Séance for a Vampire, Fred Saberhagen [win 10 ebook reader txt] 📗

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 inconsiderately 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 distinct 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.

Fourteen

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 awaiting 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