“I’ll mention it to him.” To my despair I heard her voice begin to fade as she turned away. “But you know Jonathan—nothing perturbs him, or at least nothing has for the past six years.” She started to leave, then turned back. “By the way, I suppose you have no objection to my using your telephone? I wanted to call Arthur and tell him Jonathan and I and the children will be with you tomorrow for the procession. I hope His Lordship has enough seats available.”
“I’m sure he has—but by all means, call him if you like. And—Mina? Before you go. The—the other night I spoke too quickly. But it was the strength of my feelings that led me—”
The young woman’s voice grew steely. “I told you, Jack, that if you spoke that way to me again, you should regret it. There is one man whom I love, above all others. And you are not him.” In the next moment she was gone.
Seward, with the bitter smile of his parting from the lady still on his face, turned back to me, leaving the door ajar. It was a moment before he spoke. “Would you like to try calling for the police again, Watson? As you see, it will avail you absolutely nothing.”
In a moment, a hulking attendant had appeared silently at the door; I recognized him as the “constable” who had assisted at our abduction, though he had since changed out of his uniform. At Seward’s order our two carts, Holmes’ first and mine following, were wheeled out of the room and across the adjoining corridor. The brief look afforded by this passage convinced me that the building was, or had been, an asylum or hospital of some sort; and the deadly silence of the place indicated we were somewhere outside of London.
On the other side of the corridor we were wheeled into a somewhat larger chamber, Seward closing and locking the door when we were all in. As we entered, a strange smell assailed my nostrils. At first I thought of open drains, but there was in this stench a peculiar muskiness that quickly brought to mind the idea of an unclean zoo.
When Seward brought his lamp into the room I saw the animal responsible, and at first could not believe my eyes. Crouched in a metal cage against the farther wall was a creature bigger than a large hound, yet unmistakably a rodent. Its feral eyes gleamed redly at me in the lamplight, and its snout twitched, before it turned away to pace its cage, on feet repulsively naked-looking below the matted fur covering its legs.
Averting my gaze from this disgusting sight, I saw with mixed sensations that Holmes’ eyelids were now open. His eyes looked flat and lifeless, and they wandered aimlessly, showing the continuing effects of the drug Seward had injected, rather than any understanding of our predicament. Seward set down his lamp upon a table, and now, also seeing that Holmes was awake, came over to offer a light bow. “Mr. Holmes. I am very glad to meet you—I was about to say, even under these unhappy circumstances. But then, from my point of view, it would be easy enough to imagine our meeting under circumstances infinitely worse.”
Holmes’ eyes moved dreamily to focus on the face which hovered over him. His lips formed a word, scarcely audible: “Who—?”
Seward smiled again. “You may call me Jack. Why not? We are about to establish a very intimate relationship—unless you, Dr. Watson, are ready now to begin to talk to me? No? Too bad.”
Our captor walked over to the cage, and there turned back to face us. “Would it surprise you gentlemen to learn that a large part of this animal’s diet is human flesh? Poor Scott, when he caught the beast, was having a difficult time providing its accustomed fare... not a lot of plague victims around just then. As usual, those of us who scrupled less accomplished more—as soon as we had taken over his camp, Scott himself went along the path that you may take. He went rather quickly, however, whereas you will not... and all for the lack of a few words.”
He paused, looking from one of us to the other. “Well, Mr. Holmes? Come, no need to look so dazed, I know you are awake now. Have you nothing to tell us yet about your work and Scotland Yard’s? For example, where have you been looking for my infected rats? Ah, it is too bad you do not answer, for it means that I must begin to feed Dr. Watson here to the Rat. Campbell, come here and remove the doctor’s shoes. Feet first will be best; that way good old Watson will remain able to join in our conversation. We shall have all night to discuss my questions; my departure for France will not take place until dawn.”
Another of the burly attendants had now come into the room, and with the one already present started to take off my boots. Looking down past my own feet, I could see the slavering animal pacing in its cage. Holmes’ voice, in the form of an unrecognizable croak, now issued at last from his parched lips. “Why not... to the fleas?”
Seward frowned; evidently this particular reaction was not one he had anticipated. “But my dear sir, surely you realize that the time for experiments with fleas is past?... I see, you pretend ignorance so I shall think it a waste of time to question you. No, Holmes, that is a rather pathetic effort, and it won’t do; I have too much respect for your powers. You must realize that by now I have obtained my thousand rats and they are ready, filled with plague from this my walking reservoir.” He tapped on the bars of the cage, and the creature within bared its yellow teeth and strained against the barrier on my side. Its eyes were fixed on my bound and helpless figure, as if it were used to this procedure, and knew what to expect next.
Seward went on: “Before we depart for France we shall launch my thousand rats into the London sewers, where in a day or two they will begin to sicken and die. In a week a million rats will be infected, and in a week after that, possibly a million men, women, and children. A pity you and the damned bloodsucker did not allow us a chance, here in London, to arrange a foolproof system for collecting our ransom—but in the next city the authorities will be not at all stiff-necked about paying; not with the example of the world’s greatest metropolis fresh before them. You’ll be in no position to interfere, next time, and if Dracula continues to take an interest I’ll find a way to deal with him—perhaps he would not refuse a partnership.”
He was interrupted by a rattle at the door, which in the next moment was unlocked from outside. It swung open to admit the man Holmes had already identified as Dr. David Fitzroy. Fitzroy’s mustache had been shaved off, and a pair of sideburns was under cultivation since I had seen him at Barley’s, but still I had no difficulty in recognizing him again.
Exchanging terse greetings with Seward, he crossed the room to draw a blind over the window—the last faint rays of the sun were just disappearing there, and my heart sank at the thought that I should probably never see it again. Coming back, Fitzroy cast a single, impersonal glance at me, then paused to look down at my companion. “So,” he murmured, “this is what the greatest detective in London looks like. But you know, I have the feeling that I’ve seen him before.”
Seward at once changed the subject. “You have the extra serum with you? Just in case any of us should need a dose?”
“Yes—there are only six of us left now, I believe? I saw Day and Morley upstairs, and here are Campbell and the Pincher.”
“That’s right.”
“Then there’s plenty.” And Fitzroy indicated a small black bag he had brought in with him and set down on the table. The two muscular attendants, who had been following this portion of the conversation with special interest, now nodded with satisfaction. They had completed the task of removing my boots, and were standing one on each side of my cart, ready to push it up to the cage when their masters should command them.
I thought Seward was on the point of giving that command, but Fitzroy held him for a moment with a gesture. “We’re all ready for departure, then. The other cage for the Rat is aboard the launch, and the launch is fueled and ready. We’ll just stop at the old place to release the rats into the sewers, and then be on our way for France. But what about—?” And he motioned toward the upstairs.
“My guests? What about them?” Seward asked coolly.
“Well, the other day you mentioned the possibility of one more person coming with us, and I saw you talking to
the woman then, and I thought...”
Seward turned away. “No, I care nothing about her. Let her stay and enjoy the plague with the rest of London.”
Just at this point, I was startled by a low moaning or keening sound, proceeding from the still figure lying at my side. When I looked toward Holmes, his dazed expression had not altered, though his eyes were now fixed on Seward. The strange wail issued from my companion in a way that made my hair start to rise on end—then it cut off abruptly, and he muttered a few words that I could not make out.
Seward and Fitzroy both hurried to his cart, where they bent over him on either side, straining to hear better. But hardly had they done so, when Seward abruptly straightened again. Following the direction of his suddenly staring eyes, I saw with blank incomprehension that Holmes’ right arm had somehow come free of its shackle—the steel ring was still closed, and fixed to the cart, but it no longer held his wrist.
Frowning, Seward reached to take hold of the escaped limb. But that thin, white hand rose steadily on its lean arm. It brushed aside Seward’s grasping fists as though they were those of an infant, and took him neatly by the throat.
Simultaneously Fitzroy straightened up, as if he realized that something had gone wrong but was not yet clear on what. Before he could do anything purposeful, the left hand of the figure on the cot slid easily of its restraint, and struck at him with a cobra’s speed. I saw its fingers clench round the unfortunate Fitzroy’s neck. His eyes started from their sockets, as bone and muscle together were crumpled like twists of paper in that grip. An instant later, and his lifeless body had been flung aside, like some huge, weightless doll.
So quickly was the incredible deed accomplished that it was over before the attendants had been sufficiently aroused from their inattention to throw themselves into the struggle. Meanwhile I, on my own cart, strove with might and main—but uselessly—to free myself.
The cart beside mine slid and rolled, then went over with a crash upon its side. All four of his limbs now freed as if by magic, the man who had been on it stood erect. He was red-eyed and terrible of visage as he fought, and to my dying day I shall hear the droning shriek of rage that issued from his lips.
Though his two new opponents bulked huge on either side, they could not stand against him—this, despite the fact that his right hand constantly maintained its grip on Seward’s neck and collar. First one and then the other of the burly henchmen was shaken like a rat in the grip of a terrier, then hurled aside. The body of the first struck the door of the room with an impact that made the solid oak tremble, then slid down into a lifeless heap. The second man, an instant later, was thrown against the cage with such force that the iron structure tilted on its base. From my own helpless position, I saw with horror how the animal inside rushed in mad excitement against its bars. It reached out its muzzle far enough to sink fangs into the shoulder of the last man to fall. He was still living, for now his scream went up and up.
The Count—for by now I realized that despite dark hair, shaven eyebrows, and certain other facial alterations, it must be he—now stood alone, silent but expressing in his demonic grimace the triumph that he evidently felt. His chief and final victim was still in his grasp—still in his grasp and living, for his grip on Seward’s throat had not yet exerted deadly power.
Jack Seward hung in that lean and terrible hand as helpless as a kitten. He kicked and writhed in desperation, and his arms beat uselessly against the arm of steel that held him. The pressure of the Count’s thumb on Seward’s jaw had twisted his head round until his neck must have been on the point of snapping, and his face grew purple with congested blood. In this state Seward fastened his wretched gaze on me. As if he no longer realized that I was bound and helpless, he choked out an appeal:
“Watson... help... he’s not human...”
Perhaps Seward had a moment to read my bitter answer in my face, before Dracula’s resistless one-handed grip spun him away and dragged him toward the cage. A last desperate kick of the victim’s foot happened to strike my cart, and turned it so I could no longer see what was going on. I heard a rattle, as of one of the cage’s small doors being opened—as it would have opened for me had Seward’s own plan been carried out. Then I would have stopped my ears had I been able to, so terrible were the screams that began.
These awful outcries soon subsided, though not entirely. The room seemed to be spinning around me, and there was a roaring in my ears. And now it seemed to me that I once more heard the woman’s voice, this time entreating: “Vlad—Vlad, stop it, please. I do not care what he has done—”
“For you, my dear,” came a low reply, and with that the last horrible cry cut off abruptly. “There are still two more upstairs?”
“Yes. Only menials. And what of him?” asked the woman, her voice sounding shaken. “Will you not loose him from that cart?”
“Hush, my darling! He will hear you. He must not know that you and I are lovers.”
“Dr. Watson is a gentleman who minds his own affairs, I am sure. You must free him.”
“Very well, but later. First I must see about the two upstairs.” The two voices faded completely as the door squeaked once more.
I was left alone in that room of death, where all was silence, save for one hideous sound somewhere behind me—the frantic snuffling of the caged Rat. But no, there was another still alive. I heard a faint human groan. It was repeated.
By dint of great straining I extended the shoeless toes of one foot far enough to reach the wall, and managed to push hard enough to turn my cart. At once I saw that Seward himself must be dead; his horribly mangled body lay half in and half out of the cage, blocking the small door which had been opened for feeding purposes. The angle that his head made with his trunk showed that his neck must have been completely broken at the last.
A shape stirred on the floor just outside the cage, and I saw that one of the brutal attendants was not yet dead. With many groans, struggling against what must have been massive internal injuries, the man called Campbell dragged himself to his feet. It was an effort that could not be sustained. Even as an uproar—a muffled cry, a shot, the sound of running feet—broke out somewhere overhead, Campbell staggered again, lurched against the table where the oil lamp stood, and carried both over in his last collapse. Flames sprang up to lick at the fallen table, at the wall, and at the cage itself.
Under the stimulus of fire, the caged beast, whether by instinct or crude intelligence, pulled entirely into the cage the body it had already begun to devour. Through the small doorway thus left unobstructed, it strove desperately to force itself to freedom.
I shouted until I thought my voice must fail, yet heard no answer. The uproar continued upstairs, with more shots, and trampling feet, and confused cries. When at last I thought I heard an answering yell in response to one of mine, I took heart and continued my efforts to be heard.
Meanwhile, to my horror, the Rat was succeeding in forcing its body through the aperture, which had at first seemed much too small. Squeezing its body inch by inch past the constricting metal, it bared its teeth at me—my cart lay now between it and the door. With a last effort, it burst free, and crouched to spring upon me.
A revolver shot rang out, near at hand, and the brute fell dead into the spreading flames. “Watson!” cried a familiar voice. “Thank God!” A face loomed over me, coughing in the smoke, and altered by false bushy eyebrows, but still beyond all doubt the face of Sherlock Holmes.
Though volunteers from the nearest houses soon came to fight the fire, it had gained too great a start to be controlled before it had destroyed the entire building. The gray light of dawn found me wrapped in a blanket donated by some kindly neighbor, and seated on a stump in the half-wooded grounds of the old asylum while I contemplated the smoldering wreckage.
With the exception of some trifling burns, I was uninjured. So were Holmes and Lestrade, who had searched the building for me at considerable danger to themselves, after besting Seward’s two remain
ing henchmen in a deadly struggle on the floor above. My friends had then carried me out of the building, cart and all, to a spot far enough removed from the blaze for Holmes to take the time to pick the locks that shackled me.
Nor had any of the Harker family, Seward’s guests, been hurt. All of them were dressed as if they had been hastily aroused, and were the picture of innocence and shock—Mrs. Harker, the young woman I had already seen and heard; her husband Jonathan, a rather pudgy man of about forty, prematurely white-haired; and their two small children with a young governess. Mrs. Harker, so she said, had chanced to be awake, and had smelled smoke, thus giving her entire family a chance to get safely to the open air. In the presence of the folk from neighboring villas and houses, she said not a word—nor did Holmes or Lestrade—of shots or fighting or indeed anything out of the ordinary beyond the fire itself.
The blaze was blamed for the extermination of most of the staff of the institution, of which only an innocent cook and stableboy appeared to have survived—and for the death of Dr. Fitzroy, who, it seemed, had been visiting in connection with some animal experiments. In these, it appeared, I also had been taking part, and I was the sole survivor of those who had done so. Lestrade, who of course had at least some idea of the true state of affairs, hastened to assure other police arriving on the scene that I would give a statement in due time, but was in no condition to be questioned just at present.
Right after the police came Lord Godalming, in his own carriage, to exchange shocked words with his old friends the Harkers, and then with Holmes and Lestrade.
Then he came, shaking his head, to where I sat upon my stump. “Dr. Watson,” he muttered, “very fortunate that you could get out alive. They tell me there were five dead in all, including poor Jack.”
“Six,” corrected Lestrade. “We found one chap just over there at the edge of the trees. He was running for help, I should guess, and in his panic evidently fell and broke his neck... a bad business, very bad.”
The Holmes-Dracula File Page 20
