The Holmes-Dracula File

by Fred Saberhagen

  “You really think so?”

  “Let us give it a chance. If you think some stronger sedative is indicated, here is a sample of a South American drug I have found invaluable in cases of nervous exhaustion. It induces mental relaxation and a deep sleep without deleterious side-effects.” After groping in his pockets for a moment, Seward produced a small, plain box, which he opened to show me a single pill. “One dose is all I have with me at the moment; but the patient should have no more than one in a twenty-four hour period, and if you desire more you have but to call on me.”

  I accepted the box with thanks, and put it in my own pocket. Seward tore a page from his pocket-book and began scribbling on it. “Here is the address of my establishment in Purfleet—this is the telephone number, should you have the opportunity of getting to an instrument to call. Please do so at once, should there be any outbreak of violent or frantic behavior by the patient, or if for any other reason you wish my assistance. All the facilities of my asylum are of course at your disposal if the need arises, which we must hope it does not. Members of some of the most eminent families in Britain have been among my patients there. I have been thinking lately of giving up the old place and re-settling elsewhere, so there are few or no patients in residence at the moment—all to the good in this case, where we’d certainly want privacy. Some old friends are in from Exeter for the Jubilee, but they have visited before and know the rules, and so should present no problem.”

  Seward soon departed, bearing with him my heartfelt thanks. Left alone again, I felt distinctly better for having unburdened my mind, and, as I hoped, gained an able partner in my struggle on Holmes’ behalf.

  He was up not long after, and looked better for his long rest, though he rubbed his eyes on entering the sitting-room, and actually stumbled momentarily against me. This dazed condition quickly passed, however, and his manner was alert as he looked about him. “I see we have had visitors,” was his first comment.

  “Two acquaintances of mine,” I answered, relieved that my friend gave no sign of being aware that I had administered a drug to him by means of last night’s curried chicken.

  Evidently Holmes’ thoughts had already passed on to other matters. “I must return this morning, Watson, to an old acquaintance of mine whom I visited briefly yesterday—no doubt you remember the blind German mechanic, Von Herder?”

  “Of course—the man who built air-guns for Colonel Sebastian Moran, of evil memory. Do you go to visit the blind man in prison?”

  “No.” Holmes smiled to see my quick expression of concern. “Nor is the blind man still to be counted among my enemies. Since he has quite reformed, he has come to live in London; a change of address which I had some small hand in arranging for him, and for which he has been kind enough to express his gratitude, by placing his skills at my disposal. In fact, I expect that he has been at work for me all night.”

  “If you go to see him, I shall come with you.”

  “That is impossible. His reformation is quite genuine, but the presence of someone he does not know is likely to upset him.” Holmes fell abruptly silent. He was standing at the window, so that for a moment I thought he had spied something of unusual interest in the street. But then he said, without turning: “Do you remember, Watson? It was the sight of my face that sent her running, screaming, to her death.”

  “Of course I remember, Holmes. But it was not your fault.”

  He turned to face me. “Have you thought about vampires, Watson, as I urged you?”

  “Yes.” It was an unwilling answer, and I was agreeably distracted by the arrival of the girl with the breakfast which Holmes had ordered on awakening.

  “Good, very good!” He sounded almost hearty. “When the time comes, I must have with me someone I can trust.” And he sat down and attacked his bacon and eggs with an energy that gave me hope.

  When the girl was safely out of hearing again, I said: “You may of course trust me in this.”

  His eyes fastened on mine with a suddenly alert suspicion. “Watson, you must pledge me this instant, upon your honor, that you will never mention the subject of vampires to my brother Mycroft; it is the one thing that would undo him utterly. Have I your pledge?”

  “You have,” I answered in a heavy voice, and with the gravest mental reservations. Actually I had been considering for some time that circumstances might very soon oblige me to consult with Mycroft. As most of my readers may know, Holmes’ older brother was, to the best of my knowledge, his next of kin—indeed, his only living relative. Mycroft was employed by the Government, and never left London. So constant were his habits, in fact, that I had put off consulting him, feeling that I should have no trouble locating him for that purpose at any hour of the day or night.

  Some train of thought begun with Mycroft had plunged Holmes into an introspective pause, almost a reverie, his plate of food abandoned before him as if he had suddenly forgotten it.

  “I have never spoken to you of my childhood, have I, Watson?”

  “No, Holmes, you never have.”

  “There were painful things in it, which I suppose is common enough. But not such things... at any rate, Mycroft’s childhood must have been worse, for he was seven years my senior, and must have seen more, and understood more at the time. I am referring to things one might think too horrible for any child to bear. Therefore the effects upon him were more severe than upon myself. I must warn you again, the mere mention of vampires could destroy him.”

  I waited, listening attentively, which is often the best thing a doctor can do for any patient.

  Holmes went on, in the same distracted tone: “My father was, as I think I have mentioned, a country squire. A kindly man, of considerable intelligence, though little fame. Also he was a man of great strength, for he survived... much.”

  I waited still.

  When Holmes resumed again, his voice had taken on the strain that of late had become all too frequent in it. “You know that Mycroft and I have both devoted our lives to intellectual pursuits. And neither of us has married...”

  I had the strong impression that my friend was trembling upon the brink of some revelation or confession, which in prospect seemed to me likely to be terrible—the more terrible inasmuch as I could not for the life of me imagine what it might be, or whether, indeed, it would have any basis at all but the fancies engendered in a disordered brain.

  At this crucial moment we were interrupted by the bell. When I came back with telegram in hand, I saw with mixed feelings of relief and disappointment that in the brief interval my friend had pulled himself together, and the revelation was not to come.

  The telegram was from Superintendent Marlowe, addressed to Holmes, who promptly tore it open, and read it with an expression of satisfaction.

  “He has, as you may recall, Watson, a whole chain of warehouses under his direction; and this communication is in reply to one of my own, asking Mr. Marlowe in which building I should be likely to find a very large box or trunk, unloaded on or about the tenth of this month from some ship arriving at the East India docks from Mediterranean ports, and unclaimed by the owner. I shall be surprised now if we cannot put our hands on this piece of baggage in a matter of hours, and with luck we shall see its owner in a day or two.”

  “A trunk? I do not see—”

  “Are you ready to go out, Watson? Action is required. The game is afoot, and moves more quickly than I had anticipated.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As soon as I had recovered from the shock of being thus addressed by my true name, I turned to study more carefully the four people who confronted me. Only as I did so did I recognize, at the right hand of their leader and half a step behind him, the strongly built man who had so mysteriously and opportunely come to my aid at Barley’s. He had impressed me then as brave; now his brow was furrowed, though not, I thought, with any fear of me. He kept darting glances at the dominant figure of his chief, and bit his mustache as if in worry.

  The third man was quite
young, and almost tremulous—I dismissed him, and my gaze moved on, to rest on the young woman. It would perhaps be an exaggeration to write that all idea of danger was at once swept from my mind. Let me say instead that her presence placed before me so strongly all of life’s joyous possibilities, that its cares and even its perils appeared much diminished in importance.

  “Your look mocks me, sir,” she said, with hardly any tremor in her voice, while her eyes boldly met mine.

  My admiration was increased. “Nay, I never mock beauty, and still less courage,” I replied. And now at last I locked my gaze against their leader’s. He reminded me of someone—I could not at first think who. “Fair warning,” I added. “Do not fire those guns at me.”

  “As I have said,” he answered, “they are for our own protection only. And now, Count, the truth, if you please, about Frau Grafenstein.”

  “Are you a policeman? Even so, I will not countenance your meddling in my affairs.”

  “I know that you killed that woman, and that you drank her blood.” It was a prosecutor’s voice.

  “I was extremely thirsty,” I responded, and saw the youngest and least steady of the men turn half away, shaking his head and muttering something to himself about the mother of his God.

  My violent demise, when it comes, will doubtless be attributable to my own overweening pride. With fine contempt I turned my back upon them all, and reached out again toward my trunk, thinking to pick it up and carry it away at once. The sound of the pistol behind me was quite loud within the four confining walls. Across my left forearm, extended to grip a handle of my box, a white-hot iron was laid, or rather smashed with numbing force. For a moment I believed that my arm had been utterly mangled, and I am afraid that I stared like a dunce at the sudden drip and flow of my own red blood along my wrist and fingers.

  But the arm, though punctured, was still essentially intact. Once more I turned, and looked into the unflinching eyes behind the smoking pistol-barrel. “My congratulations,” I offered, “on thinking of wooden bullets. I had begun to believe all Englishmen were fools.” Now that my eyes were opened, I could see that what I had taken for a crude club in the hands of the youngest man was in fact a finely-pointed wooden stake.

  My chief opponent—indeed, the only one of the four worthy of the name—bowed slightly, without relaxing either his aim or his alertness for an instant. “My apologies, Count,” he murmured, “but I considered it necessary to demonstrate at once the effectiveness of our weapons and the firmness of our purpose, lest you should force us to put them immediately to the ultimate test. I should be disappointed if I have no chance to talk with you before anything of that sort occurs. Do you require medical aid?”

  I only smiled. The girl sharply drew in her breath. The young man shrank back half a step, then, as if ashamed of this reaction, moved forward until he stood an inch or two closer to me than before.

  But still it was only to the leader that I spoke. “Of course I will talk with you. For this contretemps in which I find myself I have only myself to blame,

  Mr.—?”

  “Allow me to remedy the lack of formal introductions all round. Count Dracula, Dr. Watson, Mr. Peter Moore of New York—Miss Sarah Tarlton, also an American. And my name is Sherlock Holmes.”

  Holmes’ name was of course at that time widely known, in Europe and indeed across the world, and he spoke it with the air of a man quietly and confidently playing a trump card. Alas for the isolation of my Translyvanian backwater, which I had so rarely left! The utter blankness with which I received the name of Holmes must have struck his proud nature with something of the force of deliberate insult.

  At the moment I only knew, without realizing why, that he had suddenly gone a little pale. “Watson,” he grated, “Moore—Miss Tarlton. You will please leave me alone with this man, at once.”

  Watson was considerably agitated. “Holmes,” he whispered, “Holmes, let me fetch Lestrade.”

  “Very well,” Holmes agreed, somewhat (as I thought) to Watson’s surprise. “Only leave us, immediately!”

  Young Moore stumbled as he backed toward the exit, his horrified and fascinated eyes never leaving my face. Sarah Tarlton turned her back on me and walked out with alacrity, as if guided by some instinct to seek the more wholesome world beyond the door. Watson made a methodical retreat. His last perturbed glance as he went out was toward his leader.

  Perhaps they were all too well accustomed to taking Holmes’ orders to question this one, or even try to understand its purpose. But I—I understood. When the next shot was fired, there were to be no witnesses.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As my friend and I drove east through the city again, in response to the telegram from Superintendent Marlowe, I asked: “Even if we are right to assume that the man did recently arrive in London by ship, how are we to distinguish his baggage from that of a thousand others?”

  Holmes smiled. “I have not told you yet of my interview with the informer, Jones. The peculiar man Jones met in the hostel actually asked him where unclaimed luggage from the East India docks would be taken. Jones could not provide the information, but fortunately we have the means of finding it out.”

  “Jones told Lestrade of this also?”

  “He did.”

  “But the police have made no effort to follow up this clue?”

  “Lestrade only shakes his head, and shares your doubts about the possibility of distinguishing the baggage that is wanted. But—if my hopes are justified—it will be distinguishable because it is unique. What does a vampire need, Watson? What does he need even more than the blood he drains to slake his fearful appetite?”

  With my heart sinking, as it did each time evidence of Holmes’ unfortunate mental state was forced upon me, I muttered and mumbled something to the effect that I did not know.

  “His earth, Watson! Some nest of the snug soil of his homeland, for in nothing else can he find rest. If we do not find a large trunk or box containing earth, then my hopes are not justified, and our quarry is a vampire native of England, merely returning from abroad with commonplace luggage of dirty laundry and spare shoes. Oh, they are human, you know, in many ways. Damnably like us, except... ” Holmes’ voice trailed off. His hands were both tightly clenched on the grip of a large carpetbag he had brought along from Baker Street, and he looked as grim as I had ever seen him. “But, if we do find a trunk filled with earth, in that moment a great cloud will lift from my mind.”

  “Then your wish to find it,” I put in impulsively, “cannot be stronger than my own.”

  “Good old Watson! You are speaking sincerely in that much, at least. No, never mind about the rest. In time you will be convinced—I pray that the time is not too late.”

  Soon we were rolling to a stop at our destination, a Thames-side warehouse much like the one in which we had first met Superintendent Marlowe, and not far distant from it. Inside the building, we found him with two workmen, amid a huge pile of baggage of every description.

  Marlowe, electric lamp in hand, was standing before a huge, brown leather trunk. “We have followed your instructions to the letter, Mr. Holmes,” he announced by way of greeting. “This is the only thing of its size brought in as unclaimed this past month from the East India docks. It is locked, you see, and we have done nothing in the way of trying to open it.”

  “Excellent!” Holmes turned over the tag appended to the chest, which had only a light film of dust upon its surface. The tag was marked with the name M. Corday, and showed that the trunk had been shipped within the month from Marseilles to London.

  “It’s large enough to hold a body, as you said,” the superintendent offered, while the eyes of the workmen widened as they listened. “You think, sir, that’s what’s in it?”

  “Our task will be much simpler if it is. Kindly move it over here to the center of the open floor.”

  As if nerving himself for an ordeal, Holmes now drew from his pocket a small metal pick, and with this he attacked the lock.
I saw a fine tremor in his hands, and twice his tool slipped from the narrow keyhole. His face was a mask of great restraint. At last, seeming to master his nerves by a supreme effort of will, he succeeded in working the mechanism.

  The faint click of the lock was followed by a long moment in which he did not move at all. Then he stood up and with a violent motion flung back the lid. What precisely he had expected or feared to see within, I did not know, but I saw his shoulders slump with the sudden release of tension. And as I peered over his shoulder I saw to my own amazement that the great leather chest was half-filled with what appeared to be nothing but blackish dirt.

  “It is as I hoped, Watson,” Holmes breathed, and the great relief in his voice was as evident as it was mysterious to me. “Our killer is not a native of England, for he has brought his nest with him.”

  Opening the large carpetbag he had brought with him in the cab, my friend, to my astonishment, pulled from it a large stake of some hard wood, two feet long and about two inches thick, with one end sharpened to an almost needle-like point, and charred as if it had been hardened in a fire. With the point of this stake he began to probe down into the earth within the trunk, on the first few attempts hitting nothing resistant before reaching the bottom. On the next try, however, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction, laid aside the stake, rolled up one sleeve, and plunged his sinewy arm into the soil.

  He pulled out a snug bundle that, when brushed off and unrolled on the warehouse floor, proved to be a large waterproof, in which had been wrapped two or three complete suits of men’s clothing, a collapsible top-hat, soap and towels, a pair of boots, a clothes-brush, and a heavy purse. From this last, when Holmes had opened it, there poured out a substantial amount of bank-notes and coin, the latter predominantly gold.

  Each of these items Holmes picked up and studied, briefly but with a feverish eagerness. “There is light in the darkness, Watson,” he cried almost joyously. “The danger is far from past, but so far all the signs are hopeful.”