The Adventure of the Deverill Diamonds

I jumped at the sound of a short blast of a whistle. And then, as a horde, they came in a flurry of black and silver!

Twenty or so policemen, led by Inspector Wakefield, encircled Burdon and one of them leapt at him, wrestling the gun from his hand. In a matter of seconds, Burdon was held in a tight clinch by two constables, spitting fury at them. I was completely stunned by this turn of events and could neither move, speak or think for a few seconds.

Inspector Wakefield walked over to me, holding a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

“Thanks for the note, miss,” he smiled.

The note! He had received the note we had left at the police station! The watch-watching policeman had read it and decided to pass it on. Thank goodness! That alone had saved me from being shot dead on this cold platform.

“You’re welcome!” I gasped. “How did you get here so quickly?” I added, panting.

“Commandeered a train. Sped through the night. Didn’t want him making it to the boat, did I? Well done, miss! Your note saved the day! You’ve obviously got your Father’s flair for criminal matters. Now, what’s he done with the diamonds, miss?”

“He has them hidden in his truncheon. I’m sure of it.”

“Ignore ’er, sir! She’s mad!” yelled Burdon. Inspector Wakefield silenced him with a steely look, nodding at one of the constables and indicating the case with his head.

The constable made his way towards Burdon and stooped to pick the truncheon out of Burdon’s case. He passed it to Inspector Wakefield who looked over it minutely as Burdon looked on nervously.

Tracing an almost invisible join at the business end of the truncheon with his fingers, Wakefield went on to place it in his hand and twist it. On the second attempt there was the creak of wood and the end of the truncheon came off in the Inspector’s hand. Holding out his other hand he gently tipped the truncheon into it. A cascade of diamonds poured from the inside of the truncheon into his hand, glistening in the gaslight as they did so. Burdon hung his head.

“He pawned one of them to buy his ticket out of the country,” I said. “He hid them in there. That’s how he got them out of the room without anyone seeing.”

“You’re a little liar!” yelled Burdon.

“There was a time, Mr Burdon,” I replied, with more composure than I truly felt, “when I thought you were a friend. When I trusted you. But you’re not a friend. You’re anything but. There’s only one liar here, Ned Burdon, and it’s you.”

Burdon turned his hollowed eyes upon me with a scowl and opened his mouth to retort.

“Keep your mouth shut Burdon! You’ve said and done enough! Well done, miss,” said the Inspector, nodding appreciatively at me, “How you came to solve it I’d like to know! You’ll have to tell me all the ins and outs. But first, tell me, how did you get here so quickly?”

Eddie Holloway! My goodness! In the flurry and excitement I had forgotten him! He lay on the platform, clutching his side. I raced over to him as fast as I could, crouching down beside him.

He groaned slightly, obviously in pain. The bullet that had been meant for me had struck him in the right side of his stomach. The wound was bad and blood oozed from it in dark crimson trickles. Without medical attention he would die from the blood loss. I knew that much. I placed my hands over the wound, applying pressure to it to try to stem the bleeding. Soon, my hands were saturated in his blood.

Criminal fiend though he was he had tried to save my life. Why, I had no idea. But he was going to die here unless I helped him. And, with him dead, Sam would be dead too. ‘If we don’t come back by sun up or if you come back alone’ he had said to me, leaving Snorky instructions to kill Sam in either eventuality. What could I do?

As I placed my hands down on him with more pressure he winced and turned his head to look unsteadily into my eyes.

“Don’t let the coppers take me..back to prison…” he whispered.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” I said kindly.

He shook his head, lifting it as much as he could off the cold floor to emphasise his point.

“Don’t let ’em.. Doctor… Got me own doctor in the warehouse…. Get me ’ome…Get me back…”

His head fell back to the ground and he blinked his eyes in great distress and pain.

Inspector Wakefield, his interest piqued, had made his way over to us by this time.

“What’s happened here, miss?” he asked.

I put my body in front of Holloway’s face, concealing his identity from the Inspector as best I could. Out of the corner of my eye I saw several constables leading the unwilling (and still scowling) PC Burdon away towards the train they had arrived on.

“He was here on the platform when I arrived,” I lied to Wakefield. “He was just passing by. He jumped in front of the first bullet for me. Mr Burdon shot him.”

Inspector Wakefield nodded and then, to my horror, leaned forwards, moving me gently out of the way with his hand, to see who I was tending to. I tried to resist but the pressure of the Inspector’s hands was too strong to resist. He soon had a clear look at Holloway. I registered the look of total shock on his face as he recognised my saviour. There was a brief moment of stunned silence and then..

“My God! Men!” bellowed the Inspector, a tremor in his voice. “It’s Eddie Holloway! It’s Eddie Holloway!! Come and arrest him!”

Some of the other constables looked round in surprise and they started to walk towards us. Through a gap between the buildings on the platform I saw the train that Holloway and I had arrived on give a jolt backwards as the engine coupled with it, now facing back towards London.

“Please, Inspector! I need to get him back home!” I pleaded to Wakefield, but he ignored me and the constables continued to walk towards us.

“Please…” whispered Holloway. “Girly… Please, get me ’ome…”

“Please Inspector! I need to save him!”

But Wakefield was not listening to me. He had his prize - Eddie Holloway - and he was determined not to let him slip out of his net.

I had only a second to decide what to do. If the police took Holloway into custody, Sam would die. If Holloway and I were not back in the Red Razor Gang’s den by sunrise then Sam would die. If we took Holloway to hospital, Sam would die. But I would be helping a criminal! An opium smuggler! A man I despised! ….. A man who had just saved my life…

I took the decision. I reached my right hand down into Holloway’s right pocket, trying to find what I believed to be concealed in there. It reminded me for the briefest of seconds of fumbling in Mrs Gritton’s pocket for the key. How long ago that seemed! And how much things had changed in just a few days! My hand found metal and I grasped it tightly. This was it! There was no turning back! I was about to become a criminal!

I pulled Holloway’s concealed gun from his pocket and whipped it around to face Inspector Wakefield and the oncoming constables. As I did, flecks of Holloway’s blood were whipped from my hand and landed at the feet of the policemen. They all froze in their tracks, a horrified look on their faces at the sight of this twelve-year old girl wielding a gun.

“Don’t come any closer!” I yelled at the top of my voice.

The Inspector was the first to break the perplexed silence that fell.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, miss?”

“I need to get him home. Back to his hideout. It’s important. If I don’t, my friend will die. My friend - Sam Wiggins. His gang have Sam and if we’re not back by sunrise, they’ll kill him,” I explained.

The Inspector took in what I said and thought it through, before eventually responding.

“I’ve had the whole of the Metropolitan Police Force looking for Holloway and his gang. I’m not about to let him go. I’m afraid Eddie Holloway is too important. More important than saving your friend, miss.” the Inspector replied.

“Not to me, he’s not!” I rejoined. “Let us get on this train and no-one gets hurt!” I added, thinking how much I was starting to sound like Holloway.

“Now then,” said the Inspector in a slow, patronising voice, “I don’t think you’re likely to shoot anyone, do you miss?”

He took a sudden step towards me and, without thinking, I did it. I pointed the gun towards his feet and I fired. The noise was deafening and the jolt of the gun nearly made me lose my grip on it. I fumbled with it for a second before I had a firm hold on it once more.

The Inspector had frozen on the spot. In front of him I could make out a black mark in the floor which my bullet had made as it seared its way into it. The fact that I had actually fired the gun seemed to have sent fear into all of the policemen. Not fear that I was a crack shot, naturally, but fear that I might shoot one of them accidentally.

The noise of the gunshot was still dying away as I said tremulously, “I mean it. I mean business. I’m getting him back to London. And you’re going to help me!”

No-one moved. The only sounds were the dying gunshot, the groans of the dying man on the floor in front of me and, of course, the interminable clock above us all ticking away the time I had left to save Sam.

“You two! Pick him up!” I shouted at two of the advancing policemen adding a “please” which sounded completely ridiculous given the fact that I was pointing a loaded gun at them.

They looked towards Wakefield who stroked his chin gingerly before reluctantly nodding his head. They made their way towards Holloway’s prostrate form without taking their eyes off me for a second, until they reached him and hoisted him up to his feet between them. Holloway groaned loudly in pain as they got him to his feet and the blood from his wound began to trickle down his leg.

I motioned with the gun for them to take him towards the train we had arrived on. They almost had to drag him as Holloway’s legs were too weak to help them very much. I followed them, walking steadily backwards and keeping my gun trained on Inspector Wakefield. My hand was shaking, but I ignored it. I knew what had to be done and I was doing it.

We reached the other train, whose engine was hissing and puffing expectantly, ready to take us back at speed.

“Put him on the train!” I shouted over my shoulder to the two constables and they opened up the carriage door and hiked Holloway up the steps and into the compartment. I did not take my eyes off Inspector Wakefield as I shouted down to the engine driver.

“Get us back to London! Heap on the coals! Get us there as fast as you possibly can! Eddie Holloway is on this train! He’s injured! And if you aren’t fast enough he’ll die! I’m sure you don’t want that! Go! Go and don’t stop!”

The two policemen disembarked from the train, which began to move steadily away from the platform.

“Go back over there!” I barked at them and they made their way to join the Inspector and the others.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” I bellowed over the sound of the engine and the wheels moving on the tracks, “thank you for saving me from Mr Burdon! I know this isn’t a good way to thank you, and I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back to London! I’ve given you one criminal. But you can’t have this one! Not yet!”

Keeping my eyes on them all I ran towards the moving train, opening a carriage door, jumping on and slamming the door shut behind me as quickly as I could. I immediately threw down the window and pointed the gun out of it, keeping my sights on Inspector Wakefield until he had shrunk to nothingness and the darkness of the countryside was all I could see.

Satisfied that we were safely on the way I dropped the gun, shut the window and raced down the carriages to find Holloway. After flinging myself through several compartments as the train juddered and shook me from side to side I found him where the policemen had left him.

He looked very pale, but was conscious. He saw me arrive and gave what I thought was a little smile. I raced to his side. The blood was still trickling from his wound.

I looked around desperately for something to cover the wound with. The antimaccassars on the backs of the train seats would have to do. I pulled ten of them off the chairs, rolling two of them together and placing them on his open wound in place of a bandage.

“Push down on this. Hard,” I ordered him. He complied.

I tied the others together, end to end, until I had made a long, very primitive rope from them. I reached around him and, as he obliged me by leaning forwards, I tied it as tight as I could around his waist so that it held the ‘bandage’ in place. It was a pathetic effort but it was the best I could do.

I threw open as many windows as I could, hoping to make the carriage even colder than it already was. If Holloway fell into a fever I knew it would be dangerous.

Grabbing another two antimaccassars I rushed to the toilet, wetting the cloths and bringing them back to dab on Holloway’s forehead and to clean up the area on his stomach where he had bled most profusely.

“Fanks,” he murmured, looking up at my through groggy eyes.

“What for?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Gettin’ me the ’ell outta there.”

“I want Sam back. That’s why I did it. Not for you. The Inspector will catch you another day.”

He let out a little laugh, which obviously caused him some pain.

“You’re funny, girly…” he whispered.

A silence fell between us as I swabbed his forehead, trying to reduce his temperature. Feeling guilty for what I had just said I decided to break the silence.

“I did do it for you as well as for Sam. Because you saved me.”

He nodded woozily.

Again there was silence as I gently patted his head, cooling him down.

“Why?” I enquired eventually.

“Why what, girly?” he asked unsteadily.

“Why did you save me?”

He thought for a moment before eventually replying.

“The thought entered me ’ead.”

And that was his last word on the subject. I thanked him for saving me and he nodded again, wincing in pain.

The rest of our journey to London passed much as the journey to Dover had - in silence. Except this silence was different. Because, under the veneer of hatred between us that was right and proper for a master criminal and a detective to maintain, there was a deeply-hidden kernel of a peculiar sort of mutual gratitude.

The antimacassar bandage soaked up a lot of the blood and I made sure I kept up the pressure on the wound. The blood flow slowed gradually from the pressure and I felt sure that Holloway was going to make it to London alive.

Having thought the train to Dover had been fast, nothing prepared me for the speed at which we rocketed our way back to London. We raced through the night, each second getting us closer to saving Sam.

By the time we were back in London it was nearly 4 o’clock in the morning, and the sunrise was getting closer.

The train station we arrived at was deserted, save for the bewildered guard on duty who watched the train pulling in, scratching his head in confusion.

I helped Holloway to his feet and we slowly made our way down to the platform. I walked him gently to the staircase and we began to climb up tentatively.

All the while as we ascended I had my arm around him and his was over my shoulder so I could try to support some of his weight. As we approached the top of the staircase, my footing slipped and he stumbled slightly. As he fell sideways, his side stretched, the bandage fell off and his wound was gaping open again. Blood began to cascade from him and trickled slowly down the staircase.

I recovered my footing and grabbed him in time just before he plummeted down the stairs. He yelled in pain as his wound was seared open once more and his face turned very pale, his hands beginning to shake.

“Hold on, Mr Holloway! We’re so close!” I pleaded. “Just a few more steps and we can get in a cab!”

He nodded, his eyes glazing over and his breathing laboured.

Tiny step by tiny step we climbed the last few steps, all the while I was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his wound by placing my hand on the wound. But to no avail. The wound was pouring forth its contents and, at this angle, I struggled to put enough pressure on the wound with my hand to stop the blood flow.

We left the train station together, Holloway hobbling and me supporting him. As we came out into the street I could see a rank of cabs fifty yards up the street. All we had to do was to get in one and I could get him back to his doctor and save Sam!

The sunrise was less than an hour away. Already, the sky had begun to turn the darkest shade of blue as the first glimpse of the sun’s rays peeped over the horizon.

But there were the cabs under the gaslight! We were yards away from safety. All we had to do was…

Without warning Holloway collapsed to the pavement with a thud. He had landed on his back, his face upwards, his eyes shut and now blood was coming from a wound on the back of his head.

I jumped down to help him, alarmed by what had just happened.

“Mr Holloway!” I yelled. “Mr Holloway!”

I checked his pulse, terrified that the worst had happened. His heart was still beating, his chest still heaving as he took in lungfuls of air. He was alive. He had fainted from the blood loss.

“Please, Mr Holloway!” I implored, lightly slapping his cheeks with my blood-stained hands. But he was out for the count. Try as I might I could not get him to recover consciousness.

I looked up at the rank of cabs. I had to get him there. I had to get us both back to that grimy warehouse. Sam’s life depended on it.

I raced around to his head, lifted his upper torso with my forearms under his armpits and began to heave him down the street towards the cab rank.

His weight was immense. My back strained at the effort, every muscle in my body crying out for mercy. Still I pulled. I fell several times, drained by the toll it was taking. Still I pulled. Inch by inch, yard by yard, I strained and tugged, my arms feeling as if they would be pulled from their sockets. But, through the agony, I pictured Sam’s face. I pictured the face of his mother if I told her the news of his death. I pictured a life without Sam and our adventures. And I pulled.

“Y’alright, miss?” a gruff voice asked from behind me.

It was one of the cabmen. He wore a thick, multi-pleated woollen coat, a spotted scarf, a wide-brimmed hat and in one hand he held a long thin pipe, while holding a large whip in the other. His face was grizzled and wrinkled so that his eyes were almost imperceptible amidst the folds of his flesh.

“Please…” I panted. “I need your help… This is Eddie … Holloway… We need to get him to his hideout….”

“Eddie Holloway!” bleated the man, his voice rising perceptibly. “Oh my Gawd…”

The cabman bent down and helped me to lift Holloway into a cab, all the while blood was pouring from Holloway’s bullet wound.

“What ’appened to ’im?” asked the cabman.

“There’s no time! I’m sorry! We have to save him. We have to get him to his doctor or he’ll die!”

I gave the cabman the address of the warehouse that Sam had led me to only hours earlier. The cabman whipped up the cab and we were off, galloping through what was left of the night.

Inside the cab I immediately put all the force I could muster in my aching hands down on the gaping wound. Holloway was still unconscious and his skin had turned even whiter. I tried unsuccessfully to get him to open his eyes by talking to him loudly, but he was out. ‘I have to keep him alive’ I kept repeating to myself. I could not save Sam if Holloway died in this cab.

We sped through the London streets and, looking out of the window, I saw the sky lighten even more. Within a matter of minutes the sun would be up and it would have all been for nothing. I urged the cabman to drive the horse even harder, to get us there as quickly as we could, racing against the sun as it began to streak light across the Eastern sky.

We arrived at the dank alley which held Holloway’s warehouse after minutes that felt like hours. The cabman pulled the horses to a stop and I leapt down from the cab, raced to the door to the warehouse and almost punched it down with my knocking.

No-one came. Nothing happened. In my mind I pictured Snorky holding a gun to Sam’s head, seconds away from pulling the trigger. I knocked and shouted and kicked and screamed until the door swung open slightly. Behind it was the man called Burrell.

“We’re back! We’re back! He’s in the cab! Holloway! He’s been shot!” I yelped into Burrell’s stunned face.

He shouted behind him for help and, within seconds, there was a flurry of activity. Men poured out onto the street to lift the unconscious Holloway from the cab, into the warehouse and out of my sight. The cabman was sent on his way without payment (but I’m sure he was just glad to get away from these dangerous looking men with his life.)

I was grabbed and led into the warehouse. I was bustled down the stairs that led to the basement and I was thrown into the same dark cell I had left hours before. The door slammed shut behind me with a loud metallic clunk and it was pitch dark.

“Esther…?” asked the familiar voice.

“Sam!”

I ran in the direction of his voice, found his form and flung my arms around him, squeezing him with my embrace. Tears of relief cascaded down my face.

“You’re alive!” I cried.

“I won’t be for much longer if ya don’t stop squeezin’ me!” he retorted and I let him go, laughing through the torrent of tears.

After I had calmed down slightly Sam and I sat down in the corner of the cell and I told him everything that had happened since I had left. He reacted to my story more than I had ever heard him react before. Perhaps the cover of the darkness of the cell allowed him to let his guard down more than was usual. He was thrilled at the fact that I had been right about the hiding place for the diamonds, he even gasped at the part when Holloway leapt in front of the bullet meant for me. He actually laughed when I told him about my turning the gun on Inspector Wakefield and his men.

For his part, Sam had little to tell of his time in the cell. The men had left him locked up there and he had paced and sat, and paced and sat, until I had returned. My visions of Snorky holding a gun to his head were no more than that - visions.

We began to speculate on what was happening outside the cell. Was the ‘doctor’ saving Holloway’s life? Would Holloway even recover consciousness enough to tell his gang that I was not the one who had shot him? What fate waited for us if we were lucky enough to ever got out of this pitch black cell?

“Why?” asked Sam suddenly.

“Why what, Sam?”

“You had Burdon. You had the diamonds. Holloway was lyin’ dyin’ at your feet. You coulda done a bunk. Or you coulda turned ’im over to Wakefield. Why did you come back ’ere? ’Ow come?”

I thought for a moment, trying to phrase it just right.

“Do you remember what you said to me the morning I found you playing in the street with Cartwright and Simpson?” I asked.

“Um… No. Sorry,” he murmured.

“You said ‘I got lots of friends’”

“Did I?” he asked, perplexed.

“And you do don’t you? Have lots of friends?” I asked.

“Um… Well, yeah. ’Spose so.”

And the cover of the darkness of the cell allowed me to say it. I turned my head to fix my eyes on where I knew his bright blue eyes were in the sea of black surrounding us and I gulped slightly before forcing myself to speak these words.

“I have one.”