Séance for a Vampire Fred Saberhagen (most popular novels of all time TXT) 📖

When I had soothed Miss Altamont as best I could, and while I was endeavoring to persuade her to rest, I closed and put away the old book, set aside a partially burned candle, and picked up the broken pieces of a small mirror which were now littering Holmes’s chemical workbench.

“Have an accident?” my visitor asked abstractedly, observing my activities. She had arisen from her chair and was following me about the sitting room, unthinkingly, like a small child trailing a parent. “I’ve studied chemistry in school,” she added, with the irrelevance of a mind wandering in weariness.

I muttered some evasive comment. Truly I was concerned about the young lady’s welfare, for she looked little better than Armstrong, as if she might faint at any moment.

After persuading her to sit down again, I rang for Mrs. Hudson, who soon looked in. As I had hoped, she offered Miss Altamont the hospitality of her own rooms. She also sent billy, the young page, with a blanket and pillow for Armstrong, and for me some later editions of the newspapers, which were still making much of the story of Holmes’s disappearance. by this time other news had forced the story from the headlines, and now the supposed supernatural aspects of the matter were receiving somewhat less play.

With Martin Armstrong snoring comfortably on the sofa, in a manner which indicated he would be there for hours to come, Rebecca, obviously losing the struggle to keep her own eyes open, was soon persuaded to take advantage of Mrs. Hudson’s kind offer of hospitality, and avail herself of a few hours’ rest in our landlady’s rooms.

I had awakened from my own sleep at seven in the evening, and by now the long summer twilight was well advanced.

My energies had been somewhat restored by a few hours of uneasy slumber, and now by a second meal provided by Mrs. Hudson. Having already done all that I could do in the way of calling for specialized help,I resolved to return as soon as practical to Amberley, there to aid the search for Holmes in whatever way was possible. I thought it would be possible to catch a late train before midnight.

Once back in Amberley I intended, despite Ambrose Altamont’s warning, to arrange to see Sarah Kirkaldy, privately if at all possible, and question her. I had gathered before my return to London that she was not to be held at the local police station, but kept more or less under house arrest in her room at the Altamonts’.

Remembering that there was a telephone at Norberton House, I naturally thought of calling there before I boarded a train again, to discover whether there might be any fresh news of Holmes, or other developments in the case.

The voice of Ambrose Altamont, when I heard it on the other end of the line, sounded coolly sympathetic regarding the mysterious fate of Sherlock Holmes. but our former client was still intent on, if not obsessed by, the return of his daughter from the dead (as he saw the matter) through psychic materialization.

“I see now, Dr. Watson, that there are truly greater powers in heaven and earth than I had ever dreamed of.”

“Indeed?” I inquired sharply. “You have been given some fresh evidence of this?”

There was a crackling pause along the lines. “Of course–my daughter’s appearance at the séance. You were there and witnessed her return. What did you think I meant?”

“Sorry,” I murmured. “Perhaps I did not hear you clearly. You were saying?”

“Of course I pray that we will all see Mr. Holmes again, in this world. but I fear we ought not be surprised if we do not.” Altamont’s manner remained distinctly cool, and when I mentioned that I contemplated a quick return to Amberley he only grunted, issuing no invitation for me to return as a houseguest.

In turn I assured him–rather stiffly I suppose–that his younger daughter was safe, and presently in good hands. I thought I detected a kind of start on his part when he heard this, suggesting that he had not known, or had entirely forgotten, that Rebecca had gone to London.

Scarcely had I replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, when billy appeared, to announce a mysterious caller who was urgently and (I gathered) even abusively demanding to see Dr. Watson, alone. The young page reported indignantly that the man had declined with an oath when asked whether he would send up a card or any written note.

For some reason the name of the unknown Count Kulakov sprang immediately to mind, but my first glance at my latest visitor laid that theory to rest. The caller was a poorly dressed, rough-looking man, who at first displayed a smiling, nodding manner that appeared incongruously obsequious. Something about his clothing reminded me of Holmes’s description of the mysterious man who had watched us through the window at Simpson’s.

My uncouth visitor started visibly on catching sight of the recumbent figure of Martin Armstrong on the sofa. “Who’s that?” he demanded. The man spoke in a thick foreign accent, which I took to betray some origin in Eastern Europe.

“That’s none of your affair. If you have some business with me, you had better state it.”

He glared at the page. “When we are alone.”

I nodded to billy. When the boy had left us, the man, smiling and nodding again, said: “Your friend Mr. Holmes need your help. Even now he in great danger.”

A moment later, evidently seeing my suspicions plain upon my face, my mysterious caller took out of his pocket and handed over a worn briar pipe that I immediately recognized as belonging to Holmes.

While I thoughtfully turned this piece of evidence over in my hands, the messenger insisted that if I really wanted to help Holmes, I must come with him at once, without a moment’s delay. “It is your friend himself who tells you this.”

“He did not write a note for you to bring to me?”

“Why you want notes and writing?” My nameless visitor shook his