Séance for a Vampire by Fred Saberhagen (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

failure, as they had blamed the old, on strange, malignant powers that had been somehow attracted to the scene by Sherlock Holmes and his associates, including the police. None of this, I thought, was very logical; but then, logic had never been the spiritists’ strong point.

Looking toward the house from the long drive, as we came rattling and roaring up to the front door, I could recognize, from Watson’s description, the terrace where the murder had taken place, and I observed how the broken French window had been temporarily boarded up. I supposed that any real clues to the identity of the intruder at the last séance had long since been removed, either by accident or by the police.

Shortly we were at the door, divested of our long white coats and goggles, standing in a cloud of our own slowly settling dust.

When we had been shown in to meet the master and mistress of the house, Armstrong, ready to embroider the truth and demonstrating a cool skill in the work, claimed to have met me during his most recent sojourn in St. Petersburg, where (allowing for my ineradicable central European accent) I, like Amstrong himself, had been one of the corps of foreign correspondents.

Old Altamont’s handgrip was firm, but his eye was wary. His formal greeting was followed quickly by a blunt question: “Are you an agent of Sherlock Holmes?”

I blinked at this, and considered my answer thoughtfully. Finally I responded: “I have met the man, and I respect him. Nevertheless, there are important areas of human experience–far from the realms of law, or chemical science–with which his knowledge and skill are sadly inadequate to deal.”

“You are yourself a sensitive?” Mrs. Altamont inquired of me hopefully. I noted that she had somewhat modified her vivacious dress, as recorded by Watson, but had not gone back to mourning.

Again I pondered carefully. “Sensitive, in a psychic sense? Dear lady, I would be loath to make that claim. Still, I cannot deny that there have been in my life certain incidents hard to explain by any other...”

And so on. Soon Armstrong, taking advantage of a pause in spirtualist chatter, somewhat belatedly informed our hosts that Mr. Holmes had returned from his adventure and was safe. The Altamonts were charitable enough to express what sounded like sincere satisfaction with this news. In their current mental state they appeared uninterested in any of the fine points, such as whether Holmes’s kidnapper had been a spirit or mere flesh and blood.

Wading boldly into this confusion, Mr. Prince, who had already hinted broadly enough at his own psychic powers, presented himself to the bereaved parents as one who might be able to help them in their current difficulties. Though, as he admitted when asked straight out, he had never conducted a séance. He did not volunteer the information that he had never even attended one.

He soon overcame his hosts’ suspicions that he might be some kind of investigative agent. Conversing in ever more familiar terms, but in increasingly hushed voices, we moved slowly through the house toward an unstated goal. Naturally today’s first order of business for any visitor in this home was to view, with appropriate gloomy aspect and sad murmuring of platitudes, the body of young Abraham Kirkaldy.

All that was mortal of the youth had been embalmed, dressed in a new, fairly expensive suit, and coffined tastefully in a parlor amid comfortable-looking white-satin pillows and a great many flowers, awaiting interment on Saturday morning. Dead as mutton was that lad, as I could see at first glance. No question in his case of that mysterious undeath which walks by night and sups on blood–not that I had thought there would be, but it was as well that the expert should make sure.

The coffin was open–I had wondered whether it would be. The side of the head on which the murderer’s blow had fallen was turned away from the viewer, and the hair was long enough so that when properly arranged, it covered, or almost covered, the extensive damage.

Within a quarter of an hour after my arrival, I was seated in a (different) parlor and pretending to sip at some no doubt excellent tea (readers should remember that my taste in liquid nourishment is sharply limited). by this time, I was hinting strongly that I should like to be allowed to speak with Sarah Kirkaldy. Naturally, I promised to treat the bereaved sister with great courtesy and tact. I gently dropped an additional hint that I just might be able to convince the girl to conduct another séance within a day or so.

I knew that Cousin Sherlock was at least considering encouraging another séance in Norberton House–tonight seemed out of the question, but perhaps on the following night–and in any kind of planning long-range enough to reach hours or days into the future, I had learned to defer to my breathing cousin’s genius. If our enemy should then attempt another intrusive haunting, it would at least bring him within our reach, as well as allow us to make contact directly with Louisa Altamont.

Sarah, as her kindly benefactors informed me, was currently resting in the garden–the Altamonts mentioned in passing that the poor girl had developed, in the past two days, a great longing for the sunlight.

And so it was that in the formal garden of Norberton House, on that fading summer evening, I presently was introduced to Sarah Kirkaldy. She was sitting in a chair on the lawn beside a quiet terrace–on the other side of the house, let me hasten to add, from the terrace whose flagstones still bore some faint stain of her brother’s blood.

Mrs. Altamont conducted me to her, and spoke in a hushed voice. “Dear, this is Mr. Prince, a friend of Martin’s, come from London. He has some experience in these matters, and has kindly offered to see if there is anything he might do.”

Sarah was garbed all in black, forming an odd contrast with the liberated plumage of her hostess.