Balfour and Meriwether in The Vampire of Kabul

“Elphinstone? No, you must be mistaken. This can’t be the same man. That was…”

“Yes, I know,” Meriwether said. “That was our first adventure among the Afghans. Over four decades ago.”

“The man would be in his sixties,” Lord Carmichael said.

“Seventies,” Balfour said. “Except that he died at sixty-two.”

“Ah,” Lord Carmichael said.

“Yes,” said Meriwether. “So we can’t entirely rule out magic just yet.”

CHAPTER THREE: Remnants of an Army

Dawn came behind a veil of low, grey cloud. The difference between darkness and day was only a greater wealth of detail in the worn faces and cold stone. The traffic thickened the streets, horses and carriages battling the night’s snowfall. The young man in Lord Carmichael’s offices looked at the great brass globe and the citations from the Queen as if he expected to wake from it all. Balfour smiled at him and extended a cup of rich-smelling, smoky tea. Samuel Brydon hesitated, ran a hand through hair still disarranged from the pillow, and accepted the cup. The men around him—men only, for the Czarina was elsewhere, preparing her part of the endeavor—waited patiently for the boy to answer the question.

“No, I’m quite sure Grands is dead. I was at his funeral. I remember it because it was on my tenth birthday,” he said. “Funny, isn’t it, how we’re such selfish beasts when we’re young. Mum lost her father, and all I could think was that it wasn’t fair I couldn’t have my cake. Really, though, you should ask her about it. She’ll know more than I do.”

Meriwether smiled, trying to keep the anxiety presently shaking him from affecting his demeanor.

“Alas, Westfield is a bit too long a journey for us at the moment. Time is of the essence and all that sort of thing. You have, I take it, had no visitations from your grandfather? Dreams or visions, perhaps?”

The young man laughed, and then seeing the grim faces of the men around him, sobered.

“No. Nothing like that. Is this…actually important?”

“Deadly so, I’m afraid. Did you know your grandfather well?”

“Well enough, I suppose. He seemed a decent sort of man. Prone to dark times, of course. Anyone would be who’d been through what he had. In the war, I mean.”

“Did he talk about Afghanistan often?” Lord Carmichael asked, smiling encouragement.

“Not as such, no,” the boy said. “He’d go back there every few years. Had friends there, he said. And he was very down on war in general. When Pa asked for my mother’s hand, the only condition was that Pa couldn’t take a career with the military.”

“That so?” Balfour rumbled.

“He’d be damned upset with me, I’m sure,” the boy said with a laugh.

“Joined up?” Balfour said.

“Haven’t yet, but I’m going to. Clerking hasn’t exactly worked out, you could say.”

The secretary knocked gently at the door and leaned in to catch Lord Carmichael’s eye.

“Your appointment with the Inspector has been postponed, sir,” he said. It was a code phrase. The time was right to move in. Lord Carmichael nodded and plucked the drawing from his waistcoat pocket. He considered it carefully, then held it out to the boy.

“Have you ever seen a medallion of this sort among your family’s possessions?”

The boy hesitated, frowned, and then slowly shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said. Balfour leaned toward him.

“Aryadaji,” he said. “Mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Someone may approach you claiming some relationship to your grandfather,” Meriwether said. “He may particularly be haunting places that your grandfather may have known within London or its surroundings. If any such man approaches you, you must let us know immediately. He is quite dangerous.”

“Is he?” the boy squeaked.

“Yes,” Meriwether replied. “But don’t be too concerned. We are certain to have him captured by nightfall.” He paused, then in a lower voice: “We have a trap in place.”

“Well that… That’s good, then,” the boy said. “Something a bit queer about having one’s dead grandfather about, isn’t there?”

“Thank you for coming in, Mister Brydon,” Lord Carmichael said. “And I apologize again for the abrupt manner of our arrival.”

The boy rose, setting the cup of tea on the table with a clink and then wiping his hands on his trousers. For a moment, his eyes flickered toward the drawing of the silver medallion.

“No harm done,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t help more.”

Lord Carmichael ushered him to the door, a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Not at all. You’ve been a great help. I’ll have a man see you home right away.”

The door closed behind the boy with a soft click. Balfour rose, scowling out the window at the street below. Meriwether sighed and stretched, his spine letting off a small volley.

“Not a particularly good liar, is he?” Lord Carmichael said.

“No,” said Meriwether. “And his failure to dissemble is entirely to our advantage, I think.”

The rear door swung open and the Czarina appeared. With her leathers replaced by a simple cotton dress, her feet covered with simple, working-class footwear, and her hair let down in bangs that almost covered her remarkable eyes, she might have been a young woman of London. She smiled at Lord Carmichael’s reaction and made a small curtsey.

“Not too bad, I hope, m’lords?” she said in an accent that would have passed for local.

“Disturbingly brilliant,” Lord Carmichael said.

“The boy is on his way,” Meriwether said. “He was, as we’d hoped, hiding something, and I hinted rather broadly that we know much more than we actually do. Once at his home, he will try to contact our Abdul Hassan.”

“But, having been questioned by yourselves, he shall be discreet,” the Czarina said, pulling a pair of spectacles from her sleeve and propping them on her nose. “He will be watching for the dark-coated arm of law, and overlook a pretty young thing like myself. I shall track him to his lair, signaling your men as I go. I’m aware of our plan, sir. And I am accustomed to being underestimated.”

“I’m sure you are,” Meriwether said, appreciating her implicit dig at him.

“I’m off, then,” she said. “The hunt calls.”

The door closed behind her, and Balfour spun the great brass globe, the oceans of the world glimmering in the sunlight. His expression was peevish.

“The hunt calls,” he said in an unconvincing falsetto. “Hate the way she always says that. Bloody affected.”

Lord Carmichael leaned against his desk, drew a cigar from the humidor presented him by the Pope, and lit it thoughtfully.

“I do wonder, boys,” he said. “What do you plan to do once you’ve found him again? The three of you were thoroughly trounced last night. What’s changed?”

“First, we have seen our man in action. He requires flame and his opium powder. Should we deprive him of these, our chances improve at once. Also, we’ve ascertained that the fumes from those are lighter than air, and can be defeated by dropping to one’s knees. And…”

“And?” Lord Carmichael said.

“Artyadaji is a demon of the night,” Meriwether said, tapping at the sketch of the eerie medallion. “We’ll take him by daylight, when the spirit is weakest. And we offer no quarter. I have the sense that failure now means failure forever. There will be no third opportunity.”

For three long hours, they waited, every tick of the clock an eternity. When at last the Czarina’s message came, they leapt to the waiting carriage and sped through the snow-choked streets. The grin behind Balfour’s wide