ONE
Badger
London, 1895
‘BEN,’ SAID TIM Badger in his thick Cockney, posturing before the window facing Dean Street. ‘I deduce that a tall, dark stranger will appear at our door.’ He smiled at the young black man with the cultivated beard, sitting by the fire.
Ben Watson shook out the paper he was reading and, without looking up, folded the one page over the other. ‘Looking at tea leaves now, are you?’
Tim grinned. ‘Just using my deductive reasoning. Let me see. He’ll be pale, with a scarf, a hat worn low over his face, and sporting some kind of cloak.’
‘A cloak? That’s fairly precise,’ said Watson behind his paper. ‘Care to guess his preferred hair tonic?’
Tim thrust his thumbs into the sleeveless part of his waistcoat and rocked on his heels. ‘I use logic and reason, my man,’ he said. ‘I never guess.’
Watson finally lowered his paper with a frown. ‘What are you on about?’
The doorbell rang below. They both listened as the sure steps of their landlady Mrs Kelly made her way across the tiled floor of the entry and answered the front door. There was some muffled discussion, and then the all-too-familiar thuds up the stairwell to their door, whereupon she knocked.
‘Come in, Mrs Kelly,’ said Tim, smug expression fully blown on his face.
She opened the door and announced in a faint Irish accent, ‘A client to see you gentlemen.’ She allowed the stranger in but didn’t disguise her distaste at such a man in her house.
Watson slowly rose, mouth drawing open in shock. The man was tall and thin. Long, striking black hair appeared as a bold stroke against his pale complexion; so pale, in fact, it was as if the man lived in a darkened cell most of the time, with the strange addition of round, dark glasses perched on his rather long nose. He was clean-shaven, which made his crooked teeth most prominent, with some of them veering inward next to those pushing outward that gave him an overall rabbity appearance. His black, broad-brimmed hat was worn low over his face, and a long black cloak covered his shoulders over an equally dark frock coat. A scarf of some soft material—black angora, perhaps, Tim decided—was wound about his neck with one end of it swathed across his shoulder. Finally, he postured with a slight effeminate air and with the flourish of a silver-handled walking stick.
Tim strode forward first, hand outstretched. ‘Timothy Badger, sir.’ He shook the man’s hand and was immediately struck by its coldness. ‘And…and this is my colleague, Benjamin Watson.’
Watson extended his hand as if in a dream and winced slightly at the man’s surprisingly cold touch.
‘Forgive me for this intrusion, gentlemen, but you are detectives for hire, are you not? It said “Badger and Watson Detecting Agency” on your plaque at the front door…’ His eyes behind his dark glasses swept over Tim’s black friend, as most clients tended to do. Though, in the end, it appeared that this man was indifferent to it.
‘We are,’ said Tim, since Watson seemed too gobsmacked to speak. ‘How can we help you? Mister…?’
‘Wicker. Jonathan Wicker.’
Watson seemed to snap out of his stupor at last. ‘Er…won’t you sit down, sir. Shall we call for tea?’
‘No, thank you. My palate is sensitive to most teas.’ He sat on the settee while Watson sat in his usual chair by the fire, and Tim sat in his own wingback across from Ben.
‘How can we help you, Mister Wicker?’ said Tim. He tried to contain his excitement. The strange appearance of this man and their lack of clients lately, made for high expectations as October swept through London.
The man looked about the room, assessing. It was certainly far better than their original digs when they first started their detective work five years ago in the East End, where most clients with any kind of money couldn’t abide the dingy and tatty surroundings. Their relatively new Dean Street flat that Mister Sherlock Holmes had acquired and financed for them was considerably better and kept clients at ease with furniture that was more comfortable to sit in, without moth-eaten upholstery and vermin signs in the corners. And though it was true that Mister Holmes still paid the lion share of their upkeep, the two were quickly earning a greater sum on their own for each new case that came their way as word got out due to their exciting adventures penned by their journalist colleague Ellsie Moira Littleton for the Daily Chronicle.
‘It is an unusual tale,’ said the strange Mister Wicker. When he raised his head, he lifted his hand to shield his face. ‘If you wouldn’t mind closing your curtains. I have a skin condition that makes me sensitive to the light.’
‘Not at all,’ said Tim with a frown, and leapt up to grab the broadly-patterned curtains and pulled them closed, even as he gave Watson a commiserating look. There was little sun behind those clouds.
The man seemed more at ease and even removed his glasses, folded them, and stored them carefully into his coat breast pocket. His eyes were the colour of hard metal but were rimmed by red lids. ‘That’s better,’ he said. Tim thought the man might remove his hat too, but he did not. ‘As I said, this is an unusual situation.’ He stroked the soft material of his scarf, a gesture, perhaps, as a token of his anxiety. ‘I live in Ashwell in Herefordshire, a usually sedate and quiet hamlet. I purposely moved away from the bustle of London some months ago to live there. I needed peace and time to absorb my scientific studies.’
Watson perked up. Tim flicked a glance toward the table of retorts, burners, beakers, and even a brass microscope with a cracked lens just outside of Watson’s bedroom. ‘What sort of studies, Mister Wicker?’ said Watson. ‘I consider myself an amateur in the scientific disciplines that help us solve crimes.’
‘Do you, now? How very encouraging. Well, I delve into the study of chiropterology.’ When his announcement was greeted with quizzical stares, he further commented, ‘That is to say, the study of bats.’
Watson shrank away the tiniest amount, and Tim shivered. ‘Why do you study bats?’ asked Tim, trying not to sound too disgusted.
‘Because they are amazing creatures!’ That pale face suddenly flushed with life. ‘A single bat could eat the equivalent of twelve hundred insects an hour! Think of it. And an entire colony, well! So many harmful insects are exterminated by these simple little creatures. Oh, and, interestingly enough, they are useful as pollinators as well, just like bees. Clever fellows. Did you know that we have at least eighteen species of bats in England alone?’
‘Do any of them…er…suck blood?’ asked Tim, who had only recently read another story about vampyres.
‘None of the species in England feast on blood, Mister Badger. They only consume insects.’
‘Well…that’s a relief.’
His gun metal eyes suddenly lit like a gaslamp turned to full flame. ‘But in South America and Mexico, there are blood-sucking bats that suck the blood of farm animals. Mostly at night. They are called vampyre bats. Such fascinating creatures!’ He rubbed his long-fingered hands together with excitement. ‘The blood, you see.’ He leaned towards Tim with unusual animation. ‘The nutrients, the warmth of it sustains these amazing souls. Can you imagine it? What gives life to all living animals – blood! – is also life-giving to them. Just by lapping it up like cream in a saucer. It is a shame to ascribe such a bad reputation for something so natural to them. The horses and goats rarely feel a thing—’
He suddenly stopped talking and blinked as if coming out of a trance and looked sheepishly first at Tim then Watson. ‘Do forgive me, gentlemen. I am afraid I am wont to babble when it comes to talking about my favourite subject. I do study a prodigious variety of them.’
‘Finish your story, sir,’ rasped Watson, giving Tim a warning look.
The man tightened his hands on the silver top of his walking stick, which he had positioned directly in front of his knees. ‘It is a difficult and a…well…humiliating thing to relate. But I shall try. Ever since I arrived to what I believed was a friendly little village, I was greeted with scorn. As such, I interacted very little with its residents. It is unaccountable why they should have treated me as they did, but I accepted it in stride, as I had delicate work to perform. Naturally, my work keeps me solitary, and I am by nature not a man to mingle with strangers. I tried once going to the local public house, but I found the experience so unnerving that I left abruptly and have not returned. Any other social gathering I eschew. I do not feel that I am welcomed, at any rate.’
Watson shifted in his chair. ‘What can possibly be the reason for this shunning?’
‘Mister Watson, it is a mystery to me. I was so desperate to know that I even asked the servants whom I hired from that very region, but they had nothing to say. And after a brief time, they all gave their notice, all at the same time. I am alone now in a rambling manor house except for my one man that I hired from London as my lab assistant and dogsbody. Since I decided to come to London to hire new servants, I thought to call upon Sherlock Holmes for assistance, but he was unavailable and referred me to Badger and Watson.’
‘And we are much obliged to my old mentor for that,’ said Tim. But he was getting a queer feeling from the sallow fellow. Truth be told, the man’s appearance gave him the shivers. ‘But what is it we can do for you, Mister Wicker? I don’t think we can scold a whole village for acting unfriendly.’
‘It is much more than that, Mister Badger. There has been vandalism. I fear they have broken windows in my home and workshop. I live in fear of theft or worse, for mysterious fires have also broken out near the house. What if they broke in and disturbed my research? What if they hurt the bats? No, gentlemen. It is untenable. Quite untenable, and it has interfered with my work.’
Watson shared a look with Tim before facing the client again. ‘Can you think of any offence you have given to the villagers, sir?’ asked Watson. ‘Perhaps changed something about a beloved landmark, like your home? Sacked an old and valuable servant? Cut off long-time access to hunting or wood-gathering?’
Wood-gathering? Tim stared curiously at his friend. What the ruddy hellfire is he on about?
But the client shook his head. ‘None of it. True, the manor had been without tenants for some years, but it was far from derelict. And I had begun to hire local workmen to repair and renew its façade. They have all abruptly vacated their jobs as well. It is most distressing. It is as if they are all conspiring together.’
Tim rose and stood by the fireplace, staring first into the glowing coals before turning back to Wicker, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Mister Wicker, you have yet to explain what it is we can do for you.’
The man clutched tightly to his cane and frowned deeply. ‘The truth of the matter is, gentlemen, I do not quite know what you can do. But the matter is this; the villagers have taken a distinct and sudden dislike of me, and in fact, they have come to believe – as far-fetched a thing as it may seem – they have come to believe that I, myself…am a vampyre.’