Give or Take a Pebble: The Beginning

By Thom Thomas

At twenty-eight, Dr. Joshua Krump had survived drug abuse, a suicide attempt, and confinement in a sanitarium before gaining respectability in Londons medical community, but his massive debt threatened to end his practice of seven years. Krump owed his benefactor more money than what he had borrowed eleven years earlier.

Before the heartless moneylender executed foreclosure on the poor surgeon there was a brutal intervention. The ogre came face-to-face with realityhis life affected fewer people than the death of a beloved seven-year-old boy. A rare disease was sucking the life out of the angelic boy and his family.

The ill-equipped surgeon engaged the battle for one reasonthe reward. However, the boys twelve-year-old sisters attraction to the gawky doctor brought complications to the skirmish. His continual rejection of her advances forced her to leave town, though she never let go of her love for Krump.

With his practice on sure footing Krump seemed to be slipping deeper into depression. His only friend told him that he needed someone with whom to share his successBelinda? In mid-December he heard from an unlikely acquaintance that Belinda was returning home for Christmas. With a gold ring in his pocket, he planned to surprise her as she stepped off the train. However, delays kept him from being on-time and as his coach crept up an icy street he spied his beautiful Belinda arm in arm with a boy more her age.

Where will the demons of Krumps fragile psyche lead him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465306791

Thom Thomas

The first-time author waited until he was fifty-nine years old before starting this short story. Give or Take a Pebble is the beginning of a three-book saga. Thom has had an ongoing love affair with the Pittsburgh Pirates for the last fifty-one years.

Book preview

…give or take a pebble.

The Beginning

Thom Thomas

Copyright © 2011 by Thom Thomas.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011961002

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-0678-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-0677-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-0679-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

105098

Dedication

I dedicate this two-year labor of love to Jean D. Thomas, my eighty-eight-year-old mother, for her honesty and encouragement, and Linda, my wife of forty years, who read not only every word of the manuscript but every word of the other two rewrites as well. I would not have written Give or Take a Pebble if she hadn’t believed in the project.

Contents

Summary

Acknowledgment

Author Sketch

December 13, 1843

Early Evening, January 2, 1844

January 3, 1844

7:45 p.m.

January 4, 1844

9:00 a.m., London

4:15 p.m., The Apothecary Shoppe

January 17, 1844

1:10 a.m., January 19, 1844

12:15 a.m., Saturday, January 21, 1844

8:00 a.m., January 25, 1844

11:00 a.m. January 25, 1844

February 3, 1844

The Apothecary Shoppe

5:45a.m., March 2, 1844

6:59 a.m. March 2, 1844

Krump’s New Office Building

May 7, 1836

April 21, 1836

March 4, 1844

5:00 a.m., Tuesday, March 5, 1844

8:30 a.m., Friday, March 8, 1844

9:00 a.m., March 8, 1844

April 26, 1836

5:21 a.m., Wednesday, March 13, 1844

6:15 a.m., March 15, 1844

5:00 a.m., March 17, 1844

Early Sunday, March 17, 1844

8:12 p.m., Sunday, March 17, 1844

8:23 p.m., Sunday, March 17, 1844

Early morning, March 22, 1844

5:30 p.m., March 22, 1844

Sunday, March 24, 1844

7:30 a.m., March 25, 1844

Easter Sunday

April 11, 1844

April 12, 1844

April 13, 1844, 12:50 p.m.

7:40 p.m., Sunday, April 14, 1844

Monday, April 15, 1844

February 2, 1844

February 7, 1844

Friday, April 26, 1844

Friday, May 17, 1844

Friday, May 24, 1844

June 3, 1844

June 3, 1844

June 4, 1844

June 8, 1844

7:40 a.m., Monday, June 11, 1844

June 11, 1844

June 14, 1844

June 16, 1844

Monday, July 29, 1844

9:00 a.m., July 30, 1844

November 29, 1844

Tuesday, December 24, 1844

December 26, 1844, 7:30 a.m.

Summary

At twenty-eight, Dr. Joshua Krump had survived drug abuse, a suicide attempt, and confinement in a sanitarium to gain respectability in London’s medical community, but his massive debt threatened to end his practice of seven years. Krump owed more money on December 12, 1843 than he had borrowed eleven years ago.

Unknown to Krump, there was an evil, shadowy figure lurking behind the scenes. This ruthless street mercenary had collected a piece of damaging information, and he was about to sell it to a businessman who had a reputation of ruining people regardless of their social position. Krump was going to be his next victim.

But before the heartless moneylender could execute foreclosure on the poor surgeon’s tiny office and apothecary shop, his former partner and three of his friends staged a brutal intervention. During the extended intrusion, the ogre came face-to-face with reality—that even with his amassed fortune, his life affected fewer people than the death of a beloved seven-year-old boy.

The unsuspecting Krump entered into a partnership with the devil—his odious benefactor. If the doctor saved the critically ill patient, his practice would not only be revived but would prosper beyond his expectations.

The patient, an angelic boy born into an indigent family, was losing every battle he waged against a rare disease that had sapped his strength, weakened his bones, and stymied his growth. This unknown killer was on the verge of sucking the life out of the child and his family.

Dr. Krump was not a physician or a diagnostician, but the reward was too great for him to turn down the opportunity. It was during his numerous house calls that the boy’s sister, Belinda, became attracted to the gawky doctor. Krump was a forward thinker when it came to medicine, but when it came to matters of the heart, he was entrenched in the Dark Ages. His continual rejection of her advances led Belinda to leave town, though she never gave up on her love for Krump. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Now Krump’s practice was on a sure footing, but he seemed to be slipping deeper into depression. He needed someone with whom to share his success—Belinda? In mid-December he heard through an acquaintance that the girl was returning home for a Christmas visit. With a gold ring in his pocket, he planned to surprise her as she stepped off the train. But a medical emergency delayed him from departing his office, and icy road conditions slowed his journey. As his coach crept up the street that led to the wooden railroad platform, he spied his beautiful Belinda arm in arm with a boy more her age. How will the demons and angels of Krump’s fragile psyche have him cope?

Acknowledgment

I wish to acknowledge Charles Dickens for providing such rich characters in his A Christmas Carol. I hope I did justice to each of their personalities in developing a plausible sequel. I have to thank Mary Ann Gouza for giving her valuable time to help me learn to write. Without friends like Dixie Piper and Betsy and Richard Butler, who read the first draft of my manuscript and who offered their encouragement to keep me going, Give or Take a Pebble would have never come this far. Ian Rosthauser for his tireless effort to come up with an appropriate cover and Renee Rivera-Thomas for making the author look good. Thank you all.

Author Sketch

The first-time author waited until he was fifty-nine years old before starting this short story. Give or Take a Pebble is the beginning of a three-book saga. Thom has had an ongoing love affair with the Pittsburgh Pirates for the last fifty-one years.

December 13, 1843

London

The nose of the scrawny, one-eyed rabbit sifted the frigid air for the slightest scent of any of the local marauding cats as it limped through drifts of snow toward the tender sprigs of the alley’s solitary scrub pine. As the scarred hare approached, its ears shot up, intercepting a high frequency hum. The rabbit sat still so its nose could scour the air—spooked it staggered back to its hole. The alarming buzz emanated from the imperceptible speck of fluorescent green energy that had attached itself to one of the deep green fronds that shivered in the teeth of the late afternoon’s blustering winds.

Two stories above the miserable excuse for a tree lived an equally miserable excuse for a human being. In a candle-lit room sat the forty-eight-year-old leather-skinned man, mouthing each word as he read the late-edition newspaper. The self-educated man had a shock of greasy salt-and-pepper hair, and one could see deep creases in his brownish, tobacco-stained lips. He was a street thug despised by all—employed by many. To his credit he had never killed anyone. He used blackmail, strong-arming and the cutting off of fingers to get what he wanted.

His small fire sputtered, sparked, and popped, causing the shadowy man to clench with a chill. He pushed out of the wooden rocking chair, stretched his short frame, and then walked to the tiny stove. The man stirred the embers before adding two shovelfuls of pea-sized coal. He glanced at the silver desk clock and saw the hour—4:15 p.m. Three-and-a-half hours, huh.

This indistinguishable man was an expert at changing his appearance, as well as what people called him… Murphy… Michael Millrose… old pal… scum of the earth. He had buried his real name eighteen years ago when he slithered into the night and out of the lives of his wife and two boys. It was about the same time that he struck up a conversation with an upstart accountant who had made it clear to Murphy that he had but one purpose—to become wealthy—and would use every tool at his disposal to reach that end. Each man had a total disdain for the other and a quite profitable arrangement that had prevailed for nearly two decades.

Murphy’s chameleon-like ability to blend into whatever group he wished to infiltrate—from the English middle class to the upper crust—left the accountant intrigued.

He might be in a pub drinking next to a business leader, or he might be doing yard work for a blue-blood patron, or he might be just sitting in a park near a bevy of gossiping nannies and servants, or he might gather a piece of dirt while running an errand for a physician or lawyer by provoking a conversation with either an amicable or a disgruntled clerk. It was from those informal settings he was able to hear or see things. Things he and the businessman would use to put a stranglehold on these person of interest. Over the years, the two men considered their relationship as a necessary evil, or as Murphy voiced it, I give that old shit a tickle and ‘e gives me just ‘nough so I should want to tickle ‘im agin.

Today, while visiting a drug supply house, Murphy used his keen ability to read upside-down writing to gain him privy to another tidbit of news to impart—I wonder how much he’ll give me for this one?

Murphy had given himself a mission for this evening—a meeting with the most parsimonious and ruthless man in all of London and its richest.

From the beginning, the accountant demanded that all of their liaisons be conducted in his office after hours. The mercenary could only make himself known when the accountant’s partner and their clerk had gone home—7:00 p.m. Almost seven years ago, the time was changed to 8:00 shortly after his partner died.

Murphy warmed himself for a moment before gathering the tools of his trade he would use to transform into one of his many characters—the only one he had ever shown this patron. He collected a ragged pair of pants, a wrinkled shirt, wide-brimmed hat, a torn and patched coat, grease, tar, and tonight, he was going to be carrying two small tins. One containing a rag soaked in rancid fish guts, the other a coagulated mixture of chicken and pig shit.

Murphy sat down at the small table, poured some water into the washbowl, and looked at the reflection of the ruddy crow’s feet at the corners of his deep-set bloodshot eyes. It gave him a moment of pause. Eighteen years ago, after accidentally getting bitten by the acting bug, he left his family to become a Shakespearian actor and travel the world—not to become the despicable creature he saw before him. The mirrored image blurred as his mind berated his life’s choices. Shaking each of those thoughts away, he dunked a rag into the water and then covered his face. He leaned back into his high-backed wooden chair and let the warm water do its magic and soften the deep gullies in his leather-like skin.

Over the past several days, the skies had been clear, enabling the eight hours of sunlight to melt the upper layer of dirty snow. At night, the cloudless sky allowed the earth’s heat to escape, and the temperatures receded to well below freezing. This meteorological combination created a thick crust on any snow not hidden in the shadows. Then early this morning, a blizzard-like squall swept through the city—heavy snow and drifting.

Murphy finished tying his scarf to secure the brim of his hat over his ears before he stepped outside. The man kicked through the ankle-high snow piled on each of the thirty-seven steps that led to the side alley. His foot slipped off to the side—when as he stepped onto the thick layer of icy snow. Regaining his balance, he took a deep draw from his cigarette and was thrown into an uncontrollable coughing spell blocking out the crier’s voice ricocheting though the alley—’alf six and all is well!

Murphy turned to his left and trudged through the twilight. A gust of wind moved the fluffy snow if were a side-winding snake. As he passed the scrub pine, the beam of green energy flickered and became brighter but never moved.

Vendors and their carts clogged every street, and a cornucopia of smells mixed with the wood and coal smoke wafting in all directions. Although hungry, Murphy knew the food was better in the financial district. He turned his shoulder to the wind and shuffled through the shadows. The man had made this very trek many times, but tonight it seemed to take forever.

Murphy was becoming exhausted. In the drifted snow, there were spots where the crust hadn’t formed, and he sank up to his mid-calf. The echoing sounds of scraping metal and the singing cadence of an army of street cleaners gave a lift to his spirit when he turned onto the street that led to The Exchange and its square. He took a moment to catch his breath.

There was the distinct odor of ham and cabbage soup just ahead. The Exchange’s illuminated clock indicated to Murphy that he had a little over a half hour to finish his journey. He moseyed over to the vendor with the cauldron of simmering cabbage, ordered a tin pot full and a cup of hot cider.

Before the hawker could ladle the bubbling soup into a cup, the short man heard the bickering of a gang of boys who had fashioned an ice patch in front of the church. The odd-looking patron asked the vendor to keep his order warm as he took off in the direction of the slide. He whistled at the kids, and then he ran as fast as he could, stepping on the ice he threw his arms out for balance and slid the first five meters past cat calls and obscenities. Then his right boot caught the edge of a raised frozen mass—sending him out of control. Murphy fell hard on his stomach and slithered the other ten meters until the top of his head jammed into the pile of sludge marking the end of the run. The street urchins roared. Murphy stood up, ripped off his hat, slapped it on his coat and pants to knock off the wet snow, and then threw it back on his head. He waved to the gang of boys and hobbled back to get his food.

He gulped the shards of cabbage and hunks of ham as if he hadn’t eaten all day and washed it all down with two cups of the hot apple brew. After tipping and patting the bottom of the metal cup to get the last drop of broth, Murphy strode down the street. He stood at the mouth of the snow-choked alley to allow his eyes to adapt to the darkness. He took a step. His boot didn’t break through the crust. The further he walked, the deeper his boot sunk. The buildings’ shadows had kept this snow from crusting over. The rest of the journey was going to be drudgery.

As Murphy trudged through the heavy snow, his keen eyes scanned each building looking for a familiar sign—the lit window. There it is. He nodded and pursed his lips. You daft little man, you were looking too low on the damn wall. Now that the raggedy scrounge of a man had his bearings, he stopped, rolled, and lit a cigarette before he continued. The intake of hot smoke provoked an echoing cough. He stood still, his eyes darting all over the area. He took another drag from his cigarette, but this time he held in the smoke, and then exhausted it through his nose. All clear.

Murphy tramped the short distance to the dim light. As he gawked at the single pane of glass, the local crier and the unsynchronized peeling of several church bells confirmed—8:00 p.m. The clerk should be gone anytime now.

Murphy slogged through the narrow, garbage-filled alley that separated the counting house and the abandoned brick building. He had a clear view of the street and was in mid-step when he heard the creaking hinges of a door being opened. The door slammed shut and Murphy saw a roly-poly figure with a tall hat pass under the yellow glow of the streetlamp. That’s ‘im! The old man is alone.

The chameleon finished his cigarette, flicked it at the brick building, and then plunged both hands into his coat pockets. The left pocket held the piece of valuable information. In the right were the small tins that contained the rancid fish guts and the shit. He was ready.

As Murphy approached the back corner of the building he stepped on the tail of a feral cat that was feasting on a pile of garbage and lost his balance as a scurrying herd crashed into his legs. Disgusted, he kicked at the frozen refuse before walking to the secret entrance. Directly below the window was a concealed door less than a meter wide.

Tap… tap… thunk! Murphy’s peculiar knock didn’t get a response. Nothing… ‘e’s got to be in thare… Again, he tapped the unfinished door twice with his knuckle and then the slam of his fist. He put his covered ear to the door and listened. Where the hell is he? The candle is still lit… Damn it! Get this damn door open… I’m freezing out ’ere, you bastard!

Murphy backed up and then began stomping his feet and rubbing his hands to keep warm. A squeak had the visitor reaching into his pocket to twist off the lids of the two tins. The stench pierced his nostrils.

Inside, a tight fitting wooden slat that kept the door locked was being removed from its saddles. The businessman pushed the door open and stood in the entrance with his walking stick held with two hands and cocked over his left shoulder as if it were a cricket bat. Who’s out here? . . . come show yourself… before I give you the thrashing of your life, demanded the old man.

Without saying a word, Murphy loosened the scarf and tore off his hat. He stepped toward the door. The visitor offered his black-tooth smile for identification.

In disgust, the wretched businessman hissed, Oh, it’s just you, Murphy. What are you doing at this hour of the day other than being a pain in my ass? Double quick now, get in here before you let all the heat out.

Straight away, guvnor, said Murphy as he dipped one of his callused fingers into a hidden tin. Grazing the older man’s arm as he scurried through the tight doorway, Murphy slapped the taller man’s shoulder and smeared the goo into his coat. You damn fool it’s almost as cold in here as it is outside.

The old man curled up his nose, this man smells like shit.

Together, the two men closed the door and replaced the long wooden board used to lock it. The businessman sat down behind his cluttered desk but did not extend the courtesy to his unwelcomed visitor.

Although the men had an ongoing business arrangement, the accountant didn’t know much about this odd-looking man. He didn’t know if Murphy was this man’s family name, his given name, or even if it was his real name nor did he really care. What he did know was that he detested almost everything about this man. He hated the man’s bad breath and the stench that clung in the air long after each of their clandestine meetings was over in his cluttered little office.

The businessman tolerated this piss-ant of a human being because he did have a couple of worthwhile skills. On many occasions, Murphy had provided him with some very valuable information on people of interest. Most recently my nephew’s marriage and his house repairs.

Murphy was always discreet, followed instructions, and he knew his letters.

The short strange-smelling man paced in front of the employer’s desk leaving small puddles of melted snow in his wake. The burnt down candle flickered with each pass…

For a bloody rich bastard, this is sure a shitty office. Murphy marched in front of the old man’s desk. To his left was a narrow wall, lined from top to bottom with shelves. There were neat rows of leather-bound books on the upper three shelves. The bottom four shelves were enclosed on the ends and were stuffed tight with client files. The wall that shielded the clerk from his master had an oversized pendulum clock to the right of the door. The business’ black metal safe was below the clock. The door had the same opaque glass as the window on the back wall had, but there were words painted in black on the outside of the glass. The outside wall to the guest’s right which ran the length of the office was a catchall. There were rows and rows of cubby holes with rolled up pieces of paper—yellow ones and white ones.

Hanging low near the desk was a slate rectangular chalkboard divided by white vertical and horizontal lines. December had been handwritten at the top and the blocks were numbered from 1 to 31. Printed in each square was a name and amounts. Behind the loaded coat rack, the back wall had one shelf, which appeared to be balanced on the old man’s head as he sat at his desk. There were large black books, each with a year written on the spine. The earliest date was 1823, and there were nineteen more. The last date was 1842.

Do ya mind if I have a smoke, guvnor?

Are you daft? You most certainly may not smoke! Look at all the paper, snapped the business owner as he continued to ignore this most unwanted intruder.

Murphy spied, for the first time after numerous visits, a very narrow closet. Where did that come from? What’s in there?

The old man peered over his spectacles as Murphy moved toward the closet. But before the visitor had taken two steps, the old man bound out of his chair, his ring of keys in hand, nudged the uninvited guest out of the way.He shut and locked the narrow door.

Getting yet another putrid whiff of his visitor, the old businessman moved back behind his desk and said, Let’s conclude our business… I can’t stand the smell… . What do you have for me?

It is so kind of youto deam me worthy to talk to, guvnor. I’ve only been waitin’ ’ere for more than fifteen bloody minutes wifout a word from you. Now you want something from me.

The businessman slammed his quilled pen into its stand, stood up, and moved to the back entrance. He grabbed the wooden pegs attached to the wooden door lock. He feigned heaving on it, when Murphy spoke up, I ’ave on good authority that one of your medical clients is ‘avin’ a credit problem wif ‘is potion supplier. ‘e’s in a bit of a pinch ya might say.

The old man’s curiosity was tweaked. He only had a few clients in the medical profession and fewer still who were apothecaries. What kind of credit problems? A name… give me a name, demanded the businessman.

Murphy pulled out a scrap of paper, licked his dirty fingers, and unfolded his note. One Mr. Henry Jenkins of The Thomas’ Supply Company was over’eard sayin’ that…

Go on, you fool. Who was Jenkins talking about?

Now, now, now, we’ll git to that but we need to take care o’ some business, first to be sure, insisted Murphy as his rubbed his grubby hands together.

One of the many other things the businessman hated about this man Murphy was his effective negotiating tactics—they were a crude version of his own.

The old man discontinued the conversation and walked over to the wall that had the shelves of client folders. He pulled six folders from six different locations then walked back to his desk. The visitor was impressed by the ease with which the old man collected the files from different locations and different shelves.

The cranky businessman stacked each folder in order of its importance. Leaning back, he put his elbow on the arm of the chair and raised his index finger to massage his lower lip. The employer stared at his employee.

The silence was broken when the wall clock bonged once. Murphy mumbled, ’alf eight, and nervously paced across the front of the desk. Places to go and people to see. Well, guvnor, whatcha say? asked Murphy.

The old man’s eyes never left his evening guest as he slid his chair closer to his desk. He leaned forward, began tapping a finger on the top of the stack of folders, and said, Murphy, what you see in front of you are the six medical practitioners of whom I have any interest. I’ve sorted their files from the doctor I have the most interest to the one I have the least.

The businessman cleared his throat and locked onto Murphy’s eyes as he recited, Whitehead… Zachary… Smith… Johnstone… are you all right, ol’ chap?

The devious Murphy dipped two fingers into one of the open tins, clenched them in his other hand, smeared the goo into his palm, and then put each hand on the back of the two chairs as if he were marking his territory. His red face was hovering near the desk. He stuck his tongue out to moisten his lips and began to breathe through his mouth.

The old man turned his head trying to escape the stench. After recovering enough, he quipped, This is interesting, Murphy, I have a file on a Doctor Murphy. Any relation?

No!

Murphy’s actions were telling his employer everything he needed to know. He continued to study him and said, The last doctor in the stack is… Krump.

The standing man slumped closer to the desk and heaved a sigh of relief.

The old man’s theatrics took Murphy off his guard. With a flick of his wrist Murphy deposited the scrap of paper on top of the remaining file.

The old man silently read:

Doctor Joshua Krump

The longtime businessman pushed his chair back, pinched the loose skin on his neck, and was tempted to rub his hands together, but he didn’t want to give Murphy any indication how excited he was before concluding the deal. Krump’s property has grown in value as that area is rumored to be the next retail center. With his practice gone, I could get title to his building and get in on the ground floor of the boom.

Unfortunately for you, Murphy, this Krump fellow is the least of my interests. But being a man of my word and generous to a fault, this information about his debt problems at the Thomas Supply House is worth twenty-five pence, offered the old man as he stroked his wrinkled neck.

Bloody ‘ell, only twenty-five pence, tis well below ‘is normal bounty. Stupid me, I already give ‘im Krump’s name didn’t I. What choice do I ’ave now? Ya drive a ‘ard bargain thare, guvnor… I’ll take it, agreed the black-toothed man reaching out his grimy hand.

The old man contorted his face to show contempt and said in his gruff voice, Me, a hard bargain! You know me better than that—I’m beyond fair. The twenty-five pence I’m giving you for this tidbit of information will take me weeks to earn back. That’s if your information has any truth to it.

Pulling a key out of his vest pocket, the old man stood up, walked to the safe, bent down, and unlocked it. Two quick moves later, the safe was locked again, and the old man was facing Murphy. He held a small black leather pouch clenched in his fist. He loosened the pull string and shook out some coins and counted, Two shillings and one. Twenty-five pence as agreed.

Murphy put each coin into his mouth to verify they were real. Satisfied, he projected his menacing smile, tipped his hat, and hissed, Nice doin’ business wif ya, guvnor.

The two men worked together to unlock the back entrance, and as the clock began to bong nine times, Murphy waited outside just long enough to supply a push until the old man replaced the wood lock.

The businessman was standing with his back against the door when he was startled by the clock’s ninth sound. It was a sustained clang similar to a heavy metal chain rather than a bong.He was spellbound when the pendulum paused at its highest point for two whole ticks before resuming. At that precise moment, he felt an undesirable chill pass through him. He did not let any of these events change his internal celebration of this recent piece of good fortune.

The old man smiled as his business mind was exploring his next move. When shall I pounce? The bloody holidays are coming, maybe then… Yes, right after that I’ll throw him out. I can still smell that piece of shit—Ugh!

The old man tucked the note into Dr. Joshua Krump’s file, grabbed the six folders, and returned each of them to the exact location from which he had removed them. The lingering stench made it impossible to work so he readied himself to go home.

After pulling on his stained, threadbare, cloth coat, his half-fingered canvas gloves, and his moth-eaten hat, he licked his fingers and snuffed out the candle.

Now in the dark, the odd happenings staked their claim in his mind, and he scrambled from his office and hurriedly locked the door. The old man swung his walking stick side to side as he walked through the dark outer office to the front door where he fumbled and dropped the keys.

He reached down for the keys with both hands. If his outstretched fingers went to the right, he could hear the jingling of the keys to his left. When he reached to the left, the jingling jumped to the right. Fed up with the nonsense, the old man slammed the end of his walking stick into the floor, and just like the rest of London, the keys seemed to bend to the businessman’s whim and leaped into his right hand. Shaken, he clutched the key with both hands to guide it into the keyhole. He was relieved when he heard the lock disengage. With great haste, the old man opened the door. Once outside, his pounding heart slowed.

The low clouds made the calm night seem darker. At this late hour, the street that ran through the business district was void of people, vendors, and carriages. The old man was removing the key after locking the door when he heard a slow creaking sound above his head. He stepped into the street and looked up. His company’s sign began to swing violently. Thinking his senses were being influenced by the wretched odor of his visitor, he nervously looked around for the vicious prankster or a witness. Without notice the screeching stopped and the sign hung perfectly still. Now panicking, he walked briskly and flinched at even the slightest noise and quaked if he had to walk any stretch though the shadows. The frightened man rushed in the direction of his house.

The temperature had dropped while Murphy was meeting with the old man. The arduous walk home had him breathing through his mouth—spewing ice crystals. I’m gittin’ bloody tired of that goddamn old man swindling me all the time—yu’d think I’d learn, thought the dirty, awful-smelling Murphy as he trudged through the snow-filled alley behind the building that housed his second story room.

He raised his boot to start up the stairs when he noticed a pulsating pinpoint of green light hovering at eye level. He stopped. The spot stopped. He looked down the side alley and then glanced back from whence he came—there was nothing there to explain the shimmering light—both were completely dark. Murphy picked up his left foot, the speck didn’t move, and then he slipped his right foot forward, and the spot changed position. The man bounced up a few steps.

With each laborious step the dot increased in size. Murphy swatted at the green spot but his fist passed right through it. He put his head down and dashed up the next ten wooden treads. Reaching the landing, he turned and looked behind him. The spot was not to be seen.

Then there was a flash! Murphy was bathed in a blinding light. Afraid, the hardened street predator cowered against the railing. Now the massive translucent green blob began to bubble as if someone or something was trying to burst out. Murphy squinted into the bright light. When it transformed into an unrecognizable figure, the villainous mercenary’s heart thumped to get out of his chest. He reached both hands into his pockets. His left hand gripped the handle of his opened pocket knife. His right hand navigated past the two tins, his house key, and clutched his recent reward—paltry though it may be. The glow dimmed and then filled the crisp night air with a cynical laugh.

A grotesque voice clamored, If you think that puny knife will solve the problem of which I bring, you’re going to be sadly mistaken!

Murphy withdrew his hands, wrapped his arms around his chest and hunkered down.A blast of cold air forced him to plop down into the snow that had drifted in the corner of the landing. He shivered as sweat percolated on his upper lip and drizzled down his back. This maniacal street thug had never been on this side of a shakedown before—he felt so helpless, so violated. Far from being a religious man, Murphy gave no creedance to the theory of heaven… hell… life after death… or… ghosts, but this disembodied voice had him questioning his convictions. He staggered to his haunches and extended his hand toward the light. It felt even colder than the frosty night air. After getting to his feet, he tried to step around the shaft. He moved to the right—the specter of light enlarged and blocked his way. He moved to the left—the translucent blob expanded even more. The often violent man tensed for a fight.

What the bloody ‘ell are ya and what do ya want?

I come so you can know that it’s time to put your house in order. If you continue down the path you have chosen, you… you miserable excuse for a man… there is a place for you in the deepest recesses in the underworld—a well deserved, one-meter-square cubicle filled with boiling urine. You, my dear Andrew, have but four months to change or if you so choose. If you choose to ignore this warning, you can ready yourself for the fire and brimstone of hell itself—stand warned!

The boisterous words sucked the energy from the large green cone and rendered it back to a fading pinpoint. It hovered and flickered for a second and then exploded into a million specks of white light.

Murphy, stunned by hearing the name he had buried over eighteen years ago, took a moment to recover his senses. He then sprinted up the second flight of stairs as fast as his short legs would take him while his right hand searched for his key. When he reached the second landing, he wasted no time looking into the darkness until he was inside. Emboldened by the safety of his room, Murphy slid the toe of his boot tight against the bottom and opened the door a tiny crack. His hands steadied as he scanned the vacant alley. Satisfied the specter was gone he pushed the door shut, locked it and then found his bottle of whiskey and took several swigs.

Early Evening, January 2, 1844

London

The business owner rocked back in his chair. His elbows were resting on the wooden arms, and his left index finger was rubbing the bridge of his long pointy nose. He was lost inside a recurring day dream. The sound of the large pendulum clock’s first of six bongs drew him back to the moment. After forcing his eyes wide open several times, the old man stood up, put on his newly found smile, opened his office door, and summoned his clerk.

I beg your pardon for the interruption, but if I were to write a note to be delivered early in the morning, would it be convenient for you to drop it off at a reliable courier on your way home? asked the employer.

It would be quite convenient, sir, replied the clerk.

I will go pen it directly so as not to delay you from getting home, said the older man as he ducked back into his office.

The businessman went to his desk, took out a single sheet of company stationery, dipped his favorite quill into the desk’s built-in ink well, and wrote:

To the Honourable Doctor Joshua Krump,

After blotting his intials, the old man folded the note, dug out his stick of black wax, picked up and sat the candle holder on the note’s seam, and heated the wax. It took several meltings to accumulate a large enough spot. When the last drop of wax fell, the proprietor immediately plunged the company’s seal into the black goo. Wishing to get his clerk on his way, the deliberate man blew on the note until the seal set, and then he carried it out to the outer office where the bundled-up clerk was waiting.

I’ll take this straight away, sir. Good night, sir.

Before you take leave, I was wondering if your son Peter is of the age where he would have interest in an apprentice clerk position? asked the employer.

The unsuspecting clerk became downright giddy and stumbled over his words before conveying, ’ere, sir! Yes, quite, sir… Without doubt, sir… ‘e’ll be ’ere on the morrow should that suit…

The employer pursed his lips into a tight smile and nodded.

 . . . Peter and I will see you bright and early in the mornin’, sir. Good night again, sir, said the clerk as he backed out of the front door.

The proprietor stood in the outer office until he heard the lock click into place.

*     *     *

After a light dinner at the semi-deserted restaurant that offered a view of the Exchange Square, the old man had one stop to make before retiring to his house.

The livery was two streets before his street. He knocked on the stable’s door and was greeted by a well-dressed gentleman.

May I be of ’elp, sir? the coachman asked.

Yes, my good fellow. I need to rent two coaches for the whole day tomorrow, said the businessman.

Splendid, sir, if you would be so kind as to follow me please, said the livery man as he walked to a high writing desk. Let’s take a look. Do you have a pickup time and the addresses, sir?

The old man produced a folded piece of paper from his vest and handed it to the livery man.

That will be a sovereign and a ’alf. In advance, if it’s not an imposition, sir, said the coachman.

The old man handed over two gold crowns, looked the owner straight in the eye, and said, Make sure the drivers get the difference.

Each tipped their hat to the other and the old man departed with hope that the morrow would bring him some hope.

January 3, 1844

London

Dr. Joshua Krump removed the key after locking the front door. He pulled his wool coat close to his sinewy frame, picked up his leather instrument case in his left hand, grunted at the weight of the coal bucket he carried in his right hand, turned, and climbed up the eight steps leading away from his single room flat.

He was introduced to the first of the morning’s unpleasantries courtesy of the stinging windblown snow.

Dr. Krump’s thin frame was accentuated by his gangly arms. His long legs elevated him head and shoulders above the people he passed on the street. When the doctor was about town, he always wore his beaver chimney hat, which covered his scrambled hair and cast a softening shadow over his large crooked nose and the unruly mutton chops, which grew in every direction between his ears and the corners of his mouth.

There were no shadows at this early hour of the day. Rather, the sky was gray and heavy with snow. The blowing snow began to drift. One of the drifts had concealed a puddle which Krump found with his left foot, filling his shoe with slush. In disgust, he kicked at the snow, lost his balance and almost hit a passerby with the bucket of coal he was carrying to his office. He cursed winter and this dark morning that came with it.

Krump’s mishap took place only three streets away from his office, where he had stored socks and his only other pair of high top shoes for days like this one. He quickened his pace as he hated the discomfort of walking in wet shoes.

As he turned the corner, the doctor noticed a person standing outside his office. He squinted in an attempt to identify the man. At the same time, the stranger seemed to have recognized the tall man with the distinctive hat and started toward him with great haste. Upon seeing the rapid approach of the unidentified man, Krump scrambled to prepare himself for what he thought might be a physical confrontation. He dropped the coal scuttle, stepped behind it, and then placed his large leather instrument case on its rim. Every muscle tensed. The doctor wondered as he tried to establish a possible connection. Who is this person? What does he want with me? Who did I end up with last night this man’s wife? But the alcohol-induced cobwebs refused to provide answers to any of the questions.

As the man got nearer, Krump could see he had a pouch over his shoulder that was slapping against his hip as he ran. The man was holding a piece of paper in his raised right hand and asked, You’re Dr. Joshua Krump, ain’t ya? The doctor nodded. Well, Doc, I have a message for you, announced the shorter man holding the sealed paper near the doctor’s face.

Krump gritted his teeth and his stomach began to knot up as he recognized the black seal on the message. Why a courier? He has always sent the bill through the post. A courier will provide proof of delivery. The old bastard is making sure I receive the notice so if I don’t respond, he will contrive a reason to foreclose.

Every month for the past seven years, Krump had received a reminder from this sender. Each one was the same as every other one that came before it: IMMEDIATE PAYMENT DUE IN THE SUM OF ₤15—money he did not have.

Irritated by the wet shoe and now this, Dr. Krump asked the man to put the message into his coat pocket as he bent over to pick up the instrument case and the bucket of coal. The messenger lifted the flap on Krump’s pocket, stuffed the sealed paper in, and was on his way. As they separated, the doctor asked, How did you know I was Dr. Krump?

As the man departed, he hollered over his shoulder and gestured by raising and lowering his hand, Yer bloody hat, guvnor.

Continuing to his office, Krump thought, That good man recognized the hat and knew it was me. He pursed his lips into a smug smile.

Krump’s office was in a shabby neighborhood. The outside projected the same bleakness as the interior save for a wooden sign painted on both sides which hung perpendicular high above his office door and proclaimed in burnished lettering:

Dr. J. Krump

Surgeon

And

Apothecary Shoppe

The doctor put down the coal bucket and put his instrument case under his right arm, so he could dig out the key to unlock the door. He reached into his left coat pocket, grabbed and removed the message, looked at the seal once more, and shook his head in disgust. He crumpled and threw the note in the bucket with the coal. He found the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

Inside, Krump put down the bucket and case next to the tiny stove, picked up the candle from the counter, and dangled a dried length of straw through a slit in the stove’s door. He used the burning straw to light the candle, and then he used the first candle to light two more candles throughout the office. The yellowish flames illuminated just what kind of an office this craftsman with a medical license from the prestigious London University could afford.

The entire office was plastered save for the bowed shelving unit which took up one whole wall. The shelf and counter area contained rows of amber-colored jars and cobalt blue bottles filled with powders and liquids used to make remedies for his patients as well as the patients of several local physicians. In the corner left of the apothecary area was the small black cast-iron stove. The front of the office consisted of a door and a large sheet of glass for the window that butted up against the side wall. The doctor kept the drapes drawn trying to keep the outside cold at bay. The space to the left of the window was used for his waiting area although it was equipped with a long metal table for minor surgical procedures as well. On the wall above the backless wooden bench, for every visitor to see, were two framed certificates celebrating his active membership in both The Royal College of Surgeons and The Society of Apothecaries. The doctor’s small cluttered desk was positioned between the surgical area and the apothecary counter. There were two wooden straight-backed chairs stationed in front of his desk, his private coat rack stood to the right of his chair, and a storage cabinet to the left. He placed the leather instrument case on the desk, hung up his coat, placed his hat on the top of the rack, and went to the cabinet to retrieve the dry shoes and socks.

Krump sat on the bench, removed the wet shoes and socks, dried his large feet with a surgical towel, and put on the woolen socks and his brown high top shoes with a large hole in each of the soles.

The doctor picked up the wet socks and shoes and went to the stove to resurrect the fire. He opened the slotted iron door, poked at the ashes hoping to find an ember, saw some flickering orange, and began to add coal. The first shovelful contained the sealed message, and as much as he felt like using it for kindling, he instead picked it out and put it on the counter. While the fire cracked and popped to life, he went to the shelf which held the bottles, found two of the taller ones, placed them on either side of the stove’s door, and hung his shoes over their necks. He also took the teapot from the counter, ladled enough water from a wooden bucket, added several pinches of tea, and placed the pot on the stove. Krump draped his wet socks over the chimney pipe. By this time, at least, if a person stood directly in front of the stove its warmth would lessen the ever-present chill. However, the gangly man didn’t have time to stand idle.

On the way back to his desk, the doctor picked up the message, but had no desire to read it. Knowing it was just another nagging bill from his benefactor he threw it on the desk and hoped it would be swallowed up by the disarray like the last two were.

Joshua Krump grew up in a house, shanty really, on London’s eastside slums. It was a single room with a mud floor that flooded whenever it rained. There were no windows, and instead of a door, the front opening had a cowhide hung over it. The Krump family was not poor. To be poor one had to have some money to begin with. Krump remembered many days when he and his mother had dug through garbage pile after garbage pile to find potato peels or onion husks for their meal. He never had a pair of shoes that matched until he went off to school. His mother had loose stitched his clothes out of scraps of cloth he was sent to find. The summer of his thirteenth birthday, he had stolen a bolt of green corduroy from the sweatshop an hour north of their shack. The rest of the year, the gangly Krump could be heard swishing as he walked or ran anywhere.

His sainted mother was a woman of the street, who had raised him alone until he was orphaned when he was sixteen. His mother had suffered from syphilis at an early age. She died from extensive brain deterioration at age thirty-two. It was the helplessness of not being able to help her and the words of encouragement she offered during the fleeting moments when she was lucid that would shape the remainder of his life.

There was no man of the house since Joshua was ten-years old. His coward of a father walked out on his wife and son shortly after the accidental death of Krump’s brother, Jeremy—the image of his bleeding, five-year-old, blonde-haired brother would torment the doctor’s thoughts for the rest of his days.

No one knew where Joshua Krump got the strength to survive poverty, tragedies, and deaths, or the will to pull his unruly self from the depths of that cesspool to complete his medical education. But everyone knew the one source from whom the boy would have to borrow the entire cost of that education—a sum of £225. Dr. Krump often joked, Dr. Faust had gotten a better interest rate from the devil.

The message with the black embossed seal wasn’t just a reminder of payments due, but it also brought with it a stigma of how unsuccessful Krump felt. After almost seven years of paying ₤15 month in and month out, Krump had paid to his benefactor ₤1,200 and he still owed ₤540 more. Almost twice as much the amount he had originally borrowed. And that didn’t include the two delinquent payments.

Since last July, for some unknown reason, the income from both of his practices had dropped. Each new month saw him just eking out a living. It was at times like this that Krump realized how fortunate it was that he did not have a family requiring support. On the other hand, the lack of responsibility had led the surgeon to a lifestyle of far too many late nights, excessive drinking, out of control bar tabs, and too many women.

This recent shortfall in profitability hadn’t reined in his lifestyle—much the opposite, it seemed to have pushed Krump to indulge even more.

Last night was one of those late nights of total abandon so his throbbing headache and tired aching body had him in no mood to be met first thing this morning with a message from that old money-grubbing son of a bitch.

The young Krump had proven he had no time to be a victim, and the reality of the moment was that he needed to take care of today’s business, which began with a review of surgical reports. The doctor picked up the first report, stood up, and started to read it as he walked to the stove to pour a cup of tea. Holding the report in his right hand, he turned his socks on the flue pipe, poured his tea, took it back to the desk, put the cup down on the smallest stack of papers, and finished reading. Krump picked up his pen and scribbled notes in the margins—age, weight, gender, how many drops were used, and how long was the patent asleep. The cup of tea cooled to a drinkable warm. The doctor took his first sip trying to forget about the note. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and savored a warm feeling for the first time today. After another longer sip, he opened his eyes and came face-to-face with the note. Before opening it, he held it by the edge and repeatedly tapped his forehead. Finally, he gathered enough fortitude to undo the seal. Krump unfolded it. His eyes narrowed to slits and he read:

To the Honourable Doctor Joshua Krump,

Your presence is requested at 15 Bayhan Street in Camden Town today at 1:30 p.m. sharp.

I have hired a coach to pick you up at your office at 12:00 noon.

ES

It was short, to the point and, to his utter amazement, it was not a bill. Dr. Krump was awash with questions. He was unfamiliar with the address given but knew it wasn’t a summons to appear at the old man’s office. Having grown up in eastern London, he knew of Camden Town by reputation only. The surgeon unconsciously pinched his cheek as he twisted the hairs of his mutton chop. What did the old man have in mind? What will I find at 15 Bayhan Street? What possible interest would a man of his stature have in a shanty town like Camden? Why am I being involved? Could he have been cavorting anonymously and got a waif in trouble? An abortion! That’s it! That would explain the need for a surgeon. What will this be worth to him?

The doctor put the note down, went back to the stove, and poured a second cup of tea. He removed the hot dry socks from the chimney pipe, stuffed them into his pants pocket, and appreciated the comfort. Before returning to his desk, the doctor walked to the window, pulled back the drapes, and pleaded for the morning light to brighten up the shadowy room. Sitting down, he scanned the note.

What if I had a surgery scheduled today? It’s just like the old bastard to have everyone at his disposal, said the surgeon to his distorted reflection in the tea knowing it would not be heard. However, it was heard. The coach driver had arrived early and heard the doctor’s comment through the door.

The coachman rapped on the door and entered. I beg yer pardon, guvnor, I’m ’ere to carry ya to Camden Town. When can I expect ya to be ready to go, sir?

Krump narrowed his eyes so he could see the clock on the wall and wondered how the time had gotten away from him this morning. Yes, just give me a minute, he said as he pulled on his coat, gloves, and positioned his hat just so.

Before leaving the office, he dumped the remainder of the coal into the stove, removed the teapot, closed the drapes, snuffed the three candles, and found his door key. He grabbed his instrument case and headed out the door. He turned and locked the office as the cabby opened the coach door.

The note suggested the trip would take about an hour and a half, but Krump wanting to make sure asked, How long will this trip take?

The cabby responded, The roads are piled with snow. It will be slow goin’. I figure the better part of two ‘ours?

Oh, it’s going to be a long and shitty day, thought Dr. Krump as he settled into the coach. He attempted to make do with this unscheduled diversion and relax. Being that the trip would take the better part of an hour and a half at this hour of the day, the doctor decided to take a nap. He placed his hat on the unoccupied seat, picked up the brown and beige wool blanket lying next to him, unfurled it, and pulled it up to his waist. Although his body was ready for a nap, his conspiratorial thoughts were ricocheting inside his head. He spent the entire trip with his eyes wide open.

Krump was jostled each time the coach crossed an intersection. The rutted snow rocked the vehicle. After a particularly rough patch, the doctor pushed back in the leather seat and looked out the window.

He couldn’t get over the number of people that filled the streets. Don’t these folks work? Then the coach slowed to a crawl. Are we there? No, we’re still in the industrial area. The area was filled with factory smoke.

Holy shit! Krump pressed his nose to the side window and saw a massive construction project. It was on both sides of the coach. Hundreds of men were carrying railroad ties, wielding picks and shovels, or hammering spikes. Tink, tink, tink! He could see the steam rising from the backs of the teams of horses pulling flat wagons with mounds of crushed rock.

Once his coach wobbled through the next two blocks, it started to pick up speed. The buildings changed from mammoth brick structures with towering smoke stacks to small wooden homes packed tightly next to the street.

Krump no sooner thought, We must be getting close, now, than he felt the coach slow again. He sat up, folded the blanket, put his hat on, and picked up his leather case.

As the doctor’s coach pulled in front of the house at 15 Bayhan, he noticed a second coach. His driver jumped down to open the door when the passenger heard him talking to someone. Why on earth did the old gentleman send ya ’ere?

Send me? ‘ell no, ‘e din’t send me I brung ‘im. That’s why, replied the other driver.

As Krump stood up, he felt the socks in his pants pockets, yanked them out, and tossed them on top of the blanket. Dr. Krump continued to speculate about the purpose of this mysterious encounter as his cabby offered a steady arm. The snow on the ground looked more like coal dust—more black than white. As soon as the visiting surgeon stepped from the enclosed coach, he felt a slight irritation building in his nose and throat.

Krump felt the cold moisture making its way through the holes in his shoes to the woolen socks which were now transformed into hundreds of wicks—each one pulling the cold water into the socks.

He was thankful he was greeted before he could knock on the door by a middle-aged, short, and chubby woman who introduced herself as the woman of the house.

He bowed, cleared his throat, and said, Dr. Joshua Krump, surgeon. Just this very morning, I received an urgent request for my services at this address, madam.

Come on in, sir, we’ve been ‘specting ya, the woman of the house said as