Stokers Shadow Read Online Free PDF Page A

cover towards the house. Secondly, the stranger’s dress is undoubtedly respectable, not the disguise of a thief. But mostly it’s the nagging perception that – through the glass, in the moonlight, from a distance – the man looks like his dead father.
    William turns away for a moment, not exactly afraid, but trying to judge the implications of this last reason. He feels a rising pool of disquiet in his chest, and an odd little hammering sensation returns to his ears. Maud, still sleeping, moans. William peers through the window once more. The man has gone; only trees and bushes sway lightly in the breeze.

C HAPTER IV
    William strikes a match, but the damp air claims it, choking the flame. He strikes another, shielding it this time from the wind, then takes a draw and exhales a white funnel into the street’s grey canyon
.
    A middle-aged couple stop on the curb opposite; with their flapping map and umbrella they look like lost crows. Something about the woman – the dark fur of her collar and the hint of comfort it bestows – makes him think of Maud. A boulder turns within William’s chest at the thought of his wife – a great rock of sadness, affection and escape, irreconcilable movements pulling everywhere and nowhere
.
    William continues around the corner. In another moment, the wrought iron statue of Henry Irving appears. Cool rain drips down his collar as he watches the gaunt features of the actor take shape in black. Footsteps clatter around the little square; the dampness amplifies everything. William stops in front of the black rail and looks up. Thesculptor could not have known Irving. There is a dignity of bearing, an authenticity about the figure that William never saw in Irving’s living flesh. If only Queen Victoria had not had the poor judgment to knight him
.
    â€œSir Henry Irving,” the comic phrase rises like hot flame within him. Sir!
    A couple of young bohemians – an actor and actress, William guesses – are reading the plaque. They have admiring, fawnlike eyes. How dark his own must look
.
    Without warning, a breeze stirs and a hundred pigeons feeding at the statue base take wing. They expand in a semicircle around Irving, forming a garland banner. It is as though they have obeyed some gesture from the lifeless monument
.
    M R . T HRING SITS on an embossed leather chair. His desk is heavy oak. A telephone perches at the edge, a large folder splayed in the centre. With his dark suit, spectacles and bald head, Mr. Thring is at one with the furnishings. William wonders if he is folded up at five o’clock and lodged into a sliding drawer in one of the room’s panels.
    But Mr. Thring brightens when he sees William and he seems suddenly more human. He stands up and shakes hands warmly, then gestures William to a chair.
    â€œI understand you are here on behalf of your mother, Mr. Stoker,” he says, settling down again behind the desk.
    â€œThat’s right, Mr. Thring.”
    â€œLet me offer you a cigar,” Mr. Thring says unexpectedly, smiling again and opening a wooden case.
    â€œUm, no thank you,” William says.
    William’s head is aching from the previous night and he can feel sore pink rims around his eyelids. He is self-conscious, knowing this haggard look must be noticeable.
    â€œWell let’s get to business,” Mr. Thring says smiling sweetly again. “We understand and we acknowledge that there is a breach of copyright issue, Mr. Stoker. You can rest assured the Society of Authors will do everything that is reasonably within its scope to help your mother.”
    William weighs the words carefully, wondering what they mean in practical terms. “Well,” he asks after a pause, “what are the options?”
    â€œThat’s really up to your mother, Mr. Stoker,” Mr. Thring replies tapping his pencil on the desk.
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œWe need