From there, the situation was completely beyond my control. Feet into the grass. Face into the grass. Feet into the grass. Face into the grass. Slide to a halt. Roll unceremoniously to the base of the hill and groan for a few minutes. My right ankle burned with a hot, dull pain. And as I lay there, I began to realize something was wrong with my opposite shoulder, too. I couldn’t move it. And, when I turned to look at it, my chin bumped into the head of my humerus in a location I did not expect it to be. With shock, I realized it was dislocated. I recoiled in surprise—which may have been lucky, actually—for as I jerked my body, my shoulder slid back into place. I experienced a wall of blinding pain that left me unable to even scream, combined with the strange relief of having my body returned to its right shape. Only people who have ever been conscious for a relocation of a limb will know what I’m speaking of.
So there I lay, slowly regathering my thoughts. After a while, I realized I had to move. Because what is worse than jumping off a train and getting hurt? Jumping off a train and getting hurt for no reason. My military experience had taught me well what rest does for injuries. It heals them. But first, it makes them intolerable. One does not stiffen up until one rests. Grunting and moaning, I rose to my feet and began dragging myself back towards the station. So slow was my progress, and so steep the slope I’d fallen down, that Holmes and company were gone by the time I staggered across the tracks to the platform.
“Oh! You’re back!” the surprised stationmaster said, then made a bit of a face and added to himself, “That can’t be right…”
“Never mind that,” I told him. “That house I can just see, through the forest behind the station. That’s where the skinny German lives?”
“I think so.”
“What do you know about him? Anything? Anything I might use to make my approach to him? Do you know his job? His interests?”
The stationmaster thought about that. “I know how he makes his money. He sells some sort of health tonic to those… er… what’s that word… you know, for a crazy person, but they’ve got so much money it’s not right to call ’em crazy?”
“Eccentric.”
“That’s right! He sells health tonics to rich eccentrics.”
“Thank you. I believe that will suffice,” I said, and stumbled off behind the station. I made it through the rose bushes without difficulty and began the laborious process of picking my way up the hill. My breathing was ragged and my head buzzing dully when I at last made it to the top, around to the stately drive, and up the path to House Stark—or Becher—or whatever.
There was a bell. I rang it.
A few moments later I heard footsteps (rather light footsteps), the doorknob rattled, and the door swung open. Behind it stood an impossibly thin Scotsman with the most threadbare red mustache I think I have ever seen. Ferguson, no doubt. He looked utterly stunned to have a visitor. Then, after taking a moment to scan my person, he looked even more stunned than that.
Right. I hadn’t stopped to think what the state of my appearance must be.
Or how badly I wanted to lie down, have a little cry, and sleep for two days.
Instead, I cleared my throat and said, “Hello. I am a wealthy eccentric who has recently had reason to worry for my health. I was told you might be able to help. For the correct result, money would be no object.”
Ferguson broke into a hopeful smile. “Oh, yes. Please. Step inside, won’t you. I fear we were not prepared to receive visitors. Nevertheless, I believe the colonel may be able to see you. Would you care for tea while you wait?”
“Yes, tea would be wonderful,” I told him.
“I shall return with some,” he assured me. “And I shall inform Colonel Stark of your arrival. Just a moment, please.”
By “a moment” he must have meant “look out, I walk a bit slower than most glaciers”. I’ll never forget how he stared with transparent dread at the flight of stairs he was going to have to climb. This gave me a needed boost of confidence. Had I just entered into the realm of three dangerous murderers alone, unarmed and badly hurt? Yes. Yet it is much easier walking into the lions’ den when you realize that all the lions present would be unable to rise again, should you choose to place a finger or two against their chest and push them over. I settled in to wait, content that, despite my wretched shape, my situation was not dire. I adjusted myself in my chair constantly. It was best not to allow myself to rest too much. Best not to allow my limbs to stiffen. I tested and retested my left shoulder, and waited.
Presently, I became aware of a light scraping noise behind me. Turning, I beheld the second of my foes: Colonel Stark’s daughter, Magerzart. She stood just behind an ornate globe, looking at me with wide, hungry eyes. To say some patches of her long blonde hair were missing would be somewhat misleading. Better to say some patches were left. There was a quality of desperation in her stare. Clearly, the loss of yesterday’s meal had done her no good.
“Ah! Good afternoon,” I said.
Her parched lips parted and—just at the edge of hearing—a single word hissed forth.
“Jooooooooose…”
“Um… yes. Quite right. I am here to inquire after some of your father’s juice. His, ah, his health tonic. Yes.”
“Joooooooooooooooooooooooose…”
“Indeed.”
This pleasant drawing-room banter was at last interrupted by Ferguson. The rattle of cups alerted me to his return. Or rather, the rattle of cup. The silver tray he carried bore one
