The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

southwest. In my estimation the best hidden of my caches deposited in 1891 lay beneath the floor of a disused stable, behind a house in Bermondsey.

   Even in bat-form, I could still feel the back of my head throbbing from that accursed bludgeon-blow. Whose arm had held the wood that struck it? Whilst flying over the river I could not help but look for one particular large rowboat among the myriad craft that lined the wharves; but of course any such search would have been hopeless, even without the heavy, swirling London fog which grew but deeper and chiller as the night wore on.

   Nor could I guess which of the shrouded buildings was the one in which I had been held a prisoner—I only knew it must be somewhere near the water. Nor had I any idea where to begin a search for the blond, arrogant young doctor, whose nameless face burned in my memory. Nor for Matthews, nor for the “other lads” who served the same infamous cause, whatever it might be. Perhaps, I mused, I would have to begin by tracking down the shadowy Barley, who “ ’ad ’opes” of being able to furnish the evildoers with something that they needed—before June 22, which date meant nothing to me.

   There was of course another associate of the plotters whose name and face had been left in my possession. Sally, though a dweller in the abyss of poverty and crime, had suffered torture and risked death in trying to set me free, and thereby had established a claim upon my honor as great as any the greatest and most lovely queen on earth could ever have created. Now I should never be able to go peaceably about my own affairs until I had avenged Sal’s injuries as well as my own, and had done all I could to see her through the whole affair in safety. The recent incident on the pier had gone some way toward accomplishing these goals; it had been, however, no more than a good beginning. But before planning the satisfaction of honor, I must first make sure of my own survival.

   Whilst crossing the river I remarked to myself upon the changes that had in six short years so altered London’s face. There was of course the continuing proliferation of electric lights. And there were the two newly complete bridges, Lambeth and Tower. Stretched across one of these was a vast banner:

VR 1837                                         1897 VR

The love of all thy sons encompass thee

The love of all thy daughters cherish thee

The love of all thy people comfort thee

   Of course, VR, Victoria Regina, ’37 to ’97—the grand old queen had reigned for sixty years, and her people who had grown to love her held Jubilee again as in ’87…I remembered reading about that, in preparation for my first visit.

   London’s vast murmuring voice, now muted by the lateness of the hour and by the fog, but never really stilled by day or night, rose to greet me as I descended to the south bank. The roof-slates of Bermondsey were soon beneath my leathery wings, and I had no difficulty in finding Leathermarket Street.

   To my consternation it was soon apparent that change had struck closer to home, for me, than Tower Bridge. The house and grounds which had so admirably suited me in 1891 had obviously passed since then to different ownership. The occupants I recalled were an elderly, moribund couple, unshakably settled into routine, and far too dim of sense to pay the least attention to my comings and goings by day or night. But the place was now inhabited—I should perhaps say garrisoned—by a vast and evidently insomniac family, who had a snoring reserve quartered in every upstairs bedroom, whilst even now, long past midnight, their main body held noisy carousal on the main floor.

   In the face of this bedlam I did not even land, but flew away again without bothering to try the stable, from whence sounded not only the snorts of restive horses, but the half-smothered laughter of some lickerish kitchen wench. I considered that I still had strength enough to fly on to my next cache, in Mile End, and, if conditions there should somehow prove even more inhospitable, fly back again. Or I might try Carfax, the estate I had so briefly occupied in 1891, whose large, wild grounds I thought must still hold hospitable soil. That was in Purfleet, a suburb to the north…

   The tide was turning now, making my passage over running water smooth and easy. North of the river again, I found to my relief that in a poorer neighborhood change had been less. The tiny Mile End churchyard that I sought was to all appearances unaltered. Six years previous, by what stratagems and strivings I need not relate here, I had interred in this place a coffin-sized box half-filled with my own rich imported graveyard earth; I had trusted that here it would remain hidden, one alien leaf in the midst of an English forest.

   My trust was justified. Wraith-like I now melted into the ground, found the box just where I had buried it, and inside it resumed man-shape. My body rested—rested, ah!—upon the soft soil of my homeland. A blessed peace bathed my tormented limbs, and awareness faded utterly from my exhausted brain.

CHAPTER EIGHT

   Lestrade, Peter Moore, and I were still standing around the oilcloth bag, and the surprise with which we gazed at its contents and at each other was still fresh, when a ring at the bell was followed by the delivery of a telegram. The message was from Holmes himself, addressed to me:

AM ON A FRESH TRAIL. WILL TRY TO RETURN TONIGHT, BUT NO CAUSE FOR CONCERN IF I DO NOT. SH.

   Even as I finished reading this aloud, the inspector voiced his suddenly