The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2) - Page 46

“Who the blazes are ye?”

I turned to face a bewhiskered man, who was decently clothed in a shirt and vest. But he looked as if he were staring at some sort of odd, foreign creature—that odd, foreign creature being me, a female.

“I’m . . . er . . .” Blast! This was what happened when one didn’t have a plan. “I . . . uhm . . . Mr. Herrell Ashton—”

“Ashton? That bleedin’ rat! Do you say you know him?”

Unexpected, to say the least. I gathered my thoughts quickly. “I don’t know him well. Does he come here often, then?”

“Too oft for my taste. The man’s up to ’is knickers—sorry, miss—in debt. He owes half the house for his wagers. Oy! Bernie! This gel here knows Ashton!”

His call had some of the spectators turning from the match. None of them looked pleased.

“You tell Ashton he best not show his face round here until he’s got cash,” one of them ordered me, then turned back to the fight.

“Did you hear about a boy disappearing from this area? Three weeks ago? It was Mr. Ashton’s cousin, Robby,” I asked the bewhiskered man, who seemed a little calmer now.

“Aye. There’s talk he fell into the canal, but no one knows for cert. He used to come in sometimes with Ashton. The Yard come around asking questions ’bout him.”

“Did you see him that night? Mr. Ashton said the boy followed him without him knowing. And then he sent Robby home, but he never arrived.”

Mr. Whiskers shook his head. “Ashton was ’ere for a while. Then ’is little cousin showed up, an’ ’e left. I ain’t seen ’im since—an’ that’s what I tole the coppers. Cove knows better ’an to come in here without the glint he owes. But mark m’words, he best come up with it soon.”

“Do you know where he went after he left? Or if there was another place he tended to frequent while he was in this neighborhood?”

“’Oo knows. All I know’s I ain’t seen ’im since that night.”

“Thank you, sir.” I mulled this over as I turned to go. Surely if Mina Holmes were here, she’d have a slew of deductions and theories. I wondered what Cousin Herrell’s other, more adult pursuits were—the ones he didn’t want Robby to experience.

I took two more steps toward the door, then turned back. “Have you heard any rumors about anyone seeing red-eyed men with long teeth around here?”

Mr. Whiskers stopped. “Red eyes? Glowing-like, in the dark?”

My heart beat faster. “Yes. Have you seen anyone like that?”

“I ain’t seen nothing like that, but there’s been some ’as talked about it at the Nurse over yonder. But I can’t believe half of what them drunks say, all knockered up as they are. Though there could be sump’n to it, I spose, since more’n one of ’em claims it.”

That was enough for me. I thanked Mr. Whiskers and left, heading to the Pickled Nurse.

Though it was just past noon, the alley was drassy as if it were twilight because of the overhangs above. And the pleasant London weather didn’t help: once again, it was cloudy. Fog seeped down the streets and walkways, giving the neighborhood a frosty, eerie atmosphere.

It would be the perfect location for a vampire to lurk, even during the day . . . waiting for his or her prey, out of the sun and in the shadows.

As if to emphasize these thoughts, a chill passed over the back of my neck and settled there. I turned quickly, scouring the people walking by, focusing on the ones who stayed near the buildings beneath the overhangs. Could one of them be a vampire?

Or was it just a cool breeze?

But the chill persisted as I continued to the Pickled Nurse. I scrutinized the passersby, wondering if any of them were vampires—but not quite knowing how to figure it out. I was still new at this.

When I reached the pub, I pushed the doors open and strode up to the counter. It was early in the day, and this was a workingman’s neighborhood, so the saloon wasn’t crowded. A handful of men and one woman sat at various tables with tankards in front of them. The place was much quieter and cleaner than Fenmen’s End. There were even windows studding the front wall, which allowed in what little daylight there was.

Behind the bar was a row of huge glass jars held in place by a cagelike mechanism. A small rail-like contraption ran along the front of the line. Each jar was filled with pickles and had a small chalkboard label on it with names like honey-ginger spiced, zook spears, spicy anise, curried clove, and sour dill.

Settling on a stool at the counter, I watched as the bartender took a coin from one of the patrons and slid it into a tray. Then he turned a dial and pushed a button. With a soft clicking sound, a spindly device ticked along the cagework in front of the jars, stopping at the one labeled fancy hot.

Two delicate mechanical hands popped open the top of the jar, and a third reached inside, withdrawing a long, dripping pickle. A small tray piled with butcher paper hummed along the row of jars, stopping so the pickle could be placed on the top sheet. Then the bartender wrapped it up in the paper and gave it to the patron.

Then he turned to me. “What’s yer fancy, miss?”

I didn’t suppose they had lemonade or tea, so I bravely ordered an ale. “Don’t fill it up too high,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t drink it.

“Still the same price either way,” he said, putting the drink on the counter. “What flavor?”

“Flavor?”

“The pickle. It goes in the drink, stir it up, give it some flavor,” he explained with exaggerated patience.

“Oh . . . uhm . . . I’ll have the plain Sweet.”

While the mechanism retrieved my pickle, I plunged into my questions, keeping my voice low. “I’ve heard rumors some of your patrons have seen men with glowing red eyes.”

The bartender paused from wiping pickle juice off the counter. “There’s been rumors. I ain’t seen nothing. But . . .” He shrugged. “Nothing would surprise me in this day and age. Glowing red eyes. Long white teeth. Spider pets. I’ve heard it all.”

“Spider pets?”

“Yep’m. That one I seen myself. Man and a woman come in here with a small cage, this big”—he indicated the size of a loaf of bread—“covered up with a cloth. She liked the Honey-Butters; had about three of ’em in her ale at one time. That’s extra, ye know,” he warned. “More’n one pickle’s extra.”

Tags: Colleen Gleason Stoker & Holmes Suspense
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