Philip Kerr - Dark Matter

“Did we have but time,” said he, “I would go to the Sessions House in Old Bailey to do this, for the history that lies between myself and Scroope persuades me that it would have been better if the warrant was obtained from a judge in the Middlesex court of quarter sessions. But there is no time. No, not even to fetch some sergeants and bailiffs to assist us, for this bird might fly the coop at any time; and needs must that we go and arrest him ourselves. Have you got your pistols, Ellis?”

I said I had, and within the quarter hour we were on our way back to Scroope’s place of business at the sign of the Bell to arrest him.

Upon seeing our warrant, Scroope’s Marrano servant, Robles, who had returned, let us in. A strange sight met our eyes: the furniture had been piled in front of the hearth, as if someone might have wished it to catch fire; but we hardly had time to pay this much heed, for Scroope met us from behind the door, with a pistol in his hand, which was levelled at us.

“St. Leger Scroope,” said Newton, ignoring the pistol and more in hope than expectation, “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Have you indeed?” said Scroope, smiling.

Seeing our situation, Newton sought to trick Scroope, promising that much could still be done for him, as if he still held all the best cards:

“I have men outside who are well armed and there is no way out of here. But it is in my power to plead for your life before the Lords Justices themselves,” he explained. “There is every reason to suppose that you may not be hanged and that you may be transported instead. With a proper sense of remorse, some diligence, and the grace of Almighty God, a man might rebuild his life in the Americas. Therefore I entreat you to give yourself up, Mister Scroope.”

Robles stared desperately out the window.

“I’ll not go to Tyburn on a hurdle, sir,” said Scroope. “To be untrussed like some spavined mare, and given my last suit of tar, and that’s a fact. I don’t fear death, only the manner of my dying. A musket ball has more attraction than putting myself in your bloody hands.”

“I’ve not done murder,” said Newton. “The Law is behind me, sir.”

“The Law murders many more innocent than I am, Doctor. But I have no complaint against the Law. Only your religion.”

“My religion? What, sir, are you Roman Catholic?”

“Aye, unto death.” He glanced anxiously at Robles. “Well? What can you see?”

“Nothing. There’s no one there,” said Robles at last.

“What” said Scroope. “You think you can cozen me, Doctor? You promise much more than you can deliver. Well, it was always thus. Despite your solemn oath at Trinity, it was well known you never performed a single act of divinity. You were always more interested in alchemy than you were in the affairs of the school. You were no pupil monger, I will grant you that, Doctor, but your own affairs did always tread closely upon the heels of your duty. Even so, I will regret having to kill one such as you, Doctor, for I believe you to be a great man. But you leave me with no choice. And it is very convenient that you have come by yourselves. Mister Robles and I were just about to set this house afire, in order to conceal our disappearance. But of course you would hardly have been satisfied, Doctor, without the presence of two charred corpses. But now you have solved all our problems. By killing the two of you, we can also furnish the bodies that will doubtless be taken for our own.”

“Be assured that your position is hopeless,” declared Newton. “The house is surrounded by my men. In our zeal to arrest you, we came but a moment or two before our men. Where can you go?”

Scroope glanced uncertainly at Robles. “Are you sure there is no one out there?” he asked. “For the Doctor’s manner persuades me that there might be.”

“There is no one,” insisted Robles. “Look for yourself, sir.”

“And take my eye off these two gentlemen? I think not. Light the fire.”

Robles nodded and went over to the hearth where he produced brimstone matches from a tinderbox, and put a flame to some dry kindling.

It was at this point I did think Newton had suffered some kind of stroke, for he groaned and sank down to the floor on one knee, clutching his side.

“What ails you, Doctor?” enquired Scroope. “The thought of death? It will be quick, I promise you. A bullet in the head is better than what your justice would have offered me. Come, sir, can you stand?”

“An old ailment,” whispered Newton, struggling painfully to his feet. “The rheumatism, I think. If I could have a chair.”

“As you can see,” said Scroope, “all our chairs are piled up for our conflagration.”

“A stick, then. There is one.” Newton pointed to a walking stick that lay against the wall. “Besides, if I am to be shot, I should like to meet death on my feet.”

“Why, Doctor, you sound quite the bravo,” said Scroope, and, backing up to the wall, took hold of the stick and handed it to Newton, handle first.

“Thank you, sir,” said Newton, taking hold of the stick. “You are most kind.”

But no sooner did he grasp the handle than he was flourishing a blade, and it was only now that I remembered, even as Newton did prick Scroope’s ribs with it, that the ingenious walking stick concealed a sword. In truth, my master pricked him but lightly, although Scroope did let out such a shriek that you would have thought he had been killed. And the surprise of it made him let off his pistol, which passed harmlessly into the ceiling.

At this, Robles drew his own sword, and I drew mine, for there was not time to find and cock my pistol; and he and I set to it for a minute or so, while Scroope flung his own empty pistol at my master’s head, which knocked him out, I think, and fled into the back of the house. By now the furniture was alight, and part of the house with it, so that Robles and I were obliged to conduct our swordfight against the flames, which were more of a distraction to my opponent, being at his back rather than mine. Newton lay still upon the floor, which was sufficient distraction unto myself; but finally I lunged at Robles, and pushed my blade straight through his side, so that he did let go of his blade and cry quarter. Forcing Robles through the door, I grabbed hold of my master’s coat collar and dragged him into the street, for the house was now well ablaze.

Outside, I sheathed my sword and drew my pistols, in expectation that Scroope might yet make his escape. But it was not Scroope who soon came coughing out of the house, but the woman who had poisoned her husband and who had escaped us before. It was Mrs. Berningham, who would have run away, only I took hold of her, and held her until someone summoned a bailiff.

A fire-engine was fetched. And yet with an armed man still apparently on the premises, there were none of the fire-fighters who dared go inside; but by then the fire was out of control so that it began to threaten some of the other buildings; and it was only when I assured the fire-fighters that Scroope, who owned his building, was a felon and therefore hardly likely to hold the firemen liable for the demolition, that they fetched hooks and ropes to pull down the blazing edifice. By which time Newton was recovered from his blow on the head.

For a while I was uncertain whether the fire killed St. Leger Scroope, or if he had escaped; but Newton was in no doubt about the matter. For as we investigated the back of the house, he spied some blood upon the cobbles, which seemed to put the matter beyond all dispute.

After seeing a physician, Scroope’s servant, Robles, was conveyed to the infirmary at Newgate with Mrs. Berningham, where, thinking himself close to death from the wound I had given him, although I had seen men recover from worse wounds than his, he confessed his own part in the murders of Mister Kennedy and Mister Mercer, and which had been done, as Newton supposed, in the manner being most provocative to the Warden’s intellect: