The Locked Box

Aubrey Hubbard believed it was his destiny to open the box, and perhaps it was.

Aubrey Hubbard was a regular customer of the antiques shop on Bower Street. The proprietor greeted him by name whenever he turned up there, and the day he purchased the box was no different to any other in this regard.

“Good morning, Mr. Hubbard.” said Mr. Greenwood.

Greenwood forced a faint smile. After all, Hubbard rarely left without making a purchase.

“Mr. Greenwood.” said Aubrey, nodding. “Anything new?”

“I have some rather fine glassware, if you’re interested, Mr. Hubbard, sir.”

“Glassware!” said Hubbard contemptuously. “I should have thought you’d know my tastes by now, Greenwood.”

Hubbard began rummaging carelessly among the shelves and tables upon which Greenwood had laid out his stock.

“This is all trash.” he said.

“One tries one’s best.” said Greenwood.

Suddenly Hubbard stopped and picked something out of a sack that lay open on the floor.

“What is this?” he said.

“Oh that’s not for sale.” said Greenwood. “I’ll probably throw it out.”

“But it’s beautiful.” said Hubbard.

“The key’s missing.”

“I don’t care, I want it. How much?”

“Shall we say ten shillings?” said Greenwood, hopefully.

“A bargain.” said Hubbard. “Greenwood, this might be the first really good thing I’ve ever encountered in your worm-ridden establishment.”

Hubbard handed over the ten shillings without even trying to bargain. Greenwood was perplexed. Hubbard almost floated out of the door as if in a fugue, holding the little polished wooden box with its death’s head lock up to his eyes in the fingertips of one hand, admiring it.

“What an odd fellow.” Greenwood muttered to himself, shaking his head.

At home, Hubbard’s wife couldn’t understand his obsession with the box either.

“What use is it without a key?” she said.

“I shall have a locksmith look at it.” said Hubbard. “It would be an unconscionable act of depravity to force it open.”

“It gives me the shivers.” said Mrs. Hubbard.

Four floors down in the tall brick building, Mr. Oliver Upton and Mrs. Sarah Upton were wringing their hands over a collection of bills that lay on the rickety old table at which they sat.

“I’ll make it work, Sarah.” said Oliver. “You know I always find a way. I’ll always take care of you and the children.”

“There’s no way to pay all of these.” said Sarah. “I’ll have to go into the workhouse.”

He took her hand and clasped it firmly in his, and focused his gaze on her eyes with all the intensity he could muster.

“I’ll hear no more talk of the workhouse.” he said. “Crompton can wait another few days. Hubbard can at least wait two days. I’ll put in a double shift at the ironworks.”

“You can’t work a double shift!” said Sarah plaintively. “You’re all skin and bones! You’re going to kill yourself like this.”

“Nonsense.” said Oliver firmly.

“Papa,” said Mary, their five-year-old daughter, “are we going to live on the streets?”

“No, darling.” said Oliver. “We’ll always have a home.”

Their son, William, who had just turned seven, was staging a battle between three toy wooden soldiers on the floor and seemed entirely unconcerned.

“If only Hubbard didn’t keep putting up the rent.” said Sarah.

Around her neck she wore a tiny strange little key. It caught the light of the candle as they talked.

“There’s a key to every problem, if only we can fathom what it is.” said Oliver. “That much I know.”

Oliver was returning home from the ironworks at nearly midnight the following night when he happened to encounter Hubbard under the light of a gas lamp.

“Mr Hubbard.” he said. “I’m surprised to see you abroad at so late an hour.”

“I happen to suffer from insomnia.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the time to broach the topic, but I was wondering if you would consider fixing the pipe that’s leaking above our ceiling? Also the stairs are in a terrible state. My wife has nearly slipped and broken her neck on several occasions.”

“Do you know why I suffer from insomnia, Upton?” said Hubbard, ignoring him.

“No, Mr. Hubbard.” said Upton.

“Because my wretched tenants refuse to pay the rent on time. I’ll have you out on the streets, so help me God, if you haven’t paid by tomorrow.”

“You can’t do that.” said Upton, straightening his back. “The terms we signed our names to specifically state that you have to give us a week’s grace.”

Hubbard grabbed Upton by the collar.

“You’re a worthless scrounger, Upton, and I’ll have my rent tomorrow or the law be damned. I have the finest lawyers in York at my disposal.”

He let Upton go, and Upton staggered backwards and nearly fell over out of sheer exhaustion.

He fixed Hubbard with a steely gaze. “This is England, Mr. Hubbard, and last time I enquired, the law still applies to rich and poor alike. Good evening, sir. And I’d be thankful if you’d attend to the pipe and the stairs.”

“Worthless scrounger!” shouted Hubbard at his retreating back.

When Hubbard returned home and found Mrs. Hubbard still sleeping peacefully, he opened the drawer where he had placed the wooden box, took it out and set it on the writing desk in front of him.

The mere sight of the box steadied his nerves just as effectively as a large gin, and more cheaply.

“A locked box,” he said to himself, “and no key. How beautiful you are. What secrets do you hold, I wonder? How long have you kept those secrets from the world? I shall have you open and I alone shall be privy to them. Perhaps the last true mystery in our tedious grey world, and here you are in my grasp.”

Hubbard himself couldn’t understand why he found the box so intriguing. Certainly its design spoke of enormous skill and its deep mahogany varnish with its almost glittery patina spoke of a profound understanding of waxes and varnishes, and the fascinatingly morbid little silver lock in the shape of a skull hinted that its content might be something rather out of the ordinary, but none of those things really seemed to explain the fascination it held for him.

It was almost as if he had seen it before somewhere, or something profoundly connected to it in some unfathomable manner.

Then again, there was the possibility that concentrating on the box simply temporarily alleviated the frustration of the situation he found himself in, which was indeed an exceedingly vexing situation.

No, he thought, that wasn’t it. The box spoke to him, not in words but via some more ethereal mode of communication. It was his destiny to open the box; his fate. The secrets of the box would be his and his alone.

The church bell struck midnight and, the spell suddenly broken, he placed the box carefully back in its drawer and went to bed.

The following day, Hubbard took the box to a friend of his who was a locksmith. He had twice used Garett’s services to break into the rooms of tenants who had changed their locks without his permission.

They sat together in Garett’s study while Garett applied all his skills to the silver death’s head lock.

“Do you think you’ll be able to do it?” said Hubbard.

“There’s no lock made that I can’t pick.” said Garett.

But after an hour, by which time Garett was cursing freely and beads of sweat were running down his forehead even in the cool air of the study, he admitted defeat.

“I can’t do it. It’s unpickable.”

“I thought you said you can pick any lock made?” said Hubbard.

“I’m having doubts over whether this is a lock at all, Mr. Hubbard.” said Garett. “I’ve never seen anything like this. We should prise the box open with a knife.”

“And ruin all its beauty and its mystery? No, I’ll hear no talk of prising, Garett. You’re the kind of man who would pull a rosebud apart in the hope of seeing it bloom.”

“Then you’ll have to find the key. No lock was ever made without a key to fit it. If it is a lock. The internal configuration is quite extraordinary.”

“Suppose I were to undertake a search for the key. What do you think this key would look like?”

Garett staggered over to an easy-chair and fell into it, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Judging by the lock itself, I would guess the key would be small, also made of silver, and it would probably have a sort of faceted crystalline shape. Have you ever seen an uncut amethyst, Hubbard?”

“Of course I have.” said Hubbard.

“Imagine something like that, but very small and made of silver. From what I can see inside that lock, that would be what you’d be looking for.”

“And have you ever seen such a key?”

“Never. However I must return to my hypothesis that it’s not a lock at all.”

“What would it be if not a lock?”

“Ornamentation.” said Garett.

Hubbard shook his head.

“No.” he said. “It’s not ornamentation, and there’s something amazing inside that box. I know it. If only I could find the key. I shall put advertisements in the local newspapers and paste up notices in the shops. I must and shall find that key, Garett. The box must be made to yield its secrets to me.”

When Hubbard returned home he was in the filthiest of moods.

“Garett can’t get it open without breaking it.” he announced to his wife.

Mrs. Hubbard was filing her toenails while the cook prepared lunch.

“Don’t you think you’re thinking about that box such a lot as a way of avoiding what’s really bothering you?” she said.

“Perhaps you’re right.” said Mr. Hubbard. “The whole situation makes me so angry. If only I could get the Uptons out of there, we could make a fortune selling the lower flats to Stamper and Sons.”

“You should put the rent up again, dear. They’re obviously struggling.”

“I can’t. I only just put it up last month.”

“Aren’t they late paying?”

“Only two days. Contract says I’ve to give them a week.”

“Fiddlesticks to the contract!” said Mrs. Hubbard vehemently “Go down there and tell them they either pay up now or you’ll get the bailiffs round.”

“They have rights, you know.” said Mr. Hubbard. “I could get into trouble myself if I send in the bailiffs without proper legal reason.”

“They’re just ignorant paupers.” said Mrs. Hubbard. “I’ve no doubt they almost die of fear every time they hear the word ‘bailiff’. Fear is good, Aubrey. You should use it.”

“You’re right.” said Mr. Hubbard. “I need to be putting more pressure on them. I’ll go and do it.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Talking of spirits, I’ll have a gin first.”

After he had finished his gin and tonic water, Hubbard went downstairs to harass the Uptons.

Mrs. Upton answered the door.

“I need to speak with your husband.” he said.

“Is that so?” said Sarah Upton.

“Where is he?”

“He’s sleeping. Come back in the evening.”

“This is exactly why I need to see him.” said Hubbard. “Sleeping when he should be working. That’s why he can’t pay the rent on time.”

“He’s just worked twenty hours straight.” said Sarah icily. “And if you want to talk about rent, you can deal with me.”

“Very well, as you wish, Mrs. Upton. May I come in?”

Sarah reluctantly opened the door and offered Hubbard a seat at the table.

“The fact is, the rent is two days late.” said Hubbard. “I’m a generous and forgiving man, you know that, but I’d be within my rights to call in the bailiffs. This is absolutely unacceptable.”

“Here’s half your rent.” said Sarah, passing him an envelope. “We’ll give you the other half on Friday. It’s the best we can do. What a lot of nonsense you talk, Mr. Hubbard. You know very well we’re entitled to a weeks’ grace.”

A strange expression appeared on Hubbard’s face. Sarah felt suddenly alarmed. He seemed to be staring at her neck.

“Are you all right, Mr. Hubbard?” she said.

With an effort he raised his gaze to meet her eyes.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get that key? The one hanging around your neck.”

“I don’t see that’s any of your business.”

“I’ll forget about the rent for today if you tell me.”

The key was exactly as Garett had described. It was clearly made of silver, and in place of a typical blade it had a strange structure resembling a sliver of crystal, yet it was quite unmistakably either a key, or intended to resemble one.

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Hubbard. If you must know, I inherited it from my grandmother, who inherited it from her grandfather.”

“Fascinating.” said Hubbard. “And pray tell, how did your great-great-grandfather occupy himself? Was he perhaps a maker of chairs or cabinets?”

“Why, no. To tell you the truth, he was something of a black sheep. He was an alchemist, and in later life became a recluse and a misanthropist.”

“And what was his name?”

“If I tell you, will you leave us in peace?”

“Certainly.”

“His name was Beresford, but he liked to go by the name of Xenophorus. It’s Greek, I think.”

“Mrs. Upton,” said Hubbard, “would you consider giving that key to me? I will forego a week’s rent in return.”

“No, Mr. Hubbard. This is all I have of my grandmother’s. She considered it a lucky charm, with magical properties. I won’t part with it, not for anything. Now Good Day to you, sir.”

“But …” began Hubbard.

“Goodday, Mr. Hubbard.” said Sarah sternly.

Hubbard sighed and, seeing no alternative, got up and left.

“I shall have that key.” he said to himself as he walked up the stairs to his own living quarters. “Clearly the matter requires thought.”

Hubbard found himself incurably restless over the following week, even though the Uptons paid their rent the very next day, or perhaps even because of that very fact.

“Had they only neglected to pay for a week,” he said to Mrs. Hubbard, “I might have had the bailiffs in, and who knows but that key might have found itself into my possession as a consequence.”

“It’s just a silly box.” said Mrs. Hubbard. “I don’t see why you care about it so much.”

“The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.” said Mr. Hubbard.

“You could offer them a month’s rent in exchange for the key, if you’re that keen on obtaining it and you’re sure it’s the right key.”

“A month’s rent? Have you lost your mind, woman? They don’t deserve even a penny. And yes, I’m sure it’s the right key. There can’t be two keys like that in the whole of Christendom.”

“Isn’t it worth a month’s rent to you? We don’t need the money. Seems a small price to pay if it brings you peace of mind. I’m tired of you pacing about like a caged bear.”

Mr. Hubbard abruptly pounded the coffee table with his fist, startling her.

“It’s the principle of the thing!” he shouted. “A month’s rent for a key? Who ever heard of such a thing? That key is rightfully mine anyway; I own the box that it opens. What business does she have with it? She thinks it’s some sort of lucky charm, just because her boneheaded grandmother said so.”

Mrs. Hubbard laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“If you really want it that badly,” she said, “why not contact the Bradley boys?”

Mr. Hubbard smiled: a slow, sinister smile.

“And have them do what? Give Mr. Upton a beating? The police will get involved and before you can blink the Bradleys will be singing like larks and I’ll end up in prison.”

“I was thinking they could grab the key from Mrs. Upton’s neck.”

“Oh. Yes, that’s a much better plan. I think you may be onto something, my dear.”

Mrs. Hubbard smiled and patted him on the back.

“Every problem has a solution.” she said.

“A key for every lock.” said Mr. Hubbard.

The Bradley boys were the sons of a farmer, Jeremiah Bradley, who had left the farming profession, selling all his property, after spending time in jail for adulterating his flour with alum. Had the local magistrate not been a personal friend of his, he would not have got off so lightly, since the death of an elderly woman had been widely attributed to the adulterated flour.

Hubbard met the Bradley brothers in a dank passageway between the houses, frequented mainly by rats.

“You want us to rough ‘er up a bit and steal ‘er necklace.” said Bill, the older son.

“Heavens, no.” said Hubbard. “That could bring unwanted legal repercussions down upon us. No, I simply want you to steal her necklace with as little fuss as possible.”

“You can count on us, Mr. Hubbard.” said Tom, the younger of the Bradleys.

It was a fine winter morning when the Bradleys made their attempt. Sarah was carrying a loaf of bread and some sausage in a basket, admiring the way the sunlight sparkled on the frosted road.

The Bradleys set upon her on Ogden Street.

She was wearing a thick if rather old and tattered coat against the cold, and Bill, who at first appeared to her to be simply another passer-by, suddenly began attempting to rip it open so he could get at her necklace. She let out a scream and fell backwards into the arms of Tom, who growled into her ear: “No need for alarm. We just want your jewellery.”

“You shan’t have it!” said Sarah indignantly.

For some moments, which seemed to Sarah like an eternity, they wrestled with her, her groceries dropping onto the cold road.

Then Bill abruptly staggered backwards, due to having been hit on the head by a milk pail carried by a woman emerging from the grocer’s across the road, who had come running out upon hearing Sarah’s scream.

“Rosie!” said Sarah, gratefully.

“Unhand her, you fiends!” shouted Rosie.

“Why, you …” began Bill, but they were interrupted by the gruff voice of Constable Smith.

“What’s going on ‘ere?”

“Scarper!” shouted Tom, and he grabbed Bill’s arm, pulling him upright, and the pair ran off down the road.

They managed to escape only due to Constable Smith slipping on a patch off ice. He shouted curses after them. “I’ve seen you two before! One of these days I’m going to lock the pair of you up, you vile miscreants!”

Rosie helped Sarah collect her groceries from the road and Constable Smith made careful notes of the incident, and that was the end of that.

“The coat was the problem.” said Hubbard, pacing about his living room.

“That pair of lummoxes!” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Are there really no better men to be found for the job than those?”

“Forgive me, dear, my acquaintance with the criminal underclass is somewhat limited.”

“Why don’t you wait till summer? In summer she wouldn’t be wearing a coat and they could simply grab the key from her neck.”

“By summer we’ll surely have succeeded in expelling them from our property. No, that won’t do at all. I might have lost track of them completely by then.”

“Then have the boys break in and take it while they’re sleeping. If we’re fortunate they might actually want to move after that.”

Hubbard’s eyes lit up.

“What an excellent suggestion.” he said. “You have a most marvellous mind. That’s why I married you.”

“I thought it was to get your hands on my father’s property business.” she said dryly. But Hubbard’s mind was already elsewhere, planning his next gambit.

The Bradley boys took some persuading. In order to convince them, Hubbard had to offer them more money than the Uptons would have paid in rent over an entire two months, a difficult proposition for a man as tight-fisted as Hubbard, but he reconciled himself to it with the thought of finally opening the mysterious box and laying his eyes on whatever marvellous secrets it held.

Two weeks later, the boys stood outside Hubbard’s townhouse; the same building where the Uptons made their home in its tiny basement.

“Are we really going to do this?” said Tom. “This is a whole new level of lawbreaking.”

“The old geezer’s paying us enough.” said Bill. “Let’s get on with it.

After a cursory glance up and down the street to be sure that no-one had taken to wandering about at half-past two in the morning, Bill jemmied open the front door with a crowbar. Hubbard hadn’t wanted to give them a key in case that cast suspicion on him.

They shuffled into the dark, silent hallway.

“Where now?” said Tom.

“Over ‘ere.” said Bill. “Down these steps.”

“I can’t see anything.” said Tom.

“Keep your voice down.”

Bill began to gradually advance down the steep uneven steps, feeling his way.

“I can’t see a cursed thing!” whispered Tom.

“All right, hang on.” said Bill, and he struck a match and lit a candle. “Better?” he said.

“It’ll have to do, won’t it?” said Tom.

They inched slowly down the steps, making as little noise as possible.

When they reached the door of the Upton’s living quarters, Bill inserted the crowbar between the door and its frame and gradually applied pressure.

“This is sure to wake them up.” said Tom.

“Nah.” said Bill. “This old door’s half-rotten. Just got to prise the lock out of the frame.”

Bit by bit he pushed on the crowbar until finally a dull crunching sound announced the parting of the frame from the doorway.

“The whole frame’s coming out!” said Tom, alarmed.

“Will you shut up, you idiot!” hissed Bill.

Bill pushed the door open slowly, part of the door frame coming with it. After a particularly loud creak he froze, and they listened for signs of life from within. There was only the faint sound of Oliver’s regular snoring.

He pushed the door open further and climbed over the half-broken doorframe, beckoning to Tom.

In the living room, which doubled as a kitchen, they found the children sleeping peacefully in narrow cots.

Tom thought to himself that if they were going to get into robbing houses, they ought to be robbing the houses of rich people at least, but he said nothing for fear of waking the children up.

The door to the room where Mr. and Mrs. Upton slept was slightly ajar. When Bill pushed it, it creaked loudly. Again they froze, but the only result of the noise was a slight disturbance in Oliver’s snoring.

It took him ten entire minutes to push the door open enough to get into the room. Every slight movement of the door seemed to provoke a creak, but by the time it was open, there was still no sign of the occupants waking.

Soon Bill and Tom were standing over Sarah, looking down at her in the candlelight.

“That’s it, round her neck.” Tom whispered in Bill’s ear.

“Pass me the scissors.” said Bill.

He pinched the thin silver chain that held the key around Sarah’s neck between finger and thumb, delicately lifted it away from her skin, and cut the chain with the scissors.

Then, very slowly and with all the delicacy he could muster, he lifted the key from her chest and threaded it off the chain.

“Let’s go.” he whispered to Tom, holding the key up triumphantly.

Neither of them could quite believe they had managed to obtain the key without resorting to a modicum of violence, or at least the threat of it.

It was in their very moment of triumph, when Tom had unthinkingly relaxed his vigilance, that he made a terrible mistake. Instead of stepping carefully around the half-open door, he thoughtlessly pulled it open.

There followed a loud creak, followed by an enormous scream. Sarah was propped up in bed, a terrified expression on her face.

Oliver sat bolt upright, and immediately scrabbled to get out of bed.

“Scarper!” shouted Bill, and they ran through the kitchen-cum-living room to the broken door.

When Bill yanked the door open, the loose door jamb smacked Tom neatly on the head. He hit out at it, impaling his hand on a nail, and shrieked in pain. Oliver was striding towards him carrying a porcelain commode.

He pulled his hand off the nail and ran for the stairs. Bill was just in front of him.

It was at this point that disaster struck again for the intrepid duo. Bill slipped on the dark, uneven stairs and fell backwards, onto Tom. The silver key flew from his hand.

“Get out of my house!” roared Oliver, and he brought the commode down on Tom’s head, who screamed in pain.

“Get out!” shouted Oliver, waving the commode threateningly.

Tom struggled to his feet, holding his head. Bill found he had twisted his ankle badly, and began to half-crawl, half-hop up the stairs.

Not until Bill and Tom had cleared the end of the street, holding onto each other for support, were they able to examine the full extent of their injuries. Bill was unable to walk properly and had sustained a nasty injury to his arm in the fall, while Tom’s hand was bleeding profusely from where the nail had made a hole in it, and blood was pouring down his face from the gash in his forehead where the commode had made contact with him.

The subsequent conversation between Hubbard and the Bradley boys was terse and difficult. While Hubbard initially refused to pay them, since they had failed to obtain the key, they assured him that they would break his legs if he did not only pay their agreed fee, but also add compensation for their injuries on top of the original fee. Hubbard, finding himself without recourse to law, reluctantly conceded.

“Let me tell you what you’re going to do.” said Mrs. Hubbard, later that day.

“Shut your face, woman!” shouted Hubbard. “Haven’t you got me into enough trouble already?”

Rather than shutting her own face, she instead slapped his; a good, hard slap.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.” she said. “Do you want that key or don’t you?”

“You know I do!” said Hubbard furiously.

“Well then, sit down and listen.” said Mrs. Hubbard.

Mr. Hubbard meekly sat down.

“Put the rent up.” said Mrs. Hubbard.

“I can’t.” said Mr. Hubbard. “They have a contract. I’ve only just put it up. The law would …”

“You and the law!” said Mrs. Hubbard petulantly. “If there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s that you can’t have excessive respect for the law in business. Put the rent up and when they refuse to pay, send in the bailiffs. When they’re at their weakest, with the bailiffs carrying out their belongings, then offer to cancel the rent increase and call off the bailiffs in exchange for the key.”

Hubbard thought for a minute, rubbing his head.

“That’s actually very clever.” he said. “In the end, I’ll have the key, and they’ll have nothing they can really take me to court over.”

“What you would do without me, I don’t know.” said Mrs. Hubbard.

And so it was that, only a week later, Mr. Hubbard found himself standing in the Upton’s flat while Sarah cried and pleaded with him to stop the bailiffs who were collecting the Upton’s meagre few possession and packing them into boxes. They had already rolled up the thin mattresses that the children slept upon and were carrying their cots outside.

Hubbard had skilfully waited until Oliver was at work before launching his ploy.

“Mrs. Upton,” he said unctuously, “I will consider calling these men off only upon one condition.”

“What?” she said. “Name it, for pity’s sake!”

“I want that key you wear around your neck.”

A sudden realisation dawned upon Sarah Upton.

“You sent those men here to steal it!” she said, her eyes growing wide.

“That’s a scurrilous and unprovable allegation.”

She pulled the key from her neck, breaking the chain that Oliver had carefully repaired.

“If you want it so badly, take it!” she said.

Upton shouted to the bailiffs, and they put Mary’s bed down and left, without saying a word.

“The only conclusion one may arrive at is that this is not a case of murder at all, but another tragic case of Russian flu.” said Inspector Clark, surveying the disturbing scene.

“It’s a terrible disease, Inspector.” said Constable Barlow.

They stood in the large and rather opulent living room of Hubbard’s former residence. In front of them lay the corpses of the Hubbards. Mr Hubbard’s earthly vessel sat fallen forwards at a table, while Mrs Hubbard’s body lay crumpled on the floor at his feet.

“I wonder what they used this box for.” said Inspector Clark, picking up the small empty wooden box with its curious gutta percha lining. In the box’s ornate silver death’s head lock was a little silver key.

“Perhaps they were planning to put something in the box, Inspector.” said Barlow.

“Yes, that’s the only possible explanation.” said Clark. “Clearly, Mr. Hubbard sat here to open the box, perhaps telling Mrs. Hubbard that she could use it for her jewellery. She bent down to examine the box, and at that moment they were both overcome by the Russian flu.”

“It’s amazing how you can always piece these things together, sir.” said Barlow.

“Long practice,” said Clark. “coupled with an open and enquiring mind, receptive to possibilities. With effort and application, you’ll pick up the knack too, Barlow.”

For some two months, the Uptons had no idea to whom they should continue to pay rent, or whether they should even continue to pay it at all. Then one fine spring morning they happened to be setting out for a walk when a young man skipped down the staircase whistling, taking the stairs two at a time, and emerged into the hallway.

“Oh I say.” he said. “You must be the Uptons. I’m Matthew Hubbard.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” said Oliver warily. “Are you the Hubbards’ son? We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be.” said Matthew. “My father and I never saw eye to eye. I was reared by my grandmother, barely knew him, and as for my stepmother, Mrs. Hubbard, I’d just as soon I’d never heard of her.”

“We owe you some rent.” said Sarah.

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Matthew, “how much rent have you been paying?”

“Twelve shillings a week.” said Sarah.

“Twelve shillings a week!” said Matthew, shocked. “For a cellar? This is abominable!”

Sarah’s eye was drawn to Matthew’s hand, in which he held the little box, with the key still in the lock.

“Very kind of you to say so, sir.” said Oliver.

“Well why don’t you move into my father’s old place?” said Matthew. “And we’ll make it four shillings a week. And frankly, I think we’d better backdate it a year. I shall repay you twenty pounds.”

The Uptons smiled at each other in delight.

“That’s incredibly kind of you, sir.” said Sarah.

“The least I can do.” said Matthew. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but no-one knows better than I what kind of a man my father was. I say, while I’m at it, would you like a box? Consider it a gift from me, as your new landlord, in compensation for all you’ve doubtless put up with.”

He held out the box.

Sarah looked at him with shining eyes.

“You’re too kind.” she said.

“I make it a point of pride to be as little like my father as possible.” said Matthew.

The following diary went undiscovered until 1910, when it was found among a parcel of books sold by an antique book seller.

Diary of Xenophorus, 1793-1794

December 23^rd

I have discovered a most remarkable substance by boiling sheep bones with certain acids and essential oils. It is extremely poisonous and readily turns to vapour. By keeping it in a metal tube immersed in snow I am able to entirely contain it, so that it is quite harmless. When the snow melts, a most noxious vapour emerges from it and brings death to any living being present.

What glorious possibilities present themselves! By this means I may perhaps dispatch my mortal enemy, Richley, to the hereafter without any suspicion falling upon my person whatsoever. I need only find a suitable method of delivery. How I would like to rid myself of that accursed doctor, who continually agitates to have me committed to an asylum. Am I not saner than he? What great discoveries has he made? The officials will never prove that I am responsible for the burning of Aldershott Street. They have only speculation. Would that a few of them would inhale but a little of these vapours, my problems would be ended.

January 18^th

I have discovered a way of containing the substance. If it be placed in a sealed vial while still cold from snow, when the snow is removed and the substance allowed to warm to comfortable temperatures, it remains liquid within the vial. I have conceived of an idea for a most remarkable device; an enclosure which exerts a lethal effect upon those who pry into its secrets, and yet does so in a way that it is quite impossible for any watchman, constable or investigator to ever discover.

Perhaps I shall send Dr. Richley a little gift. A gift which will surprise him beyond words, and see to it that he no longer attempts to meddle in my affairs.

February 27^th

I have adapted a little box that I crafted many years ago to be entirely airtight. By cooling the box in snow and working in a cabinet filled with snow and ice, I was able to place several drops of the substance in the box, and seal the box shut. As long as the box remains closed, it will force the substance to remain liquid. But as soon as the box be opened — oh! I almost pity Richley when he places the key in the lock and turns it, only to find himself facing the same fate that many a rat has now endured at my hands, upon being exposed to the vapours.

I will have the box sent to him, and the key a little later. Richley is a cautious and temperate man; he will not open the box until presented with the key, which I shall send him at a moment of my choosing. Until then I would like to savour the thought of Richley having that box in his possession, completely ignorant of the fact that it will be the end of him and that I, by withholding or sending the key, hold his very life in my hands.

March 2^nd

^{[This last entry is written in a barely-legible spidery hand and ends abruptly.]}

Disaster. I attempted to manufacture a second device in the form of a [illegible]. I believed I could control the substance by working in the early-morning frost, which still lies upon the ground after sunrise, but the cold was not sufficient.

I inhaled a substantial quantity of the vapour and I believe I will soon expire.

Coughing thick mucus. Limbs cold and depleted of blood.

If only I

[Here the diary entry ends.]