The Holmes-Dracula File

by Fred Saberhagen

  Obviously they intended to sink him in the river, and that would be that, no? Well, no, he thought, for he had already survived smothering. Actually he was far from helpless. The thing he had to do…he should be able to…

  Energized by the approach of midnight, the battered brain within the aged skull fought to repair its broken weapons. To remember the things that must and could be done would be much easier if he were able to recall just who and what he was…

  He was borne on the strong man’s shoulder down a ladder, with river-smell strong and sounds of water lapping near, and then he was cast roughly into the bottom of what must have been a rather large rowboat. It swayed only a little with the weight of the three people boarding, rubbing its sides against pilings to the starboard and port. The need for the lady’s aid was soon apparent: two pairs of hands, one working at the bow and one at the stern, were required to work the heavy craft out of what must have been a place of snug concealment beneath a dock, a berth into which it was kept wedged by the river’s current.

  As soon as the craft was drifting free, Frau G. sat down in the stern and rested, one booted foot comfortably propped upon the old man’s unmoving hip, whilst Matthews broke out a pair of oars.

  A dozen or so strokes, and the man began complaining yet again. He was having an unexpectedly tough time transporting this particular cargo over running water. Ah, folk would grumble less if they knew more. He might have had a far more difficult evening than he did.

  “Ach, man,” Frau Grafenstein admonished briskly, “put your back into it.” The old man in his bag could almost picture her shaking a stern finger. “Neither uff your passengers iss very big or heavy. And you ought to be used to this particular trip by now.”

  “That old un’s heavier than you might think, Missus,” Matthews grunted, pulling hard as bidden. “Somethin’ queer about him. In general, I means. Weren’t there?” Grunt again. “Bit o’ rough current tonight, it feels like.”

  “One uff these nights you may be rowing this way, with your young cousin, done up zo.” She treated the old man to a familiar joggle from her boot.

  “Nar. With all respeck, Missus, I ’spect Sal will be a good ’un now. You made a bit of an impression on ’er tonight.”

  “I trust that you are right.” The woman sighed; it was a delicate and almost feminine sound. Then in a little while she said: “This should be far enough. Those new electric lights across the river will be too close for comfort if we go on.”

  “Ar.”

  The oars stopped and were shipped inboard. Again two strong hands grappled the old man’s oilcloth bag. They put him straight over the gunwale, wrappings, and weighty bonds and all, without delay or ceremony, almost without a splash.

  Cold water tried to fasten teeth into his skin, but he was callous to its bite. His breathless lips were pressed fastidiously tight against the dirty tide. The muted shock of immersion served as a needed tonic for his brain. His powers armed themselves, were ghosts no longer, although still lacking intellectual control. He felt his iron manacles drop off, and with them the shrouding bag. But it was not the metal that melted or the cloth that tore. Some other object lost its solidity, rose like a spectral bubble through the water, and then slowly regained its substance and its shape. Now the old man stood dripping on the pier, still clad in his hospital victim’s gown. His burgeoning powers were ringed around him now, a bodyguard invisible and awesome, though in disordered ranks. Still missing was their captain, the last great power: his true name.

  The boat had rowed up to the far end of the pier, where it was letting off the woman now. Looking between piles of shipping crates, the old man could see her quite easily, despite the forty yards or so of smoggy night between.

  “Stuff and nonsense.” Her voice was plain, not loud but brisk. “Uff course I shall be all right.” And then her military walk came spattering the last rain’s shallow mirrors in his direction, shivering the stray gleams of electric lights ranked somewhere on the Thames’ far bank. Matthews meanwhile had stayed in the boat, and was now rowing it out toward midstream, inadvertently putting between himself and the old man such a stretch of running water that the latter in his weakened state perceived it as an effective barrier.

  The woman’s jaunty footfalls came on toward him through the night, behind tall piles of crates. All that old man needed to do was stand there in the shadow of a disused boatshed, waiting.

  She came in sight again, now close enough for her to see him also. He waited almost storklike on his long bare legs below that ridiculous shirt in which she had helped to dress him. His face that she had pillowed only minutes earlier was in the shadow now, but still she could scarcely have mistaken his figure in her path for that of any other man. Her stride faltered, and the hard dominance of her own face cracked like a clay mask.

  But…not one of your fragile ladies, as she had herself remarked. She could not avoid him, and after faltering once she marched on, pulling out a pistol. It barked like a toy dog from its abbreviated barrel, and sharp pain, ineffectual metallic pain, lanced the old man through the chest and flew on past him, even as his long arms reached out…

  * * * * * * *

  At last his combined hunger and thirst were satisfied—he had not known how strong the craving was till he began to gratify it—and he lifted his head, licking a lip thoughtfully, looking and listening. The pier he stood on, and its adjoining piers, were quite deserted. Somewhere down the long water-corridor of shipping that twisted toward the sea, foghorns were beginning conversation.

  He held the body out at arm’s length. Hard boots and limp hands hung straight toward their ruffled images in muddy, moving water. In that mirror the woman’s body was suspended completely without support, its draperies of clothing tucked up by invisible force at knees and shoulders.

  It pleased him to bestow, in his own mind, an epitaph: Not one of your fragile ladies. With that he let the drained thing splash.

  In the brief struggle the hospital gown has been torn almost completely loose, and now with complete unconcern for either modesty or warmth he lets it fall. He sees the body drift and sink, and float again, but already his thoughts are elsewhere.

  That he will now turn upon his remaining persecutors and endeavor to hunt them down is beyond question. But should he, can he, begin that necessary task before he has his own identity in hand?

  With food his strength is waxing, but he is still in mortal need of rest, and still he cannot remember. Why has he known no fear, through all these perils? He is not immortal, no, far from it, but…

  Why does the water not give him his reflection back? And, how came he flowing like fog out of the water, neither the tide nor steel bonds able to hold him? Why had that heavy, leaden bullet done no worse than kiss him with a sharp sting as it passed through his body?

  There are a hundred questions more. One above all: Who is he?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Following Miss Sarah Tarlton’s first visit to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes spent the remainder of the day in concluding his work upon one or two routine matters that he had been investigating at the request of the police. On the following morning he went out alone, quite early, and was gone for several hours.

  “I have just set in motion several inquiries concerning the mysterious Dr. John Scott,” he said upon returning. “If you are free after lunch, Watson, I hope you will accompany me to the warehouse where he was supposedly identified. Your medical knowledge may well prove useful in any discussion of the equipment that was removed.”

  I of course agreed, and before two o’clock we were in a cab, on our way to the London Docks at Shadwell. The warehouse was one of a number of long, low, shed-like buildings set close by the waterfront. After passing the desks of several clerks, we were admitted to the office of the superintendent.

  Superintendent Marlowe was a man of sixty or thereabouts, powerfully built and energetic in appearance. It was his habit to rise, at the least pretext, from behind his desk, as if the confinem
ent of the small space there were too much for his nature to bear.

  He pressed our hands in greeting, as if we had come at his own invitation. “Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes, this is a real honor. I suppose it’s this business of the medical materials that you’ve come about? Yes, as I thought. Well, you may be sure we don’t release goods to people who have no right to take them.”

  “I am reassured to hear it, Superintendent,” Holmes responded. “How did you come to guess the nature of our business?”

  “Well, sir, when young Miss Tarlton was here, with the gentleman who was helping her, she spoke of an investigation. With which, says I, I shall be only too glad to comply, provided that it be conducted legally and in good form. And for which I am now ready, having the papers in question right here.” Unlocking a drawer in his desk, the superintendent brought out a sheaf of documents. “Take my word for it, gentlemen, these are all in good order.”

  “May I?” My companion eagerly reached out a long arm. In his other hand, Holmes held two of the letters written by John Scott to his fiancée, and now he brought all together to the window, the better to compare handwriting. When in a few moments he turned back to face us, his appearance was somewhat crestfallen. “Mr. Marlowe, I advise you to keep these papers in a secure place. With regard to your claim to have accurately identified John Scott, they will be of enormous importance should this matter ever come to the courts.”

  “Ha! The courts, is it? Indeed, I’ll keep ’em safe.” And Marlowe hastily accepted the papers back. “Another question or two, if you would, Superintendent, before we go.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did any of the men who came for the equipment—I am assuming there were several, even if some were only carters—did any of them say anything about the purpose for which the items were wanted, or where they were being taken?”

  “Yes, Dr. Scott had carters with him, and a pair of wagons.” Marlowe, who had just sat down again behind his desk, got up, to stand as if lost in thought. “Wait a bit. I did ask if the things were going to be wanted in London; if so, it might have been easiest and best for him to let ’em stop right here for a time. But ‘No,’ says he, ‘I mean to put them on a goods train for Portsmouth. The ship I want next is sailing from there.’ And so I thought no more about it.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes looked at the superintendent keenly. “Those were his exact words?”

  “Yes, I’ll testify to that. I pride myself that I’ve a fine memory for where things are kept, and whose they are, and also for who says what.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Did you by any chance mention to Dr. Scott that his friend Peter Moore had been here only a day earlier?”

  “Why, yes sir, of course I did; but the doctor just gave me a quick look, as much as to say it was none of my particular business. The way he looked just made me think that there was perhaps some rivalry or trouble between the two of them.”

  “I see. But did Mr. Peter Moore give you the same impression?”

  “Why, no sir. I had the idea from him that the other was his particular friend, and they should be very glad to see each other again.” Our visit was soon finished. When Holmes and I were once more outside the warehouse, I asked: “Then the papers showed conclusively that the man who signed and paid for the equipment was indeed John Scott?”

  “Let us walk a little, Watson, before we try to hail a cab. How bracing the atmosphere of the docks can sometimes be—the sense of the great world impinging upon us with all its mysteries and complications. No, I am afraid that the signatures show that the man who wrote them was an imposter—though he must have put in a good deal of time and effort in practicing from a true copy. I have no doubt that any first-rate handwriting expert will be able to convince a jury of the forgery. But let the superintendent and his staff believe that those documents justify them, and you may depend upon it that the signatures will be secure until we need them. Also, a real American would have said ‘freight train’ and not ‘goods train’—unless he were consciously practicing to speak like an Englishman. It is an additional point, though hardly in itself conclusive.

  “Meanwhile, Watson, the question to which we must address ourselves is—why?”

  “You mean, why should a man have posed as Dr. Scott to steal the things? Their value must be considerable.”

  “Considerable, but hardly vast. Remember that the impostor paid, without a murmur, several hundred pounds to get them. Now, there are surely only a few places where a thief could hope to sell such specialized equipment. Honest researchers would hesitate to buy it from him. So why on earth should a clever rogue, or a gang of them, go to such trouble and expense for loot which one might think would do them little good?”

  “It does seem odd, put in that way.”

  “There is another question, Watson, by no means unrelated—how were they able to obtain or forge good identification papers for Dr. Scott?…but halloa! Is that not the figure of our old friend Lestrade I see?”

  We happened to be crossing a short street which ended right at dockside, thirty or forty yards away. Standing on a pier near the street’s end was a short, wiry man in a gray coat. Two uniformed policemen stood talking with this individual, or rather listening to him. He waved his arms, and made emphatic nodding motions with his head to give force to his words, which at our distance were inaudible.

  By silent agreement, Holmes and I at once turned in that direction, and presently we had stepped onto the pier. There was a tension visible in Lestrade, as we drew near him, that I had seldom seen before. His sallow face was pinched and worried when he dismissed the constables and turned toward us, but his expression changed wonderfully as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Mr. Holmes…Dr. Watson…I’m blessed if there’s anyone in the world I’d rather set eyes on at this moment. In fact, Mr. Holmes, I sent a man to Baker Street an hour ago to try to fetch you.”

  Holmes nodded. “No doubt there is a murder at hand which presents some features of uncommon interest? Where is the body?”

  Lestrade lowered his voice. “It’s not thirty yards behind me, lying right on this pier. And this is the worst one I’ve seen since the days of Jack the Ripper. Thank heaven there’s a clue or two…” Lestrade paused, frowning at Holmes. “Here now! I hadn’t said a word about its being murder.”

  “Tut! When I see one of the leading detectives of Scotland Yard so obviously worried, I know that he is baffled, if only temporarily, by some mystery of the first importance. And the Thames is surely the great traditional repository for the central piece of evidence in crimes of blood.” And Sherlock Holmes briskly rubbed his hands, as if he stood before a fire and the day were chill. Far back in his gray eyes, a spark of something keen and lively had been born.

  The three of us were now out of earshot of all possible eavesdroppers. Even the two uniformed men had moved away, evidently going on Lestrade’s orders to keep the pier and the street nearby clear of curious onlookers; some idlers had in fact gathered a short distance up the street and were gazing in our direction. But despite our isolation, Lestrade turned his head to right and left before he spoke, and his voice now was lower still.

  “Murder’s almost too mild a word for it, gentlemen. The throat was torn right away, as if by—well, claws or teeth. Not like the Ripper’s handiwork, really. More as if a real beast might have done it.”

  “Then perhaps,” I suggested, “it might have been in fact an animal?”

  “A big, savage dog, for instance, Dr. Watson? Maybe. Wait’ll you see. More likely a tiger, if you can find one running loose in London. But then an animal would not have thrown her body into the river afterwards, hey? Or rifled her purse. And then there’s the gun.”

  Holmes, almost twinkling, put out a hand. “Slowly, Lestrade. Will you show us the body? And, while we are on our way, you might tell us how it came to be discovered.”

  “Right.” Lestrade drew a deep breath. “This way then, gentlemen.” He began
to lead us out along the pier, most of which was occupied by stacks of what appeared to be abandoned crates, so that we were soon hidden from any casual observers on the shore. “Mind your step here; these planks are almost rotted through in places. The body was seen floating in the water a little before noon today, by two dock-laborers about to sit down in what they thought would be a quiet spot, to eat their lunch. These men are both of good character, as far as we have been able to make out, and there is nothing to connect them with the crime.”

  I now could see another police helmet ahead, above another pile of crates. Lestrade, who was beginning to look haggard again, continued: “And this ’s no woman of the streets, gentlemen. Another difference to prove the Ripper’s not back on the job after a nine-year rest. Not that it’ll matter to the papers. I’m mortally certain they’re going to scream Jack’s struck again.”

  By this time we had rounded the last barrier, and had come in full sight of the uniformed officer who impassively stood guard, and of that which he guarded. A still form lay on the planks, covered with a gray blanket of a type I recognized as being commonly used by the medical examiner’s office.

  Lestrade bent and drew the blanket back. The woman lay on her back, fully clothed, her sodden garments being disarranged only in the region of the throat. There, as the inspector had said, the flesh was lacerated with extreme savagery, as if the victim had indeed fallen before the fangs or talons of some monstrous beast. Her arms were outflung, her exposed face and hands as pallid as marble. Her hair, still stringy as if from complete immersion, was dark, streaked with gray, and I should have put her age as somewhere between forty and fifty.

  Holmes, his keen eyes avidly grasping every detail, bent low over the body like a hound taking the scent. “The boots, Lestrade, appear to be of German make.”