your attention riveted to the men with whom we are dealing. They are exceptionally dangerous. Take your eyes off them, and we’ll both have our throats cut.”
    Her frank language took me aback. Mrs Crawford was not at all the woman I had taken her to be. She might have been Boudicca, with the sun glinting from her auburn pompadour under her hat.
    “I am with you,” I said at length.
    “Good man. Now, may I ask you to fetch a cab and meet me at the entrance to the park here?”
    “Very good, Mrs Crawford.”
    I hurried off with a strange feeling of exaltation. I was not looking back to the ruined career behind me; I was looking forward to the encounter to come, with the prospect of danger and riches. The sun was sparkling on the frosty lawns, and I was gambling everything. I believe I might have started whistling.

 
    Round Eight: The Collector
     
    We left the cab two streets away from our destination. Mrs Crawford walked ahead of me at a smart pace, swinging her rolled umbrella purposefully. I followed with slow strides, one step to her two.
    “You recognise the address?” she asked, stopping outside a town house with a brass knocker in the shape of a fist. The area had once been respectable but was now less so; I knew it well from my debt-collecting days, knew how little money there was on this street. A curtain across the road jerked.
    “The collector,” I said. “The one who buys anything Shackleton