A Question Of Time by Fred Saberhagen (best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

was trying to sense the vibrations of the past and hear its deep inhuman voices. Not Darwin’s past, no, he had already finished with that. Let Darwin rest in peace. His life, his house, his work, had served the investigator beautifully as the entrance way. But now entry had been accomplished. The real goal lay vastly deeper in the past. Almost immeasurably deeper. Darwin and Merlin were indistinguishably contemporaneous, seen from the perspective of the depth of centuries, of innumerable millennia, of incalculable ages that now required to be probed…

      Recalled from a reverie by the banal stirrings of physical hunger, the male vampire paused to tempt a fascinated rabbit closer among the trees of the small wood. Then a pounce—mercifully quick—and with a good appetite he and his companion fastidiously shared between them the small creature’s blood.

      Overhead, the dark skeletal fingers of Darwin’s trees probed and questioned the chill sky.

      Mina, her red lips again as clean as those of any breathing maiden—indeed, cleaner than most—indicated the bent limbs with a subtle gesture. “As if they might be sifting the starlight for messages; don’t you think so, Vlad?”

      “Very poetic; as to what I think, I think I have now, at last, begun to understand, my dear.”

      “To understand—?”

      “I think I am ready to return to the Grand Canyon.”

      “A very fascinating place, I’m sure. Some day you must show it to me. And someday—but not now, for I can see that you are in a hurry—you must explain to me what it is that you have just come to understand.”

      “Some day I shall.”

      The pair kissed chastely. Moments later, the man changed form and spread his wings. Tonight the wings of his own altered body would carry him no farther than Gatwick; for transatlantic movement his fastest travel option was the same as that of the most mundane breather. He was about to board prosaic British Airways.

* * * * * *

      A few hours after leaving Darwin’s house, snugly ensconced in driven, roaring metal at some forty thousand feet over the Atlantic, speeding westward toward Chicago, the vampire found time to think, and a great deal to think about.

      To begin with, had Tyrrell as a mere breathing boy really known Darwin, who had died in his house at Down in April of 1882? About fifty years had passed between that possible meeting, and the time when Tyrrell—himself by then an old man on the breathers’ scale—met and married Sarah in Arizona.

      Old Sarah would certainly know whether her husband had been a vampire when they were married. He, Drakulya, was going to have to talk to her as soon as possible after he reached the Canyon.

      Or was it possible that Tyrrell had never known Darwin, though he, Drakulya, had now convinced himself that the former had at least once—whether breathing at the time or not—stood in the great scientist’s house?

      Whatever the exact relationship between Darwin and Tyrrell, the artist—and this was the important fact—had certain absorbed some of the ideas of the scientist.

* * *

      Not many hours after his departure from England, the returning passenger was standing in one of a row of phone booths in the great terminal at Chicago’s O’Hare Field, trying his best to reach Joe Keogh in Arizona. But the effort was fruitless. Evidently no one was occupying Keogh’s hotel room at the moment.

      Drakulya thoughtfully replaced the receiver, ruminated for another moment, then tried a Chicago number, one he did not need to look up. In a matter of seconds he was speaking to Angie Southerland, young John’s slightly younger wife.

      When a woman’s voice said, “Hello?” the caller intoned: “This is your Uncle Matthew, my dear.” Of several of his names that Angie would probably have recognized, that was the one the caller thought most likely to put her at her ease.

      “Oh,” said Angie. The caller had been recognized. He was not surprised to hear how the young woman’s voice dipped for just a moment into chill uncertainty, before it genuinely warmed.

      When the initial exchange of civilities had been concluded, he said: “Your stalwart husband and I are currently engaged upon the same project, in Arizona. We have come to it by different paths, but…”

      “I know.” Angie sounded practical, as usual. “John told me he thought they would have a job at the Grand Canyon. He didn’t tell me much about it, because he didn’t know much himself.”

      “It would be helpful if you could do some research for us. For me, specifically.”

      The caller, in making this request, knew that Angie had at her fingertips electronic connections with such esoteric things as databases and so-called bulletin boards. By such means Joe Keogh’s agency in Chicago had access to vast realms of information across the country and around the world.

      “Joe’s already called and asked me to look up some things having to do with the case. I can tell you what I’ve found out so far.”

      “Ah. I would appreciate that.”

      Angie said: “To begin with, Edgar Tyrrell was declared legally dead in 1940, at the request of his widow. He had disappeared seven years earlier, around the middle of 1933, on one of his frequent hikes into the Canyon. He’s described as ‘elderly’ at the time of his disappearance, when he’d been living on the South Rim for around thirty years.”

      “Would you be good enough to read me the entire account, my dear?”

      Angie would, and did. The newspapers of 1933 reported concisely that the eccentric sculptor and near-recluse had left a young wife and a small child, both of whom were reported as living in the old house on the rim. By 1940 Sarah Tyrrell was living on the East Coast, and there was no further mention of a child.

      At least one small item in another old newspaper suggested that eventually Sarah Tyrrell had begun to get a name for being as eccentric as her aged husband had been.

      “And the little girl,” asked Drakulya. “What happened to her?”

      There was a silence on the phone, except for the noise Angie’s busy