The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(63)
“Would your butler know if his eating habits were normal?” I said, turning to look at the elderly servant.
He eyed his mistress, but at a nod from her he said, “He ate a full plate of rashers and kippers yesterday morning.” His tone was icy and dry. “I cannot speak to his dinner, which he had out of the house. Likely it was something equally interesting, and well-pickled shortly after.”
“Thank you, Merton,” Miss Apligian said, standing up. “Now, if you will excuse me, Doctor?”
“There is one other thing, miss,” Merton said. “That is…”
“Out with it,” Miss Apligian snapped. “The sooner Dr Watson has all the information he needs, the sooner he is gone.”
“Yes, miss. I only just discovered it myself this morning and all the other news quite drove it out of my head, but young Victor had his things packed.”
“Packed, you say?” she said. “For a trip?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Well,” she said, “that is not so unusual. Harweather occasionally sent him with one of his other employees to the continent. It must be that.”
“Of course, miss. I’m sure that was it.”
“Thank you for your trouble,” I said. “You have my card if there is anything else that you think Holmes or I should know.”
“I have given you every information in order to be rid of you,” she said. “I should not be likely to call you back. In the event that Sherlock Holmes does find the culprit of this murder, which I consider unlikely, do not expect our thanks for it. Such a thing will hardly bring Victor back. The two of you might have better spent your time honestly, on the police force, patrolling the streets as they do, and so prevent a crime rather than merely benefiting from it!”
There was little else I could discover here under such a hostile and intolerant countenance, so I rose and made ready to depart. Merton gracelessly handed over my coat and hat. I tried not to look suspicious putting on such heavy attire during a warm and sunlit day, but I needn’t have concerned myself. They hardly paid me any attention as I left.
Chapter 13
RANDALL THORNE
North Hill Street is a busy thoroughfare, and already the pavement was choked with clerks and the like on their way to work. The torpor of the sunlit hours lay heavier on me than I expected, and I was eager to get back to the cool haven of my room in Baker Street before the sun climbed much higher. The weather was unseasonably clear and underneath the heavy burden of the sun, even with a coat and hat to avoid any direct contact, I felt exhaustion infuse my every step. Nor could I locate a cab, peering moleishly as I was through the sun’s glare. I’d been too long a creature of the dark spaces between dusk and dawn and had foolishly underestimated the danger that daylight presented to those with my affliction. I crept along, keeping my hat brim low and my gaze down. Always before I’d gone out in the company of Holmes, who stood ready to prevent precisely the predicament that I was in now.
Once, I flinched as a passer-by in the busy thoroughfare bumped into me and the glare of the sun off the street and buildings around me was like peering into a fully-stoked oven. Looking up was a blinding exercise in futility, revealing nothing but a burning haze. I had to get out of the street. The darkened doorway from the alehouse beckoned. I told myself that this was, likely as not, the same alehouse that Victor Apligian frequented. Holmes had often expounded on the virtues of such places as fonts of information. I pushed my way into the dim, cool interior with great relief.
The place, even in the morning, was already filled with a smattering of customers, the lowest dregs of the street that sought ale as soon as they recovered from the previous night’s over indulgence. It was not a savoury crowd. Several narrow gazes picked out my well-made coat and stick, not overly welcoming. I walked unsteadily in the sudden silence to one of the empty tables. My lack of stability may well have worked in my favour. Certainly in their eyes, I was there for the same hair of the dog that they were, so at least I was of a kindred spirit, if disparate in class. The smell of the place was overpowering, stale beer and staler sweat, but at least it was out from underneath the pitiless glare of the sun.
The barkeep, a sour-looking and sour-smelling overweight man with a ginger beard, set a heavy wooden mug in front of me without speaking. Just tipping the glass enough to wet my moustache nearly made me gag with the foul stuff. It smelled nearly as bad as the man who served it, and with the same unsavoury character. He might have bathed in it. Still, I managed to put a little beer down my gullet and set the mug down without allowing my hands to shake overmuch. I nodded at him and took another draw.
The man guffawed, a reaction echoed by several of the patrons around me, but this seemed to be the reaction everyone had expected of me. I seemed to have passed some sort of unspoken test, and thereafter everyone ignored me. I sat in the welcome gloom unmolested, slowly marshalling my strength against another foray into the street.
The door opened again, and another patron stepped in. The murmur of the room, which had swelled after I’d taken my seat, now diminished again. If anything, this man was more out of place in this establishment than I was.
The newcomer was tall, with dark, hooded eyes, a sun-burnt face and a great hook nose that did not quite detract from his otherwise handsome appearance. He wore a rugged brown suit cut in the American style underneath a tan duster, and all of it topped with a ten-gallon black hat. He seemed the very figure of a penny dreadful novel, but whether he might be cast as hero or villain was any man’s guess.