The Shaman's Secret (2 page)

“Well, get on with it, man,” Aunt Hilda snapped. “You're interrupting a private party.”

“I beg leave to present my credentials,” he said, offering a thick cream envelope to Aunt Hilda.

Aunt Hilda opened the envelope and drew out a piece of paper. I sidled over to her and read:

“Are you Dr. Silas?” Hilda asked him.

“No, madam. I'm Harold Rumbelow, his humble servant.”

“How on earth do you know my niece is unwell? I take it that's why you're here.”

The man made a sweeping bow so low his nose nearly touched his heaving belly.

“We have heard it on the grapevine, your ladyship.”

“I have not been ennobled—yet,” Aunt Hilda said stiffly. “Anyway, what grapevine?”

“Your niece's plight, as you visited every reputable doctor—and, I beg your pardon, scandalous quack—has come to my master's attention. He acts from the purest motives, naturally.”

The man cut a seedy figure. He did not inspire trust. But we were at our wits' end. We had to help Kit; anything was better than nothing.

Aunt Hilda scanned the letter: “How does this so-called galvanic electro-shake contraption work?” she asked.

“The mysteries of electricity,” replied the man, bowing again. “I do not understand it myself, but my master … Well, ladies and gents, I do not boast when I tell you that he has, literally, worked miracles.”

Isaac watched him thoughtfully. “They've had some remarkable results with electricity,” he said. “Thinking
it over, I can see that a good shock might be just what the nervous system needs to stimulate it into renewed activity.”

“Eh?” I asked, looking at him in puzzlement.

“It may work. Waldo, Hilda, I think we should give it a try.”

Rachel bit her lip and said, in a trembling little voice, “I agree with my brother. I mean, what have we to lose?”

Aunt Hilda turned to the fellow and said, “Thank your master for coming to our aid, my good man. We may well consult him. But we cannot take such a giant step till Professor Salter, my brother, has arrived. You may take a piece of cake as you leave.”

He was being dismissed, but the man stood there looking obstinate.

“Madam, pardon me saying this, but I think you should come tomorrow. My master said time is of the essence.”

Aunt Hilda flushed deep red. “How dare you? If we seek to consult you, we will do it when we see fit. Now, off you go. Go on. Goodbye.”

There was nothing more the man could say. Bowing again and casting a mournful look at the cake, he backed out of the door. He never did get his slice.

“That was strange,” I said, looking after him.

“Strange? How so?” Isaac asked.

“I mean that he should come and visit us and be in quite
such a hurry that Kit has treatment with his master. It seems rather suspicious to me.”

“This is a small city. I am something of a legend in these parts,” Aunt Hilda said, dismissing my concerns with a wave of her podgy hands. “Tomorrow you will look for my dratted brother again. I am keen to start on this treatment as soon as possible.”

She might have waved away my fears, but something still struck me as odd about that little red-nosed man.

After breakfast, I started on my mission to find out what had happened to Kit's father. I was glad to be away from the poky boarding house. To be honest, Isaac, Aunt Hilda and even kind Rachel were grating on my nerves. I strode up Sacramento Street, past the buildings that my fellow Americans had put up on the back of gold-rush fever. San Francisco is a miracle city. Just fifty years ago it was a scrubby wasteland. Look at it now. Surrounded by hills, the Pacific Ocean at its feet, thronged with gracious streets. Pines, mimosa and scarlet hibiscus bloom in the parks. It proves that anything Britain can do America can do bigger and better. The mansions of the millionaire “robber barons” on Nob Hill are the finest in the world.

I was proud to be an American in Frisco. Proud to be young, strong and free to make my fortune. Yet somehow today I couldn't enjoy the city. I'd planned to catch a cab to the telegraph office, but once out I just kept walking and walking.

My feet hit the pavement savagely. The exercise was
what I needed to keep the blood from beating in my head. God, was I angry. I felt like kicking something. I pounded the streets so furiously that I made it to the Western Union telegraph office in under half an hour.

I begged the clerk at the counter for messages from Professor Salter. Unfortunately there was nothing from the old gentleman, no news at all. Sighing, I turned away. I would have to check all the hotels and boarding houses,
again
.

I was just about to leave the office when I heard a familiar bleating voice.

“Is there really nothing you can do?” a gentleman in a shabby black coat and a stovepipe hat was asking another clerk.

“I'm sorry, sir, but you have no address,” the clerk said.

“It's desperately important, you see. My daughter's ill.”

“We have your details on file.”

I strode up to the man. At the risk of real rudeness if it was the wrong person, I swung him round by the shoulder. To my relief Professor Salter was drooping in front of me.

“Isaac, my dear fellow,” he gasped.

“I'm Waldo,” I said. “Waldo Bell.”

“Of course, Waldo. How glad I am to see you.”

“And I you, sir. What happened to you? We've been expecting you for a month or more.”

He flushed. “I'm afraid I lost your letters.”

“Lost our letters?”

“I've been at my wit's end. Trying all the hotels, the docks, the office here.”

“We weren't at a hotel. We're staying at Isaac Hilton's Temperance hostel. It was the only place with rooms available when we arrived. Shall we go back there now? You must be anxious to see Kit.”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” said Professor Salter, looking up the street to where a cab was hurtling by. “But I should pick up my luggage first.”

“If you like. Where are you staying?”

“Pardon me?”

I sighed. “Where are you living, Professor Salter?”

Professor Salter flushed again. “Ah yes,” he said. “I will take you there.”

I followed him as he wound his way through the back alleys. Sometimes, though I knew the professor to be extremely clever, he was as simple as a baby. I could see what Kit meant when she referred to herself as her father's nursemaid.

Eventually we arrived at his boarding house, which turned out to be a shabby building in the wrong part of town. I stared at it in dismay. One of the windows was boarded up, and when we entered there was a strong smell of cabbage and grease. No wonder I hadn't found the professor when I'd combed the streets. I had forgotten how
thrifty he could be with his money. He wouldn't spend a penny on himself if he didn't have to. With Kit, of course, he was very generous. Nothing was too good for her.

We were let in by a dumpy Irish lady with a sharp tongue, who smelt of stew. She scolded the professor as he led me up to his room. It was in chaos, with books and papers everywhere. It turned out he had been living here, looking for us, for more than a month.

What a mess.

I had to rescue him. I asked the professor to pack an overnight bag. The other possessions I would arrange to have picked up later. Then I went down to pay the landlady, who was very disagreeable. When I went back upstairs I found Kit's father had made no progress in packing. He was sitting in the room's single shabby armchair, staring into space.

“Professor Salter,” I said gently, “we should hurry. Kit is waiting to see you.”

She wasn't, in reality. But I had to urge him from his daydream.

“Must hurry. Quite right, dear boy,” he said. But he didn't move, just continued to stare into space.

“May I help?” I asked, moving over and placing a hand on his arm.

He shrank back into his seat.

“Professor. Please. What is it?”

He didn't reply. For a moment, I think, he had forgotten I was there. I bit back my frustration. At this moment the good professor was behaving as if it was he, not his poor daughter, who was in a coma. I knew, deep down, that there was nothing I could do to hurry him up. Kit's father is a dreamy old dear; he lives in his own world. For his daughter's sake I had to respect that, and not try to rush him into normal behavior. So I sat on the dusty floorboards by his armchair and waited.

When I next looked up, because I had fallen into a bit of a daze myself, I saw tears in his eyes.

“Theo,” I said, using his first name. “Please, what is the matter?”

He looked at me. “It's no good. I can't do it.”

“Can't do what?”

“I can't come back to your hotel.”

“Why ever not?”

A tear slipped out of his left eye and rolled down his cheek, coming to rest in his grizzled beard.

“I just can't.”

“Why? Surely you want to see Kit as soon as possible.”

“I—can't.”

I stared at him, horrified.

“You don't understand anything. You're just a boy. You see, I saw Tabby die. I can't—” He broke off.

“What is Tabby?” I asked, thinking it might be the name of a favorite cat.

In answer he reached into his pocket and drew out a fine gold chain. Hanging from it was a small locket. I opened it and the likeness of a lovely young woman gazed out at me. She had an oval face, unruly springing hair and eyes that even in that tiny miniature flashed with fire. Instantly I knew who it was. The likeness was unmistakable. Kit's mother.

“My wife, Tabitha. She was brought to me that December night. Ten inches of snow we'd had. A white Christmas, the church bells ringing. Her pelvis had been fractured. Her nose crushed. They said it was an accident. A startled dray horse. She lay in the bed. Looked at me, her eyes always so bright. But, you see, they were all that was left of her. Her eyes. All the rest was blood and—”

His voice broke into gasps and he stopped, looking down at his shoes. I put an arm round his shoulders. What could I say? I felt awkward, because he was the father … Well, let's just say I felt strange embracing him. There was a lump in my own throat, which hurt like hell.

“I saw Tabby die,” he said. “It wasn't good or peaceful. Anyone who tells you that is lying. I can't watch the same thing with—”

“Kit is not going to die,” I said. “You must believe me. We will save her.”

“I can't see her in pain.”

“She is not in pain. The doctor assures us of that.”

He looked at me as if I was lying to him, his eyes blurred with tears.

“Professor. You must come. She loves you.”

He shook his head.

“You're her
father
. She
needs
you.”

He rocked back, as if I had struck him.

“It is your duty,” I said, though I felt my words were cruel. “Please come. You will never forgive yourself if you don't.”

“Very well,” he said. Heavily he pulled himself out of the armchair, moving like a very old man. As I watched, he placed a pair of socks into his Gladstone bag.

Professor Salter looked up from his daughter's bed and stared at me. His mood had changed as he came into the bedroom. The tears were gone; in their place was a simmering anger.

“What did you do to her?” he asked.

“I haven't done—”

“Kit was well when I last saw her. My lovely girl … and now I find her like this. You were the only person there when she was struck down. You were meant to be protecting her.”

I nodded. Kit was lying there between us, white and thin. She looked waxy, like a corpse. He was right. I should have looked after her better.

“You're not a boy. You're a young man. Older than my daughter …”

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled. I felt choked, and for a horrible moment I thought I would cry. Kit was covered with one of those American patchwork quilts, the bright colors contrasting with her waxy bluish skin. “Professor Salter …”
I began, but Aunt Hilda shushed me and took her brother's arm.

“It's not Waldo's fault,” she said.

“I read your letters. You told me about it,” he said, turning on her. “You said that Waldo was the only one in the cave … Why did he take her there in the first place? A young, innocent girl. That's what I want to know. What did you think you were playing at, young man?” Anger had mottled the professor's skin and bright red patches stood out on his cheeks. “My dearest Kit …” His voice broke.

“Theo,” Aunt Hilda tried to soothe him.

“I should horsewhip you!” He glared at me, trembling.

“Yes, sir.” I hung my head.

My answer seemed to take the puff out of him. He collapsed into an armchair and covered his face with his hands. There were shabby patches on his jacket. Patches Kit would have taken care of.

“I would do anything … anything,” I said quietly, “never to have set foot in that blasted—”