A Curious Beginning

Badger pocketed the coins and ran to the door, saluting smartly. “You can rely upon me, Mr. S.”


A heavy silence fell then, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the stove and Huxley’s damp snores. I felt quite helpless in the face of Mr. Stoker’s rage, for he was clearly angry, his lips thin, his color high, his hands working themselves into fists and loose again as he strode the length of the workshop and back. It was right that he should be angry, and grief and horror would have their parts to play as well. But as I watched him, I realized something else assailed him, driving him to pace like a caged lion—fear.

At length, he abandoned his pacing for action, moving swiftly to a decrepit old Gladstone bag, which he began to pack. He rummaged amidst the various trunks and shelves, extracting sundries that he threw into the bag, including the florilegium of Romantic poets and a stack of enormous scarlet handkerchiefs. After a moment’s hesitation, he returned to one of the trunks. He made a grimace of distaste as he plunged his hand into it, and I could not see what he withdrew, but he tucked the item into the pocket of his trousers and slammed the lid of the trunk closed with vehemence. I went to him and put out my hand.

“Mr. Stoker, you have been very generous to extend your hospitality to me, but I am clearly intruding upon a time of quite personal grief. I will take my leave of you now and thank you.”

He whirled on me, his anger as palpable as a lash. “Leave? Oh, I think not, my girl. You and I are bound together, at least until this is finished.”

Appalled but sympathetic to his strong emotion, I strove for patience. “Mr. Stoker, I understand you are naturally distressed at the death of your dear friend, and I extend my deepest sympathies to you. I am clearly in the way and have no business here. I must leave you.”

“You do not understand, do you?” His voice was frankly incredulous. “You are my business now.”

“I? That is impossible.”

He threw a rusty black suit into the moldering bag and strapped it shut. “Think again, Miss Speedwell.”

“Mr. Stoker, again, I am sorry for your loss, but I must insist—”

He reached out and clasped my wrist. He was demanding, not coaxing, and I could feel the weight of his emotion to my bones.

“My dearest friend and mentor is dead, and as nearly as I can comprehend, you are the reason. Until I discover why, you do not stir an inch from my sight.”

“Be reasonable, Mr. Stoker! How can I possibly be the cause of that poor man’s death? I was with you from the time he left me here until he was killed. You must see that.”

“The only thing I see is that he brought you here, convinced you were in mortal danger, and that was the last thing he ever did.”

“I will not go with you,” I said, pulling my wrist free and folding my arms over my chest.

“I think you will. Max told me to guard you—with my life if need be—and I do not intend to let him down. Now, whoever murdered him has almost twelve hours’ advantage on us. We must leave as soon as Badger returns with replies to my telegrams. I am arranging for us to depart London and meet up with friends of mine who will provide us with a sort of refuge until the inquest is concluded and we have answers. At this moment, I am not certain if you are a victim or a villainess, but believe me, I will discover which.”

“In that case, why not simply go to the authorities—” I began.

“No! That is not a possibility,” he thundered, his features suffused with rage.

I adopted a patient tone of the sort nurses use with very small boys or deranged men. “I understand your distress, Mr. Stoker—”

“I do not think you do,” he cut in swiftly. “But you will. Now, sit down and be quiet until Badger returns.” He pushed me towards the sofa and I sat heavily.

“Mr. Stoker—” I began, rising to my feet.