by Steve Seitz
After I read Mrs. Forrester’s letter, I packed a valise and caught the next train south to Winchester, knowing I was going to do something, but completely bamboozled exactly as to what it was I wanted to do. My initial rage subsided as the clacking tracks lulled me to the first deep sleep I’d had since our return. I dreamt heavy, poisonous dreams, murderous dreams in which I throttled the mystery Lothario and swept my Mary back into my arms. I also had dreams in which I throttled her, but always stopped myself at the last. Once or twice I vividly felt Holmes’ touch on my arm, but when I opened my eyes I was alone.
The naps purged my rage, and when I woke my mind was somewhat clear. I decided to broach the matter with Mary in my best professional manner, and diagnose whether our heartbreak could be cured. If not, I was prepared to offer generous terms for divorce and move back to Baker Street.
Mrs. Forrester and her retinue live at the Pentangli, or the Five Angels, the estate purchased by the late Colonel Forrester on his retirement from military service. There are still remnants of the ancient Roman stronghold the area once was, when Winchester was the capital; the rocky remains of a storehouse can be found on one shore of the lake, and Forrester incorporated the ruins of the battlements when he constructed the estate’s exterior walls. Happily, the gate was open as my cab brought me up the long white gravel drive to the front of the mansion.
My hand, cold and colorless, trembled as I reached for the brass knocker on the Pentangeli’s heavy oaken door, and I almost went back to London. But the cab had left, and there was nothing for it but to go ahead. I presented my card to the butler and waited.
Mrs. Cecil Forrester, a stout lady whose iron-gray coiffure and haughty demeanour mask a heart of gold, came to the door herself.
“Doctor Watson!” she ejaculated. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer my wire,” said I, “so I came to inquire in person if you know where Mary might be.”
“Oh, dear, I’m not sure if I should tell you.” Then she blushed.
“May I see her, please?”
“Truthfully, Doctor, I think you must! She’s fallen dreadfully ill. She’s lost a great deal of weight in the last week, takes naught but broth, and wanders in the night. But she refuses any medical attention.”
“Take me to her!”
A powerful air of impending death filled Mary’s sickroom. A slight woman to begin with, she had lost at least fifteen pounds since last I saw her. She had the pallor of a corpse, and her breathing was shallow. Her nightdress was buttoned right up to her chin, and long, unkempt blonde hair spilled over her pillows with indifference; but when she saw me her eyes, a harsh, unnatural yellow, blazed with hatred.
“Get out!” she spat, and I noticed that her canines were already sharper. My stomach clenched.
“You’re ill, my dear,” I said as soothingly as I could. “Let’s not discuss our difficulties right now. We can do that after we go home.”
“I have no home with you!” she snapped. “Your home’s with Holmes! All he has to do is wave his hat and off you run to adventures with royalty, and Scotland Yard! And why must all your readers write to you? We’re drowning in correspondence! I can’t take it anymore, and now I won’t!”
The penny finally dropped and I knew what had happened. I snatched at Mary’s collar, exposing two horrid bite marks on my wife’s jugular. The same bite marks I had seen on Holmes and that poor gipsy girl; red, raw, and oozing black venous blood.
“Who is he?” I snapped. “Count Dracula?”
Her sharp intake of breath told me all. I sat down on the bed as she shied away.
“You can’t keep me from him!” Mary cried. “He loves me! He was here when I needed him! Where were you?”
I rang the bell, and two servant girls answered.
“I am Doctor John Watson, and this is my wife, Mary,” I said. “Mrs. Watson is extremely ill, and must be removed from this house at once. Get a carriage and some strong hands. We are going to London.”
“No!”
Mary’s hand lashed out and caught my right cheek by the eye. Howling, I snatched her hand away, and she dashed from the room.
“After her!” I yelled, and ran out the door.
But she was too quick. Blood dripped into my eye, and I tripped on the carpet, sprawling on my face. I heard a door slam, and the last anyone saw of Mary she had flown into the woods.
“Doctor Watson, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Forrester said as she leaned over me, dabbing at my dripping wound with her handkerchief. “What will become of the poor girl?”
“Have your staff search the woods, if you please,” I said. “She’s lost a lot of blood. She won’t go far in her condition.”
But the searches proved fruitless. After plastering my scratches (the wound to my pride was far deeper), I decided to do what Holmes would do. Her trysting place with the Count was the gazebo by the trout pond, and it was likely he would meet with Mary there. I borrowed a shotgun and shells from the trophy room, found a suitable spot behind a lakeside boulder at sunset, and began my vigil.
A bright half moon rose in the sky, casting a pale yellow glow over the undulating waters. Several tempting ducks waddled by for their evening feed, but I needed my shells for darker things. The twilight waned; no sign of the Count, or of Mary. Mist formed on the placid pond, thickening into fog. Soon, I could only see the gazebo’s outline with any sort of clarity. Still I waited.
At least two more hours must have passed before I saw a tall, slender, aquiline figure who could only be Count Dracula silhouetted in the fog. He moved with great purpose across the grounds toward the gazebo. He surveyed the scene carefully, as if he knew I was there. He peered behind bushes and walked toward the trees, before finally taking his place.
As he stood, another figure approached: Mary, cold and sallow, still in her thin white nightdress, moving hesitantly, clumsily across the slippery grass. I aimed the shotgun carefully. This was not a pistol; if my finger were not sure, I might harm my wife, and bad as things were, I could never want that. The fog seemed to thicken as I cocked the shotgun as quietly as I could.
The tall man snapped his head up and yelled “Watson!” just as I pulled the trigger.
A mighty blast went into the air, for I recognized the voice in time. Mary screamed and disappeared into the dank fog.
“You fool!” cried Holmes as he ran to me. “You romantic, blithering fool! You just cost us everything!”
“Not so, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said another voice, heavy with the syllables of Roumania and as frightening as the shadow of death. “I believe we have some business.”
Seemingly from nowhere appeared a tall, gaunt man, aged no more than thirty, with a long black moustache and dressed entirely, and elegantly, in black. His thick black hair was swept back in a regal manner, and his breath reeked of decay. Though I could not see his face clearly, the glittering twin red coals that served as his eyes fixed on me, and I shuddered as an icy finger, it seemed, ran the length of my spine. There was no doubt in my mind that we had, at last, met Count Dracula.
“And Doctor Watson has joined us!” said the Count. “I have heard a great deal about you lately, Doctor.”
I popped the shotgun open to replace the spent shell, but I heard a low growling and saw five grey wolves with blazing red eyes trotting toward the Count from the woods. They sat around him in a circle, poised to pounce, and never took their gaze away from us.
“I congratulate you, Mr. Holmes,” said the Count.
“I know all,” Holmes replied. “I know about your bargain with Professor Moriarty and your plans for Barings Bank. I know why you are in London. I know how you eluded the authorities. You cannot succeed. If I can find you, so can others.”
“They have not your admirable tracking skills,” said the Count. “But I am no longer beholden to
Moriarty. It is not my fault you escaped at the castle; honor is satisfied. Now I think we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
“I will hear what you have to say.”
“It is rumored that you have little use for the fair sex,” Dracula said, stepping closer. “Does that include Mary Watson?”
As he said this, two of the wolves padded over to Mary, who swayed in the moonlight, barely able to stand. My fingers atremble, I tried to reload the shotgun, dropping two spare shells before success. When the weapon clicked shut, a wolf bared its fangs and squatted on its haunches, ready to spring.
“I will not allow you to kill her.” Holmes started to pull a crucifix from his vest, but a growl from two of the wolves stopped him.
“For five hundred years, your kind has hounded me with cross and stake, garlic and fire,” Dracula said. “You think you can beat me. I say to you that you will never beat me. Still I stand, as I will long after your bones blow away in the dusty wind. You will not harm me unless you wish Mary Watson to become one with me. Put your toys away. I am a reasonable man.”
I raised the shotgun, but again Holmes stopped me.
“I will release her,” Dracula said, “but in return you must drop your pursuit.”
“Nothing you could say will sway me from my course.”
The wolves began to sniff my terrified wife. I started to go to her, when the beast which had been eyeing me leapt, gripping my forearm in its terrible jaws. Barking with the sudden pain, I dropped the shotgun. Blood spurted from my arm, distracting the Count.
Holmes sprang, but a wolf blocked him and sank its teeth into his shoulder, thrashing its head to and fro, worrying Holmes into submission. He cried out, but shifted his weight suddenly and pulled free, tearing cloth and flesh, spurting blood, and coming toward me. Scooping the shotgun from the ground, he brought the butt down hard on the angry beast’s head.
A cruel, sharp laugh cut the air. When I looked at Mary, the Count had taken her in his arms, and with a fiendish grin at me, lowered his lips to her wounded neck.
The shotgun thundered and the wolf who attacked Holmes yowled and ran away. The others turned their attention to him, but Holmes’ eye was only on the Count. Holmes had scant seconds to get off the second shot before the other wolves jumped him.
“No!” I cried. “Count Dracula! If we let you go, will Mary recover fully?”
Dracula’s grin was odious with victory. He gestured, and the remaining wolves sat, their growls low and steady. “I shall release her from the spell. I will not taste her again.”
“Holmes-”
But he held the shotgun steady.
“This is my wife, Holmes! My wife!”
The Count stood silently, imperiously. So lost was I in anger and rage and impotence, it seemed to me that he was floating above the ground. A wolf padded over and sat next to his right hand. It bared its sharp yellow fangs in a threatening snarl. The hair on my neck bristled, and my heart beat loudly and rapidly in my ears.
“If you ever loved me, Holmes ...” I pleaded.
With reluctance, Holmes lowered the shotgun and pressed his free hand against his wound.
“Let not our paths cross again,” said the Count, “or the consequences will be dire.”
Now I wept openly, and I should probably be grateful that I could not discern Holmes’ face in the darkness.
“May the Lord God help you if they do,” Holmes replied.
I did not see the Count or his wolves leave, so joyous was my relief. The fog began to dissipate, and soon the moonlight again glinted off the pond. In the gazebo, I saw a gaunt, yet lovely, blonde form slumped over on one of the benches.
“Brandy, Holmes!”
He wordlessly handed his flask over. Ignoring my own pain, I tilted my beloved’s head back, gently pried her mouth open, and poured the life-giving liquor down her fragile throat.
Mary coughed and sputtered, but took in deep, healthy breaths.
“John?” she asked, a little confused. “Mr. Holmes? What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been ill, my darling,” I told her. “You came to Mrs. Forrester to recover in the fresh air. You’re going to be all right.”
Holmes nodded softly with encouragement, but said nothing. He had slumped against a bench, his hand pressed to his shoulder, staining the white woodwork with his dark blood.
“You need rest now, Mary,” I said. “We go home in the morning.”
“I miss London,” she said, yawned, and passed out.
“I demand an explanation,” said I to Holmes.
“Not now.”
I tore off my sleeve and bound Holmes’ wound to stop the bleeding for now; the wolf’s bite went deep and there would be considerable scarring. His left arm would be almost useless for at least a week; my other sleeve served as a temporary sling. Silent and sullen, he limped behind me as I carried Mary back to the mansion.
I prepared Mary’s chamber by placing crucifixes on every wall and wreaths of garlic at every entrance to the room, dithering about the comfort of Christ and the amazing healing powers of garlic. I told Mrs. Forrester to have Mary ready to leave by early afternoon the following day.
Holmes and I went to a nearby pub, where we shared our thoughts over beer and cigars.
“What were you doing there?” I asked him.
“Tracking Count Dracula, as should have been obvious,” he replied. “If you had bothered to read the newspapers that piled up when we were away, it would not have escaped your attention that the Demeter’s hulk washed up on the shores of Whitby. A sight of genuine horror, Watson. The crew dead or missing, a large wolf apparently responsible for many of the deaths, the captain’s body lashed to the wheel, the very essence of fear stamped on his face at the end.
“Unfortunately, by the time I got there the Russian government had taken control of the wreck and wouldn’t let anyone near it, with one exception: the workmen whose job it was to remove the fifty boxes of earth being imported to England by Count Dracula.
“I saw the hand of Professor Moriarty in this right away, and as usual no direct proof that he was involved. The boxes have been taken to Dracula’s estate in London, as far as I know. I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“You almost sacrificed Mary,” I said.
“I would not have, my dear Watson. I am an excellent shot; the Count’s body would have taken the blast, and put an end to this vampire nonsense once and for all.”
“Will you still go after him?”
“Of course. How many deaths is he responsible for? How much madness? And what is yet to come? We must hunt him down.”
I was on the edge of tears. How could he be so callous? Does justice mean so much? Whatever instilled this blinding passion in the man? Close as we are, I know so little of his life before he came to London.
“Please don’t, Holmes. I can’t risk Mary again. Turn it over to Gregson.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Holmes. I almost lost my wife tonight, and cannot bear to chance it again. Where was Gregson when he was supposed to be apprehending the Count?”
“Busy with other things, I suppose. He doesn’t work for me, you know.”
“Ah.”
We sat in uncomfortable quiet, staring into our mugs and sipping our beer.
“What did we learn at the castle?” Holmes continued. “But for the Barings plot, almost nil. While we were gone, however, Lord Anstruther committed suicide rather than have the truth about his Italian mistress become public, a shipment of gold bullion intended for the Bank of England disappeared in transit, and my brother Mycroft was summoned to the Palace. I have no doubt that the latter events are tied into the Argentine situation, all while we were off chasing wild geese. I must continue.”
“Holmes, please, d
rop this for my sake.”
“Do you insist, Watson?”
“I do, Holmes. I must. I have my Mary back again. Please give everything you have to Gregson.”
Holmes sighed. “Your wish is my command,” he said grudgingly.
Chapter Seven: Van Helsing
Dr. Watson’s Journal
September 25, 1890
New game is afoot!
Despite recent travails, I have decided to return to Baker Street for a few days.
Holmes and I have been avoiding one another since our encounter with the evil Count Dracula. I told Holmes that it was best if I devote my full attention to Mary’s recovery, but the truth is that his willingness, even eagerness to risk her life for the sake of this case nettled me deeply, and until recently I have been unable to abide his company.
Nor has Holmes sought mine; though he would never admit it, he is ashamed of his behavior and is too proud to apologise. Left to him, our friendship, our partnership, might have ended. Yet no matter how upset I am with him, I cannot bear to lose my closest and dearest friend. We have had too many adventures together to part for long.
Mary is recuperating beautifully. The color is back in her cheeks, and she has come back to herself. As with Holmes, Mary’s sharp canines have fallen out, to be replaced with white, even teeth. Her neck wounds have been slow to heal, but her spirits have come back, and I think it is safe to leave her alone again. So far, the Count has kept his word, but garlic hangs in our every window.
There is more to my visit than missing Holmes’ companionship. Both Gregson and Lestrade have called on me, saying that Holmes has not been himself since we returned to London. When Sherlock Holmes shows signs of melancholy and ennui, I worry. He has the finest mind and keenest intellect I have ever been privileged to encounter, but the price he pays for it can be terribly dear.
