Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood

by Mark A. Latham

  Bradstreet did not look overly happy; possibly he disapproved of Holmes’s subterfuge, but more likely he did not relish returning the book to Cotford and explaining its removal.

  “So where now, Holmes?” said I.

  “To Baker Street. You have much reading to do, Watson, if you are to be of any use to me. Inspector Bradstreet, might I ask a favour of you?”

  “Of course, Mr Holmes.”

  “Poke your nose into the business of as many detectives as you dare, and find what notes you can—however scarce—that were made regarding the Dracula investigation. Raid the police files, also. Coroner’s reports, witness statements, charge sheets—whatever you can dredge up, no matter how tangential to the case. Bring them to Baker Street at your earliest convenience.” At mention of home, my stomach rumbled, and my thoughts turned to my abandoned rack of toast.

  “And what will you do with them, Mr Holmes?” Bradstreet asked.

  “It seems to me that, despite the best efforts of your division, the Dracula Papers are incomplete or, at best, edited deliberately to obfuscate the facts. I intend to reconstruct them as they were originally intended, with no omissions. I plan to stitch together the true story of Dracula.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  GLARING ERRORS

  Much of the day and part of the evening was spent in study of the Dracula Papers. It was tiresome research, made tolerable only by Mrs Hudson’s frequent visits with a fresh tea tray. My concentration was sabotaged at every turn by Holmes, who would periodically rush over with a newly transcribed sheet that he had copied from Cotford’s book, or a newspaper article that he had clipped carefully from its page, and stuff these amidst the papers I held. More often than not, Holmes forced me to reorder the pages and go over the same ones time and again, bringing the new details to light.

  “You must fix the sequence of events correctly in your mind, Watson,” Holmes repeated. “The devil—Dutch or otherwise—is in the details.”

  Twice during the day, a police constable arrived with folios of notes from Bradstreet—first from B Division, then from H Division. Later, a courier came with pages of court transcripts, including the summarising speech of Sir Toby Fitzwilliam before the Lords, naming Professor Abraham Van Helsing an “honourable man” who had “taken his duty to his fellow man and his oath to heal the sick to their utmost extreme. Any wrongdoing in the eyes of the law whilst in pursuit of this noble cause must be overlooked by the courts of England on this occasion, or the bedrock of justice upon which this great nation is built will be eroded.” It was clear that Holmes believed not a word of it. He finished ahead of me, and sat at the window, silently smoking his pipe for some time, until I had caught up with my reading.

  By the time I had completed the endeavour, our rooms were an eyesore, strewn with papers, discarded notes and drained teacups. When Mrs Hudson returned in the early evening with a platter of bread and cheese, she tutted and shook her head at the mess, before dutifully collecting what seemed like a week’s worth of tea-things and retreating downstairs.

  “Finally, Watson!” Holmes jumped to his feet and stretched theatrically. “I never took you for a slow reader.”

  “Really, Holmes,” I grumbled, “were it not for your constant interruptions…”

  “As far as I can see, Watson, we have here the most complete copy of the Dracula Papers in the land. And yet you will have observed, I take it, references to events and personages, herein unnamed, that are still not present in the official papers. Mislaid narratives, do you think? Or suppressed ones?”

  “Suppressed by whom?” I asked.

  “Aha! What do you make of it all? Do you still believe what you read in the newspapers?”

  “The testimonies as they are now arranged do shed a somewhat different light on the matter,” I conceded, “but still not enough to accuse anyone of conspiracy to murder.”

  “What do you make of the inconsistencies?”

  “Many of them can be put down to editorial error. The original notes were handwritten by the hunters or recorded on to wax cylinders via a phonograph machine, and then re-typed by Mrs Harker. Any number of innocent mistakes could have crept in.”

  “True. The most damning is an exchange of letters between Mina Harker and Lucy Westenra, dated August last year, at a time when Mina was supposed to be in Buda-Pesth. As you say, perhaps it is all innocent enough. Of course, if Mina Harker wished to disguise her real movements, it would be the ideal way to achieve that goal. She was, after all, entrusted with all of the diaries and correspondence, of which few originals remain.”

  “Cynical, Holmes. If we take even half the accounts of Mrs Harker at face value, she is a remarkable woman, as noble as Count Dracula is villainous.”

  “And what of the Count? Are you a believer in vampires now, Watson? Tsk, tsk.”

  “I am merely willing to give their account the benefit of the doubt, Holmes. Have you not always instructed me to do just that?” My friend had always advised me to keep an open mind; that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. His father’s adage, I believe. And yet, where the supernatural was concerned, Holmes’s mind was a castle door, locked and barred against possibility. I did have misgivings, though. “Admittedly, the Count’s terrible powers are somewhat inconsistently portrayed. Again perhaps this is due to the various perspectives of the witnesses.”

  “An example, Watson.”

  “Van Helsing and Harker speak independently of Dracula’s aversion to sunlight. And yet Mrs Harker very clearly states that she and her husband saw him in London, during the day, and she did not mention any severe weakness in his demeanour on that occasion. Quite the opposite, in fact. Likewise, Van Helsing claims that Dracula can transform himself into a wolf, or a bat, or even mist—and yet several times Dracula fails to do these things when they would be eminently useful to his cause.”

  “Very good. It is almost as if Van Helsing’s endless postulation and critical fact do not quite tally. Anything else?”

  “There were certainly some lapses of judgement on the part of these vampire hunters, and some… questionable methods, particularly from a medical standpoint.”

  “Go on.”

  “I speak of Lucy Westenra’s general health. There was an argument in court that she may have suffered dyspnoea, although I think anaemia is the most likely cause of her ills. A pity there is no chance to examine the subject. Mina Murray notes herself that Lucy had an anaemic look about her, and we see that she was prone to bouts of listlessness. I suspect she was anaemic before the visit of the Count, and any doctor should have been able to see it.”

  “I dare say.”

  “You will note that Seward analyses Miss Westenra’s blood, however, and finds her in rude health after the transfusion.”

  I scoffed. “Seward is an alienist, although we are supposed to believe that he studied practical medicine. Any doctor could tell you that a ‘qualitative analysis’ of anaemic blood such as Dr Seward conducted, simply cannot confirm vigorous health or otherwise.”

  “What would you have done, Watson, had you been confronted with a patient showing all of Miss Westenra’s symptoms?”

  “I would have administered an ioduret of iron to begin with, and a simple glass of porter once a day before attempting anything more dramatic. I might add ammonia to that prescription later if required, but would hope not to.”

  “And yet Seward and Van Helsing immediately jumped to the conclusion that a vampire was to blame, and administered a potentially dangerous treatment. Is that fair to say?”

  “It is.”

  “But what of the other symptoms, Watson—what about her sleepwalking, supposedly triggered by the hypnotic power of the Count?”

  “Balderdash!”

  “Really, Watson!” Holmes feigned a censorious tone.

  “It seems to me,” I went on, encouraged by Holmes’s sudden interest in my professional opinion, “that at every turn, this Dr Seward allowe
d himself to be misled by outmoded, superstitious bunkum. He states his belief, in his own journal, that the poor Westenra girl’s sickness is one of the mind, and yet at Van Helsing’s behest he carries out several transfusions of blood—transfusions that simply cannot work in the way they are described here. When Lucy’s end came, she was discovered in a state of near torpor, freezing cold due to blood loss. The very first thing Van Helsing and Seward prescribed was a heated bath to warm her, before administering yet another transfusion. This is the worst possible treatment; in such a state, the heat would have encouraged the flow of blood away from Lucy’s brain. I am afraid that, had she survived much longer, her faculties may have been irreversibly diminished.”

  “You are speaking of malpractice, Watson.”

  I paused. “I suppose I am.”

  “And to what do you attribute this shocking malpractice?” Holmes went on.

  “As a young man of modern medical training, Dr Seward has little excuse, save one. His complete devotion to his former teacher, Van Helsing, appears absolute. A young man of limited worldly experience might defer to his beloved teacher’s wisdom, especially in times of great stress. He evidently loved the Westenra girl, and in his worry he was easily led.”

  “But why would Van Helsing lead him so?”

  “Because the old man is superstitious, and believed in a supernatural cause for Miss Westenra’s illness. He believed she had been repeatedly drained of blood by a vampire, and that the instant transfusion of blood—any blood—would suffice in restoring her to life. He was misguided.”

  “Was he?” Holmes said quietly, lips curled into a thin, facetious smile, though the subject of his amusement was a touch too morbid for my tastes. “Because he believed in vampires?”

  “Why… yes.”

  “Of course, if he had motive to kill the girl…”

  I frowned, and suddenly felt very sorry for the fair young lady who had been so nobly described in the journals I had read. “Then the professor’s actions would have been a sure way to commit murder, and shift the blame in the process,” I said solemnly. “But tell me, Holmes, other than the suspicions of Frank Cotford, what evidence here suggests any such motive?”

  “Ah, Watson. You have read, but you have not understood. I will not, however, foist upon you a half-formed hypothesis. You know that is not my way. No, soon enough we will see if my suspicions can be proven as fact.”

  “But that is the crux of it, then? We are investigating not just the death of Count Dracula, but also that of the Westenra girl?”

  “And not just her! Watson, have you absorbed nothing today? Cotford was a drunk, yes, but a mind as thorough as his could not be so easily misled. Within these papers we have the deaths of Mr Peter Hawkins, the solicitor who sent Jonathan Harker to Transylvania; Mrs Westenra the elder; Miss Lucy Westenra; Lord Godalming the elder; the lunatic R. M. Renfield of Purfleet Asylum; the American Quincey P. Morris; and, of course, Count Dracula himself. That is supposing the mysterious deaths of the crew of the ship Demeter are either incidental or accidental. They add to the supernatural narrative, I grant you, but I have not yet made up my mind on the matter.”

  “Of those,” I said, “Lord Godalming would seem to me to have died of age and infirmity. Renfield was obviously taken by the Count. The rest, I grant you, are questionable.”

  “We will see about Renfield in good time!” exclaimed Holmes. “As for Lord Godalming, you know by now that I do not believe in coincidence when murder and motive are close by. As Cotford pointed out, albeit crudely, one man stood to profit by at least three of those deaths, perhaps more, if we can find the trick of it.”

  “Arthur Holmwood,” I groaned, realising that Holmes would not be put off, and that we would almost certainly be harassing an important peer before too long. Given Cotford’s fall from grace after doing the same, I could only hope that Holmes’s immense reputation would save us a similar fate.

  “Sharp as a tack, Watson, as ever. Our next port of call must be Ring, in Surrey, where the young Lord Godalming has become something of a recluse.”

  I looked at the mantel clock, which was obscured by a thick haze of pipe smoke—how many bowls Holmes had consumed throughout the day I could not tell. It was almost nine o’clock in the evening. “You surely aren’t suggesting we leave now, Holmes?” I said. “You have not slept for over thirty hours.”

  “We cannot leave now, Watson, for we would never make the last train. We depart for Surrey first thing in the morning.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LORD GODALMING

  I felt a certain trepidation as our cab swept up the long, gently curving drive of Ring, that great country pile that had been home to the Godalming family for centuries. I wondered just how Holmes was planning to question the reclusive Lord Godalming; I hoped he would not be in one of his more brusque moods. I doubted very much that Mycroft Holmes, who had set us on this path, would appreciate answering questions at Westminster as to why his brother had insulted a peer of considerable import.

  Holmes was quiet for much of the journey, his mind doubtless back at Baker Street, envisioning those many pages of notes and type that had led us to Surrey on a cool April morn. He certainly had no mind to take in the spectacular first glimpse of Ring, which swung into view, with its imposing finials, parapets and buttresses. For all its glorious embellishments, however, the vast house had a bleak and forbidding aspect about it. Jagged shadows reached across the gravel drive towards our carriage like clawed fingers, and uncountable black windows stared at us menacingly from the ancient, grey walls.

  We came to a halt in the shadow of that severe stately pile. A butler came to meet us, and bade us inside before waving the coachman on. “We wish to speak to the master of the house,” Holmes said, his voice echoing around the grand, but rather dingy, marble entrance hall. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr Watson. We have come from London on business of great import.”

  “The master rarely grants audiences to unannounced visitors,” the butler replied haughtily.

  “Then I suggest you go ahead and announce us,” Holmes retorted, with great authority.

  The middle-aged servant, no shrinking violet by the look of him, squinted at Holmes with suspicion. Eventually he told us to wait, and closed the door. There was something odd about the butler; I noted a certain weariness to his manner, and dark rings about his eyes that would rival Holmes’s.

  Some minutes passed before the door opened again, and the butler reappeared, this time with a haughtier aspect about him. He looked down his nose at us, and gestured formally for us to enter.

  “You may wait here,” the butler said, waving a hand towards a pair of benches in the large hallway. With that, he took to the stairs, before disappearing across the landing.

  Holmes at once took the opportunity to examine the hall, and poked his head into the adjoining rooms. He made only the most cursory inspection, and I wondered if he had come to any private deduction in that short time, such was his great skill at observation.

  He had just set foot on the great stairs, and their curiously threadbare carpet, and was looking at the family portraits that covered the walls, when a woman’s voice sounded above us.

  “Why, is it really the famous Sherlock Holmes? How thrilling!”

  We looked up to see a slender, dark-haired woman in perhaps her middle twenties, wearing a casual gown of emerald green, an ostentatious string of pearls, and a flowing chiffon house-coat. For a moment I wondered if we were in the presence of Mina Harker, for she certainly fitted the description of the young woman from the Dracula Papers. And yet this lady was possessed of great confidence, a girlish exuberance, and less than the usual sense of propriety I would expect from a resident in such a house. She fair skipped down the stairs, her feet barely making a sound upon the treads, before giving a small curtsey.

  “Mr Holmes,” she said. “I am Genevieve Holmwood, Lady Godalming. And this must be Dr Watson.” She turned to me and smiled.
I confess she was a pretty thing, though my observation at the time was that, though she certainly had a youthful energy about her, she acted in a manner much younger than her years. Not only that, but there was an immodesty about the woman that made me rather ill at ease; I wondered if we had not entered the house of some hedonists. This naturally went unsaid, and I instead gave a small bow. “My lady,” I said.

  “Please, call me Genevieve, everybody does. Won’t you come through to the drawing room and take tea?” She was already leading the way, picking up a small china bell from a hall table and ringing it as she went. “I’m afraid Art will take a while to make himself presentable, but you both must be tired and hungry if you came from London this morning. Mainwaring?” At the call, the butler appeared on the stairs.

  “M’lady?”

  “Bring tea. We shall be in the drawing room.”

  This room was dark and closed up, but Lady Godalming set about opening the curtains. At once, light streamed in through tall windows, though their unfavourable positioning caused dark shadows to gather in every corner of the room, hanging like cobwebs out of reach of the sun’s touch. The fire was unmade and unlit, leaving the room a trifle chilly, and the room had the faint odour of stale tobacco smoke about it.

  “Might I ask, Lady Godalming,” Holmes said, “what ails his lordship?”

  “Call me Genevieve,” she said again. “And Art? He suffers dreadfully from nervous prostration. Ever since that awful business with Count Dracula.”

  “It must have been a… most trying time, all told.”

  “You needn’t tread on eggshells around me, Mr Holmes.” As if to illustrate her assertion she reclined languidly upon a chaise by the window, as though posing for a penny stereoscope or Parisian painter. I felt the colour rise to my cheeks, and found myself averting my eyes despite myself.