The Vampire by Sydney Horler - from "John Bull" 20th April 1929.

 

Sydney Horler was born in Leytonstone, London, on the 18th July 1888. He was a prolific author of crime and mystery, he amassed a back catalogue of some 158 novels. This story, which is not to be confused with his 1935 novel The Vampire, was published in the magazine John Bull on the 20th April 1929.

At this point stories about Vampires were quite popular, actor and playwright Hamilton Deane had adapted Dracula for the stage in 1924 and was still touring the play in 1929 to rave reviews. Deane's stage version of Dracula would eventually tour America, rewritten by John L. Balderston and with Bela Lugosi as the Count, this is the version that would be made into the hollywood movie of 1931.

In John Bull it is stated;

"We contacted with Sydney Horler to write us a 'Truth is Stranger than Fiction' story. He believes that every word of Father Harrigan's eerie thriller is absolutely true. We make no comment. We leave it to our readers to decide whether they, too, believe in vampires."

"The Vampire by Sydney Horler;

Until his death, quite recently, I used to visit at least once a week a Roman Catholic priest. The fact that I am a Protestant did nothing to shake our friendship.

Father Harrigan was one of the finest characters I have ever known; he was capable of the finest sympathies, and was, in the best sense of that frequently abused term, 'a man of the world.'

The story I am about to relate occured about eighteen months ago - ten months before his fatal illness. I was then writing my novel, 'The Curse of Doone.' In this story I made the villain take advantage of a ghastly legend attached to an old manor house in Devonshire, and use it for his own ends.

Father Harrigan listened while I outlined the plot I had in mind, and then said, to my great surprise: 'Certain people may scoff because they will not allow themselves to believe that there is any credence in the vampire tradition.'

'Yes, that is so,' I parried; 'but all the same, Bram Stoker caught the public imagination with his Dracula - one of the most horrible and yet fascinating books ever written - and I am hoping that my public will extend to me the customary 'author's license.'

My friend nodded.

'Quite,' he replied; 'as a matter of fact,' he went on to say, 'I myself believe in vampires.'

'You do?' I felt the hair on the back of my neck commence to irritate. It is one thing to write about a horror, but quite another to begin to see it assume definite shape.

'Yes,' he went on. 'I am forced to believe in vampires for the very good but terrible reason that I have met one!'

I half rose from my chair. There could be no questioning Harrigan's word, and yet - 

'That, no doubt, my dear fellow, may appear as an extraordinary statement to have made, and yet I assure you it is the truth. It happened many years ago and in another part of the country - exactly where I do not think I had better tell you.'

'But this is amazing - you say you actually met a vampire face to face?'

'And I talked to him. Until now I have never mentioned the matter to a living soul apart from a brother priest and the medical man who shared my horrible secret at the time.'

It was clearly an invitation to listen; I crammed tobacco into my pipe and leaned back in the chair on the opposite side of the crackling fire.

I heard that truth was said to be stranger than fiction - but here I was about to have, it seemed, the strange experience of listening to my own most sensational imagining being hopelessly outdone by FACT!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The small town which I will call Lulsgate is in the West of England (said Father Harrigan), and was inhabited by a good many people of superior means.There was a large city seventy five miles away and business men, when they retired, often came to Lulsgate to wind up their lives. I was young and very happy there in my work until - . But I am a little previous.

I was on very friendly terms with a local doctor; he often used to come in and have a chat when he could spare the time. We used to try to thresh out many problems which later experience has convinced me are insoluble - in this world at least.

One night, he looked at me rather curiously, I thought. 'What do you think of that man Farington?' he asked.

Now, it was a curious fact that he should have made that enquiry at that exact moment, for by some subconscious means I happened to be thinking of this very person myself.

The man who called himself Joseph Farington was a stranger who had recently come to settle in Lulsgate.

That circumstance alone would have caused some comment, but when I say that he had bought the largest house on the hill overlooking the town on the south side (representing the best residential quarter) and had had it furnished apparently regardless of cost by one of the famous London houses, interest in the man went much deeper.

Yet, although he sought to entertain a great deal, no one seemed anxious to go twice to 'The Gables.' There was 'something funny' about Farington, it was whispered.

I knew this, of course - the smallest fragment of gossip comes to a priest's ears - and so I hesitated before replying to the doctors direct question.

'Confess now, Father,' said my companion, 'you are like all the rest of us - you don't like the man! He has made me his medical attendant , but I wish to goodness he had chosen someone else. There's 'something funny' about him.'

'Something funny' - there it was again. As the doctor's words sounded in my ears I remembered Farington as I had last seen him walking up the main street with every other eye half turned in his direction. He was a big framed man, the essence of masculinity.

He looked so robust that the amazing thought came instinctively; This man will never die! He had a florid complexion; he walked with the elasticity of youth and his hair was jet black. Yet from remarks he had made, the impression in Lulsgate was that Farington must be at least sixty years of age.

'Well, there's one thing, Sanders,' I replied; 'if appearances are anything to go by, Farington will not be giving you much trouble. The fellow looks as strong as an ox.'

'You haven't answered my question,' persisted the doctor; 'forget your cloth, Father, and tell me exactly what you think of Joseph Farington. Don't you agree that he is a man to give you the shudders?'

'You - a doctor - talking about getting the shudders!' I gently scoffed because I did not want to give my real opinion of Joseph Farington.

'I can't help it - I have an instinctive horror of the fellow. This afternoon I was called up to The Gables. Farington, like so many of his ox like kind, is really a bit of a hypochondriac. He thought there was something wrong with his heart,'

'And was there?'

'The man ought to live to a hundred! But, I tell you, Father, I hated having to be so near to the fellow; there's something uncanny about him. I felt frightened - yes, frightened - all the time I was in the house. I had to talk to someone about it, and as you are the safest person in Lulsgate I dropped in......You haven't said anything yourself, I notice.'

'I prefer to wait,' I replied. It seemed the safest answer.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two months after that conversation with Sanders, not only Lulsgate, but the whole of the country, was startled and horrified by a terrible crime.

A girl of eighteen, the belle of the district, was found dead in a field. Her face, in life so beautiful, was revolting in death because of the expression of dreadful horror it held. The poor girl had been murdered - but in a manner which sent shudders of fear racing up and down people's spines......There was a great hole in the throat, as though a beast of the jungle had attacked her.....

It is not difficult to say how suspicion for this fiendish crime first started to fasten itself on Joseph Farington, preposterous as the statement may seem. Although he had gone out of his way to become sociable, the man had made no real friends.

Sanders, although a clever doctor, was not the most tactful of men, and there is no doubt that his refusal to visit Farington professionally - he had hinted as much on the night of his visit to me, you will remember - got noised about.

In any case, public opinion was strongly roused; without a shred of direct evidence to go upon, people began to talk of Farington as being the actual murderer. There was some talk among the wild young spirits of setting fire to The Gables one night, and burning Farington in his bed.

It was while this feeling was at its height that, very unwillingly, as you may imagine. I was brought into the affair. I received a note from Farington asking me to dine with him one night.

'I have something on my mind which I wish to talk over with you, so please do not fail me.'

These were the concluding words of the letter. Such an appeal could not be ignored by a man of religion, and so I replied, accepting.

Farington was a good host; the food was excellent; on the surface there was nothing wrong. But - and here is the curious part - from the moment I faced the man I knew there was something wrong.

I had the same feeling as Sanders, the doctor; I felt afraid. The man had an aura of evil; he was possessed of some devilish force or quality which chilled me to the marrow.

I did my best to hide my discomfiture, but when, after dinner, Farington began to speak about the murder of that poor, innocent girl this feeling increased. And at once the terrible truth leaped into my mind; I knew it was Farington who had done this crime; the man was a monster!

'You wished to see me tonight for the purpose of easing your soul of a terrible burden,' I said; 'you cannot deny that it was you who killed that unfortunate girl.'

'Yes,' he replied slowly, 'that is the truth. I killed the girl. The demon which possesses me forced me to do it. But you, as a priest, must hold this confession sacred - you must preserve it as a secret. Give me a few hours; then I will decide myself what to do.'

I left shortly afterwards. The man would not admit anything more.

'Give me a few hours,' he repeated.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That night I had a horrible dream. I felt I was suffocating. Scarcely able to breathe, I rushed to the window, pulled it open - and then fell senseless to the floor. The next thing I remember was Dr Sanders - who had been summoned by my faithful housekeeper - bending over me.

'What happened?' he asked, 'you had a look on your face as though you had been staring into hell.'

'So I had,' I replied.

'Had it anything to do with Farington?' he asked bluntly.

'Sanders,' and I clutched him by the arm in the intensity of my feeling, 'does such a monstrosity as a vampire exist nowadays? Tell me, I implore you!'

He forced me to take another nip of brandy before he would reply. Then he put a question himself.

'Why do you think that?' he said.

'It sounds incredible - and I hope I really dreamed it - but I fainted tonight because I saw - or imagined I saw - the man Farington flying past the window that I had just opened.'

'I am not surprised,' he nodded; 'ever since I examined the mutilated body of that poor girl I came to the conclusion that she had come to her death through some terrible abnormality.

Although we hear practically nothing about vampirism nowadays,' he continued, 'that is not to say that ghoulish spirits do not still take up their abode in a living man or woman, thus conferring upon them supernatural powers. What form was the shape you thought you saw?'

'It was like a huge bat,' I replied shuddering.

'Tomorrow,' said Sanders determinedly, 'I'm going to London to see Scotland Yard. They may laugh at me at first, but ---.'

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Scotland Yard did not laugh. But criminals with supernatural powers were rather out of their loine, and, besides, as they told Sanders, they had to have proof before they could convict Farington.

Even my testimony - had I dared to break my priestly pledge, which, of course, I couldn't in any circumstances do - would not have been sufficient.

Farington solved the terrible problem by committing suicide. He was found in bed with a bullet wound in his head. But, according to Sanders, only the body is dead - the vile spirit is roaming free, looking for another human habitation.

God help its luckless victim!"

Sydney Horler

The Vampire was included in this 2010 anthology.

Vlad The Impaler and the Saxon Wars 1458 - 1460.

Brasov, the Black Church.

Prelude.

Tensions had been building ever since Vlad Dracula had ascended the Wallachian throne in 1456, this was mainly over economic issues centered around customs revenue, and there were plenty other claimants to the throne who would be more receptive to Transylvanian demands.

In response Dracula's first attack came in the form of tariffs, taking all merchant protection away from the Transylvanian Saxons, for example, the Saxons now received extra attention at the border crossings and when entering Wallachian cities, where they had to empty their carts to customs officers. They had to sell at almost wholesale prices to Wallachian buyers making any profit almost nonexistent, and he gave favourable tariffs to Wallachian and Italian merchants making Transylvanian good prohibitively expensive. 

The old border between Wallachia and Transylvania at Bran

The Saxon merchants of Transylvania began to dodge Wallachian customs officials on a regular basis, they had also been conspiring to replace Dracula with his half brother, Vlad The Monk, raising funds and military forces from Boyars fleeing Dracula's court.

To add insult to injury, Dracula's cousin and rival Dan III of the Danesti clan had been receiving material support and shelter from the city Burghers of Brasov, Dan's brother Basarab Laiota was also waiting in the wings, and in 1457 the Saxons of Bistritz revolted against Michael Szilagyi* for imposing high customs revenues. Szilagyi then called upon Vlad Dracula for help, this came in swift and deadly fashion, the defences of Bistritz were quickly breached and the town was burned and looted. Those held responsible for the revolt fled to Brasov and Sibiu.

Now that Dracula was flexing his muscles in Transylvania, the German cities started to band together, when the Governor of Transylvania, Count Oswald Rozgonyi, threw his lot in with the Germans, war looked inevitable.

At this time trade with the Ottomans and the Balkan states was still carrying on favourably, Vlad Dracula still needed peace on his southern border so that he could give full attention to the north, and to consolidating his grip on power.

1458.

Dracula singled out the city of Brasov for all this turmoil, there were rumours emanating from Brasov that Dracula was in the pocket of Mehemmed II, something Dracula strenuously denied. In fact, Dracula had stopped paying the annual tribute to the Ottoman Sultan, this would cause many problems in coming years.

In the spring of 1458 Dracula attacked with a force of cavalry, his target was Brasov. Invading through the Turnu Rosu Pass south of Sibiu, the Wallachians laid waste to Talmaciu and slaughtered the population. Several more villages were attacked on the way over the mountains, when they reached the town of Bod it was raised to the ground, the population were mostly killed there, but many were taken back to Targoviste to be impaled.

The Palace and Chindia Tower, Targoviste

Later that year Michael Sizlagyi, on Dracula's behalf, laid siege to Subiu, but the attack failed. However, with Sizlagyi sitting at Sighisoara with a sizable amount of men, and Dracula slaughtering his way around the countryside, a peace treaty was finally negotiated in the November.

This treaty was never going to work, among others the main demands were that Dan III was to be handed over to the tender mercies of Vlad Dracula and 10,000 florins were to be payed to Michael Sizlagyi, for this Brasov would regain full mercantile rights and privileges.

Unfortunately Sizlagyi was soon to be imprisoned by the Hungarian King Matthias Corvinus, with him gone the Burghers of Brasov reneged on the treaty, and the horror continued.

It is interesting at this point to look back on the Merchant's Tale, said to be a cautionary story about theft, but it also could be a story directed at the merchants of Brasov, a morality tale with a bitter twist.

The story goes that a merchant arrives at Targoviste and asks where he can store his cart overnight, as all of his wares are onboard and also all of his money. Vlad tells him his cart will be safe in the street outside, no one would touch it.

Outside the Palace Walls, Targoviste.

The next morning the merchant checks his cart and 160 ducats are missing, he tells Vlad of the theft and Vlad in customary fashion threatens the city with destruction if the thief is not found.

In the meantime Vlad hands over the stolen amount from his own pocket, the merchant thanks him and leaves. Reaching his cart he counts the money, he is one ducat over, he counts it again, same result.

The merchant reenters the palace and explains to Vlad that he has given him one too many, Vlad thanks him for his honesty, and confesses that he knew that to be the case. He goes on to inform the merchant that if he had kept the coin he would be guilty of theft himself and would be impaled next to the original thief.

The moral of this story can be simply 'do not steal', or in light of the situation with the Transylvanian merchants, a thief can rob a merchant, but a merchant dare not rob a Prince.

1459.

Early in the year Dracula attacked, heading north from Targoviste his army laid waste the Prahova district, burning crops and villages, killing and rounding up the populace. His army soon reached into the suburbs of Brasov, Dan III was already gone, with all of his loyal Boyars, ready to fight another day.

A View of Brasov and the City Walls From Tampa Hill

Outside the city walls the chapel of St. Jacob on Tampa Hill (sometimes Timpa Hill or Quimpa Hill) was utterly destroyed, he also had the church of St. Bartholomew burned and looted, unlike St. Jacobs St. Bartholomews still exists. He even attempted a raid into Brasov to burn the famous Black Church, but this effort failed.

On Tampa Hill Dracula was to perform a horrific act that would see his name become infamous, the mass impalement of the people he had captured on his way to Brasov.

Tampa Hill

Michael Beheim, a wandering German meistersinger elaborated even further on the atrocities Dracula performed on Tampa Hill, in his epic song The Story Of A Violent Madman Called Voivode Dracula Of Wallachia, first performed in 1463, he states;

"It was his pleasure and gave him courage

 To see human blood flow

 And it was his custom

 To wash his hands in it 

 As it was brought to his table

 While he was taking his meal."

According to the collection of horror stories published anonymously in 1488, the Dracole Waida, it is said;

"As the day came in, in early morning, he had women and men, young and old, impaled near the chapel and around the hill, and he sat amidst them, and ate his morning meal with joy."

Also, "he sent one of his captains to burn a village named Seiding (Codlea). But this captain was not able to burn it on account of resistance from the villagers. Then he came back to Dracula and said 'I wasn't able to carry out what you ordered me to do.' He immediately had the captain impaled."

1460.

The three pretenders to the Wallachian throne were still very much at large, these were Dracula's half brother Vlad The Monk, who was located at Amlas, the Danesti claimants Dan III, the champion of Brasov, and his brother Basarab Laiota, who resided at Sighisoara.

Of these men only Dan III was in any position to challenge Vlad Dracula, his opportunity came in April, with his followers he crossed the border into Wallachia from the Bran Pass and moved towards Rucar in order to bring Dracula to battle.

On the approach to Rucar

The battle was short, brutal and entirely in Dracula's favour. Dan and many of his followers were captured, his followers were impaled, Dan was forced to dig his own grave and was then beheaded by Dracula himself. In revenge for this Dracula once again attacked Brasov, some sources say he massacred up to 30,000 people.

After this catastrophe the the league of German cities in Transylvania appealed to King Matthias of Hungary to negotiate a peace agreement with Dracula, this worked, the Germans were granted pre 1456 terms and conditions on trade, the northern borders were now safe, it was now the turn of the Ottomans, 1461 would bring fear and horror to Wallachia's southern border. 

Postscript.

Basarab Laiota

Of the other claimants Basarab Laiota would ascend to the throne of Wallachia in the 1470's while Dracula was imprisoned by King Matthias Corvinus, he vied for the throne with the other Dracula brother Radu The Handsome throughout that decade. 

In November 1476 he would be forced to flee to the Ottoman Sultan as Vlad Dracula had been freed and came back for his throne, however, Dracula was killed in December 1476 and Laiota retook the throne dying in 1480. 

Vlad The Monk came to the throne as Vlad IV The Monk in 1481, and ruled on and off until 1495.

*Michael Szilagyi was married to Margit Bathory and had a daughter Llona who would become the second wife of Vlad Dracula. Szilagyi's sister Erzsebet was married to the Hungarian hero Janos Hunyadi who had died of plague in 1456.

Information sourced from,

1. Dracula's Wars by James Waterson

2. Dracula; Prince Of Many Faces by Radu R. Florescu and Raymond T. McNally

3. Dracole Waida - Macabre Observer Blog Dracole Waida

4. Wikipedia.

The Bank Of England Mystery - The Legend of Jon Smiff.

The story concerning an illiterate man called Jon Smiff finding his way through the sewers and into the vault of the Bank of England has been doing the rounds since the late nineteenth century. Apparently this story comes from the year 1836, but the earliest telling of this tale that I can find comes from The Stroud News and Gloucestershire Advertiser on Friday 23rd October 1891.

It all began with a letter, which read;

"Two Gentlemin off Bank of England: Yee think yow is all safe hand your Bank is safe, butt i knows better.  i bin hinside the Bank the last 2 nite hand yow nose nuffin abowt it.

But i um nott a theaf, so hif yeo will mete mee in the gret squar rom, werh arl the moneiys, at twelf 2 nite Ile ixplain orl to yoew. let only 1, her 2 cum alown, and say nuffin 2 nobody. - Jon Smiff."

The letter caused some consternation amongst the directors of the bank, some thought it a hoax. Armed with the letter the directors all agreed it would be better in the hands of police, and detectives were duly sent for. The detectives took the letter very seriously indeed, there seemed to be a plot here and it needed investigating. I'll leave it up to the The Stroud News and Gloucestershire Advertiser to take up the story.

"The detectives looked grave, and with their usual penetration they penetrated the deepest depths of the iniquity.

There is a very large room underground, where the huge wealth of the bank is deposited - millions and millions of English sovereigns, bars of gold, and hundredweights of silver, with myriads of notes. The detectives, of course, knew that this room must be the place which the writer of the letter had designated as 'the gret squar rom.' It is full of treasure. It's floor is a solid stone pavement, and it's walls, roof, and door are of wrought iron and steel.

All night long the detectives were secreted in the room, but they saw nothing and heard nothing, with the exception that some say they heard, about one or two o'clock, a strange noise they could not account for. The next night was the same, and the next, and the next; and when the board day of the bank came round the whole of the directors would have treated the affair as an idle attempt to frighten them had not their attention been more strongly called to the subject by the following incident.

A heavy chest had been forwarded addressed to the 'Directors of the Bank of England.' The chest was of course opened before them at once - such a thing being very unusual - and found to contain a large packet of most valuable papers and securities which had been safely deposited in the vault. With them was the following letter:

'To the Directors of the Bank of England.

Gentlemen, 

My husband, who is an honest man, wrote to you last week, and told you that he had found a way - which he believes is only known to himself - of getting into your strong room, and offered, if you would meet him there at night, to explain the whole matter.

He had never taken anything from that room except the enclosed box. You set detectives on him, and he took the box to show that he could go there, if he chose, whoever might watch.

He gives you another chance. Let a few gentlemen be in the room alone, guard the door, and make everything secure, and my husband will meet you there at midnight.

Yours respectfully,

Ellen Smith.'

This letter was more mysterious than the last. The only thing that was evident was that the writer, 'Ellen Smith' was a better scholar than her husband, who styled himself 'Jon Smiff.'

The detectives were shown the letter, and acted accordingly. Of course they saw through 'the dodge.' The cleverest men were posted in the room. In the morning they told a strange story. They said they saw a light come from a dark lantern; but directly they ran to the spot whence the light proceeded, it went out and the strictest search had discovered nothing.

The bank officials became alarmed. They, however, agreed to do what perhaps would have been wiser if done at first - viz, to depute a few of their number to visit the vault alone. So it was arranged that three gentlemen should remain in the strong room all night, and that no one else should be with them.

Every suitable precaution was taken when night came. The sentinel paced up and down outside; the detectives were not far off; and after the most rigorous search had been instituted, the gentlemen were locked in.

At last one of them, who paced the floor rather impatiently, beginning to think that perhaps after all it was only a clever trick, cried out: 'You ghost, you secret visitor, you midnight thief, come out! There is no one here but two gentlemen and myself. If you are afraid, I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that the police are not here. Come out, I say!'

It was more in jest than in earnest that Major C, for he was a military man, shouted out the absurd speech, for, as we have said, he had begun to suspect that after all some practical joke was being adroitly carried on, such having more than once before been perpetrated, and he did not much like being victimised himself.

His astonishment, however, was great when, in reply, he heard a strange voice saying 'If you have kept your word, I will keep mine. Put out your light, for I've one, and then I'll come.'

The Major and his fellow directors did not much like putting out the light, but they were not cowards, and after some demur, it was done. Where the voice came from was, however, a mystery, for there were no hiding places in the room, every side being of thick, many plated iron and steel; the ceiling was also of the same material.

When the light was out they waited in silence, while the Major grasped firmly in one hand a revolver, and in the other held the lantern and a few matches. For a little while a low, grating sound was heard, and then a voice, evidently that of someone in the room, said; 'Are you three alone, sure?'

The Major, who cared for nothing in bodily forms, struck a match, and instantly a crash was heard, and a low, smothering laugh. When the match was lighted, nothing could be detected - no one was there. Again the Major called upon the mysterious somebody to come forth, and again a voice was heard saying, 'How can I trust you now.'

The Major was angry, and his companions alarmed, and after trying in vain to trace the point whence the voice proceeded, he exclaimed: 'Well, we'll put out the light again; only come quickly, and make an end to this bother.' So saying, he put out the light again.

A moment or two after, the same grating sound was heard, then the falling of some heavy body, and the next instant a man was visible standing in the middle of the vault with a dark lantern in his hand. Of course he had come from somewhere, but the puzzle was - how? A ghost could not have entered more mysteriously.

The man soon spoke for himself; and the directors, who were a little at a loss to explain his presence there, listened in astonishment. It appeared that he was a poor man, and obtained a precarious living in a strange way. When the tide was low, it is the custom of a certain class of people, unknown to refined society, to enter the sewers to search for any articles of value which may have been washed down into them. It is a very dangerous task, and, of course, revolting in the extreme, but they not infrequently find very precious things hidden in the filth. This man was one of those strange adventurers.

One night he discovered an opening leading to some place above. There was a large square stone, which he found could be easily raised. He listened for some time, and, finding all was silent, lifted up the stone without much difficulty, and found, after some little investigation by the light of his lantern, that he was in the strong room of the bank.

These men, like miners, can readily determine the exact spot of ground under which they are; and he soon had a clue to the whole mystery. He told his wife, who was a woman of superior education to his own, of the whole affair; and then she wrote, as we have seen, to the directors.

Down in the sewer he was able to hear all their movements as well as above ground, and thus was not only able to know their plans, but to frustrate them, and of course could watch his time to remove the small but valuable box, to leave the letters on the table, and to appear so mysteriously.

No one had thought of looking to the stone pavement, which was supposed to be solid and immovable, as it was known that there were no vaults below, although the iron walls and doors had been carefully tested. The mystery was now cleared up, and the man was well rewarded."

So there it is, the Bank of England mystery. If this all sounds rather familiar, you would be right, in the August of 1891 Strand Magazine published The Red Headed League by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

In a nutshell, this story is about a red headed shopkeeper who is chosen from many other red headed men to copy out the Encyclopedia Brittanica for a tidy sum. While he is thus engaged his new (and a bit dodgy) shop assistant is busy tunnelling from the shop cellar to a nearby bank vault, where there is a huge deposit of gold to be had.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson get involved and the whole case is brought to a climactic close in the bank vault.

Two months later we have a rather similar story, albeit concerning an honest man with good intentions. Jon Smiff, I declare, is a story made up by "an enterprising journalist" (as the police said of the Dear Boss letter during the Ripper murders of 1888) who had read and was inspired by The Red Headed League.

Prowling Penciller And The Pipe Of Peace - or - Oh Oh Oh Opium.

The date is the 30th September 1893, the newspaper is The Illustrated Police Budget, and this rather jocular tale is both an educational soujon and a warning of the dangers of the opium den. It came at a time when there was a Royal Commission on Opium looking into its usage and effects. I transcribe this story verbatim from the original with all it's outdated vernacular, please bear that in mind.

"Did you ever try opium, Prowler?" said the boss to me the other day, as I strolled jauntily into the office. I was horror stricken. "Heavens!" I replied, "I am addicted to many small vices, but -------"

"Never mind your small vices," returned the great and mighty; "I asked you a simple question, and I want a straightforward answer." "Then," I remarked, in that weak tone which always characterises my interviews with the superior creature, "I can safely say that the noxious drug is beyond my ken."

"I thought so. Your truculence has shown it, and you must bring a soothing influence to bear upon your future conduct." He spoke in that masterful way of his, which I have always attempted to resent, I being one of "the heirs of all the ages in the foremost, files of Time," and he being merely the instrument through which these precious reminiscences are given to the public.

"Look here!" I exclaimed. He looked, and then the heir subsided. A slight cough followed, and he knew that he had conquered the rebellious spirit. "Prowler, " he resumed, "do you know that the Opium Commission has been sitting?" " I presume it is not a standing committee," I replied, looking at him with a sickly smile. He cast upon me a withering glance, and I immediately searched for my hat.

"Prowler, I have had some experience of your jokes," he said; "but you must not attempt to play them off upon me. Keep them, sir, for a comic paper; the editor may have more mercy upon you than I have." 

"Alas!" I observed, with a sigh, "he may, indeed." The glance he gave me was unutterable, and I actually trembled.

"The business I have now in store for you," said the boss, as he flung himself back in his chair and looked at his fingertips, "may be fraught with some difficulty; but I know, Prowler, that difficulties only present themselves to you for the purpose of being overcome. Now, I asked you the question 'Have you ever tried opium?'"

"Never, guv'nor, never!" I answered.

"Then you must. That's all."

"Sir," I began, looking extremely serious, "the opium eater is one of the vilest specimens of humanity, and surely you do not wish me to emulate such a being."

"Prowler, dear boy, you must not speak to me in that way. You are evidently labouring under some wild delusion regarding the victim of the opium habit. You must read the reports of the Opium Commission, and find what some of the doctors say. The question of the moment seems to be, 'Is the use of the poppy injurious or is it not?' Now, you must go and settle the matter as far as your observation can penetrate."

"It is a weighty order," I replied; "but as I know the alternative, I shall do my best."

"Prowler, you are invaluable!"

He grasped my hand, and any wavering I might previously have experienced vanished in a moment. The grasp of a boss cures tremor. I went downstairs with that elation in my soul which makes a surrounding of roses. My mission was clear before me, and the bus or rail was the means of accomplishment. I chose the former.

"Blackwall!" shouted the gentleman who superintends the arrangement on board the vessel of the highway. 

"Right you are!" I responded, and immediately took a berth.

There probably is not a more dreary ride in the metropolis than that between Bank and Limehouse. No building that you pass is connected with anything which inspires the soul with the grander and more ennobling feelings of humanity. All is sordid - sordid as was the errand upon which I was bound.

I had been directed to Limehouse by a friend who had once been on the same prowl, and said he knew all about it. When I reached the fine old church, which stands on the right, and looms large over that riparian locality, I descended from my perch on the bus and began to look around. Up to that moment I had made no special agreement with myself as to what plan I should pursue to find any particular den wherein the Indian drug was consumed.

So I did exactly what ninety nine men out of a hundred would have done under the circumstances. I "asked a p'liceman." He was a very fine and large specimen of the fraternity, but alas! he could give me no information.

"Don't know nothin' about 'em," he said, with a magnificent down east accent. "There ain't none on my beat, nohow."

"But surely you must have heard of these places?" I urged.

"No, never 'eard nothin', not a word."

This gentleman of negatives slightly disconcerted me. Had I left my beloved Fleet Street on a wild goose chase? Surely not.

London Street, Limehouse - Joseph Pennell 1899

"Do you think they could give me any information at the police station?" I asked.

"Don't know, I'm sure."

"Where is the police station?"

"Go up the street there, and you'll see the blue lamp."

This was something definite at last, so I had to be satisfied with the hope that I might glean an intelligible answer from the inspector on duty.

I found him a very civil fellow indeed; but no, he was very sorry, they had no opium dens in that locality at all events. "But 'Edwin Drood,' and the Strand Magazine, and all that sort of thing, can't be wrong," I said. "Such places must exist."

"I have no doubt they do," was the reply; "but I have no knowledge of them." Here was a decided check. Still I was not to be baffled. The vision of my irate boss sprang up before me, and I went at it again.

"Have you any idea where I should go to gain the information I want? Here is my card, and you can see that it is not for the purpose of indulging in the narcotic that I wish to find out the spot."

"Oh, I can understand that very well, sir, but I can tell you nothing for certain. If you went nearer to the docks, where some of the large ocean vessels are, you might probably stand a chance of learning something amongst the Chinese and Lascars."

"Ah, very good!" I replied. "That's is precisely the point that I wish to get at."

He gave me some directions, and I set out on a further voyage of discovery, till I arrived at a villainously low public house which I thought likely to answer my purpose. There was a slatternly barmaid inside, and on my making enquiries she was quite willing to let me know all that I required.

"Oh yes," she said, "we often have visitors like you come round and ask us questions about the opium dens. If John was here he would tell you all about the places, and take you with him for a trifle."

"Bless you," I returned, "John is the very gentleman I want to find. Can you inform me where I am likely to light on him."

"He generally comes in about this time. These three are waiting for him now."

She pointed at some individuals in the next compartment, and I craned my neck round the partition and saw that they were Celestials.

They were evidently of the lowest class of Chinese coolies, and by their dirty appearance could not have been long out of the stokehole of some eastern liner. Their high cheekbones seemed ready to burst through their skin, so thin and emaciated they were, while their almond shaped eyes were the merest slits in the face.

They wore the coarse cotton blouses of their race, with little round caps, and were altogether the most unprepossessing like creatures one would care to meet.

"What sort of a man is John?" I asked of the barmaid.

"He's a Chinaman like the rest, only he doesn't dress quite the same way."

"A little more civilised, I suppose?"

"Well, I don't know much about that, sir, some of the people that come to see him are civilised enough; but here his is to answer for himself."

As she spoke, a short, shrivelled up old chap came in, wearing a thick woolen comforter round his neck and a long overcoat. Although he had a pigtail like the others, he had allowed the rest of his hair to grow to the orthodox English length, and this crop of coarse stubble was surmounted by a cap of the coster fashion.

"Good evening John," I said; "will you join me in a drop of something to drink?"

He winked slyly, and expanded his wide mouth in a grin of the largest dimensions I had ever seen.

"Me belly glad," he returned.

Asking him what his peculiar weakness was, I was slightly astonished at his confessing a partiality for port wine. Knowing the Oriental objection to intoxicating beverages, I had thought that the fermented juice of the grape would not have met with his approval; but I was to discover many strange things that night.

When John had interviewed his three customers he came back to me, and offered to take me to his house. It was not far to the scene of luxury where the delights of opium smoking are indulged in; but I would advise no one to attempt to reach it without a guide. Down an archway, and through a small court reeking with the odours of indescribable garbage, and out again into a little square of old two story houses, which were all in a state verging upon ruin.

At the corner was a dingy wooden hovel which John claimed as his own, and towards which he directed his footsteps, followed by your humble servant and the three Celestials. At the door the proprietor called for a light, and it was much needed, for the passage beyond was black as the entrance to the nether regions.

A youngish woman, very thin and pale, with her hair done up in a dishevelled knot at the back of her head, made a response to the call, carrying a common tin oil lamp. This was Mrs John, as I afterwards discovered, and an Englishwoman. How she had entered into the bonds of wedlock with this queer looking specimen of humanity whom she called husband there was no means of learning, and I did not care to pry too deeply into their domestic affairs.

She did not seem in the least surprised at seeing a visitor in the garb of civilisation; but politely asked me to walk up. The stairs were very rickety; but I managed to clamber up them with safety, and came in full view of the master's establishment.

It was an extremely mean and miserable little room. The fireplace was narrow and the ashes of many days had accumulated underneath. There was no fender. In the centre of the place a round table stood upon three legs, and on either side of the fire was a common wooden chair. The most conspicuous article of furniture was a large old fashioned, four poster bedstead, on which the bed was arranged according to the Chinese fashion.

It was rolled up like a huge bolster all along the length of the bedstead, leaving the mattress bare except for a large grass mat. The bed hangings were of some light gauzy stuff, but dirty, like everything else in the room, and hitched up at intervals on bare nails. A few tawdry, highly coloured pictures decorated the walls, and contrasted grimly with the blackened paper upon which they hung. The ceiling was as black as the walls, and just over the window there had been a fall of plaster, showing the laths behind, through which the rain had at some period percolated and run down, leaving long streaks upon the sides of the room.

The preparations for enjoying the luxury of opium smoking were now entered upon by John; and I awaited the result with great interest.

John is supposed to be the most expert preparer of opium in the whole of the western hemisphere, so far as Europe is distinct from Asia, and has had many visits from alummans of high degree to witness the method of making the drug ready. This is the most interesting portion of the whole.

The implements required are a small lamp with a shade over it, and a hole bodkin or picker, sharp at one end, and with the other flat, and last, but not least, the pipe itself. The point of the bodkin is first dipped into a small pot or bowl containing a black, treacly looking substance, and twirled rapidly round between the finger and thumb.Naturally a small portion of the substance adheres to the dipper, and this is transferred immediately to the lamp, and passed about in the flame till it is sufficiently hardened. After that the operation is repeated, another coating of the opium being placed upon the surface of the first adhering drop, and so on until the little lump has grown to the size of a marrow fat pea.

Now comes the excitement, if it may be called so.

The smoker mounts the bed with his back and head against the rolled up portion, and his lower extremities stretched out on the mattress. He takes the pipe in his hand, and lies there all anticipatory of the pleasures to come.

The pipe itself is not an enticing implement. It suggests an intoxication of music rather than of anything more detrimental to the human system. In fact, it is simply a flute like bit of bamboo about eighteen inches to a couple of feet in length, with a bowl fixed into it some two or three inches from the end. There is no mouthpiece whatsoever, the smoker taking the whole tip of the reed into his mouth. The top of the bowl is flat, with a small orifice in the centre.

The inhalation of the drug is commenced with the transference of the pellet of opium to the little receptacle in the bowl of the pipe. This requires some dexterity, but John is an adept of many years' practice, and he never misses the exact point. From the flame to the pipe is but a short distance, and when the small lump has been cooked to the requisite turn, he nips it into the holder with the eye of an expert. He then reverses the end of the dipper and presses it upon the pipe, forcing it well down.

The smoker was now the object of my strict attention.

With the bowl of the pipe held over the flame of the lamp, he slowly drew in a long, deep breath. The veins of his forehead soon began to swell, and the dull, leaden pallor of his face gave place to a brighter tint. The heavy eyes emitted a gleam, and the nostrils expanded.

One inhalation and the smoke was swallowed, being afterwards sent forth in a tiny stream from both mouth and nose, though the smoker tried to retain as much of it as possible. The second and third inhalation followed, and then the form became more flaccid, the eyes drooped and the breathing was slow, but regular.

The fourth and fifth draws of the pipe seemed scarcely so powerful, and when the last was finished the man arose, handed over the pipe, and paid some money, to the expectant John.

"Where do they live when they're ashore?" I asked of Mrs John, referring to the smokers.

"Mostly at the Asiatic Home," she replied, "but some of them live on board the vessels where they are employed, seldom come ashore at all."

"And does your husband do a great trade?"

John heard my question, and looked up with that smile which was anything but "childlike and bland."

It was a low, cunning, wicked leer, which I have seldom seen on a Chinese visage; but which was marvelously portrayed upon the face of the opium cook.

"Me do belly well - sometime," he said.

"How many customers might you have a day, on an average?" I enquired, for I was anxious to get all the information possible, to satisfy the capacious maw of my omnivorous boss.

"Oh, they come very thick at times," answered the lady. "It all depends on the vessels."

"But do you have no regular customers?"

"Oh, yes, we have some."

"Any English?"

She glanced at me with a quick, penetrating glint of the eye, and then, turning to her husband, coughed slightly.

John understood the signal, and shrugged his shoulders.

I saw what that meant. My questioning had gone far enough. There but one way to open a Chinese heart and mouth, if the possessor wishes to keep them closed, and I guessed that way in once. The rapid transfer of a comparatively large silver disc from my pocket to that of my friend John acted like magic.

"Yes," he said, "me hab some Engliss."

I had expected this answer, though I was not altogether sure.

"Where do they come from?" I enquired of the wife.

"I'm sure I can't tell you that," she replied. "Some of them appear to be very wealthy, others are just as poor."

"Any females amongst them?"

Again she gave me that sharp look, but answered for herself.

"They are mostly ladies."

This was a bit of information I did not anticipate.

"Ladies?" I echoed.

"Yes, real ladies. They come in carriages, which they leave at a little distance, and then slip down here quietly."

"But are they dressed as ladies?"

"Oh no! They have generally old dresses on, with a cloak or waterproof over them; but that doesn't deceive me. Don't I John?"

The den keeper, who was preparing another pipe, looked over his shoulder and nodded.

"But how on earth could they have found this place out?" I asked in astonishment. "I'm sure I couldn't get in here again without a guide."

"I don't know," she replied. "I suppose one brought another, and so on."

"Me know all about it," interposed the husband. "Man fust bought 'nudda flend. Now come one, two, the, fo', five - none mo'."

"Then you have only five lady customers," I said.

"Only five real ladies," Mrs John replied, "but we have several other women."

"Of what class?"

"Women who have been in India or China. I believe the ladies have been in the east, but I never ask them."

This was all a revelation to me, and I must confess I hardly believed it; but the serious manner of the woman, who spoke of the things as a matter of course, went far towards convincing me.

"And do they come into this room, and smoke that pipe?" I asked, pointing at the blackened bamboo tube, which was now being sucked at by another of the Orientals.

"No," she replied, "we have another room downstairs in'o which we take our better class of customers. There is another pipe there, too; but though it looks better, it's not nearly so good as this one."

"Ah! I see! It improves by seasoning, like a tobacco pipe."

"Just so. The older the pipe, the better the stronger smokers like it."

"Then there are different degrees of smokers?"

"Oh, yes, There are fourpenny smokers, and any price up to half a crown."

"But I suppose those who can afford it give you a good price?"

John looked up at this, with that imp like expression which he sometimes assumed.

"Me belly poo'. Good people gib me good monee."

"So they ought," I returned, not wishing to pursue the subject too closely, lest I might give offence. "Your best customers, I suppose, are eastern gentlemen?" I resumed.

"No, I don't think they are," said the woman. "You see, there are some people who can prepare their own gum, and there are others belonging to embassies, and such like, who have servants who can do it; but there's not one of them equal to John."

There was a touch of pride in the way she spoke of her husband, and an affectionate look upon her wan face, which showed me that somehow or other this strange creature had a warm heart for the man she had wedded, if wedded she was, according to English ideas.

I had a notion, mistaken as it seemed, that the opium smoker always lay at the scene of his debauch to dream away the effects of it; but two men had by this time gone, and John was preparing the pipe for the last.

"How is it," I asked, "that the people go away immediately after they have finished their pipe and cigarette? (I omitted to mention that each smoke was wound up by a neatly rolled cigarette of light tobacco, which John deftly twirled between his not over clean fingers, and sealed with his own saliva.)

"The long smokers always remain," said the lady. "These people are poor, and cannot afford to pay for a long smoke."

"And the ladies and gentlemen, do they ever remain?"

"The ladies never do, but the gentlemen almost always stay in the room downstairs. You see, it takes some time for the full effect to come on."

"Would you mind showing me the other room?" I asked, in my most insinuating manner.

It was to no avail, however.

"I am very sorry I can't, sir. It's against the rules."

"Ah! There is somebody there perhaps?"

She nodded, and I didn't press the matter, though I would have given worlds to have had a glimpse into the place, and to have seen what manner of man was there.

The third and last customer having now taken his departure, I resolved to try a whiff myself. It was with much diffidence that I made the proposal, not because of my native modesty, which by this time ought to be perfectly patent to the readers of the Illustrated Police Budget; but because I feared the result of such an experiment.

"Would it be taxing your generosity to a very great extent," I said, addressing myself to Mrs John, "to ask you if I might be permitted to try the influence of the seductive poppy?"

"I knew you would ask for that," she replied, with her sad smile. "Everybody who comes as a visitor does so, and it would be out of reason if you didn't."

"Will you grant the favour in my case?" I asked in my most fetching way.

"You'd better not have it," she said; "you won't like it, and it might make you ill."

"Never mind," I urged. "I really wish to test the effects, and will be very greatly disappointed if I have to go away without."

"John," she called down the stairs, for the opium chef had disappeared.

In a few minutes, during which Mrs Chang, as her name turned out to be, tried her hardest to dissuade me from the attempt, the husband again presented himself.

"The gentleman wishes to try a smoke, John. What do you think?" said his wife.

"Me makee little smoke," replied the Chinaman. "No good - no good," he added, shaking his head.

"I suppose you take one yourself, though occasionally?"

"Um, yes. No good first time."

"All right, I don't care. I must have a try. Go on with your pill."

I then took my place upon the mattress in the approved form, just as I had seen the others do, and the lady handed me the pipe. He went to work roasting his gum in the flame as he had previously done, but he was under the impression that one thickness of the stuff would be sufficient for me, although I tried hard to induce him to give me the full quantity.

Mrs John, however, seemed to be fully determined that I was to be stinted, and told her husband that he must on no account give me more than one dip. By and by the dose was ready and transferred to the pipe. I applied my lips to the tube, held the bowl in the flame of the lamp, and took a long pull.

The taste was not pleasant. There was an acrid flavour about the smoke, and the effort to swallow it nearly choked me. Both Mr and Mrs John watched me intently, and I felt their eyes upon me, though I kept my attention fixed on the pipe. A second inhalation was more easily accomplished; but it was succeeded by a feeling of nausea, which was sufficient to make me desist, without the rude snatch of the pipe which the woman made.

"You've had quite enough," she said, "and now you had better get down."

I rose from the bed with the uncomfortable sensation that I had committed an unpardonable offence. My head swam slightly, and it seemed to me as if I had been smoking too much tobacco out of a foul pipe.

I was rather shaky, but the spirit of enquiry was still upon me. "Now then, Mrs John," I said, "give me a story of something that has occured since you married John?"

Mrs John tried to blush as hard as she could through the parchment skin which covered her face. It was not a thorough success, but resulted in a kind of yellow glow which lit up her cheek bones, and tinted her lips with the hue of the Malta citron when it had been sucked.

"Mrs John," I said, "may I softly penetrate to the precincts below?"

"No, there is a lady there," she returned in low tones, for the master was near.

"I don't mind a quid if you'll do it," I whispered.

"Then wait till another customer comes in. I can't do it till then. But when I've to show you downstairs I can manage it."

I was overjoyed. The very thing I had longed for was about to be presented to me.

To be sure, my head was humming round as if I had a decent size top within it; but what cared I? I was about to be shown into the lower and innermost depths - the holy of holies, as it were, of the vile den where I was then immured.

"Do ladies," I asked, "ever have anyone to visit them here?"

She looked indignant. "You are labouring under some error, sir," she said, drawing herself well up to the height of her shrivelled little body; "this is not a house of that sort."

"I beg your pardon, madam," I returned. "I didn't mean anything rude. Only I had a fancy that under opium some little dreamy longing for ------"

"Little dreamy longings don't take place under opium, Mr Reporter, and I hope you don't come here in the expectation of finding them. John, this gentleman wants to go away."

I had offended the lady of the house, and my peep below was denied me forever.

"Takee cigarette," said John, offering me the little roll which he had manufactured in his usual fashion; but I declined with thanks.

"Here, have a slice of lemon," exclaimed the woman, cutting one up on a plate. "That will do you good."

It seemed an excellent suggestion, and I don't think I ever understood what a lemon was like till then.

The abominable taste of the opium was removed by its influence, and it relieved the sick feeling. I then handed John another trifle for this last particular favour, and gave the wife something to buy a present with. The man then accompanied me to the door; but at my request saw me clear of the court and down to the public house again.

"Does your wife smoke?" I asked as we walked along.

"Ah, yes. She smokee little bit."

"And have you any children?"

"No, no chillen," and John shook his head, rather sorrowfully, I thought.

The last question was put with a special design, for it is maintained by the enemies of the habit that opium smoking has a detrimental effect in the matter of families. However, that may be, but this I can safely say, that in my case the influence was anything but pleasant. It produced a sickening sensation, and a fullness of the temples, accompanied by a wavering in my walk, and a generally shaky condition of nerves and muscles, which I have no yearning to undergo again.

In brief, my opinion is that opium smoking in its initiatory stage is a vile fraud.