Cyrus’s guidebook tried to relate all this information in what you might call a positive fashion, but there wasn’t much way to avoid the conclusion that-because of their own shortsightedness and in the space of just a century-the citizens of Ballston Spa had gone from operating the best health retreats in the North to boasting that their town was home to “the world’s finest paper bags.” The old resort hotels, which couldn’t compete with a string of gigantic, luxurious competitors what’d opened in nearby Saratoga Springs, had either been converted to boarding-houses for factory workers or burned down. Still, nobody ever thought to rename the town, even though, by 1897, there wasn’t much about Ballston that brought the word “spa” to mind.
The train depot sat just below a hill what separated the industrial parts of the town from the homes of the local swells. On top of said hill ran what some imaginative mug had named High Street, where most of the town’s churches, along with the county offices, were located. The station building itself wasn’t much to look at, just a long, low structure of the type you generally find in such places; and the few people who were standing out on the platform waiting for our train to pull in seemed made to match. All, that is, except for one of them:
He was all the way out on the easternmost end of the platform, as if he knew that Mr. Moore liked sitting at the back of trains and would’ve convinced us all to do likewise (which, in fact, he had). Smoking a pipe like his life depended on it, the short, ginger-haired man was also by turns pulling on a neatly clipped beard and mustache and running a hand through his similarly cut hair, all the while looking in every direction and walking round the platform as if the thing was on fire. His eyes, which I later determined were a very light gray, seemed a sort of silvery color from a distance, and they carried an expression that was both determined and a little wild. He pulled his watch out no less than three times while our train was slowing to a stop-just why I couldn’t say, seeing as we’d already arrived-and each time he tucked it away with a look of worry, then smoked and paced some more. I lost sight of the fellow as we made our way to the door of our car; but somehow I knew this was the man we’d come to see.
Mr. Moore turned to the rest of us as the train groaned and squeaked into the station. “All right, listen, all of you,” he said, his voice urgent. “Especially you, Kreizler. There’s one thing I neglected to mention about Rupert, because I didn’t want to discourage you from trusting the case to him. He truly is brilliant, but-well, the fact of the matter is, he can’t shut up.”
The rest of us looked at each other with expressions what indicated a shared belief that this must be some kind of gag.
“What do you mean, Moore?” the Doctor asked. “If he’s excessively verbal-”
“No,” Mr. Moore answered. “I mean he can’t shut up.”
Marcus laughed. “Of course he can’t. He’s a lawyer, for God’s sake-”
“No,”Mr. Moore said again. “It’s something more-something physical. He’s been to doctors about it. Some kind of-compulsion or something, I forget what they call it.”
“Pressured speech?” the Doctor guessed, looking intrigued.
Mr. Moore snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Anyway, it works wonders in court, but in conversation it can be a little much-” Banging into the closed front door of our car as the train came to a halt, Mr. Moore started for the steps. “I just wanted to warn you-he’s as nice a person as you’ll ever meet, but thoughts just come into his head and shoot right out of his mouth. So don’t take anything he says too personally, all right?” Checking each of our faces, Mr. Moore nodded once, and then we followed him out onto the platform.
Mr. Rupert Picton was still pacing and smoking, those big silver eyes looking very anxious. When Mr. Moore saw the sight, he grinned in a heartfelt way.
“Picton!” he called, walking toward his friend on the platform. “Good God, man, you look like you’re going to have kittens!”
“Your train’s late!” answered Mr. Picton, smiling through what he seemed to realize was very obvious nervousness. “They’re always late, these days-we can talk about going to war with Spain, but we can’t make our trains run on time! How are you, John?”
“Fine, fine,” Mr. Moore answered, as the rest of us joined him. “Let me introduce you to the others. This is Miss Sara Howard-”
“Hello, Mr. Picton,” Miss Howard said, extending a hand. “I’m afraid I’m the one who started all this unfortunate business.”
“Nonsense, Miss Howard,” Mr. Picton answered, shaking her hand vigorously and talking not only a lot, but at a very fast pace. “You mustn’t think that way. You didn’t start it-Libby Hatch did, when she first drew innocent blood and found that she had a taste for it! What you have started is an end to her sinister tale, and you should be proud that-ah! And here’s Dr. Kreizler!” The active little hand shot out again. “I recognize you from the pictures that have appeared with your monographs, sir-fascinating work, yours is, fascinating!”
“Thank you, Mr. Picton. It’s kind of you to-”
But Mr. Picton had already turned to Lucius and Marcus; he grinned and grabbed each of their hands in turn. “And I assume that you gentlemen are the Detective Sergeants Isaacson?”
Marcus smiled, and had just managed to say, “Why, yes-” before he was cut off.
“Don’t go crediting me with any powers of detection,” Mr. Picton said. “None greater than smell, at any rate. There is a vague aroma of sulfuric acid-”
Lucius cast his brother a hard glance as he took his turn shaking Mr. Picton’s hand. “I’m sorry about that, sir. If someone hadn’t made me perform that strychnine test again before we left New York…”
“I hope you’ve brought all your chemicals and devices along,” Mr. Picton answered, nodding encouragingly. “We’ll need them. Now, then, let’s get your things together-”
Cyrus and I, having found a porter to help us tend to the baggage as we watched all this, now approached the group from behind our host. Cyrus cleared his throat just once-but once was enough to make Mr. Picton, who hadn’t seen us coming, shoot into the air.
“Great jumping cats!” he cried, spinning on Cyrus. “Who’re you? Ah! Don’t tell me-John wrote about you. You’re Dr. Kreizler’s man, correct? Mr.-ah-ah-”
“May I present Mr. Cyrus Montrose,” the Doctor said, at which Mr. Picton shook Cyrus’s big hand. “As well as Master Stevie Taggert. Both associates of mine.”
Mr. Picton turned his hand in my direction, and I stuck my own out to receive his jolting shake. “Master Taggert! Good to meet you! Well-” He stood back and put his hands to his hips, taking us in. “So this is the group that has actually put fear into that murderess’s heart, eh? I admire you for it, I must say! Libby Hatch certainly never had anything to be nervous about in this county, I can tell you. Let’s get your bags onto my rig, and get over to my place. We need to get to business as soon as we can! Porter-follow me!”
“Your place?” Mr. Moore said. “But Rupert, I made reservations at the Eagle Hotel-”
“And I canceled them,” Mr. Picton answered. “I’ve got a house big enough for a regiment, John, with just me and the housekeeper. I won’t hear of you staying anywhere else!”
“But,” Mr. Moore said carefully, as we made for an old surrey what was standing outside the station, “are you sure you’re up to it, Rupert? I mean, I heard you weren’t well-”
“Not well?!” Mr. Picton thundered back. “Why, I’m as sound as a dollar-in fact, I’m even sounder, given the current strength of our currency. Oh, I know what they said in New York before I left, John, and I’ll admit that I needed a rest at the time. You know my disposition-high-strung I am, certainly, you’ll get no argument from me. But those rumors about my suffering a breakdown were just further attempts to discredit what I was saying.”