“Why me?” Harold asked, skipping over the thornier questions for a less prickly one.
“In point of fact, that was Sarah’s idea. She’s been interviewing me these past few months, for her article. I’ve been staying at a hotel across town. I rang her as soon as I heard what happened. Sarah told me what you did in Cale’s room this morning. I was impressed. Let’s be honest- I think one of you people did this. I think one of your giddy, delusional pals killed Cale and stole my diary. Probably for some obsessive, arcane, and pointless reason. The twisted tosser is most likely building a shrine to the thing right now, praying to it like a dusty Ganesha. I’m going to need someone who is-how shall I put this?-similarly disposed in order to get the diary back. ‘Elementary’ written in blood on the wall? Come on. It’s some sick Sherlockian leaving messages behind for another sick Sherlockian to follow. No offense, of course.”
“None taken,” said Harold genuinely. Sebastian stepped toward him and, standing before Harold, looked him right in the eye. “I have access to certain… Well, I can get you what you need. Tell me how I can help.”
Harold thought of the thrill of discovery he’d experienced in Alex’s room. The sensation of finding things out. Of solving the puzzle. He thought of his need to know.
“ ‘My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,’ ” said Harold. “ ‘I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.’”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a quote. It’s from ‘Thor Bridge.’ One of the stories.”
Sebastian and Sarah looked at Harold blankly.
“I’ll do it,” Harold explained. “And I’m not going to charge you. But I’ll need a few things.”
“Very well,” said Sebastian.
“I need copies of the police reports. The autopsy, the full interviews, everything.”
“Certainly.”
“And a ticket to London. First class. I could sit here interviewing Sherlockians all day, but it won’t get me anywhere. They’re too smart for that. I think the key to the murder is the diary. In order to find out where the diary is, we need to find out where it came from. Where did Alex find it? How did Alex find it? I need to see his home. His study.”
“Done.” Sebastian positively grinned.
“Two tickets,” chimed Sarah. They both turned to her, surprised to hear her voice. “I came here to follow the story. Right now you’re it.”
Harold had up until this moment not been sure that he trusted Sarah Lindsay. He was now absolutely certain that he didn’t.
“You need a Watson, don’t you?” she said, registering his apprehension.
Sebastian looked down at his shoes, as if to hide his embarrassment at being a part of this conversation. Thinking it over, Harold could muster up no argument against Sarah’s logic. If he were to be Sherlock Holmes, he would indeed need a Watson. And yet…
Sarah smiled broadly at him, and with that went the last of his sensible caution.
“The game’s afoot!” Harold said proudly as he rose from his chair. Sarah closed her eyes for a second, withholding a smirk.
CHAPTER 13 The White Dress
“My revenge is just begun! I spread it over
centuries, and time is on my side.”
– Bram Stoker,
Dracula
October 21,1900
“Might we run over what exactly it is that I am doing here?” asked Bram Stoker as they climbed York Street north from the Stepney Station. Though not crowded, the passenger trains along the Blackwall line were few and far between, and so this afternoon’s excursion to the East End had already proved quite time consuming. “I’ve a play which needs attending, mind you. Henry wants a live horse onstage for his Don Quixote tomorrow, so I really must be digging a mare up somewhere.”
“Dribbling imbeciles, Bram,” exclaimed Arthur as he waded through the unwashed pedestrians. “I wouldn’t trust the Yard to find their own soiled knickers.” He looked up in vain for some sign as to his location. Merely two blocks from the entrance to Stepney Station, and he was quite lost. “There’s a dead girl in desperate need of assistance. It would be ungentlemanly to turn away.”
“She’s dead. I don’t know that either of us is in a position to give her the assistance she might need, unless you’ve been the recipient of some ordination of which I’m unaware.”
“Justice, then,” submitted Arthur. “We’ll give her justice.”
Bram did not appear convinced.
“Someone blew apart my writing desk. My family was in the house. My well-being aside, that of my family’s ought to concern you.”
Bram sighed. “Arthur, what am I doing here?”
Arthur stopped. “I need your help.”
“My Lord. You want me to be your Watson, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You think that because you squirted life into Holmes from the tip of your pen, you might become him yourself. So you need a Watson, and for some reason known only to yourself, you’ve chosen me. Why not Barrie or, better yet, Shaw? I’m certain he has nothing else to do.”
“That’s quite a deduction. Perhaps you’re the one who fancies himself a detective.”
“Very well, if you’re to act like that, then yes, let’s speak plainly,” said Bram. “Watson is a cheap, efficient little sod of a literary device. Holmes doesn’t need him to solve the crimes any more than he needs a ten-stone ankle weight. The audience, Arthur. The audience needs Watson as an intermediary, so that Holmes’s thoughts might be forever kept just out of reach. If you told the stories from Holmes’s perspective, everyone would know what the bleeding genius was thinking the whole time. They’d have their culprit fingered on page one. But if you tell the stories from Watson’s perspective, the reader is permitted to chase in the darkness with the bumbling oaf. Watson is a comic flourish. He’s a gag. A good one, all right, I’ll give you that, but I hardly see how you’ll be needing one of him.”
Arthur addressed his friend as if he were forced to explain for the hundredth time why the sky shone blue. “Look here,” he began, “I’m trying to put this with all the respect you’re due. I’m not well versed in this-yes, you understand-this neighborhood, you see? And I’m no gossiping crone, of course. But, let us speak frankly. I’ve come to understand that you’ve spent some time in this neck of the woods, and you might have some experience with the local inhabitants that might prove useful in our investigations. Very good?”
Bram was offended by Arthur’s implication.
“You do me wrong, my old friend. I don’t believe I can stand here and take your insinuations lightly. You know very well what sort of women call this place home, and what a gentleman like you or me would be looking for if we were to come down this way. I’ll have you know that your words are most unkind.”
Arthur stared Bram dead in the eyes for a moment. He looked up at the surrounding buildings, finding nothing to provide directions save the advertisements for Duke of Wellington Cigars and Grover’s Lime Juice. He looked down at the address he’d printed neatly on a scrap of writing paper and scrunched his face in befuddlement.
“My deepest apologies. I had no intention of giving offense. I most certainly did not mean to imply that you were the sort of fellow who sought comfort in this wretched, ungodly place. Blast it, I’m properly lost. Is this Salmon Street?”
“No,” said Bram without pausing to think. “Salmon is the next right up that way. You’ve wandered onto-” Bram stopped himself, realizing his accidental admission. “Yes, give me a moment. I don’t know this area.” He made a great show of looking around for street signs as well, and of being surprised to find none.