Welcome to the Castle

Abraham Poulter, exhausted from traveling from London to Chicago in near-record time, could not find an adequate hotel to his liking, and any respectable establishment he happened upon, he found already at capacity. His mustachioed mug would bristle at the lower class, turning him away. No amount of haggling seemed to sway the Yankees; he respected their integrity, at least. Pleasantly surprised, Mr. Poulter's attention lingered on the many lavish decorations accenting the uncultured American lobbies and foyers: smooth marble pillars wrapped with grapevine decal, glittering teardrop glass chandeliers, and all of them sported an abundance of plush pillowed mahogany furniture and lightbulbs. So many lightbulbs! Mr. Poulter could not believe, in the year 1893, that these wayward ruffians managed to, no impersonated, emulate the luxuries of the Motherland.

At his seventh prospective stay, Abraham endured further purgatory, "I will not believe that there isn't one room available to me." He shook his head at the American bellhop, a lad less than half of Abraham's age, who did not accommodate the respectable gentlemen. 

"Mr Poulter, for the last time, there are rooms available," the upstart said with insulting nerve. The boy continued, "There just aren't any with a three-quarter bed with a view of the World's Columbian Exhibition; if you're amenable, we have a modest room with two standard singles-"

Interrupting, Mr. Poulter exclaimed, "Amenable? You think I'm not compromising enough by traveling a world away! Bah, you will rue the day for turning me away, boy!" He snapped his fingers behind him, hearing his baggage boy/personal aid, Tommy, hefting their heavy luggage; donning his stiff shape hat, Mr. Poulter stormed out of the building, stomping in hopes that his traveling boots would echo off the floor and disturb the lucky occupants who snagged the better rooms. 

Outside, in the wind, Mr. Poulter pulled out his pipe, lit it, and puffed to ponder what to do, enjoying the smell of smoke over dirty cobblestone. The streets, too bright with the intensity of the arc lampposts, fooled him into thinking the Americans stole daylight; looking up, the fishing reel entrepreneur couldn't find the stars. The dark void saddened him as he felt his wrath empty him. 

Then Mr. Poulter looked to Tommy, a quiet and respectable boy, and found him looking a little scared, shivering. Ashamed, Mr. Poulter traded his coat for the heavier of their bags. The overcoat dwarfed the boy, but at least he could brave the cold.

"Come, now, Tommy, let us see what else Chicago can offer us," Mr. Poulter said, lifting his voice a little for effect. The boy smiled his cheeks and ears bright red from the cold. 

Chicago, even in the dead of night, felt alive. Prowlers of deplorable work took to the streets openly, and Mr. Poulter shooed them away, needing to fend off one particular vagrant from Tommy, who kept asking for pocket change. Deplorable and unacceptable in Mr. Poulter's opinion. If one found themselves without the coin to purchase food, then they shouldn't snub their nose at an honest day's work. That said, the vagabonds, all ragged in tattered, mismatched clothing and detestable hygiene, seemed unfazed by the chilly, moist air. When his business concluded, he would treat Tommy to visit these supposed "Great Lakes" just north of here. Mr. Poulter and Tommy, accustomed to the sea breeze and icy rain back home, could manage just fine; he thought, perhaps, judging by the waft of liquor on their breath, the indulgence of alcohol kept these lightweight Americans dull but warm. 

But the city, teeming with high, four-storied buildings, pockets of neat, green parks, and the World's Fair itself, impressed Mr. Poulter. Yes, even he could admit that. He noticed Tommy admiring the gigantic ring of metal that the locals kept calling a "Ferris Wheel" and wondered if the horror was safe enough to ride. Doubtful. London wouldn't ever bat an eye over such an attraction. As for Mr. Poulter, he looked past the stumbling drunks and lowlifes that filled the streets with howls of laughter and took particular interest in the architecture; it felt familiar but novel at the same time. The resemblance was similar to how one sees the features of a parent in a child. 

Rounding a street corner, Mr. Poulter and Tommy found a gaggle of well-dressed Americans huddled together, seemingly irate with one another, but upon walking closer to them, they seemed to commiserate over a common vexing. They didn't bother to hush their voices.

"I haven't gotten a single cent back from him!" one said.

"I've called on him twice, and he hasn't had the decency even to respond!" another exclaimed. 

"Should have known better, an accountant from Florida," one spit, his phlegm slapping the ground. "Damn Southerner."

At this, the tallest fellow of the assembly said, "I heard he's from New Hampshire; don't know how he got that twang to him."

Mr. Poulter maneuvered himself and Tommy around the impassioned dozen, but one called out, "You have dealings with him too, sir?"

Pleased with his manners, Mr. Poulter turned and replied, "I beg your pardon, sir; I do not know whom you are referring to. And, may I ask your name, my good man?" 

Hearing his refined accent, the men corrected their posture, and the one who first spoke to Mr. Poulter cleared his throat, "Ah, I forgot my manners; my name is Garret. Garret Whitaker. We're airing our grievances over our joint investment: a new hotel run by a Holmes fellow. He's been neglecting us since he got the place up and running."

"He's a snake, sir!" another man chimed in.

"Consider every word of his a lie!" another said. Further murmuring assented to Holmes's poor reputation.

"How unprofessional of him, Mr. Whitaker; you have my sympathies. I myself, as a successful businessman, abhor the thought of dealing with such unprofessionalism," Mr. Poulter puffed out his chest.

"You're a reputable man, sir?" a different man asked.

"Why, yes," Mr. Poulter smiled at his due recognition. "My name is Abraham Poulter; I have traveled from London to see about expanding my ventures after a colleague told me many investors would be present for the World's Fair."

The group looked at each other, their curiosity elevating their eyebrows and spirits. Mr. Whitaker spoke again, "You busy, Mr. Poulter? We could use your help in dealing with Holmes."

Gladdened, Mr. Poulter looked to Tommy, timid to the strangers but otherwise smiling, and replied, "Why, I would be happy to offer my services to you, chaps; now, where might we find some of your constables?" Nearly every American in the group grimaced, and no one spoke. It dawned on the Englishman that these men were discussing such a business meeting in the dead of night. My Poulter continued, "This is a legal dealing, is it not?"

Mr. Whitaker cleared his throat, "No, sir, but it isn't illegal; we trusted our investments over bartering. We didn't want to be bothered with the paperwork, is all, Mr. Poulter."

"Mm, well! If the man's word is no good, what use would it be in ink then?" Mr. Poulter jested. The group nodded in agreement, and one or two gave a 'Here here!' Mr. Poulter announced, "Well, let's not dally then! My poor boy is cold, and I would see that you chaps are paid in full!" Merily, the merged ensemble of American and British businessmen made their way to the' Castle' hotel.

Along the way, Mr. Poulter learned of his new American friends' many investments and dealings: medicine, commodities, trade, and ships. But not one owned a Poulter pole! He promised them all the finest fishing tool the market could offer; in return, many promised him goods and services ranging from extended vacations in New York to possible real estate opportunities. Tommy hid his excitement when Mr. Whitaker spoke of his daughter - around the same age as the lad - when he invited Mr. Poulter for dinner the following evening. 

Coming upon the impressive three-story building on a street corner, Mr. Poulter beamed at the curved corners of the 'Castle' and hoped for a vacancy. Yes, the location seemed remote, a little far from the World's Fair, and no, the rooms likely did not come furnished to his liking as they appeared smaller from the outside. But his new friends put him in a joyous mood. 

The same didn't hold for Mr. Poulter's new compatriots - their communal anger spurred each other further and further during their short walk. Commiserating over what this Holmes fellow owed them made him sound like the ugliest scoundrel; Mr. Poulter expected nothing short of a shoddy, greasy swindler who prayed upon better men.

Entering the hotel, they found him attending to papers in the surprisingly spacious lobby at the bellhop desk; Mr. Whitaker shouted, "Holmes!"

The burly man in a spotless grey suit and similarly stiff shape hat to Mr. Poulter's flinched as he looked up to find a posse of angry men approaching him, but then he smiled and waved them over.

Mr. Poulter, dimly, thought how curiously small the lobby felt given the building's size. With a dozen men and a boy cramped in such a tiny cupboard, his pores flushed themselves almost immediately to cool himself. 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Welcome to my Castle. Mr. Whitaker? You seem perturbed; now, what can I do to help you, my friend?" Holmes spoke with a smooth, casual cadence. Mr. Poulter recognized the accent his new friends griped over and gladdened to it, feeling welcomed with fine southern hospitality; he tried to mask the delight to support his new friends. 

"You can help me and my associates by paying off your debts, friend," Mr. Whitaker said. He leaned over the desk that separated him from his quarry, and Mr. Poulter did not think that at all gentlemanly. Holmes, still smiling warmly, tilted his head in confusion. 

"But I already repaid you and all my investors, Mr. Whitaker," Holmes's smile faltered, and he laced his voice with concern, "Why, I took care of this a week before my grand opening; is that why I did not see any of you that day?"

Mr. Whitaker withdrew his arm from the desk and looked behind him for support, answers, anything. He found equally quizzical faces in his expression. Mr. Poulter remained silent, invested in his friends' cause but curious about Holmes' confusion.

Turning back to Holmes, Mr. Whitaker reasserted, "No, we haven't gotten our money back; none of us have. You're a liar, Holmes," he said with a pointed finger.

Holmes soothed with his hands, "Now, Mr. Whitaker, if anyone is at fault here, it would be the banks. I have here somewhere the proof of my innocence, copies of the transfer of funds, with a little interest - as a thank you for your good faith in me." Holmes gestured to the stack of legal documents before him, neatly arranged. Mr. Poulter leaned over the desk to find the papers painstakingly organized, perfectly aligned to the desk's edges, almost unnaturally so, given how many records littered the top. 

Mr. Whitaker faltered, "Y-you did? I was unaware, Holmes." Mr. Poulter thought to himself how this might have been an unfortunate misunderstanding and subsided his drive for righteous justice.

"Why, we all were unaware, it seems, Mr. Whitaker," Holmes' easy smile returned. "Let me reassure you that I take my dealings seriously," he cooly emphasized with his index finger, "I will march on down to those crooks first thing in the morning and demand that my good friends are paid in full! You have my most sincerest apologies for this predicament, Mr. Whitaker - to all of you. Dear me, you've thought me a charlatan all this time stealing your hard-earned money; heavens me, you come to me troubled well past dark. Bless you all." Mr. Poulter regarded himself a good judge of character, and he felt moved when Holmes spoke and when he placed his hands over his heart. Sincere and true, if ever there was a man. 

Holmes regarded Mr. Poulter and Tommy, gesturing to them, "Now I can't remember what the Miss' cooked me for supper more than a night ago, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir." He held out his hand, which Mr. Poulter politely accepted.

"Abraham Poulter, sir, and this is Tommy; you are correct. We merely happened upon Mr. Whitaker, and the rest of our new friends wandering the streets and agreed to assist if needed," Mr. Poulter heard his voice lacking its typical gusto.

"Mr. Poulter, are you without a place to stay?" Holmes asked incredulously. 

"Indeed, we are, my good man. You wouldn't have a vacancy, sir?

"Why, as a matter of fact, I do, Mr. Poulter. I will check you into my finest room at half-price for the trouble you went to help our friends, but could you wait a moment? I feel dreadfully awful for the trouble I've caused Mr. Whitaker and the rest of my associates." Mr. Poulter beamed, taken aback by this man's generosity and kindness. And to people who were, not five minutes ago, ready to drag him outside into the cold. 

"Certainly, you have my thanks, sir."

Holmes smiled, and something flashed across his eyes, resembling the soulless slits of a snake. But it was gone as soon as it appeared—a trick of the light. "And you have mine, Mr. Poulter, welcome to the Castle."

Turning back to his associates, Holmes began, "Now, I'm not sure how I can make up the trouble that I have caused, gentlemen, but I'm sure it's something we can discuss over the course of a many-coarse set of meals." Many laughed, nodding their approval, and Holmes continued, "But please, give me but a moment, and I will think of something at hand to provide-"

"I think not," Mr. Whitaker interrupted. "It is us that should be apologizing, Holmes. You've been kind, and we wrongfully accused you of something that wasn't your fault. I feel so terrible that I will return your interest and then some for my behavior."

Many others began promising fine diners, exquisite pieces of furniture, and many other lavish gifts that seemed to overwhelm Holmes.

"Dear me, I am undeserving of such things; thank you all." Holmes put a hand to his chest, moved by their generosity. All was forgiven, it seemed. With many goodbyes and promises to see one another again soon, Holmes checked in Mr. Poulter and Tommy and led them upstairs.

The stairway, oddly, seemed to travel up farther than needed, and when coming to the second level, Mr. Poulter felt the floor decline a bit before leveling. He needed rest more than he realized it seemed. And, worryingly, Tommy paled ever since the other gentlemen took their leave; Mr. Poulter would tend to the lad before they rested. 

"Here we are, gentlemen," Holmes announced. They came upon a plain-looking oak door. Mr. Poulter squinted at their room's entrance and the rest of the hallway. Did it curve somewhat? Before he could double-check, Holmes led them into a room that did not serve as a place of quiet rest. 

Instead, H. H. Holmes, the 1893 World's Fair Serial Killer, had taken them to a gas chamber, shoving the two unfortunate souls in, and locked them inside. 

In Mr. Poulter's final moments, clutching a wailing, terrified Tommy, he tried to comfort the boy as best as he could as the metal pipes haphazardly lining the porcelain walls began to hum. He regretted everything: coming to America, foolishly braving Chicago with little concern for their safety, for trusting a snake. A warm mist descended from pumps in the ceiling. 

H. H. Holmes murdered two more unassuming guests who wandered a strange city at night.