Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
S imeon had heard of the Langham Hotel but had never actually seen it, and he’d certainly never been inside. It was impressive on the outside, looking like a palace made of yellow brick with electric lights illuminating the entranceway. The vast lobby was a vision of gleaming marble, sparkling chandeliers, and fashionable people. The latter looked somewhat askance at Simeon and Crow.
“We can afford this place?” asked Crow in a low voice.
“For one night, at least. But do you mind registering us? I look… not of the right class. But I expect they’ll give you some leeway on account of being American.”
Sure enough, the man at the registration desk looked less than welcoming. “Tradesmen’s entrance?—”
“We’d like a room,” said Crow, perhaps slightly emphasizing his flat Illinois accent. “I’ve been dragging myself all over your city, trying to see all the sights, and now I need a room.”
The clerk’s demeanor loosened noticeably, although he still appeared cautious. “Of course, sir. But… we are a grand hotel, you understand. ”
“I guess I’ll judge how grand you are when I see my room. You do have decent beds, right? And clean sheets. In America, we know how to keep a clean hotel, but I’m not so sure about you guys.”
Simeon had to turn away to hide his smile. His own strategy when dealing with difficult people was to charm them, but Crow seemed to have found his own method. It suited him.
“Of course, sir!” the clerk said indignantly. “Our furnishings are of the highest quality, and we hold to the most strict of hygienic standards. It’s only… the rate for one night, including dinner and breakfast, is eighteen shillings sixpence.”
That almost made Simeon choke. He could have rented a shared room in Spitalfields for a month at that price. He wasn’t about to slink away now, however. He pulled some coins from a pocket and set them on the counter, and of course the clerk couldn’t deny the appeal of cold hard cash. He spent time writing something mysterious in a logbook before handing a key to Crow. “Enjoy your stay, sirs.”
The hotel had a lift, which was a surprise to them both, and even better, their room had its own WC. There was also a shared bath down the hall, which Simeon would have found extremely tempting if he weren’t so tired. He hadn’t spent very long in Crow’s time, but it had been long enough to become accustomed to—and fond of—twentieth-century plumbing.
Their room was large and well furnished: patterned rugs, ornate draperies, large bed, desk, sofa, and armchairs.
“Schmancy,” Crow remarked, petting the sofa upholstery.
“Emperors in exile stay here, so I reckon it’s good enough for us.”
“They cared that we’re poor, I guess, but they didn’t seem to care that we’re two men sharing a bed? I thought that was illegal.”
“They won’t top you anymore for buggery, but it’ll get you quodded—years of hard labor, that is, and you’re better off hanged. But men share rooms—and beds—all the time, and that’s considered all right as long as nobody gets poked, yeah?” He shrugged. People in different times and places had so many odd ideas about sex and love. As far as he was concerned, as long as everyone was willing and nobody got injured, there was very little immorality to be found in either sex or love.
While Crow gave himself a tour of the room, Simeon sat on one of the chairs and began to slowly unlace his boots. He thought about how a London with full purses was an entirely different city than the one he’d lived in, and about how he’d probably feel like a stranger no matter where he landed.
But he was tired of feeling melancholy. Perhaps some rest would help.
They washed up, and then each took one of the armchairs and turned it to face the window. The rain had stopped again and there was a fine view of the streets below.
Crow tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Are we going to talk about that… weird visiony shifty thing.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
Simeon refused to even think of it. Instead he gazed out the window and meditated on how nice it was to have access to this posh room and how he was looking forward to a good dinner and that big bed. He’d already noticed that the linens smelled faintly of lavender. And Crow would be there with him—perhaps somewhat peeved at Simeon’s current lack of communication, but he’d be there nonetheless.
Simeon also reminded himself of how very fortunate he was. He’d survived his childhood and had experienced wonders and miracles beyond his wildest imaginings. He had made friends and found love. And even now, when he was feeling sorry for himself, he was alive . Oh, and if he wanted to, he could fly.
“What’s in the bag?” Crow’s voice was like a fishing line, tugging Simeon out of his reverie.
“What?”
“The bag Clara gave us.”
Simeon had entirely forgotten about the satchel that currently sat atop the desk. “Why didn’t you look?”
“I figured this was your adventure, your call.”
“It’s yours too, now that I’ve dragged you here. Just as your battles with demons were mine.”
“Fair enough.” Crow leaned back and stretched out his legs. “But I still think you should be the one to look.”
“Lazy sod,” Simeon said fondly. But he stood, fetched the bag, and brought it back to his chair, where he collapsed with a grunt. He unbuckled the front flap and pulled out… books. He didn’t mind books, but he’d hoped that Clara might give them something more useful. Although he had no notions of what that something might be.
“Are they semi-helpful but mostly obscure texts like the one she showed us in Portland?”
Simeon looked at the titles. “Novels.”
“Well, I guess that’ll give us something to do until someone invents television.”
“Which do you fancy?” Simeon held them up.
When Crow simply shrugged, Simeon chose the green one for himself, mostly because he recognized the author’s name: Jules Verne. He’d never heard of the bloke who wrote the book with the blue cover, so he handed that one over to Crow.
“Oh, hey, Sherlock Holmes,” said Crow. “’Elementary, my dear Watson.’ ”
“Pardon?”
Crow sighed. “Never mind.” He opened his book and leafed through the pages quickly, as if expecting something to be hidden there. When Simeon made an interrogative noise, Crow sighed again. “She said to look at them closely.”
“I expect she meant we should read them, love.” Although what advantage was to be gained from The Castle of the Carpathians , Simeon had no idea.
Still, they both settled in comfortably, and Simeon smiled when he read the opening passage.
This story is not fantastic; it is merely romantic. Are we to conclude that it is not true, its unreality being granted? That would be a mistake. We live in times when anything can happen—we might almost say everything has happened. If our story does not seem to be true to-day, it may seem so tomorrow, thanks to the resources of science which are the wealth of the future.
Much of that could easily apply to his own story. Perhaps not the science bit, although for all he knew, some future scientist would devise useful theories to explain how a man could also be a rook, or how an angel’s grandson could be, well, Crow.
Some time passed, the only sounds being the turning of pages, until Crow snorted. “Sherlock Holmes was a junkie.”
“Pardon?”
“He shoots up coke and morphine. Yet still somehow manages to be the world’s greatest detective. You sure you never heard of him? He’s pretty famous.”
Simeon shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance to read often.”
“Yeah.” Crow bent back over his book, and Simeon returned to reading about Frik the shepherd, until Crow made another noise. “The Langham! A lady has come to Holmes with a mystery concerning her father, who was staying here at the Langham when he disappeared. ”
It was nice to see Crow so chuffed about something. “Did they find the bloke? Perhaps we ought to search under the bed.”
“Well, if he’s under there, we’re in trouble because he disappeared ten years ago and—” Crow stopped very suddenly, his brow deeply creased. “What year is it again?”
“Year of our Lord 1883.”
“Huh.”
Now fully curious, Simeon closed his own book. “What is it, love?”
“Captain Morstan disappeared ten years ago. In December 1878.”
Although maths weren’t Simeon’s strongpoint, even he could see the problem. “Is the book meant to take place in the future, then? Like something Verne would write?” He waved The Castle .
“I don’t think so.” Crow quickly turned to the front of the book, evidently looking for the printing date. “This says 1890.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“But how can—” Simeon checked his own book. It said 1893. He stared at the number as if it might magically make sense, and Crow stood to read over Simeon’s shoulder.
“Are you sure it’s 1883?” asked Crow.
“I…. Yes?”
“I’m going to go grab a newspaper.”
Crow shoved his feet into his boots and, without bothering with coat or hat, dashed out of the room. That left Simeon alone with the books and an odd fluttery feeling in his chest, as if his heart had turned into a bird. He couldn’t seem to do anything, however, except stare blankly out the window.
In record time, Crow came slamming back into the room. “1883. I checked a newspaper first, but then I figured that could be… like our books. So I asked two guests and a desk cl erk and I’m sure they all think I’m insane, but everyone agrees it’s 1883 so what the hell , Simeon?” He took in an enormous whooping breath and let it out.
“Dunno,” Simeon said slowly. “The books we read at the Frugises—do you know what year they were published?”
“No idea.”
“It’s an important question, innit? Is this just Clara gifting us things from the future—which isn’t the most remarkable thing we’ve seen from that lot—or is it… something else?”
Crow started pacing. “I guess that’s why she told us to look closely. And the answer to that question might point us in a direction we need.”
“Perhaps.” Simeon ran fingers through his hair. He wasn’t much accustomed to solving riddles and planning things. He was the type of person who tended to act on impulse, which had sometimes been a benefit and sometimes decidedly not. “I think we should go to a bookshop.”
“Good idea.”
After getting fully dressed, they rode the lift down to the lobby, where Crow used his newfound powers of persuasion to get the address of the nearest bookshop from the desk clerk. “He said to go to Booksellers’ Row on Holywell Street,” Crow reported back.
Simeon barked a laugh. “Did he now?”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Oh, we’ll definitely find books there.” Simeon decided to let the nature of those books be a surprise.
They took a cab to the Strand—why not, since they were momentarily flush?—and got out in front of St. Clement Danes church. As soon as Simeon’s feet hit the pavement, he had another odd spell, seeing the square in front of him enlarged. There were two statues of uniformed men and a larger plinth with a man on top and lots of statues of women and children around the base. Most of the familiar buildings were gone. And the large red omnibus heading in his direction wasn’t horse-drawn and had two levels.
“Simeon,” said Crow in a low voice, like a warning. When Simeon’s vision returned to normal, Crow caught him before he could fall and held his arm tightly. “Maybe we should go back to the hotel.”
“No.” Simeon jerked free and strode toward the entrance to Holywell Street. Crow hurried to keep up.
Crow read the large lettering painted on the nearest building. “Libraries purchased. That sounds promising, book search–wise.”
Simeon snorted. “I’d fancy seeing those libraries.” He ignored Crow’s puzzled look as they dove into the crowds clogging the narrow, curving street. The mismatched half-timbered buildings towered over them on either side, four and five stories tall, signs in all colors proclaiming the names of the establishments. There were a few public houses and a stand selling fruits and vegetables, but the primary attraction was displayed in large windows: secondhand books. Although the particular volumes visible through the glass weren’t the reason most people frequented this street.
“How do you want to do this?” Crow was still innocent about what they’d find in the shops.
“Pick one. Doesn’t matter which. We’ll choose a few books at random and see….”
“When they were published. Okay.”
Crow opted for the third shop they came to, H. Nichols, Booksellers, which announced “Books bought” on several signs. The interior was dark and musty. Simeon could almost hear the shelves groaning under their burden of dusty volumes. There were other customers inside—all of them men—who skulked and scuttled among the rows like mice.
Simeon led Crow into the center of the shop, reached up, and without looking, tugged a book free. “Here.” He handed it to Crow. “Well?”
“Um, it’s called The Autobiography of a Flea , and holy shit!” The last came out in a yelp.
“Yes?”
Crow lowered his voice to a whisper. “This book has a drawing of a bisexual orgy. And here’s one of a woman giving a handjob to three priests. And…. This is porn, Simeon!” Crow sounded a bit like an outraged matron.
After clearing his throat to swallow a laugh, Simeon said, “Yes. But the publication date?”
“Um…. Shit. It says 1895.”
Simeon sighed. “Right. Let’s try another, shall we?”
In fact, they tried several, taking turns in choosing. The titles were intriguing: The Power of Mesmerism: A Highly Erotic Narrative. A Girl’s Guide to the Knowledge of Good and Evil. My Secret Life. The Whippingham Papers. All of them published after the current year. One of them, The Delta of Venus , bore a 1978 publication date.
“This is just too weird,” Crow muttered.
“We need to try something else. A scientific experiment, yeah? I’m going to step outside and you’re going to pick a few books without me. Then come out and tell me what you discovered. Oh, and perhaps be quick about it.” Simeon gestured toward the shop clerk, a beefy man who watched them with narrowed eyes.
Simeon waited on the pavement several shops down, admiring a display of not-quite-salacious prints in a window. A sign bore the single word “Postcards,” almost certainly meaning the sort imported from France that showed women in various stages of undress .
When Crow joined him about ten minutes later, his expression was uneasy. “None of my books were from the future. And by the way, how come nobody ever told me you guys are so kinky? I thought Victorians fainted if a woman showed her ankle.”
Although this wasn’t the main issue facing them, Simeon couldn’t help a chuckle and a leer. “You lot didn’t invent sex. Some of us are actually quite good at it.”
“I know,” said Crow, grinning back. “I bought a book, by the way.”
“You did what?”
“The shopkeeper guy looked pissed off, and besides, this one seems interesting.” He pulled a book from his inside coat pocket, careful that nobody but Simeon could see the title, which was The Sins of the Cities of the Plain . “This one is gay porn,” he said proudly before tucking it away.
“From what year?”
“1881.”
“All right then. Have we established that… what did you call it? The weird? Have we established that it happens only when I’m closely present?”
“Yeah, and—” Crow’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe we can talk about this over dinner? Or someplace where it’s not starting to rain again?”
Head swimming with possibilities, Simeon led them in search of a cab.