The Holmes-Dracula File

by Fred Saberhagen

  Leaving Marlowe and his men to shake their heads in wonder, I, following Holmes’ terse orders, saw the trunk and its contents conveyed to Baker Street, and there lodged in a corner of our sitting room. Holmes himself meanwhile hurried away on the errand he had already mentioned, an unexplained visit to our former foe, Von Herder.

  By lunch time he was back in Baker Street, where to my complete surprise his first act was to hand me half a dozen cartridges. “These should fit your old service revolver nicely, Watson.” I thought that when I weighed the casings in my hand they felt surprisingly light, and the bullets where they protruded from the brass were a strange, dull brown.

  Seeing my puzzlement, Holmes nodded. “Yes, Watson, they are wood. They would not do, I fear, for long shots on the pistol range, but they are just what we want to defend ourselves during the task at hand. Kindly load your revolver with them immediately.” His manner was now keen and eager as of old, without a trace of that inward agony that had lately given me such concern. I might have been relieved at this change, were it not that he gave no indication of changing his conviction that it was a vampire we were hunting.

  On the contrary, Holmes soon summoned Mrs. Hudson, and gave her orders in the strictest terms. “A visitor will sooner or later call, in regard to this most impressive trunk. You are to admit no one—no man, woman, or child, no one at all, regardless of what reasons they may urge—who comes upon such an errand after nightfall. Who applies at night must be told to come back in the morning.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When the landlady had gone, Holmes showed me the advertisement describing the trunk that he had placed in all the papers, and with that we settled down to wait. A day passed, and then another, none without some secret inquiry from the highest levels of government, regarding the threat of plague. Holmes curtly put off all official questions, and spent his time largely smoking, fiddling, or staring out the window.

  For my part, I scarcely knew which way to turn. Had it not been for my friend’s success in finding the trunkful of earth exactly as he had predicted it would be found, I should probably have decided to confide in Mycroft, and, with his approval, confront the highest authorities with our opinion that Holmes was no longer competent, by reason of an unbalanced mind.

  Yet—there sat the trunk, inexplicably half-filled with soil. Had not Sherlock Holmes, even partially unbalanced, intellectual powers far beyond those of any other detective, powers that must be utilized if England were to be saved?

  “He must come, Watson, he must come,” Holmes muttered to me, over and over, in intervals of impatient pacing. It was night, some days after the trunk had been first advertised. “Though it now seems certain that he must have at least one other earth somewhere in London. Or is it possible that he is dead? We have heard nothing of him for some—”

  The bell downstairs rang faintly, and Holmes stopped in mid-stride, finger to his lips. I, just risen from my chair to tend the fire, stayed where I was, listening with might and main. Very faintly I could hear Mrs. Hudson’s voice below, and then felt the slight change in the draught that resulted from the closing of the downstairs door. Nothing else, until her familiar tread sounded gently on the stair, and she came in to give us her report. “It was a foreign-sounding gentleman, sir, very polite, asking about the trunk. I did just as you ordered.”

  Holmes was at one of the window-blinds, making sure that it was drawn shut to the last fraction of an inch. He came back close to our landlady before whispering: “And who is now in the house besides ourselves?”

  “Why, just the servant girl, sir.”

  “Admit no one else tonight—much may depend upon it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When she had gone, Holmes said to me: “As for you, old fellow, he might well recognize you from Barley’s. I must insist that you do not go out tonight.”

  “Agreed, provided you do not.”

  “I agree. And now it is time to get some sleep—we will have to be up and about at dawn.”

  The gray light of sunrise found us in the sitting-room once more. Holmes was heating coffee on his spirit-lamp, and examining his own revolver, when a sudden sharp jangle at the bell set my nerves to vibrating. Following Holmes’ silent, urgent motions, I went with him into his room, where we closed the door to the sitting-room and waited, guns drawn and ready, literally holding our breath.

  The door to the stair opened, and there was movement in the sitting-room—but the voices coming through to us were those of Peter Moore and Sarah Tarlton. I felt suddenly limp, and I saw Holmes slump, only to bristle again in vexation. Jamming his revolver into a pocket of his dressing-gown, he opened the bedroom door.

  Sarah Tarlton turned to him with a glad little cry. “Mr. Holmes, I am glad that you are in at last. For several days we have been trying to see you, and—”

  “And you have been told that I was out. Well, you are here now and there is no help for it. Was anyone outside in the street just now when you came in?”

  Our visitors both looked puzzled. “Anyone?” Peter Moore replied. “I scarcely noticed.”

  Holmes shook his head and rubbed his eyes, muttering something that none of us—perhaps fortunately—could hear. “Both of you,” he added, “were, like Watson, at Barley’s on that night. So now that you are here, here you must stay.”

  “Stay? I am afraid I do not understand.”

  “We are in the process of trying to trap—the bell again! Quickly, into my room.”

  We all four crowded into Holmes’ bedroom, where he in a hurried whisper tried to impart to our visitors as much knowledge of the coming confrontation as was practicable under the circumstances. To my relief, he did not mention vampires. Still Miss Tarlton paled a little, I thought, at the sight of our drawn revolvers. Peter Moore offered his help, and Holmes plunged an arm into his carpetbag and brought out the stake, which the young American accepted with a puzzled look but a determined grip, holding it like a club.

  “Do you mean,” Moore asked, “that this is the man who killed John?”

  “I fear not. But perhaps even more dangerous—hist!”

  The outer door to our sitting-room was opened, and we heard two people enter, and the voice of Mrs. Hudson, calmly bidding a visitor to be seated. Then she went out and the door closed.

  Holmes, as silent as a stalking cat, waited a few seconds and then eased open the bedroom door and stepped through it. I was right behind him, and right after me came Peter Moore. I thought I could recognize the lone occupant of the sitting-room as the tall, lean man from Barley’s, though he was garbed now in better clothing, and had his back to us, stooping over the trunk as if to examine it. At the sound of our entry he straightened up and turned, and there was no longer any possible doubt. The likeness to Holmes’ face was quite as strong as I remembered it, as was the suggestion of ravaged nobility.

  Holmes spoke first. “These weapons, sir, are for our own protection only.”

  “Indeed? Even with odds of three to one on your side?” It was a deep voice, and that of an educated man who spoke English well; yet it was not an English voice. I should have put the speaker’s origin somewhere in Central Europe. Looking at our guns with a smile as of superior amusement, he went on: “And why are you all so timid on this bright morning?”

  “We were more timid, still, last night,” Holmes answered. Before he could say more, our latest visitor, with a sneer that showed his complete contempt for all of us, had turned his back and was once more bent over the trunk as if to continue his examination of the lock.

  Holmes paled at this, and his voice when he went on had a smooth, deadly tone that I have seldom heard in it, and never without grave consequences for the person spoken to. “Let us play games no longer, Count Dracula. I shall be greatly pleased to hear from your own lips the story of how Frau Grafenstein came to her end.”

  It was evident from the sudden complete stillness of the figure before us that this shot had told. Then he turned to face us on
ce again, straightening deliberately to full height. The newcomer glared now at each of us in turn, as if to make sure which was most worthy of his anger. His face was almost impassive, save for the eyes, but I could see his long, sharp-nailed fingers working slightly, as if their owner imagined them already fastened on our throats. His voice when he spoke was even deeper than before. “Gentlemen, I give you fair warning—do not fire those guns at me.”

  “I repeat,” Holmes snapped, “that they are for our own protection only. And now, if you please, the truth about that killing on the docks.”

  “I do not tolerate meddling in my affairs, even by the police. They are not your concern.”

  “I make them my concern, and I tell you that I already know very much about them. That you killed Frau Grafenstein, for example, and that you drank her blood.”

  The man before us answered clearly: “I was extremely thirsty.” In a flash it was borne in upon me what I should never have forgotten. That the question of Holmes’ mental state entirely aside, we had already seen ample evidence that the man we now confronted must be utterly and violently mad. There was no reason, as I abruptly realized, that one capable of that horrible killing on the docks might not imagine himself to be a vampire, and even carry matters to the extent of traveling about Europe with a trunk half-filled with earth.

  He turned away again, with a fine demonstration of contempt, and bent as if he meant to lift the massive trunk unaided. Nothing in my long association with Sherlock Holmes had prepared me for what happened next. Before I had the least inkling of Holmes’ intention, his pistol fired. With a shriek the wounded man spun round on us, clutching his left arm. Far from being cowed, he would, I believe, have hurled himself upon us, were it not that the sight of our weapons still leveled held him back. His face was transfigured into a satanic mask of rage and hatred, while an almost inaudible moan, I think of anger as well as pain, came from his open mouth. I heard a faint outcry from Sarah Tarlton behind me, but I did not turn.

  In a matter of only a few seconds, the man who faced us had himself in hand. I had been on the point of stepping forward to do what I could for his wounded arm, from which the blood had at first flowed freely. But his whole pose was unmistakably one of menace rather than defeat, and the blood-flow ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun, so that I judged it wiser, for the moment at least, to hold my place.

  But when the terrible figure spoke to Holmes, it was almost as calmly as before. “May I congratulate you on thinking of wooden bullets? I had begun to believe all Englishmen were fools.”

  Holmes bowed slightly, coolly accepting the compliment. Our antagonist then smiled at us, and in that moment I was very glad of the loaded weapon still in my hand.

  Holmes then performed almost formal introductions, as if we were met at some afternoon social function. The Count—I now saw no reason to doubt that Holmes had discovered the killer’s correct name—received Holmes’ own name with utter blankness, which seemed to have a disproportionate effect upon my friend’s already exhausted nerves.

  “Watson,” he ordered brusquely, “take Mr. Moore and Miss Tarlton outside. There are matters I must discuss in private with this man.”

  “Holmes,” I pleaded, “let me fetch Lestrade, or Gregson.”

  “Very well,” he answered, after a moment. “Only leave us alone, at once. Whatever happens, do not come back until I call.”

  Indicating to the two young Americans that they should precede me, I obeyed Holmes’ order and left the room. In fact I feared to refuse, thinking that if not humored he might commit some excess even greater than deliberately wounding the unarmed man. That Holmes had deliberately shot our suspect—however desperate and potentially dangerous, still an unarmed man with his back to us—was for me the final and convincing proof that my friend’s behavior was no longer adequately governed by his great powers of reason.

  As soon as the three of us were out on the landing at the top of the stairs, and the door to the sitting-room closed behind us, I took Moore by the arm and whispered to him fiercely that he must commandeer the first cab in sight and take it straight to Scotland Yard. There he was to brook no delay until he had laid hold of Lestrade or Gregson—or, failing those, whatever detective was immediately available—and returned to Baker Street with the police as fast as humanly possible.

  “Tell them,” I concluded, “that the life and sanity of Sherlock Holmes depend upon their speed!”

  He swallowed, nodded, and was gone, almost flying down the stairs.

  “And is there nothing I can do?” Sarah Tarlton, a trifle pale but otherwise composed, stood anxiously beside me.

  “On the contrary,” I whispered urgently. “There is something you must do, while I stay here.” I pulled out the scrap of paper Seward had given me and thrust it at her. “Telegraph—or telephone if you can find an instrument—to Dr. Jack Seward at that address. Say: ‘Patient much worse, immediate help imperative,’ and sign it ‘Watson.’ ”

  The girl very coolly repeated my instructions, took the note, and hurried off.

  I turned my agonized attention again to the door at the head of the stair. The two voices within were too low for me to be able to distinguish words, but I thought I could hear the deadly strain in both of them. Indeed, there were moments when it sounded like one voice only, murmuring on and on in soft maniacal anxiety.

  Not quite daring to re-enter the room against Holmes’ orders, yet scarcely daring to refrain, I waited, one hand near the doorknob, the other still holding my revolver.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In stories, any number of imbeciles may be encountered, ready to deliberately insult strangers who are aiming deadly weapons at them. In real life, there are only a few folk so suicidally inclined.

  “So,” I said mildly, when the two men and the lovely young woman had gone out. “You are Sherlock Holmes.” I was of course trying to give the impression of some sort of recognition—better belated than never—before a second wooden bullet should leap superbly aimed from my captor’s gun, this one to splinter its way right through my vitals. His first shot, I observed, had incidentally punctured my fine trunk, as well as spraying it delicately with its owner’s gore. “You must tell me,” I went on, “how you managed to learn my name.”

  “Tut. I see by your earthen baggage that you are a foreigner, and brought your means of sustenance to England with you. The clothing and coins in it tell me what part of the world you are from. I have heard from witnesses of your accomplishments here, and have seen more evidence of them with my own eyes. Anyone who knows the slightest bit about vampires, Count, must know you by name and reputation; I might possibly have been wrong about your name, but now that I can look you in the eye, I have no doubt.”

  “I am flattered. But very few breathing folk know anything of vampires. And of those few, most have the truth of the matter quite thoroughly confused with their damned superstitions. They waste good powder on silver bullets. They assault me with crucifixes, as though I were a devil and not as much a creature of the Earth, a child of God, as they are.”

  “I shall not make that error.”

  “I believe you. Well, what now?” Looking about the queerly furnished room, I made a careful, empty-handed gesture. “This does not look like my idea of Scotland Yard.”

  “No more am I of the official police. Nevertheless you will be well advised to answer my questions. What of Frau Grafenstein?”

  “What of her?”

  My foe took a half-step toward me, righteous anger rising in his voice. “Do you still think you can play games with me? I tell you I know very much—that you killed her, and that you drank her blood.” He paused; when he went on, his voice was no longer impetuous, but inexorable. “I know, also, that no prison built can hold you for trial or execution. Therefore I stand here as your sole judge and jury—it is fortunate that there is probably no other man in England so well qualified to do so.”

  I took in breath to make a sigh. “Very well—no more ga
mes.” As I spoke I tested the fingers of my wounded arm, and was gratified to find them movable. Expected pain came with the effort, but not the wetness of fresh bleeding. As a rule we heal with great rapidity even when hurt by wood, if the damage be not immediately fatal and the weapon not held in the wound. “I killed the woman because she had attempted to kill me. Also, I was in need.”

  “Of—?”

  “Of nourishment, of course, as well as of revenge. Is there not some old British saying, about killing two birds with one stone? I really hope that she was not a friend of yours.”

  “Scarcely that.” He paused to study me in silence, his brows knitted with thought. There was something terribly vital he wanted to say to me—perhaps to ask—but he had not yet decided how.

  I gave him half a minute, then interrupted his pregnant silence. “And how is Sally Craddock? I sent her to your police to keep her safe.”

  A shadow crossed Holmes’ face. “I regret very much. Count, that the girl is dead.”

  “Ah. I should have brought her to you, instead of to the police, for safekeeping.”

  Holmes looked at me strangely. “The thing that drove her running, screaming, to where her enemies could reach her—was the sight of my face, Count. Or should I say, our face?”

  “I do not understand.” But then I did, even as I spoke, and suddenly much was clear to me. For example: Watson, rushing to my aid in that strange room filled with smoke and noise. And again: Matthews, in the cellar, sneering Mr. Great Detective.

  “Ah, yes,” I answered. “As you doubtless understand, I have not been permitted the luxury of mirrors for some centuries. But the resemblance is actually that close?” My foe was nodding. “So it must be. And that means that there is some...ah.”

  “Family relationship—unquestionably.” We had come to the nub of what was bothering Holmes. “What remains to be determined is its exact degree.”

  The aim of his revolver had never wavered in the slightest, and he had already proven his marksmanship and iron nerve; one false twitch on my part, I knew, and the great true death would greet me in that room. I may have already mentioned somewhere in these pages that I am—though not all vampires are, by any means—immune to fear, having exhausted at a tender age my whole life’s allotment of that arguably useful lading. Yet honor and love of life alike forbade me to perish without a struggle.