Page 46 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
“Do you not think,” I tried, “that Miss Viola might be somewhat put out if, having secured your assistance in saving her relationship with Miss Beck, you were to choose a course of action that left the engagement intact but rendered the lady herself an exsanguinated cadaver?”
My companion paused thoughtfully. “She has been awfully sentimental lately, hasn’t she? And it would be just like her to hold it against me if her fiancée were to be brutally eviscerated.” She sighed again, more deeply this time. “Very well, Wyndham. Let us save the fishmonger.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mr. Jonathan Wangenheim
Having persuaded Ms.Haas that our client might prefer that we not permit the murder of her fiancée, we returned to the documents in the hope that they would grant us deeper insight into the Contessa’s plan of attack. To my dismay, and to Ms. Haas’s mild irritation, the journey to the salt mines of Aturvash had been scheduled to begin on the previous day. More problematically still, we had advised Miss Viola that it would be in her best interests if she were able to persuade Miss Beck to abandon that commitment and, instead, disappear with her to parts unknown. And we had no idea whether she had attempted this, if she had attempted it, whether she had succeeded, and, if she had succeeded, where they had gone. Worse, we had no idea if the Contessa was, or was not, aware of this last-minute change of itinerary, if such a change of itinerary even existed.
“Are you sure,” asked Ms. Haas, “you wouldn’t rather go to dinner? We seem to be encountering a wearying quantity of variables. Either Miss Beck is in Aturvash or she is not. Either Eirene is in Aturvash or she is not. Either the Contessa is in Aturvash or she is not. Either the Contessa knows Miss Beck’s current location or she does not. Those factors alone give us sixteen possible permutations to consider, and they multiply exponentially if we start trying to predict theContessa’s response to any points of data she might or might not have discovered.”
“I assume her response will be to attempt to kill Miss Beck.”
Ms. Haas cast a sheaf of papers to the floor in frustration. “Knowingwhatshe will attempt does not help us. We must knowwhereshe will attempt it. And, on that matter, I have no insight.” She paused, gazing speculatively at the late Mr. Wangenheim.
“Ms. Haas,” I gasped. “I sincerely hope you are not contemplating what I suspect you are contemplating.”
“It seems an expedient solution.”
“You have made it quite clear that you care little for laws, either municipal or natural, but surely even you would hesitate to further provoke the Ossuary Bank.”
She laughed softly. “No, John, I wouldn’t.”
“But what if this gentleman doesn’t want to have his spirit ripped from the afterlife?”
“I find it most vexing that when I was willing to let Miss Beck die because I was more interested in getting dinner you thought I was being terribly selfish. But now you are apparently willing to let her die because you’d rather preserve some silly taboo about disturbing the rest of dead souls. Doesn’t that strike you as a little hypocritical?”
“You can’t compare the sanctity of the grave to your passing appetites.”
“Believe me, Mr. Wyndham, my appetites have done far more for me than your principles will ever do for you. Now help me pull this gentleman onto the floor.”
To say I was unhappy at the thought of participating in a necromantic ritual would be something of an understatement, but Mr. Wangenheim’s life was over and Miss Beck’s was in danger. I am sure there will be many amongst my readership who do not approve of my complicity in this act and to you I will say only that I did what I felt best at the time and, in retrospect, I do not regret it. In the interests ofpainting a fuller picture of events as they unfolded I have recorded some details of the sorcery Ms. Haas performed on this occasion, but I have consulted with my lawyer, Ms. Gwendolyn Puppinghorn, of Shah, Shah & Puppinghorn, and she assures me that, provided readers could not themselves reconstruct the ritual from the information supplied, its inclusion is in accordance with the proper regulations.
Once we had manoeuvred the unfortunate Mr. Wangenheim into position, Ms. Haas extended one hand above his prostrate body and began walking around him in a series of ever-narrowing circles, incanting as she did an invocation in a language I recognised as ancient Khelish. When the circles had become small enough that she was at risk of stepping on him, she stopped and stood astride the gentleman. Then she knelt across his abdomen and tore open his shirt. Removing her monocle, she activated some mechanism I had not previously noticed, causing a wickedly sharp spike to protrude from the rim. This she drove deep into her palm, smearing the blood that welled up in response to this gesture across Mr. Wangenheim’s exposed chest. With one finger she traced an elaborate pattern that stretched from his throat to his solar plexus and then, with a sudden, spasmodic motion, Mr. Wangenheim awoke.
He made a sound that was like screaming, but drier and weaker. Ms. Haas covered his mouth to silence him.
“Less of that,” she said. “We don’t have long, and I need you to be at least partially coherent.”
This last request was perhaps a little optimistic. The perspectives of the dead are very different from those of the living. Dying is a disorientating experience and being summoned back into a cold, potentially decaying body is doubly so. It is for these reasons, as well as a certain ethical distaste, that testimony suborned under necromancy is not acceptable in courts.
Ms. Haas removed her hand, allowing Mr. Wangenheim to speak. He took a ragged breath, presumably out of habit, his glassy eyesshifting restlessly. “You must find Greta. You must tell her to flee. You must tell her the Contessa is a demon.”
“My good man,” returned Ms. Haas impatiently, “the Contessa has no interest in your silly little fiancée. She’s far too busy trying to murder someone else’s silly little fiancée. Tell me what you told her about Cora Beck.”
“She was angry. She said my information was wrong. That she wasn’t going to Aturvash. Said it was ruined. Said I had ruined it.”
Had I not been all too sensible of the dangers inherent in wandering a vampire’s castle alone, I would have left the room at this stage. Something about Mr. Wangenheim’s paralysed expression and thin, inflectionless voice struck me as profoundly disturbing.
“Said she’d boarded a train,” he went on. “Said she’d seen her. Gave me the numbers. Told me to tell her where they would go. How she could catch them.”
My companion spread her fingers before his face and then tightened them, as if drawing yarn from a spindle. His body twitched, his spine arching with a crack. “Which train?”
“The Austral Express. Athra, Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, Liohtberg.” His eyes locked straight ahead. “Athra, Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, Liohtberg. Athra, Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, Liohtberg.”
He continued to repeat the list of stations, each recitation more strangled than the last, until, to my immense relief, Ms. Haas spoke the words that broke the spell and, I hope, released Mr. Wangenheim’s spirit to its proper resting place.
“Well”—she drew an immaculate handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the blood from her hands—“you have to hand it to Eirene. It requires a certain wonderful nerve to go on the run by taking one’s lover on a luxury train through a sequence of the world’s most romantic and beautiful cities. I do rather miss her sometimes.”
