Sebastian and Sarah looked at Harold blankly.

“I’ll do it,” Harold explained. “And I’m not going to charge you. But I’ll need a few things.”

“Very well,” said Sebastian.

“I need copies of the police reports. The autopsy, the full interviews, everything.”

“Certainly.”

“And a ticket to London. First class. I could sit here interviewing Sherlockians all day, but it won’t get me anywhere. They’re too smart for that. I think the key to the murder is the diary. In order to find out where the diary is, we need to find out where it came from. Where did Alex find it? How did Alex find it? I need to see his home. His study.”

“Done.” Sebastian positively grinned.

“Two tickets,” chimed Sarah. They both turned to her, surprised to hear her voice. “I came here to follow the story. Right now you’re it.”

Harold had up until this moment not been sure that he trusted Sarah Lindsay. He was now absolutely certain that he didn’t.

“You need a Watson, don’t you?” she said, registering his apprehension.

Sebastian looked down at his shoes, as if to hide his embarrassment at being a part of this conversation. Thinking it over, Harold could muster up no argument against Sarah’s logic. If he were to be Sherlock Holmes, he would indeed need a Watson. And yet…

Sarah smiled broadly at him, and with that went the last of his sensible caution.

“The game’s afoot!” Harold said proudly as he rose from his chair. Sarah closed her eyes for a second, withholding a smirk.

CHAPTER 13 The White Dress

October 21,1900

“Might we run over what exactly it is that I am doing here?” asked Bram Stoker as they climbed York Street north from the Stepney Station. Though not crowded, the passenger trains along the Blackwall line were few and far between, and so this afternoon’s excursion to the East End had already proved quite time consuming. “I’ve a play which needs attending, mind you. Henry wants a live horse onstage for his Don Quixote tomorrow, so I really must be digging a mare up somewhere.”

“Dribbling imbeciles, Bram,” exclaimed Arthur as he waded through the unwashed pedestrians. “I wouldn’t trust the Yard to find their own soiled knickers.” He looked up in vain for some sign as to his location. Merely two blocks from the entrance to Stepney Station, and he was quite lost. “There’s a dead girl in desperate need of assistance. It would be ungentlemanly to turn away.”

“She’s dead. I don’t know that either of us is in a position to give her the assistance she might need, unless you’ve been the recipient of some ordination of which I’m unaware.”

“Justice, then,” submitted Arthur. “We’ll give her justice.”

Bram did not appear convinced.

“Someone blew apart my writing desk. My family was in the house. My well-being aside, that of my family’s ought to concern you.”

Bram sighed. “Arthur, what am I doing here?”

Arthur stopped. “I need your help.”

“My Lord. You want me to be your Watson, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You think that because you squirted life into Holmes from the tip of your pen, you might become him yourself. So you need a Watson, and for some reason known only to yourself, you’ve chosen me. Why not Barrie or, better yet, Shaw? I’m certain he has nothing else to do.”

“That’s quite a deduction. Perhaps you’re the one who fancies himself a detective.”

“Very well, if you’re to act like that, then yes, let’s speak plainly,” said Bram. “Watson is a cheap, efficient little sod of a literary device. Holmes doesn’t need him to solve the crimes any more than he needs a ten-stone ankle weight. The audience, Arthur. The audience needs Watson as an intermediary, so that Holmes’s thoughts might be forever kept just out of reach. If you told the stories from Holmes’s perspective, everyone would know what the bleeding genius was thinking the whole time. They’d have their culprit fingered on page one. But if you tell the stories from Watson’s perspective, the reader is permitted to chase in the darkness with the bumbling oaf. Watson is a comic flourish. He’s a gag. A good one, all right, I’ll give you that, but I hardly see how you’ll be needing one of him.”

Arthur addressed his friend as if he were forced to explain for the hundredth time why the sky shone blue. “Look here,” he began, “I’m trying to put this with all the respect you’re due. I’m not well versed in this-yes, you understand-this neighborhood, you see? And I’m no gossiping crone, of course. But, let us speak frankly. I’ve come to understand that you’ve spent some time in this neck of the woods, and you might have some experience with the local inhabitants that might prove useful in our investigations. Very good?”

Bram was offended by Arthur’s implication.

“You do me wrong, my old friend. I don’t believe I can stand here and take your insinuations lightly. You know very well what sort of women call this place home, and what a gentleman like you or me would be looking for if we were to come down this way. I’ll have you know that your words are most unkind.”

Arthur stared Bram dead in the eyes for a moment. He looked up at the surrounding buildings, finding nothing to provide directions save the advertisements for Duke of Wellington Cigars and Grover’s Lime Juice. He looked down at the address he’d printed neatly on a scrap of writing paper and scrunched his face in befuddlement.

“My deepest apologies. I had no intention of giving offense. I most certainly did not mean to imply that you were the sort of fellow who sought comfort in this wretched, ungodly place. Blast it, I’m properly lost. Is this Salmon Street?”

“No,” said Bram without pausing to think. “Salmon is the next right up that way. You’ve wandered onto-” Bram stopped himself, realizing his accidental admission. “Yes, give me a moment. I don’t know this area.” He made a great show of looking around for street signs as well, and of being surprised to find none.

“Pardon me, ma’am?” said Bram to a passing young woman in a black dress. “Might you know the way to Salmon Street?”

The woman stopped, quickly looked Bram up and down, and smiled flirtatiously. Her cheeks were brighter, as she grinned, than the copper buttons on her dress.

“I do, sir,” she said. “Might you be looking to take a trip to Hairyfordshire?”

Arthur looked genuinely confused; what in the world was she talking about?

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, you’ve misunderstood me,” said Bram in a hurry. “We’re just looking for Salmon Street. Is it that way?” He pointed up ahead, in the direction he had already suggested.

Now it was the young woman’s turn to look confused.

“Why, yes,” she said. “It’s just up there, take a right.”

“Thank you most kindly,” said Bram as he turned to walk in that direction.

“But I do think,” said the lady, “that if two right gentlemen such as yourselves are looking to take a trip elsewhere, perhaps somewhere more soothing, threepence apiece might pay your fare.”

Arthur figured out what she was driving at. He was shocked by the woman’s bluntness.

“Good day, madam,” he said simply, and walked away in the direction she, and Bram, had indicated. As Bram trotted behind Arthur, he turned back to the confused young woman and offered her a look of apology for his rude and simple companion. She shrugged and continued on her way.

A few minutes later, Arthur had found the address and rapped at the small door. Begrudgingly, Bram stood at his side, shifting his weight tediously from foot to foot.

Arthur knocked on the door once again, this time banging with the flat, pinkie side of his coiled fist. Paint peeling from its edges, the door creaked open, and a squat, angry man appeared behind it.