“Professor Van Helsing,” Lady Jarsdel said, holding out a hand, which Van Helsing took and kissed gently.
“Dear lady, welcome,” he said, and then shook Sir Maugham by the hand in turn.
“We come to introduce an old friend, Professor. This is Dr John Watson, who has been dying to meet you.”
Van Helsing’s gaze turned upon me, so impassive that I almost fumbled my lines.
“Indeed, Professor,” I managed. “It is a singular honour.”
“The honour is mine,” he said, in his thickly accented voice. “I see that you are a man most practical, Doctor, and from your bearing perhaps a military man also?”
“For my sins,” I said.
“We all of us should be thankful to our soldiers, no? And our soldiers, they are thankful for their doctors. For too many years my work has taken place in the lecture theatre, in the laboratory, and in the library. Respect must always be given to the practitioner, he who help the patient every day, in the office, on the battlefield.” He cast his eyes to Sherlock Holmes, and any warmth that had crept into his expression as he had addressed me now drained away. “And this man—wait, tell me not. He look upon me as if to make a study. I recognise that look, for it is the one I deliver myself to the enigma. This man, he is no physician, but a man of science, certainly. Or a policeman? Yet no mere policeman would be here at the Royal Society, and in company with the good doctor here. Wait! I have it. What a fool I have been not to see, that the great Sherlock Holmes is here.”
This drew approving laughter from the group. Holmes smiled his thinnest smile and bowed his head to his adversary.
“A magnificent deduction,” said Holmes. “It is almost as though you knew we were coming.”
“Ah, but the deduction is a child’s play, Mr Holmes. Observation, supposition… mere guessing games. It is science, yes, but a poor science that seek always to unlock a mystery of circumstance, never the mystery of existence. It is to the greater problems that the finest minds turn always their attention.”
I looked uncertainly at Holmes. To the casual observer, Van Helsing was merely espousing some philosophical argument. To anyone who knew Holmes as I did, however, it would be obvious that the professor had just given the great detective the gravest possible insult.
“It is a matter of science that I had hoped to discuss, Professor,” Holmes said, seemingly unruffled. “If you could spare us a few moments I would be most grateful.”
“Mr Holmes, the dinner it begin soon, and I speak to these good people after that. Time is the thing most short at present.”
“That is a pity, for it concerns a mutual friend, and one of your patients, or so I believe. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I must inform you that Lord Godalming has taken a turn for the worse.”
Lady Jarsdel and her husband looked concerned. Van Helsing’s large eyes narrowed a fraction.
“I am sure it is nothing,” he said with a smile, addressing the guests around us as much as Holmes. “An effect of the illness most unfortunate, but one that I instruct Lady Godalming how to treat. But if it concern you so much, Mr Sherlock Holmes, I give you five minutes. Gentlemen, my lady, please to excuse us for a moment.”
We withdrew to the edge of the room near the service door, while the rest of Van Helsing’s associates left us to some scant privacy.
“Professor Van Helsing,” Holmes began, “your reputation precedes you, and as such I am loath to question your judgement. But do you think it wise to leave Lord Godalming unattended by any physician while he is in such fragile health?”
“Arthur is attended by me, Mr Holmes, and he need no other physician while Van Helsing draw his breath. I know what is best.”
“That’s as may be, Professor, though Dr Watson here would beg to differ. Isn’t that right, Watson?”
That rather put me on the spot, but having seen Lord Godalming’s condition, my dander was sufficiently risen for me to question Van Helsing’s assessment of his patient. “That is correct. The idea that shock could account for Lord Godalming’s present condition is outdated thinking. Why, the man should be—”
“Tested for anaemia,” Van Helsing interrupted. “You do a disservice to me, Dr John Watson, and I think you are not so much a follower of my teachings, as Mr Holmes suggest, no? As you both are aware, my expertise—gathered upon a lifetime of study—is in the field of exotic and what you call metaphysical disease. These diseases are the so-rare killers of men, that even your Royal Society are knowing nothing of. I come to educate them, Dr Watson, to remove from their minds the cloud of ignorance. But ask to yourself: if these men so wise cannot accept the facts of the world beyond their five senses, what chance does a poor woman have? A woman like Genevieve Holmwood.”
“Are you suggesting that Lord Godalming’s condition is caused by some… supernatural means?” I asked.
“If you have read the papers I have put before your courts, which I assume you have, how could you doubt it?”
“He sits in darkness, his windows nailed shut, and garlic flowers hang in his windows. The Count is dead. Did his evil not die with him?”
“These so-simple methods of protection comfort Arthur, and that is enough. He fight not for his life, but for his soul, for even with the destruction of that great monster, Count Dracula, there is evil abroad. Evil in the very blood!”
“And Lady Godalming does not understand that her husband’s immortal soul is at risk?” Holmes asked.
“I tell her not these things,” said Van Helsing. “She is but one spark of light in his dark life, and it is her spirits most high that provide to Arthur the comfort he need.”
“It seems unlike you, Professor, to do such a disservice to a woman who, in my opinion, is most strong of character. I have read the Dracula Papers, as you guess, and in that tragic tale did you not take women of similar presence into your confidence?”
“Similar? Nein! There is only one woman in the tale of Count Dracula who I would have trust with such knowledge as this.”
“Wilhelmina Harker,” Holmes stated.
“A woman such as Mina could have helped Arthur more, perhaps,” Van Helsing said, somewhat wistfully. “I love Mina like a daughter, and Arthur like my son so long-lost. Alas, their paths are separate, Mr Holmes. Mina has a duty to her own husband. My dear Arthur has the sweet girl Genevieve to care for him, and she needs more help than Mina. Do not fear for Arthur Holmwood, Mr Holmes, for he is one of my company, and he has friends still who will provide that help.”
A slight frown crossed Holmes’s features. I found Van Helsing’s words puzzling, but if there was one thing I had gleaned from the Dracula Papers, it was that the Dutchman was eccentric and rambling.
“Professor,” I interrupted. “Forgive me, but as a medical man I wish only to understand. You say it is a metaphysical disease, but what exactly is it that ails Lord Godalming?”
“Ah, there is the question that lead perhaps to wisdom, if you so allow,” Van Helsing said. “But for now, I have not the time to explain, for you are not ready to understand. One day, God willing, you shall, and perhaps sooner than you think.”
“Professor,” said Holmes. “Watson here, I am sure, would be fascinated to study your methods one day, but I have methods of my own. Methods that I am obliged to employ in the solving of a most perplexing mystery.”
“Mystery? Please to tell me, Mr Holmes, what your elementary methods are failing to find.” Van Helsing gave a patronising chuckle.
“Just that a certain Lucy Westenra could not have met her end in the way that you described in the Dracula Papers. Which rather begs the question: how did she die?”
“You dismiss the truth out of the hand, Mr Holmes. Why? Because your mind is filled with your so-small world of deduction that you neither see nor feel what stare you in the face.”
“As you may or may not have heard, Professor, while you were tangling with your alleged vampire, I was myself ‘dead’, for all intents and purposes. While walking that tw
ilit path between life and death, I discovered many transgressions against justice, and witnessed many things that lesser men might consider ‘supernatural’. But all of them—every one—could be resolved through rational deduction as the work of men.”
“And you expect, Mr Holmes, that you are to uncover some injustice here? Some plot that your great detective brain can unpick?” Van Helsing took a heavy draw upon his cigar.
“In my experience, where there is true villainy, there is also overconfidence. Many of my opponents have underestimated my methods, Professor Van Helsing, and few of them have escaped justice. To underestimate one’s opponent is the gravest mistake one can make in the fight between good and evil.”
“Ha! Then at least we are agreed that there is a thing such as good, and a thing such as evil. But it is you who is sounding overconfident, Mr Holmes. You would do well to taking your own advice, I think.”
“I shall instead, for the time being, heed the advice of the estimable society in which we now find ourselves,” Holmes replied, raising a hand towards the podium. There on the ceiling, emblazoned in gold lettering upon a classical mural, was the motto of the Royal Society. Nullius in verba: “Take nobody’s word for it.”
Van Helsing stared for a moment, and then chuckled. He held out his hand, and Holmes shook it firmly. Van Helsing leaned in, and muttered coolly, “Mind your step, Mr Holmes. When one has used his luck as you have, extra care must be taken.”
“In my experience, Professor, there is no such thing as luck. We merely play the odds, and the best man wins.”
Van Helsing nodded and stepped back. “Then I am forward-looking to the commencement of our game. Do let me know when you are starting, hey? Now, Mr Holmes—Dr Watson—you must be excusing me.”
With that, Professor Van Helsing was gone.
“Well, Holmes, that was a tricky dance and no mistake,” I said. “Should we stay for his speech and see if we can spot any of his associates?”
“No, Watson. I doubt very much he would collude with anyone of interest in so public a place, and we cannot follow him closely while he is so on his guard. We have learned everything we can this evening.”
“I’m not sure we learned much at all.”
“Nonsense, Watson, we learned a very great deal. For instance, we have confirmed that Van Helsing—despite his name—is most certainly not Dutch, but German.”
“I don’t see how you come to that conclusion, Holmes,” I said. “He uses German phrases when excited, yes, but many Dutchmen are fluent in German, and the two languages are not so very different.”
“To the untrained ear, Watson, correct. It is not the words he uses, but the ordering of them. When I read the Dracula Papers, I thought perhaps Seward was mocking his old teacher when recounting his words in such a strange fashion, but now I see that Dr Seward recorded his mentor quite accurately. You see, the Dutch language may be closely related to German, but its construction has more in common with English. A Dutchman would not make so many grammatical errors when speaking English—indeed, he would have to go out of his way to do so. If that were not proof enough, I noted the very particular odour of his German cigars just now—a brand that is uncommon here in London due to the great expense of importing them.”
“Very well, but I don’t see the significance,” I replied.
“Nor do I,” said Holmes. “But I shall.”
“So what now? I suppose it’s too late to dine…”
“Not at all, I have already secured us a table at the Café Royal—we will need to be quick if we are to make it. Thankfully we are already dressed for dinner.”
“You mean to say you planned the exchange down to the minute?”
“May we press on, Watson? I would rather not be late, for we have another early start tomorrow.”
I sighed heavily. I had been hoping to arrange a few appointments for my patients the next day; they had been rather neglected of late. “Where to this time?” I asked.
“Exeter,” Holmes said, already turning back to the main hall as the Royal Society guests began to file in for dinner. “If our man has a close accomplice, I believe I now know their identity.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HARKERS
“If I may say, Mr Harker, it is a testament to your faithfulness that the name of your former employer, Mr Hawkins, still hangs above the door.” Holmes beamed as he shook the hand of Jonathan Harker, whose greying temples and furrowed brow looked out of place on a man who should by rights be in his prime.
Harker nodded, somewhat gingerly, and walked around the large desk of his office, taking a seat and, as an afterthought, waving a hand indicating we should do the same.
“You are lucky to find me unengaged, Mr Holmes. It is a long way to come without a prior appointment.” His voice was thin; like Arthur Holmwood, it appeared to me that Harker was in poor health. Given the many trials he had endured as described in the Dracula Papers, that was perhaps understandable.
“Of course it is, Mr Harker. I realised that error already this morning, when I called at your home and found it uninhabited.”
The wrinkles upon Harker’s brow deepened. “My home? Then am I to assume this is not a business matter?”
“Oh, it is certainly business to me,” said Holmes. “But it is not the business of your firm. Trust me when I say it is a matter of utmost seriousness upon which I call. I had rather hoped to speak with both you and Mrs Harker—tell me, would it be convenient to do so today?”
Harker’s hands trembled a little at Holmes’s words and, noticing this, he pressed his palms upon the leather inlay of his desk to quell the shaking.
“My wife is visiting an old friend in the north, and will be unavailable for a week or more. But this all sounds rather serious—should I be worried?” He tried to offer a reassuring smile to make light of the situation, though it was a feeble attempt.
“You say your wife is in the north,” Holmes said, avoiding the question entirely. “Surely she has not returned to Whitby, home of so many painful memories?”
Harker hesitated, his thought processes writ large across his features. “She has, as it happens,” he said eventually. “You could call it a pilgrimage, I suppose. With the court ruling in our favour, and that dreadful business put behind us, she has gone to… make her peace.”
“A strange choice of words—‘make her peace’. Lucy Westenra, rest her soul, was killed in London. What is left to do in Whitby?”
“I…” Harker paused, and sighed. He stood, looking more frail now than I had previously noticed, and went to gaze out of the office window. “Mina wanted to see the place where she and Lucy stayed, one last time, and help set Lucy’s affairs in order.”
“And what of Hillingham, Mr Harker?” Holmes asked. “Would your wife’s time not be better spent assisting your good friend Lord Godalming with the affairs at the Westenra estate?”
A tremble again—Harker did not turn to face us when he replied. “No, Mr Holmes. We own Hillingham now, although I doubt we shall keep it. It’s all above board, I assure you.”
I saw the twitch of Holmes’s lip as he clicked another piece of the puzzle into place. I myself was taken aback that the Harkers—who less than a year prior had been hard-working people of middling income—now had considerable wealth in property, and enjoyed a status surely beyond their imaginings.
“Why should I think otherwise? But it is a generous gift for Lord Godalming to give, considering his… predicament.”
At that, Harker turned to us, his face pale. “Predicament?”
“You must be aware, given your great bond of fellowship… why, Arthur Holmwood is gravely ill, and his finances are in a parlous state. It would seem that the inheritance of Lucy Westenra’s property would have been exactly what he needed to maintain the legacy of Ring, and yet he gives one such property to his good friends the Harkers. Truly he is a big-hearted man.”
“Arthur is… the very best of men,” Harker replied. He stumbled awkwardly, res
ting his hand upon the back of his chair. I thought perhaps he might faint, and stood to assist him. He waved me away at once. “Mr Holmes, why are you here?”
“A perfectly reasonable question, Mr Harker. The Dracula Papers, which I and Dr Watson here have read, contain details of a number of deaths, some apparently at the hands of a Transylvanian vampire. The highest court in the land appears ready to accept these papers as truth. I, however, am less inclined to accept them, for one very simple reason.”
“Oh?”
“I do not believe in vampires.”
Harker stared at Holmes, beads of perspiration forming upon his brow.
“So who do you propose killed my friend Quincey Morris?” he asked at last, setting his jaw firm, though the quaver in his voice betrayed the steel in his eyes.
“Gypsies, as stated in the papers,” Holmes said, quick as a flash.
“Controlled by the Count!”
“As you please.”
“And the lunatic, Renfield?”
“Unknown. We have only one man’s word for those mysterious circumstances.”
“The word of a respected and eminent professor,” Harker snapped.
“Again, as you please.”
“And—and dear Lucy?”
“I am glad you asked that question, above all others, Mr Harker. For I believe that, should I find the true cause of Lucy Westenra’s death, I shall solve this perplexing case once and for all.”
“There is no case to solve!” Harker snapped. “Lucy was… taken. By the Count. He… he—”
“Transformed her into a vampiress, according to Van Helsing—who stalked Highgate Cemetery until you and your friends cornered her in a tomb and cut off her head. Yes, I read that also. If you bear in mind what I told you, Mr Harker, that I do not believe in vampires, then either Lucy was not the woman walking about Highgate, or she was not dead when she was entombed. In the latter case, we have written accounts from your fellows that it was most assuredly not Dracula who cut off her head.”
Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood Page 6
