You know, I'm beginning to understand why ghosts moan so in this sort of weather.
- Lester Cole (1904–1985), U.S. screenwriter
Watson
The colour had not yet returned to Holmes's face by the time Lachlan had appropriated a compartment, his grim countenance being more than enough to scare away the young couple that had been heading for it at the same time as the sailor. My head was pounding rather, but other than that I experienced no dizziness or nausea; obviously the blow had not been serious.
The little boy who had taken the fall with me, however, had been very much frightened by the whole affair and refused to let go my hand, even after we had collapsed in the compartment.
"I don't believe I thanked you yet, Haight," I said a bit unsteadily, glancing at the American, who squirmed uncomfortably, "I'm no lightweight, you know."
"Yes, I found that out the hard way," he returned with a droll grin.
Lachlan snickered. "He's not half as scrawny as he looks, is he Doctor?"
Haight scowled, elbowing the midshipman in the ribs with more force than one would expect from looking at the young American.
"Yer 'ead's still bleedin', Doctor," Alfie said, his little face pinched with worry as he patted my arm.
"Let me see it, Watson."
"Holmes, it's fine, for heaven's sake!" I said, wishing desperately that he would calm down – to outward appearances he was, but I could tell the affair had shaken him. There was something odd in his expression, something far more than just a slight scare.
I saw Lachlan glance at Holmes, then back to the little boy sitting next to me, and back to Haight.
"Come along, master Alfie, I'm going to go get some cocoa – would you like to go with me?" the latter said, standing and stretching.
Alfie shook his head, glancing at me.
"Go on, lad," I said wearily, rubbing my eyes as the pain in my skull increased.
The boy scowled.
"And I do believe I saw chocolate custard on the luncheon menu in the dining car…" Haight continued, stepping out into the corridor and holding out his hand to the lad.
The boy's scowl faded slightly, and Holmes nudged him gently toward the door.
"Sure, Doctor?"
"Go with Mr. Haight, Alfie," I replied quietly.
"Oll roight then. Take care of 'im, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy ordered peremptorily, hopping out after Haight. Lachlan threw us an understanding glance and then shut the door after him, leaving us alone in the compartment.
I slumped back against the seat, not bothering to keep up a cheerful pretense now that the others were gone.
"Tilt your head down," I heard a dangerously unsteady voice close to my ear, and I obeyed with a sigh.
"Nasty bruise you're going to have," he said gently, keeping the handkerchief against the small gash.
"It is not life-threatening, so for heaven's sake relax, Holmes," I said in exasperation, closing my hand over his and taking the handkerchief from him.
He settled back in the seat with a frown, watching me.
"What?"
"I don't like it, Watson."
"Well, falling in front of a moving locomotive isn't my idea of a pleasant pastime, either."
"This is not a joking matter!" he snapped viciously, his voice tense, eyes sharp and narrowed.
"It was just a freak accident, Holmes," I said soothingly, "those things happen in a crowd that size…"
"No."
"Holmes –"
"I told you in London, Watson, that I did not like this affair at all," he whispered, lighting a cigarette with nervously twitching fingers, "and I like it even less every hour that goes by."
"Personally, I'm not overly keen on the case myself at the moment," I sighed, gingerly removing the handkerchief – the bleeding had stopped finally.
"There is far more to this than mere ghosts and myths, more than shadows and noises in the night, my dear friend," Holmes went on pensively, sternly reining in his rampant emotions and reverting back to cold, hard logic, "far, far more."
The compartment door opened and Lachlan poked his head in.
"May I?"
Holmes motioned him to a seat, and our old friend sat across from us, his blue eyes clouded with worry.
"I've been talking to the lad and Renie – neither of them remember seeing who shoved you, Doctor."
"I didn't get shoved, Lachlan, just accidentally bumped," I said with a sigh, slumping down in the seat and rubbing my head absently.
"Perhaps," the sailor said dubiously, "and perhaps the bloke was actually after Renie, not you."
"Possibly," Holmes replied with a thoughtful puff, "but you said you both were not on a case right now?"
"No, we're not," the man admitted, "and frankly I can't think of anyone who would be after us…yet. If anyone's out to kill the lad, it should be me, anyhow."
I laughed with reactive relief, and even Holmes cracked a smile.
"By the way, Holmes, you owe me twelve shillings – that child of yours can eat!" Lachlan exclaimed, indicating his limp pocketbook.
"Watson is handling all things Alfian this trip," my friend said with a twinkle, going back to his cigarette.
I spluttered, but Lachlan winked at me, and I realised the whole exchange had been to pull Holmes out of whatever mental hole he had retreated into after the near-accident. I was glad to see his brow clear and by the time we had reached the next stop, he was more like his normal self. As normal as Sherlock Holmes could be, at any rate.
"Oh, blazes!" I exclaimed in dismay, suddenly remembering something.
"What's the matter?"
"My journal! It was in that valise that got flattened under the train!"
Holmes winced visibly at my unthinking remark.
"Sorry. But Holmes!" I sat back sadly, "it had all my notes so far for the case in it!"
"I'm sorry, Doctor," Lachlan offered, "anything else of value in the bag?"
"Not of great value, thank heaven," I said ruefully, "nothing irreplaceable."
"I'm sorry about the journal, old chap," Holmes said graciously – I had been half-expecting an unsympathetic comment about florid romanticism but it never came. "You do still have your pen, I hope?"
I patted my pocket with a fond smile, which he returned warmly.
"We'll get you a new toothbrush at the next station," he went on impertinently.
I scowled, and Lachlan chuckled lightly, and in the catching up of conversation in the next hour or so, the close call of the afternoon was forgotten.
"Well, gents, this is where we part ways, I'm afraid," Lachlan said, a note of false cheerfulness ringing in his voice as he glanced from me to Holmes.
We had arrived at the last stop for us – one of the Count's grooms was to meet us here at the station, though as yet he had not made his appearance.
"Oi don' wan yew ta leave, Mr. Renie!" Alfie fairly wailed, latching onto his newfound friend in a vise-like grip.
The young American smiled, gently disengaging the boy.
"Perhaps if you behave yourself for Dr. Watson, I'll send you a postcard from Vienna, all right?" he asked with a grin.
I turned my attention back to our old friend, my mind reverting to that horribly dangerous case those eight months ago, in which his assistance had been vital to aiding Holmes in saving my life on the Friesland.
"You will stop and see us on your way back through?" I asked quietly.
"Aye, wouldn't miss it for anything," the sailor replied, his blue eyes twinkling affectionately at me. "And when I do, we'll have to exchange ghost stories, Doctor."
"It's a promise," I replied with a smile. Holmes gave a very undignified snort.
"Remind me to make myself scarce from that discussion. Ghost stories, indeed."
Lachlan guffawed. "Famous last words, Mr. Holmes."
"Here now, none of that 'Mr.' business, my good fellow," Holmes interjected with an uncharacteristically large smile.
"As you like. And I'll be interested to hear if you can make a ghosthunter out of him yet, Doctor," the man replied, grinning openly at Holmes's disdain.
"We shall see," I said, also grinning.
"I do believe that to be the Count's trap – no, it's a sleigh, by Jove," Holmes said, craning his neck to look along the snow-drifted path leading from the tiny country station.
"The lad will like that," Lachlan said, grinning at the boy, now engaged in a brief snowball fight with Haight – who oddly enough seemed to be having as much fun as our Irregular was.
"Renie! The gentlemen's transportation is here – and this train's about to pull out anyhow," the sailor called, seeing the conductor start to ensure the doors were firmly shut against the chill.
Holmes swore softly, glaring at both the conductor and the Count's hired hand as if they were solely responsible for our having to say goodbye, but Lachlan just laughed lightly, shoving his young companion toward a compartment as the whistle blew.
Haight leaned out the door to grasp my outstretched hand.
"Thank you again, Haight," I shouted over the spluttering engine.
"My pleasure, Doctor!" he bellowed back as Lachlan shoved him into the compartment.
"We shouldn't be more than a week, Holmes," the midshipman called out of the open door, firmly ignoring the poor conductor who was trying to shut it, "we'll look you up soon as we get back from Vienna!"
"One week, or we'll come looking for you!" I called back, waving as the train began to slowly jerk along the tracks.
Lachlan smiled and waved back, as his young friend opened a window to do the same, hastily ducking back inside when Alfie whooped and let loose with the last of his snowball arsenal straight at the opening. Our sailor laughed aloud, gave one more wave, and finally shut the door, to the conductor's relief, just as the train started to move out of the station.
I sighed regretfully, for I had been so very glad to see Lachlan once again and to meet his young reporter as well – already I owed the man for saving my life at the last station. I felt Holmes's comforting hand on my shoulder.
"I know, old chap. But one week – that gives us time to talk the Count into taking on two other uninvited houseguests," he said, the grin evident in his voice behind me.
I chuckled, taking a very dismal Alfie's hand and following my friend over to where the sleigh was pulling up beside the station. A heavily-bundled man jumped out, pushing his fur-lined hood back to reveal a good-natured, thin face, set with dark eyes and hair.
"Herr Holmes, Doktor Vatson?" he asked with a heavy German accent, glancing quizzically from one to the other of us. As there was no one else at the station, it was no great deduction.
"I am Sherlock Holmes."
"Keller, Chief Groom at Weissberg Castle. The Count informed me that you would have another in your party?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Holmes said dryly, fixing Alfie with that glare that could make anyone but me and Mycroft quake in his shoes, "this lad followed us from London and I was unaware of the fact until we were well on our way to Strasbourg. I do apologise for the inconvenience."
Keller turned those dark eyes onto our little companion with a frown. Alfie glanced hesitantly up, then spoke rapidly.
"Ich kann deutsch besser als die beiden, weil meine Großmutter eine Deutsche ist. Ich habe nur versucht zu helfen ich wollte keine Last sein!" the lad reeled off a list of pleading German.
Keller's eyebrows raised. "Of course you did not mean to be burdensome," he said in a gentler tone, continuing to speak English. "Is the Kind correct, gentlemen, that he speaks better German than you do?"
"Quite," Holmes growled in irritation.
Keller chuckled, the frown disappearing, and pulled his hood back up, motioning us to the sleigh. "I am sure the Count will not mind. Here, allow me to take those bags, Herr Doktor."
Within five minutes, we had loaded our luggage into the sleigh. Alfie was fairly bouncing beside me on the seat as we settled in for the ride, pulling up the many blankets the groom had placed in the vehicle.
"It is a two-hour ride, gentlemen," the groom called down from the seat, "and the temperature is dropping rapidly this time of the evening. I shall be driving rather quickly, so please to keep your heads inside."
Holmes motioned to the fellow that we were ready, and we set off at a fast clip through the tiny town with its one church, two pubs, and a smattering of houses, on through to the other side and out into the country. The snow was so incredibly deep that any other means of transport save horseback would be utterly impossible.
"How are you feeling, Watson?"
"Just a headache, nothing more serious."
A small twitching smile crossed his face before he looked away at the glittering snowy countryside. "Good man."
"Blimey!" Alfie breathed as we passed a grove of snow-laden evergreens, "Oi've neva seen so much snow in me 'ole life!"
I nodded wordlessly – the snow and biting air actually felt very soothing against my still dully-throbbing head.
"Get used to it, we shall be here for quite a while," Holmes groused, huddling up in the blankets with a shiver. "It's deucedly chilly."
"You know, if you did not have all the bulk of a telegraph post, you might be a bit warmer," I told him, yanking Alfie back under the covers as he let in frigid air with his excited bouncing. "Here now, sirrah! No more of that, you sit still!"
Holmes pulled a very childish face, growling under his breath but thankfully refraining from any further grumbling for an hour, shivering in silence. Alfie vacillated back and forth from asking innumerable questions about the country itself to watching the horse pulling the sleigh and staring wide-eyed at the snow around us, glittering in the shimmer of a mountain sunset.
"Gorgeous, isn't it?" I asked with a smile as the boy's jaw dropped upon seeing the mountains in the distance, tinged with gold and red now as the sun dipped lower.
"Cor, yes, Doctor!"
Holmes muttered something about lurid romanticism, which (as was my habit) I totally ignored. "What does it look like in the summer, Holmes?"
"Like this, without the snow."
"You can be so deucedly infuriating!"
"And you are just now discovering that about me?"
Alfie hooted, putting out a hand to get showered with white icy spray shooting back from the sleigh runners. I thought no more about his behaviour, being engaged in countering Holmes's barbed sarcasm, until he then snickered and stuck his mittened hand under my muffler, freezing my bare neck.
I yelped instinctively, cringing and swatting the mischievous boy, and Holmes only laughed, confound him. "See why I put him on the other side of you, not between us?"
"Alfie, you do that one more time and I swear, I will –"
"Better listen to him, lad, I recognise that tone all too well," Holmes intoned, leaning over me to whisper conspiratorially, "he gets that way when – urf!"
Now it was my turn to howl with laughter, as the grinning boy had just filled Holmes's face with loose snow which he proceeded to shake off into my lap, yowling about revenge and shipping the lad back to England in a portmanteau with no air holes.
Between the two of them, my headache had not subsided much by the time we arrived at Weissberg Castle, but I soon forgot my discomfort in the awe-striking medieval glamour of the massive stone edifice.
"'Oly bleedin' mackerel," Alfie breathed, his small neck craning to see the battlements up at the top, "looks jist loike a real castle!"
Holmes snorted. "It's probably draughty, cold, and rundown. Don't be expecting armoured knights, Alfie. Or damsels in distress, Watson," he added snidely as the sleigh went over the drawbridge – was that a real moat under that ice? – and pulled to a stop in front of the massive oaken front doors.
I was still fumbling indignantly for a reply to that shot when Keller held out a hand for Alfie, swinging him to the ground and receiving a grin of thanks from a little face red with the cold.
Holmes hopped down the other side and I followed him, just as the doors swung wide to throw a glowing beam of warm light out into the twilight. A very stiff, very formal manservant emerged, bowing rigidly to us.
"The Count requests your presence as soon as you are sufficiently thawed, gentlemen," he said in precise, formal English.
Alfie started to snicker at the prim man's attitude (which was as warm as the out-of-doors was at the moment), but I shook his hand warningly and he quieted, giving only a faint snort from behind a mitten.
From behind us we heard Keller asking in German where the luggage was to be sent, and I gathered that the servant's name was Lehmann and that we were staying on the second floor of the castle. More than that I did not hear as we entered the warm entryway and so exited hearing range.
"Behave yourself now," I hissed to Alfie as another immaculate servant took our snow-soaked outerwear. I glanced round at the enormous entryway, complete with vaulted ceiling and polished floors – obviously our Count had no intention of allowing the place to remain medieval or rundown, for it was quite modern and lavishly furnished.
Alfie's mouth was hanging open, as I had no doubt the lad had never seen such opulence in his life, but he had the sense to snap it shut as Lehmann entered, fastidiously brushing a snowflake off his black sleeve, and motioned for us to follow him.
Holmes rolled his eyes at the man's back, causing our small companion to hide a snicker behind his hand, and I sighed wearily – this was going to be a long, long case.