Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood

by Mark A. Latham

  “That is outrageous,” I said. “How could they get away with it?”

  “We have yet to find out. The date of the transfer, however, is 14 November.”

  “Dracula would scarcely have been cold in his grave.”

  “If he was buried. Are we not led to believe he crumbled to dust where he lay?”

  I shuddered at that. I no longer believed Dracula was a monster, but it made my blood run cold to think of the ignominious death he had been dealt.

  “But that’s not all I have found.” Holmes set the book to one side and showed me yet another, larger and fatter than all the others on the table.

  “This is the history of the Godalmings,” said I. “Births, deaths, marriages… what has this to do with anything?”

  “Lord Godalming—Arthur Holmwood’s father—was a very influential man. Far more so than his son. It was that influence which kept this information out of the gossip columns, and even away from the eyes and ears of our friend, Langdale Pike. Look here.”

  I followed Holmes’s finger as it tracked across a particular paragraph. I had to read it twice before the meaning struck me like a thunderbolt.

  “Arthur Holmwood is adopted,” I gasped.

  “I suspected as much from the moment I saw his portrait—you know how I pride myself on my study of portraits. A certain Henry Baskerville would not be amongst the living now had I not perfected that particular skill. Due to the lack of a natural heir, Arthur Holmwood inherited Ring, and is for all legal purposes Lord Godalming. But I believe his true parentage lies at the very heart of our case.”

  “Come, Holmes, now you must lay bare this theory that you’ve been taunting me with.”

  “Certainly not! You have almost all the facts now, Watson—I’ll leave you to work it out. You have until we reach Bistritz, so there’s plenty of time.”

  Holmes made use of the Somerset House stationery that had been laid at his disposal, and began to scribble a letter rapidly, using shorthand symbols such that I could not tell what he wrote.

  “Who are you writing to, Holmes?” I asked, as he addressed the envelope. “If it’s time to get Scotland Yard involved it would be quicker to go there in person.”

  “No, Watson, this is for Mycroft. We are about to travel far from home, and perhaps cause a major diplomatic incident in the process. I need to give my brother fair warning, otherwise it might never be safe for us to return.”

  “If you know he’s at the club, perhaps we should just go and see him.”

  “I find it better not to call on Mycroft unannounced, or at all. I have outlined my intentions, and given a cursory sketch of yesterday’s events. He will do what is necessary.”

  Holmes sealed his cryptic letter, and took it to the clerk, with instructions to send a trusted messenger to the Diogenes Club to deliver the note.

  “Mycroft may send a reply, or he may not,” Holmes said when he returned. “There is nothing more for us to do here. We should return to Baker Street and pack our things.”

  * * *

  When we entered our rooms, Holmes froze at once, and I did likewise out of sheer reliance upon his remarkable instincts. I looked around his angular shoulders and saw someone sitting in Holmes’s armchair by the fireplace, identifiable only by a pair of legs, a nonchalant hand holding a fat cigar, and a plume of exhaled smoke.

  “Heard you’d been burgled,” a gruff voice intoned. “Not that one can really tell. This place is a mess.”

  Holmes propped his hat upon the stand and walked rather guardedly towards the fireplace.

  “Mycroft. It is unlike you to make house calls.”

  “If you will insist on trotting about the globe to solve your problems, when more sedentary reasoning will do, then you leave me little choice.” Mycroft leaned around the wing of the chair to acknowledge me, his round, lined face framed by tufty, greying hair, flinty eyes studying me, as they studied everything they beheld. “Hello, Watson. Stand at ease, soldier!” His laugh sounded like the bark of a fox, and tailed off into a rumbling cough.

  “Logically, brother, if you would show your hand for once rather than leave me a trail of breadcrumbs, I would not have to travel far from Baker Street. As it stands, more people are dead, and our suspect is presently beyond our reach.”

  “Beyond your reach, maybe. And the fact that people are dead is precisely why I am here, Sherlock. My sources tell me that a certain Cotford, formerly of the Metropolitan Police, won’t last the day. The man he was interviewing—who you also spoke to—is dead. The killers are unknown, although I’m sure you’ve worked out that those dreadful Harker characters are behind it.”

  “I have. Measures are in place to curtail their activities.”

  “Pretty poor measures, if you ask me. Never mind, I’ve seen to it. I have also sent a chap over to Exeter. The protection of Miss Kate Reed cannot be entrusted to provincial bobbies. They’ll get a shock when Special Branch knock on their doors, eh?” He chuckled at the thought.

  “Better have someone check on Dr Hennessey at the Purfleet Asylum while you’re about it,” Holmes said.

  “Hennessey?”

  “If the Harkers have not reached him already, then he will be of great use in testifying against Van Helsing and Seward both.”

  “Why, Sherlock, you have managed to provide a fact that is news to me. Well done.”

  “Why exactly are you here?” Holmes said. His patience for Mycroft had always been short-lived.

  “Very well. First of all, I have received word from a German intelligence agent here in London, one Adolph Mayer, that Van Helsing is not working with the German government, nor does he have any associates at the embassy.”

  “You have spoken with a German spy?” Holmes asked.

  “He contacted us, as it happens. It seems a few recent escapades have not gone unnoticed by other powers.”

  “And you believe this man?”

  “We have a certain… gentlemen’s agreement.”

  “That means very little to a man of espionage when national interests are in conflict.” Holmes frowned.

  “True, but I can see from your thoughtful aspect that the information is useful.”

  “Perhaps. Those German twins who have been up to no good of late… they made a fine show of being spies, with their shadowing of Watson and me, and their threatening of witnesses. They even shouted some words in Mrs Hudson’s earshot that suggested an association with the German embassy… I rather think it was too convenient that those words were so clear and loud from men of espionage.”

  “Yet they fooled you at the time, eh? Ha!”

  “Nothing is proven yet, one way or another.” Holmes was visibly irked. No one could get a rise out of him quite like old Mycroft. “I presume there is a more tangible reason for your visit beyond the denials of a professional dealer in untruths?”

  “I have found a piece of evidence that you may find of interest—if you’re intent on following Van Helsing to Transylvania, you’d better have it.”

  Mycroft handed a letter to Holmes, who took one look at it and frowned.

  “If you’d given me this at the start, we would not be in this predicament.”

  “If I’d known it existed, I wouldn’t have needed you in the first place,” Mycroft countered. “It was taken from Van Helsing’s hotel room by one of my best men. It was kept in a safe, along with a collection of other fragments, which you do not need to see, and which we are keeping as evidence.”

  “Might I enquire as to the nature of the other ‘fragments’ you discovered?”

  “Let’s just say you are finally on the right track, Sherlock. The small matter of Peter Hawkins’s death will soon be put to bed. It seems Van Helsing visited Exeter himself early last year, and secured certain papers that prove the Harkers’ involvement in the death of Hawkins.”

  “The blackmail folder. I knew it!” Holmes cried.

  “Yes, but you guessed, brother. It seems you’ve been doing a lot of that of late.”

>   “Well, if you will insist on withholding facts from me, Mycroft, I am shamed to the practice of educated guesswork. Luckily, my guesswork is more educated than most.”

  “You paved the way for the acquisition of this letter, I’ll grant you that.”

  “The death of the German?”

  “Quite. The other one—his twin—was posted at the hotel, but was so shaken by the loss of his sibling that his mind was not on his duties.”

  “He should rather have counted his blessings,” Holmes muttered.

  “Ha! I knew you had a bit of wit in you, Sherlock. Anyway, the living twin was last seen boarding a steamer, presumably to follow Van Helsing, or to abandon him. His absence probably explains why it was left to that Harker fellow to deal with Young and Cotford.”

  “When you say ‘last seen’, Mycroft, you mean you’ve lost him. Most careless.”

  Mycroft scowled. “You should treat me kindly, brother, especially as I’ve brought you yet another gift.” He took a well-stuffed envelope from his breast pocket and passed it to Holmes.

  “Hotel reservations?”

  “In false names, with a little credit attached, using those papers. I know you have not had the foresight to have new documents forged since this case began. These will allow you to travel from Vienna safely.”

  Holmes handed an envelope to me. “Watson, you can be Chester Creak; I shall be Garnett Pym.” Holmes looked to Mycroft again. “Garnett Pym?”

  “No one would ever think those names were made up.” Mycroft snorted. “They have the unfortunate ring of truth about them. Now, the rooms are at the Hotel Klomser. I know you’d prefer the Imperial, but I don’t believe Garnett Pym and Chester Creak could afford it. If I were you I’d send your luggage in those names, too, just to be on the safe side. Take this. It is a coded message. Now, look here.” He hoisted himself up and out of the armchair, struggling to free his stout frame of the chair’s confines. Mycroft seemed to grow more portly each time I saw him. He took up a rolled map from beside the chair.

  Holmes swept a pile of books and papers from the table and helped his brother unfurl the map.

  “This is top secret,” Mycroft said, “but of course you know that already. This is the proposed route of the Carpathian Railway—you can see for yourself the number of revisions they’ve had to make, which should explain why it’s been the ruin of so many investors. Here you can see the parts of the line that were actually built, before the plans were thrown into disarray and a new survey carried out. The construction was plagued from the first day—beset by adverse weather, insufficient funding, and even raids by hill-bandits. Anyway, look here. This bit was Dracula’s. The construction rights were sold to Godalming’s company, but they’ve rather lost heart of late due to raids by the Szgany—the local gypsies. The success of the railway depended on Dracula’s involvement—not just his land, but also his influence. As such, we’ve had to take charge and send in some Royal Engineers, but with Dracula gone, our boys are on thin ice.”

  “Those rights,” Holmes interrupted. “Brokered by Harker?”

  “They were, and counter-signed by Hawkins at a later date.”

  “So he did go to Transylvania,” Holmes mused.

  “Of course he did. Why else would he be so useful to Van Helsing? Now, pay close attention. When you go on from Bistritz, you will need to find those Royal Engineers—I don’t know exactly where; but they’ll be near the Count’s castle, somewhere along this line. When you find them, show them this, and they shall know you are on the side of the angels.” He handed over one last document, which Holmes pocketed at once.

  “So the government is showing its hand?”

  “No other choice, old boy. Lord Godalming’s company have made a poor fist of this project from the start. With the Germans sniffing about, we might as well send in our boys to do it properly, eh?”

  “A little late for Morris, not to mention those men who have lost their fortunes on the venture.”

  “We are all of us responsible for the risks we take, Sherlock. You should know that more than most. Now, I must be away.”

  “So soon?” Holmes asked sardonically.

  “I’ve taken enough risks of my own today simply coming here.”

  “Of course. Leaving one’s club is a risky business.”

  Mycroft shot Holmes a glare, and then laughed aloud again. He put on his hat, patted it down upon his head, and made past me for the door. He paused, turning back to Holmes. “You know by now that Arthur Holmwood was adopted?”

  “I suspected as much all along, though it is now confirmed.”

  “Who do you think the father is? Van Helsing or Dracula?”

  From Mycroft’s grin, I discerned that he had his own theory, or else knew for certain, but he wished to test Holmes.

  “I know, as do you. But I am letting Watson work it out; don’t spoil the surprise.”

  Mycroft turned to me with a broad, raffish grin. “Well, I’ve narrowed it down to two for you, Watson old boy. If you can’t work it out, just toss a coin, eh? That’s what works for Sherlock. Farewell!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE WORDS OF THE COUNT

  Letter, Count Dracula to Abraham Van Helsing, 2 June 1892

  Old friend,

  Word has reached my ears that Elisabet ails for something, that some terrible affliction has beset her. I have heard that she is committed to an asylum, at your word. At first I could not believe this to be true, but now I think it is, and it brings great sorrow to my heart.

  You know that I loved her, and it must hurt you to admit that. Yet she chose you, Abraham, and left me alone to live out my time in this castle, which has been a prison for me since that day. I wish for nothing but her happiness, and that perhaps you can forgive me for the transgression all those years ago. Yet it seems, if recent reports be true, forgiveness is not a quality you possess. I fancy that you never forgave Elisabet, either—for how long have you made her suffer? Was it not enough that she should give up her only child for you? Was it not enough that she was forced to live an existence almost as wretched as mine for more than twenty years? And have you not suffered also? If this anger that you bear us has never left you, then can you not see what a bitter, twilit existence you have led? I wonder if your petty revenge was worth the destruction of three lives.

  If there is truth to these latest rumours, then have the courage to make it plain. That Elisabet rots in a madhouse, while you carouse with the women of Amsterdam is bad enough. But I have heard tell of something more troubling still—that Elisabet’s son is alive. That he did not die, as you told me. And that can mean only one thing, can it not?

  Now, an Englishman has come to my home, and he comes to secure me passage to England, where I can see for myself if you truly have done this terrible thing. I go because we are far beyond honest questions and truthful answers, you and I. I hope my intelligence is false. If it is, then I hope beyond hope that we may still reconcile. But what if it is true? What if Count Dracula, alone in his crumbling palace, should discover that he has a mortal enemy still, set in opposition to his every desire? What then could Count Dracula do?

  Believe me, old friend, when I say that there is nothing I would not do! I am an exile from the world because I choose to be. I attempt to atone for the wrongs I did you. But if Elisabet is hurt because of you, I swear there will be nowhere on this earth you can hide from me. You think me without influence? This is your greatest mistake. For twenty-three years you have harboured me ill will. It is you who forces me to re-join the world—you who drags me from my solitude. Remember, old friend, that the blood of conquerors flows in these veins, and such blood can boil with passions that your German line may never understand. Here in Transylvania we have a saying: the blood is the life! It does not translate well, perhaps, but I am sure you take the meaning well enough.

  But again I say it; these rumours cannot be true. And when you tell me that they are not—when you look me in the eye and tell me that you s
till honour the last vestige of friendship that ever was between us—then I shall put back the sword of my ancestors, and perhaps, at long last, we shall have peace.

  Whether you believe it or no, I am ever your friend,

  D.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TO TRANSYLVANIA

  It was well past 1 a.m. on the morning of 18 April, when Holmes and I arrived in Vienna and trod wearily to our rooms at the Klomser. The journey had been long, by boat, rail, and coach, and we were far from done.

  “Get as much sleep as you can,” Holmes instructed. “We don’t have long if we wish to catch the early train to Bucharest.”

  “I still don’t see why we can’t catch the later train, Holmes,” I said wearily.

  “Call me ‘Pym’ from here on,” Holmes said. “You never know who’s listening.

  “Van Helsing has a day’s head start on us, and I wager he is not alone. He has travelled with murderous intent, for Aytown and Singleton must be in Transylvania already. The best hope for the two of them is that they stumble across the British Royal Engineers—they may then be afforded some protection. If Van Helsing finds them first, however, they are surely doomed.

  “We must be relentless, my dear Mr Creak. Every hour we can gain on the professor is a chance of preventing the deaths of two men. Every hour we delay is a chance that Van Helsing will succeed in his plan, and our best chance of securing vital witnesses is gone for ever.”

  When Holmes put it so bluntly, I felt ashamed of my complaints, which were born of tiredness. We were strangers in a foreign land now, and doubtless had more enemies than friends to hand. I thought of Aytown and Singleton—Holmes and I were surely more prepared for the machinations of dangerous foes than they were, and it fell to us then, as a solemn duty, to assist them.

  With this in mind, I took no brandy that night, and went straight to bed, only to lie awake for some considerable time thinking of what dangers lay ahead.

  * * *