I knew that Cousin Sherlock was at least considering encouraging another séance in Norberton House—tonight seemed out of the question, but perhaps on the following night—and in any kind of planning long-range enough to reach hours or days into the future, I had learned to defer to my breathing cousin's genius. If our enemy should then attempt another intrusive haunting, it would at least bring him within our reach, as well as allow us to make contact directly with Louisa Altamont.
Sarah, as her kindly benefactors informed me, was currently resting in the garden—the Altamonts mentioned in passing that the poor girl had developed, in the past two days, a great longing for the sunlight.
And so it was that in the formal garden of Norberton House, on that fading summer evening, I presently was introduced to Sarah Kirkaldy. She was sitting in a chair on the lawn beside a quiet terrace—on the other side of the house, let me hasten to add, from the terrace whose flagstones still bore some faint stain of her brother's blood.
Mrs. Altamont conducted me to her, and spoke in a hushed voice. "Dear, this is Mr. Prince, a friend of Martin's, come from London. He has some experience in these matters, and has kindly offered to see if there is anything he might do."
Sarah was garbed all in black, forming an odd contrast with the liberated plumage of her hostess. She put down her book (a trashy novel, I was glad to see) and arose from her lawn chair with something of alarm in her expression. I suppose she must have been thinking that almost the last thing she needed at that point was another psychic swindler on the scene—or worse, another genuine terror like Mr. Gregory, whose existence she had not yet dared reveal to anyone.
Mr. Prince, who even in 1903 enjoyed four centuries' experience in the craft of soothing nervous maidens, did his best to put this one at her ease. Speaking gently and diplomatically, pressing Sarah's offered hand, I was soon able to calm her, and to begin to allay her fears. When, after another quarter of an hour, the two of us were left alone upon the terrace, I (having found for myself a chair in the deepest shade) began an effort to persuade her to tell me of what must have been some terrifying contacts with the rogue vampire who had slain her brother.
"Miss Kirkaldy, you have my most sincere sympathy in the loss of your brother."
"Thank you, sir."
"I think he need not have died, and I have hopes that his killer will not remain beyond the reach of justice." Here I paused, waiting for some comment that did not come. "Do you know—when you insist that the drowned girl, Louisa Altamont, genuinely appeared at your séance—I am inclined to believe you."
Sarah stared at me. I had been presented to her as a psychic, and to her stubborn skepticism, that meant I was a fake—or would have meant that a few days earlier. No doubt her encounter, or encounters, with the vampire who was Louisa's rapist and Abraham's slayer had done something to shake her materialist faith.
Meanwhile Mr. Prince talked on. "What the world calls death is not always the true death, is it, Sarah? Ah, I really believe that you do not yet understand."
"Sir?"
"Please, Sarah? May I presume upon our short acquaintance to ask a favor?"
"Sir?"
"The favor is just this: My Christian name is Arthur. Will you use it when you speak to me? Somehow, as you must have noticed, I have already fallen into using yours." Pause. "For this, I make no apology."
She looked at me long, with the dappling of the day's last sunlight and leaf-shadow on her attractive face. I was distracted by the tiny pulsing, so gentle a movement as to be scarcely visible, of a soft blue vein beneath the tawny skin of her soft throat. Remember, I warned myself sternly, that you are here on business.
"Arthur," she said at last.
"Yes, that is much better. Whom do you fear, Sarah?"
"Fear?"
We sparred over that question for a little while, and then I let it drop; it was not going to be quickly or directly answered.
Sarah, perhaps mainly to distract me from any line of conversation that might lead to the man she feared, began to complain about how roughly and inconsiderably she had been questioned by Inspector Merivale.
I sympathized, listened to examples of the questions asked by the man from Scotland Yard, and managed to get answers to one or two of them where Merivale had failed.
I could picture him, towering and official, stroking his little mustache, trying to be kind and efficient at the same time. He'd demanded of Sarah: "Now, Miss. We have testimony that at your sitting, on the night Mr. Holmes was carried off, there came into the house somehow a young woman, dressed in white—"
"I told him 'twas Louisa Altamont."
"And what do you really believe? You can tell me, Sarah."
"I dinna ken nae mair. I dinna ken what t' think. I thocht Louisa Altamont had been dead for three weeks."
"Come on! Tell the truth!"
"Inspector Merivale, I dinna control what happens when we ha'e a sittin'."
And the official questioning had made little if any headway.
Our afternoon trailed on toward dusk. I was doing somewhat better than the inspector had done.
And Madeline Altamont, looking out through breeze-blown curtains at the quiet young couple in the gathering twilight, and much more observant than her husband in certain human ways, had noticed that Mr. Prince bore a distant resemblance to Sherlock Holmes.
In fact dear Madeline had even begun to suspect that their new psychic consultant was Holmes's illegitimate son, but for the time being she kept this suspicion to herself.
14
In our telephoning and in other matters we had taken such precautions as seemed reasonable to prevent the fact of Holmes's rescue being revealed prematurely to the general public. By this means we hoped to keep our chief enemy also in the dark regarding the true state of affairs, and to avoid such difficulties as would inevitably be caused by journalists swarming round. Still, we realized that it would be extremely difficult to preserve the secret for many hours or days, unless Holmes were to remain in hiding, or adopt some disguise. Neither alternative seemed attractive. Despite our desire for secrecy, we had felt it our duty, before there was any question of a general announcement, to notify Inspector Merivale at least that Holmes was safe. We did so promptly, and Merivale then quietly called off the official search.
Merivale, having absented himself for a while on other business, returned at dusk to our rooms in the Saracen's Head; this was rather awkward, as at the time Holmes and I were only waiting for Dracula and Martin Armstrong to come back from Norberton House before we launched our clandestine operation to open the tomb of Louisa Altamont. This time it was obvious from the inspector's expression, even before we heard his report, that the official investigation was not going well. No convincing motive for the murder of Abraham Kirkaldy could be attributed to any of the people known to have been at the séance. No suitable weapon could be located; whatever object had been used (something much harder, sharper, and heavier than a human hand) must have acquired bloodstains. The reports of witnesses, including my own, were confused and contradictory regarding the presence, at the time of the murder, of another outsider besides the mysterious girl or woman in white. Some who had attended the séance had seen nothing of the kind, while others, including myself, were absolutely certain that at least one additional intruder had been present on the terrace.
In this state of general uncertainty, Merivale had succeeded in getting the official inquest postponed for a few more days.
My own version of events, as I now repeated it once more for the inspector, was simple, even though possibly hard to believe. It was also substantially, if not totally, truthful. I gave it as my impression that one or more unknown trespassers had invaded the séance and that they were responsible for the violence; but I had seen only vague shapes and could give no description of them. To make amends, in a sense, for this unsatisfactory evidence, I was able to hand the inspector the missing jewels which Mr. Prince in my presence had recovered from the cemetery.
> Holmes was now able to offer the police some corroboration of my evidence. He stated that he was able to give no real description of his abductors—he allowed the implication to stand that there had been more than one. As far as he was concerned, they remained shadowy figures, impossible to identify.
My friend then told the inspector a convincing tale— similar to my own evidence in being true in its essentials, though incomplete—of being questioned in the dark woods and then imprisoned in the hidden crypt under the abandoned chapel.
Merivale marveled at all this, as well he might, but could not very well dispute any of it. He naturally expressed a wish to see the abandoned chapel, and announced his plan of visiting it when daylight came.
"Must be a gang, by the look of it," said the Scotland Yard man reluctantly, still marveling at Holmes's story even before he had a chance to see the slab. "And the girl, Mr. Holmes? What about Louisa Altamont? Is she still alive or isn't she?" The question had the sound of a fervent plea for help.
Holmes slowly shook his head. "In my opinion, Inspector, there is nothing to be gained by searching for a living Louisa. It is a tragic business, but I fear that sooner or later, the family will have to reconcile themselves to the facts."
Merivale sighed. "As I thought, then. That's too bad. Would you have a word with young Armstrong, Mr. Holmes? I've tried, and Dr. Watson has tried, to convince him that his young lady's not coming back. Maybe if you..."
"I shall do what I can. I have already had a talk with Mr. Martin Armstrong."
"Excellent."
We had earlier received by telephone from Mycroft enough evidence to at least cast strong suspicion upon Count Kulakov. Holmes now suggested that the police begin to take an interest in the visiting Russian. At the same time, Holmes warned Merivale that the gentleman should be kept ignorant of the fact that the official police were interested in him.
"I strongly advise against making an arrest, or even bringing the man in for questioning. I doubt very much that you would find it possible to subject him to the penalties of the law."
"He enjoys diplomatic immunity, you mean?"
"Something of the sort."
Merivale seemed doubtful, but acquiesced and outlined a plan for assigning one or two good men to keep a watch round Norberton House at night.
"There's another matter to be considered," the inspector offered next. "We have to consider who played the part of the spook at both séances. The Altamonts continue to swear it was actually their daughter, materialized out of the world of spirits; and young Armstrong, too, believes it was really his fiancée, though he keeps the business on an earthly plane. If we must consider that impossible, can we rule out Sarah Kirkaldy herself as the mysterious ghost in white?"
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "It seems to me we can. There I believe we are on somewhat firmer ground. My associate, Mr. Prince, has already spoken with her."
Shortly after dark, Mr. Prince returned to the inn, having accomplished his assigned task of interviewing Sarah Kirkaldy. Dracula, looking younger and more energetic now that the sun was gone, appeared behind Inspector Merivale's back to signal me through one of the windows of our upstairs sitting room. I made some excuse and joined the prince in the adjoining room.
Dracula wanted to inform me, out of Merivale's hearing, that on his way back to the Saracen's Head he had detoured to the private cemetery. There he had managed to pick up another piece or two of the recently stolen jewelry, and had also found evidence that our chief enemy—Count Kulakov, if our suspicions were correct—had revisited the old chapel in our absence. This evidence took the form of rampant, raging vandalism—headstones and a decorative stone bench had been smashed and the pieces scattered about. In any case, we might as well give up all hope and pretense of keeping the secret of Holmes's survival.
While the inspector was still in our sitting room at the Saracen's Head, I was called downstairs to take another telephone communication from Mycroft in London. The chief news Mycroft offered was that no connection whatsoever could be traced between the Russian exile named Gregory Efimovitch, and Count Kulakov, or to anyone else in Buckinghamshire—"though perhaps there is one to that fellow Ulyanov I mentioned."
Even more dashing to our hopes for a solution, Mycroft's Gregory Efimovitch had been in jail in Liverpool for the past several months.
After returning to the inn, and there holding a brief private talk with Watson, I, Prince Dracula, enjoyed a short private chat with Inspector Merivale of Scotland Yard. Something about me had evidently interested the inspector when we were introduced. I could have wished that this second meeting might have taken place in more doubtful lighting, and under circumstances denying the inspector any chance to examine me closely or engage in prolonged conversation— but only the last of those conditions was fulfilled.
I had been introduced to Merivale, as I had been presented to Armstrong, to Rebecca Altamont, and to others, as Mr. Prince, one of the members of the small organization that the great detective had begun to put together in recent years—particularly since Watson had moved out of the Baker Street lodgings.
Merivale, as he talked to me now, appeared a little dubious about Mr. Prince—or would have been dubious had not Sherlock Holmes solemnly vouched for me.
On hearing that I had just come from Norberton House, the inspector naturally wanted to know whether I had spoken to Sarah Kirkaldy there, and if so, what I might have found out from her.
"Yes, I was privileged to talk to the bereaved girl—she is a sweet soul." Out of the corner of my eye I beheld Watson, who had just entered the room, staring at me. What had possessed me to make Mr. Prince such a cloying individual in the eyes of Scotland Yard, I really do not know. "Her brother's funeral is Saturday."
"Right, and I plan to be there. How about you, Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes, who had now come in as well, shook his head. "My plans are as yet uncertain."
Merivale was determined to interview the young woman yet again. I did my best to discourage him from the effort, without seeming to try to do so.
Despite my warnings to myself, I was already beginning to take a personal interest in Sarah. Ah, was ever woman in such humor wooed? Was ever woman in such humor won?
Richard the Third. Shakespeare. Remind me to tell you a story about him some day. I mean the poet, not the king. Though our careers did somewhat overlap (he died, I think, in 1485), I never met that monarch. I hear myself beginning to babble, but never mind. I told you at the start that certain aspects of this tale of séances tend to make me nervous—and we are getting closer to them.
Ah, that Edwardian summer! The delights of young love—no, of course I hardly qualified as young myself—but all the more delightful to my aging bones was the experience of youth, the gift of Sarah's warm young skin, and later her blood, and our shared laughter. Yes, during the following nights and days, I did that much for Sarah Kirkaldy: taught her how to begin to laugh again, gave her strong armament with which to face the fear and murder of the world. It was a vintage year in many ways.
In 1903, motorcars were becoming commonplace in Britain—where there were already more than eight thousand such machines—and in much of the United States, where that very summer, the Ford Motor Company was being organized and the Wright brothers were hard at work preparing for their first successful flight, eventually to take place on 17 December.
In Switzerland, twenty-four-year-old Albert Einstein, no doubt enjoying a feeling of security by reason of his newly attained degree in physics and his steady job at the Swiss patent office, was in the process of marrying a young lady he had met at the university in Zurich. And in all quarters of the globe, the aether was being frequently disturbed by experiments with wireless telegraphy, carried out by researchers of several nations.
While waiting in one of our rooms at the inn for Cousin Sherlock and Martin Armstrong to join us, so we could pay our nocturnal visit to the cemetery, Watson and I relaxed with separate newspapers. I had taken up a recent edi
tion of the Times of London and was pondering some of the articles. I think I even read a few of them aloud to Watson.
I reflected upon how much my understanding of the British had—as I thought—improved since my first visit to the islands some twelve years earlier (see The Dracula Tape), and yet how much I still found in their ways to marvel at.
The pages of today's edition alone offered much food for contemplation:
EGYPTIAN HALL—England's HOME OF MYSTERY. Established 30 years. Manager, Mr. J.N. Maskelyne...
I read no further under that heading, being already confronted with quite enough mystery.
CAUTION—A.S. LLOYD'S EUXESIS—for shaving without soap, water, or brush...
PERRY & CO.—ELECTRIC LIGHT FITTINGS
Money Spent on Education Is the Best of Investments—
LATEST INTELLIGENCE—THE SOMALILAND OPERATIONS. Prisoners and deserters state that a British force is at Galadi and that Mullah has moved from Bur to Gumburro with his footmen...
With regard to the above item, the modern reader may note that the more things change, et cetera...
At Bangor petty sessions yesterday Mr. Horace Plunkett was summoned for furiously driving a motorcar along Holyhead Road. Evidence was given by two solicitors that the motor car passed them at great speed and nearly upset their vehicle. They estimated its speed at 50 mph. A fine of 5£, with costs, was imposed.
The legal speed limit in Britain, I remembered, had recently been increased to 20 miles per hour.
Séance for a Vampire Page 17
