by Steve Seitz
Jonathan Harker
“As you can see, Mr. Holmes, these aren’t like the others. They’re too short, for one thing. Jonathan writes pages, especially if we have been separated for any length of time. That paean to spring makes no sense whatsoever. Normally, Jonathan would have told me he was on his way home, and then described his recent adventures. He would not have used ‘with all my love’ as a closing salutation; we say, ‘your loving.’ This one sounds so ... final.”
Holmes nodded. “Please let me have his itinerary,” he said.
Miss Murray gave him a neat, typewritten document listing Harker’s route, hotel reservations, and train schedule.
“What does Mr. Hawkins have to say about this situation?”
“He is as concerned for Jonathan’s safety as I am; sometimes I think even more so. He feels a tremendous sense of responsibility for Jonathan. The Harker and Hawkins families have been friendly for years, and it was only natural for Jonathan to join the firm. Mr. Hawkins suggested I contact you, and he has offered to pay your expenses and fee.”
“Thank you, Miss Murray, I will consider it. Do you mind leaving the letters and the itinerary?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“We will look for him, Miss Murray. Unfortunately, I have other pressing business at present, but I do not think a few extra days will make a difference at this point. I shall contact you when I have made plans.”
Though somewhat disappointed, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
“One other thing. Pray do not discuss your visit here with anyone just yet, even Mr. Hawkins. A little silence may prove helpful in our investigations.”
She assented.
“You are a good and noble woman, Miss Murray,” said Holmes as he showed her to the door. “I envy your students.”
“My students?” she ejaculated. “Who told you I had students?”
Holmes replied, “You have a firm command of factual data, and a clear and confident manner of speech. You say precisely what you mean, which facilitates clear understanding. You are also accustomed to choosing, and even making, your own clothes, which indicates both frugality and a small income. You do not defer to men; I infer from this that you have had to keep a number of little boys in line, given your youth. ‘Schoolmistress’ is the inevitable conclusion. I also note that you are a touch typist and frequently act as your future husband’s secretary.”
“Remarkable,” she said, her dark eyes widening a little. “In fact, I am an assistant schoolmistress, and I do act as Jonathan’s secretary when needed. If anyone can find out what happened to Jonathan, surely you are he.”
“We’ll be in touch shortly,” he said, closing the door. Turning to me, he said, “Can your patients spare you for a bit, Watson?”
“Of course.” I scribbled a note and gave it to Billy, explaining to my next patient that I would be late.
“A question of my own, Miss Murray,” I said. “Are you any relation to Sergeant Josiah Murray, who served at the Battle of Maiwand?”
“Not that I know of, Dr. Watson,” she replied, and left.
“Professor Moriarty’s lawyer,” I said after her tread faded from the stairway. “What could he want with a Transylvanian nobleman?”
“There may be no connection whatsoever,” Holmes replied, lighting a cigarette, “except for Hawkins’ willingness to pay my expenses. The fact that he works for Moriarty raises my suspicions. They could have come to me before this. Why send me to Transylvania to look for Jonathan Harker at this particular moment? I can only believe that the good professor wants me out of his hair for a while.”
“If he had any.”
“Harker is likely acting for Moriarty, whether he knows it or not. What do you make of Miss Murray’s story, Watson?”
“Wait. How did you know she was a touch typist?”
“Someone who only uses one or two fingers often has blunted fingertips. Hers were all smooth, yet the itinerary is neat and free of error.”
“Ah. Well, I see no reason not to believe her story, but I also see no reason to assume any harm has befallen young Harker.”
“Young Harker?”
“I am assuming he and Miss Murray are of close ages. He is a junior solicitor, and this is his first assignment. Anyone can collect a few signatures. It is not a job that requires wisdom and experience.”
“Well done, Watson.”
Holmes emptied the packet Mina Murray had left behind. Besides the letters and itinerary, there was a photograph of Jonathan Harker. I judged him to be about five-and-twenty. His hair was dark and brushed back, and he had pale eyes and a rather weak chin. Women would not be naturally drawn to him, but he clearly sparked something in Mina.
“Well, she’s right about the letters,” Holmes said, handing me one about ten pages thick. “It’s quite chatty, and flush with the usual endearments.” He made that latter observation with the slight distaste he always holds for the tender emotions.
“Which illustrates what I have been saying all along,” I said. “He may be trying to let her down gently. The region is rife with gipsies, and gipsy women are intense and passionate. Perhaps one of them took a fancy to Jonathan. That, and a warm spring day in an exotic land, and you have romance. But it is difficult to break off an engagement, and, in this letter, he could not bring himself to do it directly. Still, he has to tell Mina sometime. The closing salutation may indeed have been a goodbye, and once Harker claims his gipsy bride, he will send a long, sorrowful letter to Mina, breaking her heart.”
Holmes burst into laughter and applauded. “Bravo, Watson! You’ve done it again! No wonder your readers love you!”
“I take it I am wrong in every particular.”
Holmes chuckled, stuffing tobacco into his pipe. “You offer a perfectly valid interpretation that has nothing whatsoever to do with the facts. Take another look at the letter, in light of what Mina Murray told us of Harker’s writing style. I take it you found the first paragraph to speak of newfound love?”
“Well, yes.”
“Please read it again.”
“‘How delightful is the spring in Transylvania!’” I read aloud. “‘Every bush, every tree, all of Nature is alive with promise. Lest I forget springtime in England, however, the time has come at last for me to return to my land and my beloved. Please forgive me for staying away so long.’“
“Does that sound remotely natural to you?” Holmes asked. “If it were any more stilted, it would be a circus act.”
I persisted in my theory. “Mina may still be beloved, but that doesn’t mean he plans to marry her anymore. A man may love two women, Holmes. He’s lying to her.”
“Actually, his message is quite clear if you read the first letters of each sentence.”
I did: H-E-L-P.
I sighed in frustration. “Why do I bother, Holmes?”
“Because these exercises sharpen your mind, Watson. You simply apply your observational powers differently. You’re a doctor, not a detective. Thus, your skills as a diagnostician have grown considerably during our association; surely the instant discovery of your most recent patient’s allergy demonstrates that. I have heard your praises sung many times. Certainly I would not trust my own medical care to anyone else.”
This soothed me somewhat, though I always marvel at that nimble mind of his.
“What you should do now, Watson, is finish your rounds for today and make preparations for someone to take your practice for the next month.We leave for Transylvania in the morning.”
“I thought you had pressing business.”
“I am throwing off a scent; she’ll report to Hawkins, of course. I’m sure Moriarty’s up to something, but it shouldn’t take too long to determine what it is and turn it over to the city police. There is no doubt in my mind that this Dracula is
holding Harker prisoner, and may be doing so at the behest of Professor Moriarty. And if this is so, Harker will likely be in need of medical attention, if he is still alive. I’ll have Gregson keep a close eye on the professor while we’re out of town.”
And so, my dear, you now know as much as I do. Holmes has been remarkably uncommunicative, and we have mostly passed our time chatting, reading and playing cards. He eyes my journal with suspicion, and I am weary wondering what it is he is keeping from me.
The train is pulling into the station for a layover, and Holmes is beginning to stir. I must conclude. May this letter find you well, and know my thoughts and prayers are ever with you.
Your loving,
John
Chapter Two: Bistritz
Dr. Watson’s Journal
August 8, 1890
Alone at last. Misleading my readers is one thing; misleading my wife is something else.
The true reason I was in Baker Street was not a coincident patient living nearby, though that was certainly true, but so that I could ask Holmes to give me an answer to a tormenting question: does Mary have a lover?
I have run the facts over and over in my mind, lay awake until the early hours, agonized with not knowing. We have not had marital relations in weeks; indeed, I have not seen Mary even a little unclothed since the last time. There is distance between us where there once was passion.
“My good fellow!” Holmes said on opening the door, perceiving my difficulties at once. “What has happened? Has Mrs. Watson left you?”
“I fear she is about to, Holmes. How did you know?”
“Because no one is taking care of you, my dear chap. Your hat has not been brushed, there is a small bloodstain on your tie from a shaving nick you forgot to plaster, you haven’t slept a full night in at least two weeks, and you’ve lost five pounds. When both a professional man and his wife neglect his appearance in such a manner, I can only conclude marital discord.”
I am pleased to say that my friend gave my story his full concentration.
“Why do you believe she has taken a lover?” Holmes asked, cigarette aglow.
“It goes back to the fact that, try though we might, she has been unable to conceive a child,” I replied. “That’s what first put a strain on our marriage. Since then she has grown distant and colder. She rejects my advances. She finds excuses not to be near me.”
“But you’ve seen no illicit correspondence? Detected another man’s cologne on her clothing, anything like that? Have you followed her?”
“No, but- Holmes, I couldn’t bear to see my wife in another man’s arms!”
Holmes laid his pale, slender hand on my arm.
“Of course you can’t. I’ll ease your mind, Watson, one way or another. You’ll have an answer in the morning. Then it’s off to Roumania.”
But Holmes didn’t have an answer in the morning. Mary stayed at home all day, and now I wait in agony. I almost pray for a telegram telling me she’s ending the marriage.
Holmes and I are now in the Golden Krone Hotel in Bistritz, an ancient border town that is the last stop before the Borgo Pass and the road to Castle Dracula. The country is rugged and beautiful; I have had much time to study it, for the trains are so slow they may as well be pulled by oxen.
The mountains are lovely, green with summer, though some are capped with bright, white snow. Often, they are topped by old castles that cry out this region’s long history of war with the Turks and with various tribes from the east. The modern world has intruded so little here that its manifestations sometimes seem bizarre. The peasants wear the thick mustaches, baggy trousers, white linens and wide leather belts I would expect, but a number of them also wear wide-brimmed hats that look as though they were imported directly from the American Wild West.
Bistritz itself is the gateway to the Borgo Pass and is surrounded by gray, ruined stone battlements. Settled by the descendants of Attila the Hun and constantly threatened by the Turks, the region’s harsh experience with foreign invaders is visible everywhere. Indeed, to judge by the architecture, time stopped sometime in the reign of Henry VII.
For Holmes, it has been a busy trip. He has been interviewing conductors, porters, stationmasters, and passengers. (Which reminds me; Holmes did solve a pretty little problem for one of our fellow passengers with two conversations and some astonishing deductions. I must include it if I ever publish another of our adventures.) We have firmly established one thing: Jonathan Harker has not returned along the route from whence he came. I had mentioned this possibility to Holmes when we left Switzerland two days ago.
Since then, the case has taken a decidedly sinister turn. Either Mina Murray does not know her betrothed very well, or we are after the wrong man. The Harker who has been described to us is nothing less than a child-stealing monster.
Bad enough the train was four hours late, but we were told to expect that by nearly everyone we encountered along the way. I had thought normal suspicion of foreigners was behind our cool reception at the train station and at the hotel. Our businesslike tweeds marked us as metropolitan Englishmen right away, and we had trouble engaging a ride from the train station. Again, our fellow passengers told us this was normal.
Only when we arrived at the hotel did we learn the truth. The innkeepers are an elderly couple who call themselves Gustavus and Catherine. In his white shirtsleeves and suspenders and great white mustache, Gustavus looks every inch the hostelier he is; under her billowing aprons, Catherine wore a tight-fitting garment that would have flattered her had she been a woman far younger. With her high, proud cheekbones, flashing dark eyes with a touch of gipsy fire and flowing once-black hair, she must have been handsome in her youth.
We are fortunate that Holmes speaks German, and he has been kind enough to translate for me, but I had no difficulty understanding the initial conversation.
“You are Englishmen,” Gustavus said.
“We are,” replied Holmes, “and we’d like to stay the night. Two rooms, please.”
Gustavus nodded to Catherine, who bustled away. “We had another Englishman here some months ago.”
Holmes nodded and produced the photograph. Catherine gasped and crossed herself.
“You are too late,” she said. “He is nosferatu.”
“He doesn’t bathe?” Holmes asked.
The old woman shook her head. “Not unclean. Undead. He was here to visit Count Dracula, and has now become one with him.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Gustavus brought us inside the ancient hostel and gave us harsh dark wine in earthen goblets. His face was stark with fear, and it was clear he did not know what to do.
“You must understand,” Holmes said in German, “we are here in the service of the young woman who is to be Mr. Harker’s wife. Her heart will be broken if we do not find him. Have you seen him since he stayed here?”
Gustavus shook his head. “He is dead, and not dead. He is vampyr.”
It was all I could do to keep my tongue. To think, this close to the twentieth century, that such barbarous superstitions still hold sway in the world! Holmes and I exchanged a look, and a silence descended over the conversation. Once again, I had the feeling that we had somehow traveled back to the Middle Ages, when evil superstition gripped the hearts of all who lived here, where science was looked upon with suspicion as a dark art. Though history is replete with murderous madmen who believed themselves to be vampires (and Holmes has several volumes on this phenomenon in his peculiar library), they no more walk the earth than men do the moon.
Poor Gustavus looked at us with scepticism, as another pair of foreign imbeciles who would have to learn our lesson the hard way.
“What makes you think Mr. Harker has become a vampire?”
“Because he has been seen, mein Herr. He went to the Count’s castle, and
we heard of him no more for weeks. Then he appeared one night and stole a baby. Soon the baby’s mother disappeared.”
“You said you had not seen him yourself,” replied Holmes. “How do you know it was Mr. Harker?”
“The baby’s mother recognized his clothing. He was dressed just like yourselves.”
“When did this happen?”
“The first attack happened toward the end of June,” Gustavus said. “Many of my customers saw him after I closed the pub for the night. He was seen crawling out of the Kreski home.”
“Did any of them know Harker?”
Gustavus shook his head.
“But his clothing gave him away?”
“As I told you.”
“Where is the Kreski home?”
“You must not go there,” said Catherine. “They have suffered terribly as it is. Please don’t make them suffer more.”
“Madam, if a murderer is loose, he must be brought to justice. I will see to that, vampire or not.”
Catherine grabbed my arm, squeezing it with great force. “You must go no further!” she cried. “You don’t believe! The Count has not walked among you! Herr Harker did not believe, and no one will carry his name now! Stop, and let that monster have no more power!”
I patted the woman’s arm in my most doctorly manner, tried to look reassuring, and begged Holmes with my eyes to say something. Turning his attention to her, he said, “I’m sorry you lost your sons, and I know that what you had to do to bring them peace must have broken your heart. They would have grown into extraordinary men, I’m sure. But you must understand that we promised Mr. Harker’s family that we would find him.”
Catherine pulled back, fear in her eyes.
“Devil!” she spat. “How could you know these things?”
“Holmes!” I snapped. “Keep your deductions to yourself! Can’t you see how this woman has suffered?”
