Team Seven of Heroes; Short Tales 1 Chapter 5 & 6

The suburb in London.

5.

The lady dressed in the gingham dress swept the leaves from the lawn. Her feet were tucked into the ankle high boots which was making her walk clumsy. Her attention was not on the fallen leaves but the street. She was looking for any signs of unwanted visitors.

“She is good.” The figure standing at the front window looked at the lady doing the sweep. The figure was dressed in the tweed suit and was holding the cup of tea served by the lady earlier. He was addressing the other figure seated on the armchair by the fireplace. The seated figure was dressed in the white gown with the short jacket and his feet was encased in the leather shoes. He was holding a cup and saucer but his tea was different. It was black tea for the seated figure.

“Ms. Cynthia is one of the best and she made good tea.” The figure by the window heard the compliment by the other. He turned away and approached the fire place.

“How’s the workings on the latest delivery, Mullah?” The figure in the tweeds took on the sarcasm tone.

“We are on schedule. They will be here in two days, Doctor.” The one called the Mullah replied. “I hope the last load was disbursed to the interior.”

“We called them towns or villages here.” The doctor reminded the Mullah.

“So, do we. Tell me have you sent the funds to my account?” The doctor nodded to the other. And then the doctor voiced another concern.

“Your men killed another on the street. I will not tolerate such actions. If there are any…”

“There will be none. I will tell my men.” The doctor heard the Mullah and then took his leave. The Mullah saw the other rode off in the carriage before he took his exit. He walked passed the lady who had stopped sweeping the leaves. A new carriage pulled up and he was then on his way back to his own base.

“Tell me of the lady.” The Mullah asked the other occupant seated across him in the carriage. The occupant was a short figure in the tight bodice partially covered by the shawl laid over the shoulders. The bottom part of the figure was covered by the Jaipur pants tucked into the high boots. She had on a bowler hat fashioned with a flower on the left side.

“She is missing.” The lady replied. “She is tough.”

“They all are. The Guild did not train them well if she was not.” The Mullah looked out to the London morning offerings. He does miss his own country. Exile was not an option but a need with the British and Raj against him, and so were his old allies in the business community. The last hired the Guild of Killers to silence him but he escaped in time. His escape was discovered and the assassins followed him here.

“Keep her alive. She may be an asset to me.”

“Mullah, we killed her lover yesterday. She will not be pleased if she ever knows.”

“And why was he killed?” The Mullah snapped back. “I had orders that that he was to be punished but not dead.”

“The men got over zealous but they were dealt with. As we speak, the four brothers are feeding the fishes at the Thames. And now for the lady… She may be on our vengeance trail.”

The Mullah looked at the lady opposite him. He knew that she had blundered and was changing matter to discuss.

“And she will but the blame will be on the British. She will do her vengeance for us then.” The Mullah smiled. “Every situation can be influenced if we knew how. Your lack of leadership over your men needed to be taught more of it. I am sure you are well versed in the arts of such leadership.”

The lady red polished lips revealed a side smile while her left hand trailed the horse whip held on her right hand. She revels in the pleasure of pain.

Meanwhile ahead of them, the doctor who had left the house after his meet with the Mullah had his own companion in the carriage. He leaned back on his seat while his fingers smoothen the edges on his hat. He was meticulous which accounted for his rise to crime lord of London; a name whispered but never the face recognized. His other ego was as the Associate Professor of Mathematics hence he was still called the Doctor; he had aspired to the Professor but the old and feeble current Professor have fighting genes to maintain his presence there.

“Patience…is mine.” The doctor muttered.

“Pardon me, Doctor. Did you say anything?” The other asked. He was a tall gentleman with the upright posture while seated on the leather seat. He was dressed in a light grey three suit and sported a homburg hat to cover the scar on his forehead. He sat cross legged and his shoes were polished and fitted well. He carried a long walking cane and held a watch at his vest pocket. Like the doctor, he was meticulous and timing was the quality of his works.

“Nom, Colonel. Nothing in particular. How fare our works on the Mullah? I sensed he may be getting impatient to take on his territory.” The doctor was a careful man.

“We have him trailed and so was his three henchmen.” The doctor heard the Colonel. The three henchmen were a clique; one was a lady with the fascination for pain and herself a trained killer. The second was a Major but he held influences on London’ better society. The last was the dock worker who was the brash one with the networks of dockyard friends. It was a shallow organization and given time, it may grow like Medusa.

“Have me updated on any crucial events.” The doctor maintained a diary of events and how they may be linked to others and assessed the possible outcomes. “Meanwhile, tell me of the demise of one named Duncan. Did he make contact?”

The doctor was briefed and his question was what role the Doctor Watson can do.

“A foreseen result. We may need to relook at the equations. I don’t like unresolved equations. Like life events, they all occurred from some past events. It’s a matter of knowing its trail and will learned the outcome.”

6.

Sergeant Lestrade stood at the morgue chamber looking at the dead body laid there on the wooden table. They could not afford a metallic table hence the improvisation. And the Medical Officer was a nurse but his days spent at the Surgeon Office pre-qualified him then as the attending Medical Officer.

“Tell me, James …. Yes, Palmer. Who is our Duncan what his other name?” Lestrade was not person to remember every name he came across more so when they are dead.

“The deceased”. The nurse named Palmer took pride in his works; with the donning of the surgery gown and his right hand held the scalpel while the left hand held the metal rod to prod at the flesh.

“He was dead about…” Palmer tried to impress his audience then.

“I know his death time and causes. Tell me more that I may find useful.” Lestrade cut in. “Hurry, man. I ain’t got the whole day to be with you.”

“One day, my role will be respected and never to be rushed.” Palmer replied without looking at the Sergeant.

“And it will be but you need a real doctor for the task.” The voice was from the doorway to the morgue. Palmer looked over and a figure dressed in tweeds and porting a homburg.

“Doctor Watson, I am not sure…” Lestrade recognised the one who had intruded into the chamber.

“I am a qualified doctor and having served in the Frontier, I doubt my credentials are questionable.” Watson proceeded to pick up a spare gown on the nearby table. He approached the dead body and looked at Palmer.

“Clip, please.”

And hour later, Watson sat opposite the Sergeant at the other’s office. The doctor was not offered any refreshment but he had brought his own metal bottle tucked into his coat pocket.  It contained his favourite; the Highlands Scotch which he knew where to get in London. In a man’s walks, he need to know the places to sleep and the shops that served his drink.

“Duncan died from the second stab into his heart from the left side. The first stab was to disabled him while the third was to ensure he stayed dead.” Doctor Watson gave his report to the Sergeant. “The question remained was why was he killed? Was he to know of something that we have not been told?”

“Of which I will find out, my dear Doctor. You seemed to have many questions and perhaps you could reply to some of mine. Who are you to the deceased?”

“I met Duncan at the drinking establishment and then the next morning for tea.” Doctor Watson told him the partial truth. The Sergeant frowned on the reply and of which Watson continued on.

“He slept on the couch at my place.”

“I could had guessed that. But thank you, Doctor. Its…most assuring.” Lestrade looked back at his notes. “There were signs of some beatings. Palmer wrote that. You …”

“I was not aware of any beatings not have I examined his body beforehand. I meant prior to his death.” Doctor Watson stated his professional assessment.

“Yes, I am fully…. fully advised on that. You may not have known of it. You…” Lestrade bit his tongue there then. “Anyway, Doctor. You are free to go. We may need you to be around in case we have more questions.”

Doctor Watson left the Sergeant but what he had come to find was known to him. Duncan McLeod was of the Special Tasks. They are the selected few and sent for dangerous tasks. The Colonel were proud of the team and had named them the Hidden Ones. He had the five-member team tattooed on the left waist line with the logo of the twin daggers and Lion.

Duncan was one.

The question was to trace the other members if they are back in London. He then telegraphed his old soldier mate in India. Soon after that, he went to the docks.

“Aye, I seen many returning soldiers but I don’t know any Duncan McLeod.” That was another drink ill spent on the ones Watson met at the drinking establishment. He had done that over a dozen times and the information given was either diluted like the scotch there. He was to give up when he spotted a solitary one seated at the far corner. He recognised the uniform and approached the table.

“The table is taken but the drink is welcomed.” The solitary figure spoke without looking up. Doctor Watson placed the bottle of scotch on the table along with his glass. The other reached for the bottle and poured it into his own glass.

“I don’t know any Duncan McLeod.” The figure spoke up. “Thank you for the drink.”

“You do, Corporal Ian Selfridge. I am Doctor Watson. John Watson.” The other raised his head to look at the doctor. The Corporal looked worse than expected. His left eye was bandaged and his unkempt hair could did not hide the partially cut off ear on the left side. There was a scar line from the left side of the eyes towards the ear.

“Don’t be alarmed. I am lucky to come back alive.” Corporal Selfridge replied with a tone of sarcasm. “Darn Pashtun could not shoot straight. He took my left sight and my ears. Pour me another drink and leave me be.”

“Corporal, one of our lads is dead here. We can’t be taking there lightly. We are of the Regiment.”

“And I won’t but Duncan was a turncoat. He was working for the enemy. He was discharged without honour. He was no more of the Regiment.”