Eight Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Crider

  “It is just as well,” said Holmes.

  Randolph’s eyes went from one of us to the other, and then to Bingham, who was standing listly, his hands at his side.

  “I do not understand,” said Randolph. “If the venomous lizard killed my sister, how could her husband be to blame? It seems impossible that you could know.”

  “I knew while we were still at Baker Street that something was very wrong with your story,” said Holmes. “We had only to arrive here to confirm my suspicions.”

  His remarks puzzled me. “But I thought you did not theorize until you had the facts.”

  “I had the facts, and they pointed to the crime of murder,” said Holmes. “For one thing, the Gila has never been known to attack a human being except in cases of extreme provocation. It did not seem likely to me that a woman at home alone would be so obtuse as to provoke the creature into attacking her. In addition, although the bite of the Gila is indeed poisonous, there has been, as far as I know, not a single recorded instance of its bite having killed anyone.”

  “But the stories I heard!” Randolph protested.

  “Are merely that—stories. Miners are prone to exaggerate, though it may well be true that one of them might have provoked a Gila to bite him. And it may even be true that the creature’s bite was so tenacious that it would have to be cut away from its victim. But it does not kill.”

  “But what of the bite on my sister?”

  “That is one reason we could not afford to kill the monster and risk the destruction of its unique dental structure. There was some attempt to make the marks on your sister’s arm look like the bite of some reptile, a snake perhaps, but the Gila’s teeth are not like fangs at all, as a simple examination will show. It chews on the victim’s skin and mangles it to introduce the poison rather than injecting it.”

  Randolph’s puzzlement had not ended. “But Sofia is dead, and apparently of poison.”

  “Yes, but the color of her skin would indicate that the poison is more likely curare than that of the Gila. And curare is a poison that a physician can obtain with ease. I observed a spot on your sister’s arm that was undoubtedly caused by an injection, an injection that Dr. Bingham gave to her after rendering her unconscious by other means. He then broke the cage and freed the monster to make it appear that his wife’s death was an accident.”

  Randolph, now almost convinced, stared at Bingham. “But why?” he asked.

  “Money,” said Holmes, “is almost always the answer. Your sister had the fortune, not he. Perhaps he was going to leave her for another but could not do it without her money. Or perhaps it was merely that he was tired of her. He can tell us that.”

  Bingham stood silently.

  “If the police examine your bag and find curare in it, you will have doomed yourself,” said Holmes.

  Once again, Bingham ran for the other room. But I had worked my way closer to him, and I was able to grasp his arm firmly in one hand and show him the revolver. That was quite enough to stop him. At another word from Holmes, Randolph went to fetch the police and bring an end to our adventure.

  And yet such adventures never really end. As I sit here and write about the events of that day so long ago, and the streetlights outside my window flicker to life in the rain, I can see the Gila monster crouching on the warm hearth almost as clearly as if it were in the room where I now sit. The dull ache of the Jezail bullet fades. And I feel alive and young again, in a way that I have not since last I saw the face of Sherlock Holmes.

  The Case of the Vampire’s Mark

  In going over my notes, I see that I have seldom commented upon the housekeeping abilities of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, except perhaps to criticize them. Even he, I believe, would confess to the truth of the statement that he is among the untidiest of men.

  The sitting room of the residence we sometimes shared at 221B Baker Street was often filled with the noxious odors emanating from his chemistry experiments, and it was not unusual for retorts to be bubbling away at all hours. His fingers were commonly stained with chemicals or ink, and papers littered the floor. Cigars lay in the coal scuttle, and his unanswered correspondence was skewered to the center of the wooden mantelpiece with a jack-knife.

  But, to be fair, there are some domestic chores at which Holmes excelled. Cooking breakfast was one of these, breakfast being the only meal he truly enjoyed. So it was no surprise to me when I visited him early one warm summer’s day in 1889 to see the table laden with a hearty English breakfast that he had prepared himself.

  “Come in, Watson!” he called just as I raised my hand to knock at the door. “The door is unlocked.”

  I opened the door and went inside. Holmes was there, wearing his old mouse-colored dressing gown and seated at the table, having his breakfast.

  “My dear Holmes,” I said, “I know that you are skilled in deduction, but I did not know that you could see through a solid wooden door!”

  “See?” said Holmes. “I hardly needed to see you, Watson. Have I not heard your tread on the stairs hundreds of times? I should hope that I could identify you, of all men, from the sound of your step.”

  “Of course,” said I. “I should have known.”

  “Then put aside your hat and stick and have a bit of breakfast with me. You can tell me of your practice whilst you are at it.”

  “I could not presume so much on your hospitality,” I protested.

  “Nonsense,” said Holmes with a laugh. “As you can see, I have prepared far too much for my own needs. That is what comes of cooking so seldom.”

  It was obvious that he was right. There were eggs and ham in plenty, and a bit of curried fowl to go with them, so I agreed to join him and we set to with a will. When we were done, Holmes fetched a pipe from the coal scuttle, where it had lain among the cigars, and filled it with shag from the Persian slipper where he kept his tobacco. His pre-breakfast pipe was always filled with the dottle of the previous day’s pipes, preserved in a pile on the mantel, and he was now making his start toward accumulating this day’s pile.

  “Now, Watson,” said he, when he had the pipe going satisfactorily, “tell me about yourself, as I know little of your life these days except that your wife is off visiting and that you stropped your razor this morning.”

  “By Jove, Holmes!” said I. “Your powers never cease to astonish me. There is no way that you could know these things, and yet it seems that you do. There is more to this than knowing the sound of my footstep on the stair.”

  “You know my methods better than anyone, Watson,” said he, his head wreathed in smoke. “Observation of trifles is chief among them.”

  I raised my hand to my jawline, where the skin was scraped a bit raw and touched my chin where there was a tiny scab from a razor nick.

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I noticed the cut at once, and I do believe you have spotted your napkin. Mrs. Hudson will forgive you, however.”

  “Mrs. Hudson is not here to forgive me,” said I. “Permit me to draw an inference of my own. You would not have made breakfast yourself had she been here, and I would not have had to let myself in downstairs. So I believe that I can safely say that Mrs. Hudson is away.”

  “Capital, Watson,” said Holmes. “You have unplumbed depths, as I have more than once observed. Mrs. Hudson is indeed away on a visit.”

  “As is my wife,” I replied. “But how did you know?”

  “Your very presence here at this hour of the morning is proof enough. I now that she is not ill because you are clearly in a fine mood and able to enjoy your breakfast. Had she been at home, your wife surely would have made one for you. Obviously she did not, or you would not have been out and about at such an early hour. Therefore she is away, most likely on a visit.”

  “Now that you have explained your reasoning with regard to my wife, it seems a bit less remarkable,” said I, “but how did you know that my wound was caused by a freshly-stropped razor?”

  “And how else? There is hardly any other way to ob
tain a scraped jaw or those small nicks, unless possibly in a fight, and I know that you would never fight before breakfast.”

  I had to agree, and he smiled thinly, then puffed away on his pipe until his head was wreathed with the pungent smoke.

  “And you, Holmes?” I said. “Have you had any interesting cases of late?”

  My host’s good humor faded. “Nothing, Watson. I spend my days in idleness. It seems that there is no need for a consulting detective these days, other than to find out unfaithful husbands or locate lost pets.”

  “But Holmes,” said I, “surely you would never—”

  Holmes waved his hand in front of his face, causing the smoke from his pipe to eddy around him.

  “Correct, Watson,” he said. “I would never interest myself in matters such as those. They are an insult to my abilities.”

  At that moment the bell at the door below began to jangle.

  “Perhaps that is a client with an interesting tale to tell,” I said.

  “That may well be, Watson, and if we are to judge by the frantic tone of the bell, he is in quite a hurry to tell it. Would you be so kind as to greet him and conduct him here?”

  Of course I was glad to be able to perform this humble service, which would have been Mrs. Hudson’s job had she been at home. The man I met when I opened the door was of medium height, with short black hair parted on the side and a black beard. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and tie and held a hat in his hands.

  “Good morning,” he said when I greeted him. “Do I have the honor of addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  I smiled and told him that Holmes was above. “I am merely his friend, Dr. Watson.”

  “Ah,” the man said. “And I am Abraham Stoker. I have heard of you, Dr. Watson, and of your friend, but it is he I have come seeking. Would it be possible for me to see him?”

  “Of course,” said I, and conducted Mr. Stoker upstairs, where Holmes had made a half-hearted effort to make the room presentable. It still smelled of breakfast and pipe smoke, but the dishes had somehow been made to vanish.

  “Come in,” said Holmes when he saw us in the doorway. He still wore the mouse-colored dressing gown.

  We entered, and I introduced Mr. Stoker to Holmes, who said, “And how long has it been since you left Dublin, Mr. Stoker?”

  “What?” said Stoker. “How did you know that I was from Dublin. I had thought that any trace of accent was gone from my voice by now.”

  “Not for one who has made a study of the different ways of speaking on our two islands,” said Holmes. “And I would venture to say that you are an educated man, for your accent is not that of the working classes.”

  “Trinity College,” Stoker said, “and I now begin to believe all that I have heard of you is true.”

  “Not all, perhaps,” said Holmes, “but a goodly portion no doubt. What brought you to London?”

  “The theater,” said Stoker.

  He explained that he had been a theater critic during his college days and that he was now the manager of the Lyceum Theater and secretary to Sir Henry Irving, the owner and star of most of the theater’s productions.

  “One of London’s largest theaters,” said Holmes, though I am sure he had never attended a play there.

  “And Sir Henry is one of England’s finest actors,” said I, for I had seen him in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part I.

  “But you did not come here to talk of the theater, I hope,” said Holmes, his eyes alight at the prospect of investigating some despicable criminal act.

  “No,” said Stoker. “I came to talk about an occurrence so bizarre, so horrible, that I can hardly expect you to believe it. I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “Ah,” exclaimed Holmes, his enthusiasm increasing. “Tell us what this occurrence might be.”

  “It is a bite,” said Stoker. “Or bites, I should say. Bites on the neck of a child. The mark of a vampire!”

  Holmes snorted, and the light in his eyes died. “Bah. The living dead? Nothing more than superstition of the basest sort. Irrational and completely impossible.”

  Stoker drew himself erect. “I am not talking of some sensational novel or play, sir. I know that such things have filled the stages of England and France for years, but this is real.”

  “No,” said Holmes. “It is not. Human blood drinkers may have lived, it is true, and we can read of the likes of Countess Bathory, called the Blood Countess, and Vlad Tepes, called the Impaler, but there are no vampires.”

  “Countess Bathory? Vlad Tepes?” Stoker said. “And who are they?”

  As I knew no more of the names Holmes had spoken, I could have asked the same question, and I am sure Holmes could have answered at length should he have chosen to do so. His ignorance of the world’s great literature sometimes astounded me, but when it came to tales of sensational crimes and their perpetrators, his reading was both wide and deep.

  “Bathory and Tepes are of no importance,” Holmes said. “They were criminals on a grand scale, but they are long dead. They do not change themselves into bats and fly through the yellow fogs of London to gorge themselves on the blood of innocents.”

  “Nevertheless, someone—something—has done so,” said Stoker. “The person who told me would not lie. You may see for yourself if you come with me. I am told that the most recent bite is still fresh.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, his interest somewhat rekindled. “It may well be that this case, though not what you think, does indeed require my talents. I will make myself ready, and Dr. Watson and I will accompany you.”

  “But Holmes,” I protested, “I must—”

  “Tut, Watson. Your wife is away and will not miss you. I, on the other hand, might very well find myself in need of your assistance. You have performed admirably in the past.”

  I admit to being pleased at Holmes’s words. He was not a man to use flattery, so I knew that he meant what he had said.

  “Yes, Dr. Watson,” Stoker said. “Please do come. Your abilities as a physician may be of great help.”

  “Very well,” said I, “I shall be glad to go with you. But where is it that we are going?”

  “The countryside near Cobham, in Surrey,” said Stoker. “Sir Henry’s coach is awaiting us below.”

  “A pleasant countryside,” I said, having visited the area in the past.

  “And Surrey has an admirable bee-keepers’ association,” Holmes added. “I have quite an interest in bees. Amazing creatures. However, that does not obviate the fact that the country is a place of far more evil than most people know, and crime often goes unpunished there for more reasons that one. We must be on our way, Watson, for the case may be far more urgent than I first had thought.”

  On our coach ride to Surrey, Mr. Stoker gave us more details of the affair that had caused him to fetch us in such a hurry. It seemed that Robin, the young son of Lily Montgomery, one of the finest actresses of the English stage and often Mr. Henry Irving’s leading lady, had for some time been feeling unwell. He was nervous and irritable and could not bear the light of day. Often at night he became quite restless.

  “He seemed to fear something that he could not name,” Stoker said, “and at first his mother thought it was merely the result of some nightmare. But he grew less and less interested in his studies, and she summoned medical advice. It was the family doctor who discovered the horrible bites only at daybreak this morning.”

  “And what was the doctor’s diagnosis?” asked Holmes. “That the boy had been bitten by a vampire?”

  “Oh, no,” said Stoker, “but he could think of no other explanation for the tooth marks.”

  “Then he is not a doctor that I should like to have call upon me,” said Holmes. “Who identified the marks?”

  “Mrs. Tedescu,” Stoker replied.

  “And who is Mrs. Tedescu?”

  “She and her husband, Wladyslaw, are the family servants. They are from Transylvania, Romania, as is Mrs. Montgomery’s husband.”

>   “But her name,” said I. “Surely it is not Romanian.”

  “It is Mrs. Montgomery’s maiden name, which she adopted as her stage name to suit the English ear,” said Stoker. “At any rate, Mrs. Tedescu was the first to recognize the bite of the vampire and to give it a name. She is steeped in the legends of her country, I suppose.”

  “You said something of lessons,” Holmes remarked. “Does young Robin attend the local school?”

  “No. There is a tutor living with the family. His name is John Cabot.”

  “Is there anyone else living in the house?”

  “No one,” said Stoker.

  “And the husband.”

  “Brasov is his name,” said Stoker. “Nicholas Brasov. He lives there as well, of course.”

  “Yet we are in Mr. Irving’s carriage,” Holmes pointed out.

  “Mr. Irving cares deeply for Mrs. Montgomery’s welfare and for the welfare of her family, as do I,” Stoker said stiffly. “He was glad to send his carriage for you when called upon. Mr. Brasov rode into town himself to ask for help. Of course he has now returned to Surrey, where he awaits us.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes. “And does everyone in the house know of the bites?”

  “Yes,” Stoker replied. “It is a matter of utmost concern to all, for an immortal soul is at stake.”

  Holmes opened his mouth as if to speak, but he forbore. I said, “Has anyone suggested a remedy?”

  “No,” said Stoker, “though Mr. Irving says that preventatives have been mentioned.”

  “And what might those be?” asked Holmes.

  “Garlic and crosses,” Stoker replied. “Sir Henry tells me that Mr. Cabot has vowed to protect Robin from all harm. He says that he will stay in the boy’s room, armed only with a crucifix, and defeat the vampire. Mrs. Montgomery feels he is quite brave.”

  “Bravery?” said Holmes. “It is foolery and nothing more. Crucifixes and garlic are worse than useless. Has anyone had a glimpse of this so-called vampire?”

  “No one,” said Stoker, “but the creatures are supposed to be able to change shape and enter a room as mist and fog.”