Free A Curious Beginning by Deanna Raybourn Page B

my vision becomes blurred. I see two of everything instead of one. Then I’ve no option but the patch to rest it.”
    â€œThereby fatiguing the other,” I pointed out.
    He replaced the patch and shook his head as if to clear it. “No help for it if I am to get that bloody elephant finished.”
    Just at that moment there came a scraping noise from the doorway.
    â€œI’ve brought the evening papers, Mr. S.,” Badger said brightly. “And your sweets.”
    He handed over the newspapers and a twist of peppermint humbugs to Mr. Stoker, who fell on them greedily. I turned to the boy. “I am so glad you’ve come. I have a bowl of soup that will go to waste if you don’t eat it up, and if I give more to the dog he will be terribly sick. Would you mind?” I ladled out the soup into Mr. Stoker’s basin and wiped off the spoon.
    Badger washed neither his hands nor his face, applying himself directly to the food. He slurped as happily as Huxley had, finishing the bowl in minutes as Mr. Stoker flicked through the newspaper. Suddenly, he sat forward, every muscle in his body so still I knew something very bad indeed had happened.
    â€œWhat is it?” I demanded.
    He did not speak. He merely gripped the newspaper, his knuckles turning white. I came to stand behind him, reading over his shoulder.
    â€œNo!” I exclaimed, dismayed. “It cannot be.”
    The headline was sensational, but it was the details of the story that gripped my attention. A German gentleman, identified as the Baron von Stauffenbach, had been found dead in his study. The room had been ransacked and the police were treating the death as suspicious. There were no clues as to the identity of the assailant. It ended with a note that an inquest was to be held in two days’ time.
    â€œIt cannot be,” I repeated.
    â€œIt is,” Mr. Stoker said flatly. “He must have been murdered just after he returned home.”
    â€œMurdered!” Badger looked up from his soup bowl. “Who’s been killed, then?”
    I glanced to Mr. Stoker, but he seemed unable to reply, his expression one of frozen horror. As I watched, the newspaper trembled slightly in his hand. Clearly he was in the grip of strong emotion, and in no fit state to react.
    â€œA friend,” I told the boy. “Perhaps you ought to go now, Badger.”
    He licked the last of the soup from his bowl and rose obediently. The action seemed to rouse Mr. Stoker, and he stood, flinging aside the newspaper.
    â€œNot so fast, lad. I have telegrams to send.” Having thrown off his torpor, he moved like one possessed, his actions swift and desperate. He tore a bit of paper from a scientific journal and scribbled in the margin. “You will send twelve copies of this wire—one to each of these twelve offices. Send them and wait for replies, do you hear? Most of them will be in the negative. You can throw those away. But the one that is in the affirmative, that one I will have.” He scrawled another missive and handed it over. “This telegram only goes to Cornwall, to be delivered by the messenger directly into the hands of the addressee and no other,” he instructed. He rummaged through a collection of tins and jars to cobble together a handful of coins. “More when you come back.”
    Badger pocketed the coins and ran to the door, saluting smartly. “You can rely upon me, Mr. S.”
    A heavy silence fell then, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the stove and Huxley’s damp snores. I felt quite helpless in the face of Mr. Stoker’s rage, for he was clearly angry, his lips thin, his color high, his hands working themselves into fists and loose again as he strode the length of the workshop and back. It was right that he should be angry, and grief and horror would have their parts to play as well. But as I watched him, I realized something else assailed him, driving him to pace