The Case of the Spellbound Child Read online

  Finally Linwood looked up at the night sky outside the windows, coughed, and said, “’Scuse, but—”

  “But you need to get back to keeping an eye on your establishment,” John finished for him. “Please, lead on back to the front of the hotel. We can find our way from there.”

  Linwood was only too happy to do that, but Nan wasn’t quite ready to go to bed yet. At the stairs she paused. “Goodnight,” she said to the Watsons. “Police station tomorrow, I assume?”

  “That was my plan,” John replied. He hesitated. “I was planning on going alone. . . .”

  Sarah laughed and Nan waved a dismissive hand at him. “Unless you discover this chief constable is more amenable to taking mere females more seriously than most of his kind, that’s probably best. You are John Watson, medical doctor, sent by Lord Alderscroft, and colleague of Sherlock Holmes. We, however, are delicate little flowers best shielded from unpleasantness.”

  Watson rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. “You are, sadly, correct.”

  “Well, we don’t want the poor chief constable being distracted by the issue, so the best thing to do is for you to go alone, at least for now,” Nan admitted. “On the bright side, that means we can sleep late and take a leisurely breakfast while you share bad tea and a stale biscuit with the police.” She grinned wickedly as John winced and Mary giggled. “I’m going for a little walk around the grounds. I’ll be up shortly, Sarah.”

  Sarah nodded, and as Nan headed for the front door, the three made their way up the stairs.

  In both the taproom and the public room there were still good crowds, and checking the watch at her waist, Nan saw that there was still plenty of time before closing. The buzz of conversation and the faint aroma of ale followed her out the front door, where she paused, and took stock of the evening.

  Scent told her there were roses growing somewhere nearby, but then, this was an English village in Devon in high summer, and it would have been more notable if there had not been roses. After all that sitting in trains, she definitely wanted to stretch her legs a bit, but as dark as it was and with no lights except the candle lanterns at the doors of the buildings on this street, she didn’t want to go far. Living in London had certainly spoiled her. She was accustomed to gas laid on at the least, and the “best” rooms in this hotel were not equal to the comforts of their flat.

  Exploring the neighborhood more completely could wait until morning, but it seemed to her that it would be a good idea to get some notion of the general layout of what appeared to be a building that had been much added upon over the years, and in a very haphazard fashion.

  She set off on her walk in a leisurely fashion, taking great care with her footing. The last thing she wanted to do was to trip and tear this brand-new and rather delicate lingerie dress. As she walked, she took mental stock of the trunk she had packed. She was reasonably sure she had covered all possible contingencies—although it remained to be seen what Yelverton in particular and Dartmoor in general would make of the divided skirts and bloomer suits she and Sarah had brought.

  She had not gotten past the first corner when she heard someone walking behind her.

  This is a public house. It could be a customer on his way home.

  Still, she put her hand carefully through the slit in her pocket and petticoat and got a firm grasp on the baton she had strapped to her thigh. In London—in some neighborhoods at least—she’d have had her Gurkha fighting knife there instead of the baton, but she didn’t think she’d need anything that lethal in Yelverton. Still, she didn’t like being anywhere unprepared, so when she and Sarah had dressed for the train trip this morning, she had strapped on her baton, and Sarah had taken her umbrella with the sharpened ferrule and the solid steel shaft. They’d allowed Suki to have her little knife as well; Nan’s philosophy was that in a case like this, it was better to allow Suki to go armed and stress that she was not to use her knife unless Sarah and Nan had taken their own weapons out of hiding. She reasoned that if they forbade Suki to wear it, she’d disobey and wear it anyway, and then everyone would be shocked if she overreacted and pulled it out. But if they made her a part of “defending the family” she’d be more inclined to take her cues from Nan and Sarah, and they would know she was armed.

  The footsteps following her were quite deliberate, and slowly catching up. She turned another corner, and the person behind her kept following. She didn’t make the typical female mistake of trying to hurry; instead, she slipped the baton out of its sheath, maneuvered it out of her petticoat and skirt, and kept it ready at her side, all without breaking stride.

  The follower—a man by the sound of the footsteps; heavy, solid, and without the distinct clicking sound that a woman’s heels made on cobblestones—slowly closed the gap between them.

  She turned the next corner. The man was nearly within touching distance. . . .

  “Excellently done, Miss Nan,” chuckled the familiar voice of Holmes. “If I had not been watching you closely, I would never have seen you slip out your weapon.”

  Nan breathed out the breath she had been holding and maneuvered the baton back where it belonged. “Thank you for the compliment, Sherlock,” she replied, and turned to face him, if you could call peering through the starry darkness at a tall shadow “facing” someone. “You must have eyes like an owl.”

  “I’ve merely been away from artificial light since sundown,” Holmes replied. “Now, before you ask, I am here in Yelverton because I too have a case here . . . and given that both your case and mine have unnatural elements to them, it seems rather more likely than not that our two cases coincide somehow.”

  “I thought you preferred to leave the esoteric cases to John,” Nan said mildly.

  Sherlock nodded slightly. “I assume that I can call on all of you, at need, since you are here.”

  “A fair assumption,” she agreed.

  “But even if our cases do not overlap, I can pursue the mundane aspects of yours without losing any time on mine. I would discuss it further with you, but . . . it’s a very delicate matter that involves the reputations of several young women who took me into their confidence.” She heard the hesitancy in Holmes’ voice. There was, of course, the simple fact that Holmes very much enjoyed keeping information to himself and bringing it out like a conjuror at the perfect moment, but she got the impression that he really was concerned for those reputations.

  “Tell us if you need to. If not, we have our own case we should be concentrating on,” Nan replied. “We are investigating what appears to be a rash of missing children out on the moors.”

  “And this is why I am fond of you young ladies. You know how and when to keep secrets.” Holmes’ shadow nodded. “So I will be using my own methods to discover what is amiss here in Yelverton, and if I learn anything that pertains to your case, I know where to find you.”

  “Well, I’m very glad you’re here and are willing to help us, even if we aren’t on the same cases,” Nan said gratefully. “Is there some place we can leave messages for you?”

  Sherlock chuckled again. “Of course there is. Leave letters at the post office for ‘Benjamin Hubert.’ I’ll be checking there every two or three days.”

  “John’s going to be pleased and relieved, and thank you for letting me know you were here, Sherlock.” Not that Nan thought John Watson had any need whatsoever of Sherlock, but just knowing that his friend and colleague was in the same town would give Watson an extra bit of confidence that would certainly not come amiss.

  “My pleasure.” Sherlock touched his hat . . . and somehow melted into the shadows.

  I really need to learn how to do that.

  She walked the rest of the way around the hotel without incident, though coming into the front door she had to step aside to let two men who were at the “hail fellow, well met” stage of intoxication step past her into the road and stagger homeward, singing. She didn’t r
ecognize the song. Their words were very slurred, and their voices—well, she’d heard donkeys that were more melodious.

  She found Suki already dead asleep on her trundle, splayed out like a starfish. Sarah was still awake, but in bed, reading by the light of an oil lamp on her bedside table. She had thoughtfully lit the other one for Nan. She had taken down her blond hair but left it braided in two tails that fell over her shoulders.

  “A maid unpacked our trunks,” she whispered. “She put everything away in the wardrobe and chest.”

  “Not everything,” Nan corrected, with a low laugh. “We’d have found her in a faint on the floor if she’d gotten under the false bottom.” But that meant one less chore to handle, which was a good thing. She slipped out of her dress and hung it up, and pulled her nightdress out of the chest of drawers, wondering what the maid had thought on seeing such a gypsy-like garment in the belongings of a respectable young woman. Well, it’s a hotel. I’m sure the maids have seen things far more scandalous.

  The maid had scrupulously put her things on one side of the chest and wardrobe, Sarah’s on the other, and divided them from each other with Suki’s. A very clever arrangement.

  Evidently the “best rooms” got extra special treatment even if the amenities were not outstanding.

  As she doffed underthings and got into her nightdress, she did note a new addition, a covered pail under the washstand which a quick sniff told her held bleach-water. Well, if they were here long enough, that would definitely prove useful. And at least she and Sarah would not have to figure out how they were going to wash their monthlies. It appeared the hotel had provided for that.

  Well, if they do that, then they’ll do our laundry as well. That was a cheering thought. Back at their flat, Nan knew they were very much spoiled by Mrs. Horace, who sent all their laundry out to the laundry at the end of the block. She had assumed they’d have to figure out something here. “Is there a hamper for laundry?” she asked, holding up her bloomers in one hand and her chemise in the other.

  “Yes, silly. This is a first-class hotel and we have ‘best rooms.’ It’s over there,” Sarah replied, pointing. “The maid very helpfully told me that anything we leave in it will be washed, dried, starched and bleached if needed, and put away for us within the day.”

  “The fewer things we have to worry about, the better we’ll be able to concentrate on our job.” She dropped her underthings into the hamper and sat cross-legged on the bed. Suki slept on, oblivious. “Sherlock is here.”

  “Oh! Did he get the Lion’s message?” Sarah put down her book immediately.

  “I don’t know. He did say he has a case here—and he didn’t say that it was related to Moriarty’s gang, which probably means the trail has gone cold there, so he’s keeping busy with this new project. He also said it involves the reputations of more than one young lady, and that there are ‘unnatural’ aspects to it.” She waited a moment for all that to sink in. “He thinks our case and his might be linked, so while he works his, he’s going to keep ours in mind.”

  “Well, it’s good to know he’s here. I know the Watsons will be relieved.” Sarah set the book aside, now much more interested in whatever Nan had to say than in what was between the covers of her book. “Although I don’t know why John thinks he’s any less of a detective than Holmes is.”

  “Because he’s naturally modest. Which is a very good thing for an Elemental Master to be,” Nan pointed out. “Now, since you and I are still awake, I think it would be a good idea for us to take advantage of the fact that we are relatively rested to have a quick look around in the spirit realm.”

  “I agree,” Sarah replied.

  Approximately an hour later, they both emerged from the spirit realm together, without much to show for their effort, except an acquaintance with the few local spirits. There were fewer now; many of them were mere shadows of their former selves, and Sarah had coaxed as many of them as she could across the threshold of her Portal. Three of those had been in this very hotel. It was impossible to tell just what they had been in life, as they were mere sketches of their former selves, and what could be made out of their clothing had not offered much in the way of clues.

  No matter, Sarah and Nan had spoken soothingly to them, and they seemed more lost than anything else. It had not taken much to get them to cross over.

  “Well, that was a good night’s work, even if we didn’t accomplish anything on the case,” Sarah sighed.

  “I wish we knew more about Sherlock’s case.” Nan sat up and took her own hair down—which she had forgotten to do—laying the pins carefully on her bedside table. “We might at least have learned something pertaining to his rather than ours.”

  “Well, that’s unlikely until and unless we have more information.” Sarah yawned. “We can range further afield tomorrow. Right now, the best thing we can do is sleep.”

  13

  SIMON woke up from a nightmare in which the Dark One pursued him across the moors. He leapt out of sleep with a yelp of terror, only to discover the Dark One leaning over him, staring down intently at him, while all the rest of the prisoners huddled as far away from them both as their chains would permit. A scream died in his throat as fear choked him.

  “Simon,” the Dark One hissed, looming over him ominously. “Where be tha’ sister?”

  Simon could only stare at the darkness inside the Dark One’s cowl, the ash of pure panic choking him and making it impossible to speak. He tried to say “Es dunno” twice and couldn’t even manage so much as a squeak. All he could do was shake his head frantically.

  “Where be tha’ fambly?” the Dark One persisted. It reached out its hand and seized Simon’s shoulder in an iron grip, closing its fingers so tightly that the bone grated in its socket and Simon gasped in pain. And it was the pain that startled an answer out of him.

  “Sh-sh-sheepstor!” he finally managed to stutter.

  The Dark One let him go, and he fell back on the mattress. “If tha’ has lied—” it said threateningly.

  Simon shook his head again. The Dark One straightened up, turned, and left the room.

  “Simon, tha’ gormless asneger!” Robbie whispered angrily from across the room. “Tha’ cawbaby dawcock! Tha’s set Dark One on tha’ fambly!”

  Tears spilled out of Simon’s eyes and his mouth worked without him being able to utter a single word. He hadn’t meant to! He was scared! The Dark One had frightened the words out of him! But he couldn’t manage to say a single word. Instead, he broke out into hysterical sobs, and buried his face in his blanket. Dimly, he heard the others palavering over what he’d just done. Clearly they saw him as a traitor to his own family.

  And he was! Now all he could do was imagine what would happen—how the Dark One would come to the cottage, confront Mother there alone, and—

  Well, he wasn’t sure what the Dark One would do to Mother or Pa, but it would probably be horrible. And what if Ellie was there? What if she wasn’t there? Would the Dark One hurt Mother and Pa to make them talk? Would the Dark One just kill them and wait for Ellie?

  All the horrible things that could happen, and vague hints of things he couldn’t quite imagine, swarmed around him, and he cried until his cheeks were sore and his nose was running so much snot he couldn’t breathe except out of his mouth.

  Finally, he felt someone grab his shoulder, and froze again. The Dark One was back! What would it do?

  But it wasn’t the Dark One. It was Robbie.

  “Tine tha’ unket mouth, tha’ gurt noodle,” Robbie said wearily. “None on us’ns kens tha’ fambly name. Dark One don’t ken, neither. Dark One ain’t goin’ door t’door, arsking ’bout thee an’ Ellie, naow, is it? Think! What’d ’appen if it went clompin’ ’round Sheepstor, a-lookin’ like it do?”

  Slowly, Simon shook his head.

  “Even if it c’n make itself look like ’armless ol’ Gatfer, it ain’t g
oin’ about arskin’ arter uns. ’Cause if it did, people’s want ter know how it knowed tha’ was gone, it bein’ a stranger an’ all an’ not a constable. An’ why it wanted ter know. So tine tha’ mouth, an’ stop blubberin’. Get tha’ lazy lump outen bed an’ help wi’ sweepin.”

  Simon wiped his eyes and nose off with his sleeve, and dragged himself out of bed. The other children had already pulled their mattresses into the middle of the room. The new schedule, as determined by the two girls, was for the room to be cleaned before anyone ate, rather than afterward. Resentfully, he was pretty sure that was because of him, because he spent so much time huddled up on his blanket. They’d already threatened to withhold his breakfast if he didn’t start helping.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Nothing was fair. Ellie should have taken him with her. It wasn’t his fault she’d decided to run! And she clearly hadn’t gone to get help, otherwise help would be here already! Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?

  But as he helped shake out the blankets and move the mattresses back as Sam finished sweeping where they’d been, his resentment turned again on himself. Maybe the reason Ellie hadn’t brought help was because she was dead. Maybe she fell into an old mine and broke her neck. Maybe she blundered into a mire and drowned. Maybe she got lost and was wandering with no idea where she was. Maybe a wildcat or a wild dog killed and ate her!

  All these dismal thoughts set him to crying again, but he did it as quietly as he could, because he didn’t want Robbie to yell at him for being a cawbaby again.

  His spirits sank so low that at that moment, he just wished he was dead. He was never leaving this awful place—except as a barely breathing body the Dark One would haul out to leave for wild beasts on the moor. Everything was horrid. And the only thing he had to look forward to was the food.

  When the room was put to rights, the food came. There was always plenty of it now. The Dark One didn’t seem to care anymore how many loaves were baked, or how much vegetable stew was made. It didn’t even seem to care that in the morning and at night one of the loaves each of them got now had sugar-syrup drizzled over it. Simon always saved his sugared loaf for last, though today it was sprinkled with the salt from his tears as well.