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

make a request.
    The desk was spread with an unusual display of impedimenta: a wooden case of jewellers’ screwdrivers, a long wooden pointer, a corkscrew, a penny whistle, a magnifying lens, an old hearing trumpet, a candle and matches, and a many-bladed pocketknife with a scaling instrument extended. I thought of the tray of assorted items in Kim’s game. Only the ashtray full of cigar stubs made sense. A notebook, a couple of books whose titles I could not see, and a scrap of ancient leather marked with a five-sided pattern or picture, also lay there.
    “Mr Harcourt is the younger brother of Sir Edward Harcourt of Effra Hall,” Mrs Crawford informed me. “He was a friend of Ernest Shackleton for some years. Mr Harcourt, this is my associate, Mr Stubbs.”
    Knowing who he was, I could see his type. The younger brother, a man without any trade, profession, or prospects. He had to make his way by means of his social connections and the opportunities and knowledge they afforded. I knew his sort as gamblers, at the ring and the racetrack. A few of them were always about. They patronised fighters or owned shares in horses. Many of them played cards with those who could afford to lose. Harcourt’s face showed signs of years of late nights and drinking. Judging from his surroundings, I would say he was not a successful gambler.
    Harcourt’s gaze barely flicked over me, as though I was merely a hired thug. A more sensitive man might have been insulted, but his assumption was understandable, especially given the state of his front door.
    For my part, I belatedly recognised him as the man with the bushy beard in the train from Chichester and in the Conquering Hero. The beard was a false stage prop, no doubt.
    “What may I do for you, Mrs Crawford?” he asked, completely composed. “You must have a good reason for forced entry into a man's house.”
    “Let us start with the piece of property you took from Mr Stubbs last night.”
    Harcourt had the nerve to raise an eyebrow quizzically. “Exactly what property would that be? It's well known that I pay for any souvenirs of Shackleton, so perhaps someone was hoping to get something they could sell to me. I hope that Connell and his disreputable friends didn't rob you.” He looked over to the bruised man. “I wouldn't know anything about it.”
    “There are three dead men at a stables this morning,” said Mrs Crawford, changing tack. “I know how they died.”
    “Do you indeed?”
    The faint smile about his lips troubled me. I had not expected that type of interview. Harcourt was likely a murderer, but Mrs Crawford was chatting as politely as though he was a social acquaintance.
    “They died by the disruption of protein molecules by resonant radio waves,” she said coolly. “Proteins bind together our muscles, ligaments, and other connective tissue. If the molecular bonds within them are broken, they lose their strength. Tissue under tension will part. A narrow beam of radio waves can cut through such tissue like a hot knife through butter. Even to the degree of beheading a man.”
    He nodded slowly, evidently re-appraising her. “Needless to say, it was not my doing. They were warned. But like Pandora, they heedlessly opened the box. Connell and I arrived five minutes too late.”
    “Mr Waters died the same way.”
    “You are well-informed,” he said.
    “I had his body dug up especially. The damage to his skull was most unusual.”
    “Didn’t have too many brains in the first place,” said Harcourt drily. “He was another greedy fool. He could have saved me two years if he’d have told me what he was doing.”
    I had not heard of Mr Waters. I later learned he had died in the Greyhound public house two years previously.
    “You didn't bring the police, so I assume you can only have come for one reason. How much do you want?”
    She shook her head. “I believe we can work together. I think we have the same aim.”
    “What makes you think I need your