Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood

by Mark A. Latham

  “A few days later I confronted Seward, who was here with Professor Van Helsing, and we argued. I threatened to resign, and Seward played his trump card. He had kept records of my earlier misdemeanour, and had invented further embellishments besides—embellishments that might not only cause me to be struck off the medical register, but perhaps even put on trial. He is blackmailing me, Dr Watson. Oh, I don’t believe he would have stooped so low when I first met him, but he is a changed man. His personal tragedies, his growing obsessions, and his… vices, have gone hand-in-hand to transform an idealistic young doctor into a megalomaniac.”

  “You speak of his feelings for Lucy Westenra,” I suggested. “And his dependency upon a certain drug.”

  “You have seen the symptoms for yourself?”

  “And the evidence, too.”

  “And there is more. I feel Seward has been manipulated.”

  “By Van Helsing?”

  “Aye. But whatever the cause of his change of character, the damage is done. I have been warned quite explicitly to stay quiet, and not to contradict the version of events as told in those dratted Dracula Papers.”

  “I see. So why speak out now? And why to me?”

  “As I said, I believe you to be a man of integrity. Besides, a gossiping nurse has already revealed to me that Seward appeared quite agitated in your company. That alone tells me that you are not in his pocket. The same cannot be said of the police—I hear Van Helsing dines regularly with the assistant commissioner of Scotland Yard.”

  “Really?” That was interesting news indeed, for it in some way explained the rapid decline of Cotford’s career.

  “How else would such a cock-and-bull story as that contained in the Dracula Papers gain such traction? Van Helsing has friends in high places, which has so far left me nowhere to turn. But then here you are, Dr Watson. I confess I have selfish reasons for putting my trust in you. If Dr Seward should receive his just desserts, I would be free to start afresh. He could make his accusations about me all he liked, but if his own reputation were in tatters, I would be more likely to weather the storm of scandal that would follow. Who would listen to a man who drove his own patient to madness and death, and whose shocking neglect contributed to the death of an innocent young woman?”

  “You know something of the case of Miss Westenra?”

  “Enough to know that the treatment that Seward and Van Helsing administered to the girl was quackery.”

  “Dr Hennessey, I believe you and Sherlock Holmes would get along famously.”

  “Perhaps, if he is the forgiving sort.” Hennessey looked sad, and quickly changed the subject. “We don’t have much time, Dr Watson. Here, be so good as to sign this for me. It is a copy of A Study in Scarlet. If Dr Seward asks me why I spent time with you this afternoon, I shall tell him that I enjoy your stories of the great detective.”

  I took the book and signed it for him.

  “Now take these, Dr Watson, and tell no one here that you have them.” Hennessey passed me two large, tattered notebooks. “They belonged to Renfield. Seward ordered them to be destroyed shortly after the man’s death.”

  This was an unexpected boon, and I took the notebooks eagerly. Flipping through the pages, it appeared that one was written in a neat hand, including many pages of shorthand. A packet of letters was stuffed untidily inside the front cover. The other journal was written in a scrawl, and contained page after page of tally charts and childlike scrawlings.

  “There were others, but these were the only two I could save from the incinerator. The one you hold there was written during his time here, and is a cruel account of a man’s descent into utter madness. The other was admitted with him when his legal firm brought him to us.”

  “Legal firm?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know?”

  “Please, Dr Hennessey, what legal firm? Who admitted this man Renfield to the care of Dr Seward?”

  “A man who is no longer with us,” the doctor said. “One Peter Hawkins, of Exeter.”

  * * *

  The information given me by Dr Hennessey had set my head in a spin, and I left as quickly as I could thereafter, the better to take this vital new evidence to Holmes. The Irishman had explained that R. M. Renfield had been a junior solicitor in the Exeter legal firm owned by Peter Hawkins, and now administered by Jonathan Harker. The journals he had given me not only cast doubt upon how much Seward and Van Helsing had known about the Harkers before the start of their tale, but also just how much of their insane story had come from a true madman, from Renfield himself, rather their own imaginations. It was Renfield who had first been sent to Transylvania to meet Count Dracula; it was Renfield who had contracted brain fever and been driven mad by his experiences in the Carpathians. It was Renfield, not Jonathan Harker, who had been Dracula’s guest.

  I made my way next to Jack Straw’s Castle. On the journey, I immersed myself in Renfield’s journals, which instilled within me a sense of fearful dread. We had since the beginning discounted the possibility that Jonathan Harker and Dr Seward had been among the knowing conspirators. Now, I had to consider that Van Helsing and Mina Harker were not the only villains in this thickening mystery, but were only part of a conspiracy to murder.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DRACULA’S GUEST

  The papers that I read on the way to Jack Straw’s Castle were all too familiar, for they were, in places, identical to the journal entries supposedly written by Jonathan Harker and published as part of the Dracula Papers, though they pre-dated his accounts by nearly a year.

  Renfield had travelled a similar path to the one described by Harker, stopping for a time in Munich before travelling onward on to Transylvania. It seemed that Renfield met with some misfortune in the wilds while in Germany, resulting in his experiencing vivid, waking dreams, in which he was assailed by gigantic wolves, and feelings of inexplicable dread. When he awoke from his nightmare, he was in the castle of Count Dracula, whereupon he discovered that his host had sent a party to look for him and carry him to safety.

  Renfield’s writings trod a hazy line between fact and fiction. It seemed clear to me that he had taken a turn after an ill-advised trek through the snow, becoming feverish and confused as a result. Though Dracula had taken him in and nourished him, Renfield had not received the medical attention that he so badly required, and thus a bout of brain fever slowly drove him mad.

  Entry after entry detailed the poor man’s downward spiral into insanity. I wondered what the Count had made of it all—seeing his guest become increasingly delusional and raving, until there was no choice but to lock Renfield in his room and arrange for him to return to England and the care of Peter Hawkins.

  The version of events penned by Jonathan Harker was so rational in comparison—so believable—that the discovery of these papers now appeared a great betrayal. The obvious lunacy had been eradicated from the accounts; times and places had been altered. Jonathan Harker’s journal, which formed the bedrock of what would later become the Dracula Papers, was a lie.

  Letter, R. M. Renfield to Peter Hawkins, 15 April 1892

  Mr Hawkins,

  I regret to inform you that, although I have reached Castle Dracula, it is after some delay and not without toil. I experienced an accident on the road some distance east of Munich, and although my injuries are not severe, I am quite unwell. I feel it worsen, in my blood.

  Count Dracula was pivotal in assisting me, for despite the great distance he was able to direct a party to find me and bring me safely to Transylvania. The Count is proving an amiable and attentive host. He expresses regret that you were not able to take the trip personally, but hopes that he shall meet you when he visits London to further discuss his investments.

  I expect to be detained for several weeks, though I shall endeavour to conduct our business as agreed.

  R.M.R.

  Extract from R. M. Renfield’s Diary, 2 May 1892

  Every night the same. Every night the Count tests me. He summons me to d
ine with him, long after the others have gone to bed. He never eats. He never drinks. He merely watches me. Studies me. He says he has my best interests at heart, that he wishes only to keep me away from the bustle of his household, that I am weak and should be resting, but I see what he is doing.

  He is a strange one, or so I first thought. Now I see that there is more to the Count than meets the eye. When we do not speak of business, we speak of Transylvania; of his ancestry; of ancient battles and ancient kings, united by blood.

  I understand the test. The Count is powerful, and ancient. All this talk of tradition, of war, of Magyars and Boyars—he tempts me. He shows me glimpses of power that he himself has surely wielded, of victories he has tasted. How can it be? How can a man so youthful have endured down the long years? What powerful blood must throb in his veins for him to stand before me each night, a man and yet not a man?

  Tonight, I looked out of the small window of my room, and I saw a shadow in the courtyard; a great wolf had entered the gates of the castle, and stole across the flagstones like one of the Count’s hounds. A faithful creature of the night, summoned to its master.

  I hear it now: it calls. And I wait.

  Extract from R. M. Renfield’s Diary, 20 May 1892

  One fly. Two flies. Three flies. Four.

  No, no, no. It did not work last time. I felt nothing. The flies alone are not valuable enough. Their essence is too weak.

  Five flies!

  Yes, five flies might do it. Five flies might be equal to a big fat spider.

  I shall feed five flies to a spider, and that should make the spider worth twice its value in the eyes of the Lord. One spider eats five flies, and the spider becomes two spiders. That’s how he does it. That’s how his kind have always done it. He told me. The blood is the life.

  Are spiders enough to nourish me the way the master’s prey nourishes him? Perhaps I need something more valuable still.

  They have little birds here in the mountains. Wagtails, with yellow breasts. They come to my window sometimes during the day. What must a wagtail be worth?

  Ten spiders.

  Yes, a wagtail is worth ten spiders. So for each wagtail I must catch five spiders, and feed each spider five flies. That will make the approximate worth of ten spiders. It is easier to catch flies than spiders, and wagtails are noble little birds. They would surely not stoop to eating flies. They are not as wretched as me.

  A wagtail that eats ten spiders is two wagtails. Are two wagtails worth a human soul? If I eat two wagtails will I feel the strength of the old country flow through my veins, like it flows through the master’s? It is a great effort to catch a wagtail. I cannot waste it once it is caught. I may need several. I may need something larger first, like a cat. Yes, a cat! If a cat ate ten wagtails and became two cats, would that be enough?

  Two cats? Can I get a cat, from up here in my solitary room?

  And if I could get one cat, why not five?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A DEADLY ENCOUNTER

  My journey was interrupted by an unusually turgid slog of traffic along Spaniards Road, caused by an upturned ox-cart. I was forced to alight the omnibus and continue up the hill to the pub on foot, running the gauntlet of the bicyclists who seemed intent on riding the lanes regardless of the congestion and drizzly weather.

  Seeing the obstruction up ahead, and an unpleasant-smelling load spread across both road and pavement, I took a winding path through the heath, leaving the cries of annoyance and frustration of cabbies and draymen behind me as I passed beneath the aged boughs of oaks and sycamores. The park was surprisingly quiet, with only a few walkers braving their Sunday constitutional after the previous night’s particular, which still left the taint of smokiness upon the air and a yellowish haze upon the horizon.

  I had walked for perhaps ten minutes, and was not far from my destination when I heard the crunch of a boot upon the gravel behind me. I thought nothing of it, until I heard it again, immediately close, and followed by the laying of a hand upon my shoulder. I turned at once, and found myself staring into a pair of steel-blue eyes, set into a broad, angular face shaded by a homburg.

  “Doctor Watson. You will come with us.”

  At once I recognised the man’s accent as German, and saw tufts of fair hair protruding above a collar that sat upon rather broad shoulders. The man’s grip upon my shoulder tightened as he spoke.

  “What’s all this about?” I snapped. Did he know of the evidence I carried in my bag? Where did he plan to take me? These questions and more flashed through my mind.

  “Please, mein Herr, we wish only to speak with you. Privately.”

  As he said this, I saw movement directly ahead, and another man stepped onto the path—the twin of the German who stood beside me.

  I attempted to shrug the man away. “Unhand me, sir,” I said, raising my voice in the hope of attracting the attention of passersby; there were none immediately at hand, however, and though I felt panic rise in my breast, I would not show obvious distress while I could perhaps glean something from my opponents.

  I studied them as perhaps Holmes would, scanning them quickly. They were identical, save that the one in front of me wore spectacles. They were large—taller than me, and as broad, both with fair hair and pale blue eyes. Their chins were square and lightly stubbled. They wore smart grey suits, grey overcoats and matching hats. Their shoes looked expensive, but were spattered with mud, as were their trouser-legs. All of this I discerned in an instant, though I knew not what good it would do me if I were to be captured.

  “Come now, Doctor. We have a carriage beyond those trees there. We shall talk, and that will be all. There is no cause for alarm.”

  The grip tightened again, and I felt a shove in the small of my back, forcing me towards the other man, who grinned as he took hold of my other arm.

  “Actually, gentlemen, I think there is every cause for alarm. Unhand the doctor, if you please.”

  All three of us turned at this interruption, and standing on the path behind us was Sherlock Holmes! His eyes were narrowed. I had rarely been so happy to see my friend, and I noted a whisper of a smile upon his aquiline features as he recognised my expression of relief.

  “Ah, Mr Holmes,” said my first captor. “You save us the trouble of finding you, no? Why don’t you come along, too, and we shall work this out like gentlemen.”

  “Whatever you have to say, you may say it here,” Holmes said.

  “I think not,” said the second man, and marched over to Holmes, great hands outstretched to seize my friend.

  In a flash, Holmes had stepped sideways, his lithe limbs strong and nimble; he swept aside the German’s grasping hands, and his right leg hooked the man’s ankle, sending him sprawling onto wet gravel before he knew what was happening.

  I took my cue, for if Holmes had come to fight, I knew our predicament must be serious. These were, after all, the men who had threatened dear Mrs Hudson, and it was this thought that lent strength to my elbow as I struck my captor’s midriff.

  His hand released me at once, and I spun about to strike him a left hook. The larger man was fast, however, and even as I turned I felt his fist connect with my jaw. I staggered at the force of the blow, my vision blurring. I heard Holmes scuffling with his man, and shouts in English and German. Great arms were around me again, hauling me backwards. My medical bag dropped now from my grasp, and I saw the wax cylinder roll across the path. I could not lose it!

  I threw my weight against the man, pushing him against a tree with all the force I could muster. This time I was able to pull free and duck his counter-attack. I swung a left hook, connecting with the man’s jaw satisfyingly.

  “That is for Miss Reed!” I snarled, and then gave him my most powerful right, striking him on the bridge of the nose and sending him crumpling to the ground. “And that is for Mrs Hudson!”

  I turned to see how Holmes had fared. His man was similarly prostrate, and Holmes gave me a familiar smile and a wink.
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  “Holmes!” I gasped.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, Watson,” he said. “Take hold of that man.”

  From further along the path came a hue and cry, as someone had evidently been alerted to a scuffle on the heath, and a crowd of people was rushing to see what was going on.

  I hoisted my man from the ground, and was about to question him, when I saw Holmes spring backwards. A dozen or so passersby had arrived, and let out a collective gasp as they saw Holmes’s opponent pull out a gun. Bicyclists, ramblers and park vagrants alike ducked for cover as the German aimed his revolver.

  “Your last chance, Mr Holmes,” the gunman snarled.

  Before I knew it, Holmes also had a revolver in his hand.

  “I think not, sir. The game is up,” Holmes said.

  “You would risk firing into the crowd, Herr Holmes? I think not. Believe me, I have no such scruples. Now, drop the pistol.”

  Holmes paused for just a second, and then dashed quickly, making for the trees behind me. The German fired. People screamed.

  Everything to that point had happened so fast that I had not had time to think. Even now, I acted purely out of instinct, for my blood was up. A moment before the gunman pulled the trigger a second time, I gave his associate a sharp shove in the back, sending him stumbling towards the shooter, and directly into the path of the bullet. I could not have timed it better if I’d had all day to plan the manoeuvre, for the bullet struck the German’s breast just beneath the heart.

  A look of relief flickered over Holmes’s features, before his sharp mind and rapid reflexes took control of the situation. He turned back and darted at the gunman, who appeared much disturbed by the felling of his partner in crime, and had lost all heart for the fight. He fled from Holmes, waving the gun about to part the gathering crowd like the Red Sea before Moses. Holmes took after him for only a short time, but gave up quickly as the press of bodies before him began to close in on him. Angry shouts came from the crowd; voices of shock and confusion rang out, challenging our authority, and demanding justice for a wounded man they did not even know.