Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Read Online Free PDF

his dear Florence was indeed whispering into his ear in the confines of that beeswaxed telephone kiosk, rather than hundreds of miles away in London.
    “I miss you, too, dear,” said Florence. “But Noel is just too sickly to travel, I am afraid. The doctor suggested another ten days, perhaps a fortnight.”
    “Then I shall return to London at once,” decided Stoker. “You will not,” said Florence distantly. “You have worked hard, Bram, and Noel will not improve any more quickly with you pacing up and down the house. Stay in Whitby, relax, and work on your new novel. Noel and I shall join you as soon as he is well enough.”
    “Well, if you’re sure . . . ,” sighed Stoker. “I shall ring again tomorrow.”
    Florence was right, of course; he acted as manager for the actor Henry Irving, and it had been an exhausting season. Stoker didn’t know where Irving got the energy. He swore the man would breathe his last on some stage, somewhere. Bram emerged into the sunshine and breathed deeply of the briny air. Noel had but a fever, he told himself. But as he himself had been an invalid until he was seven years old, Stoker did sometimes worry that Noel, now eleven, had inherited some weakness. Still, Stoker had made up for lost time, and he had excelled in athletic and scholarly pursuits at school and college. Noel was of the same makeup as Stoker, and he would be as tall and strong.
    Bram had the publication of his first novel, The Snake’s Pass, to look forward to later that year, but he was already bored with it. His mind buzzed with ideas, notions, and fancies. He had spent his weeks in Whitby listening to the fascinating tales of the salty old fishermen, or walking along the West Cliff and climbing the wild, craggy East Cliff, home to the ruins of the old abbey. They were like two opposing forces, those cliffs encompassing the fishing town, the ancient and modern, the civilized and primeval halves of the same place. If he could unlock his big idea anywhere, it would be here, in Whitby. All he needed was the key.
    Gideon was circling the red post box like one of the gulls spiraling above the light house on the harbor, desperately trying to think of his next move. Captain Trigger would not be so indecisive, so without an idea what to do next. How could he hope to even try to emulate his hero, when he could not even get in touch with him for advice?
    He saw the tall Irish writer—Stoker?—striding out of the Post Office. Hadn’t he said he worked for the magazines? Yes, this was what Trigger would do. Avail himself of help. Perhaps Gideon wasn’t so useless. He put up his hand and shouted, “Mr. Stoker! Over here!”
    Gideon was not short, but the Irishman towered over him. He looked down at Gideon and smiled with recognition. “Ah, Mr. Smith, isn’t it? Was your emergency dealt with?”
    “No,” said Gideon. “They would not put me in touch with Captain Trigger.”
    “Unfortunate,” said Stoker, looking contemplatively down the cobbled street and toward the harbor. “I wonder . . . might I share your burden? My own scribbling is not in the league of the illustrious Captain Trigger’s adventures, but I might be able to offer assistance in some small way.”
    Gideon nodded enthusiastically.
    “Excellent,” said Stoker. “There is a most agreeable little teashop I have been frequenting. Allow me to buy you some refreshment.”
    Over tea and buns Gideon told Stoker what had happened since the Cold Drake had been found abandoned. In the bustle of the busy seaside resort, the sun blazing down, Gideon found his concerns about the noises beneath Lythe Bank seemed somewhat foolish, and he could tell Stoker thought the same from the shrewd gaze the writer cast upon him.
    “A sad tale,” said Stoker. “I am sorry for your loss.”
    “You agree an investigation is in order?”
    “I am not a maritime man, I am afraid,” said Stoker carefully.
    “I would not know just how unusual an abandoned ship