by Steve Seitz
“I’m afraid I don’t know as much as I should about transfusions,” Holmes admitted.
“The science of blood is still a mystery,” said I. “Your reagent, Holmes, is one of the strongest advances we’ve had in understanding it in years. You have proven that blood can be identified through chemical reaction, which in turn tells us what some of those chemicals are. We know that sometimes, blood from one man can safely flow in the veins of another, but most of the time it simply doesn’t work. In Afghanistan, I saw the blood of a Hindoo used to save the life of one of our officers, but I took that to be a miracle. Most of the time, transfusion patients get worse, or die. Like Lucy Westenra.”
“Perhaps that has something to do with Van Helsing’s vigil at her grave last night,” Holmes said.
“Really, Holmes!”
“My dear Watson, you saw the same things I did. Didn’t you see his eyes?”
“Blue.”
“And red.”
“Meaning he hasn’t slept well.”
“Not recently. Correct. Anything else?”
“I wasn’t looking closely,” I said. “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from the man. I was thinking about that.”
“So you did not see the crucifix concealed under his shirt.”
“No.”
“Nor the Hampstead Heath clay on his boots.”
“No.”
“Nor the lily petal stuck to his right heel.”
“All I notice is that my cigar has gone out,” I mumbled with exasperation. “How do you know he was at Lucy Westenra’s grave?”
I relit my cigar, and a fresh cigarette for Holmes.
“Where else would he have been? She was his only patient in England. Your assumption that I know something of Van Helsing’s reputation is correct, Watson. But I don’t know which way to take it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Van Helsing may be sincere, and is waiting for Miss Westenra to rise from the dead so that he can apply a superstitious remedy to put her down. Or, he may realize exactly what he has done with the transfusions, and may be using vampire superstition to cover up his own incompetence in the matter. If he can get others to believe she is a vampire, and she is disposed of as if she were, there would be no way to prove the transfusions were responsible for her death.”
“That’s monstrous, Holmes!”
“That may be, but it will have to wait. Right now, millions of bettors need us to find a missing horse.”
Not least myself, I thought. My wound pension is so tiny that it barely qualifies as pocket money, so I usually take it to the track. Pity I have never been able to entice Holmes to join me.
Chapter Eight: Sherlock Holmes Pays a Call
Jonathan Harker’s Journal
September 29, 1890
A momentous occasion: to-day I was called upon by none other than the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes! I should have expected his visit; he was in the house the other day, on his way to Devonshire at the behest of Colonel Ross, whose great racehorse Silver Blaze has disappeared.
In Mr. Holmes I thought I had an important ally, for Count Dracula saw me on the streets of London last week, and I have lost a great deal of sleep wondering when and how his revenge will come. That he has something planned I do not doubt, for no more diabolical mind walks the earth.
But I cannot get anyone to listen to me. When I went to Scotland Yard, I was referred to an Inspector Tobias Gregson, who told me that not only was the Count not wanted for any crimes in Transylvania, but that we in England should be pleased that he has chosen to favor our fair clime with his presence! Without evidence of a crime, Gregson told me, there is little the police can do.
It is absurd to expect the modern educated Englishman to accept a story like mine at face value, but Sherlock Holmes was in the castle, and had to have seen what I had seen. Yet not only does he disbelieve my story, he has shaken my self-confidence to the core. I hardly know whether to trust my senses now.
But Dr. Van Helsing, whose mind surely is as great as that of Mr. Holmes, believes my story in every detail. Holmes is wrong. He must be wrong!
I was alone in the office Sunday afternoon when I heard three sharp knocks on the door. I was surprised; I had told no one but Mina I was coming in. I have been trying to get my mind off Count Dracula, and Mr. Hawkins left such a mound of work that it’s the perfect thing.
(Mem., must meet Prof. Moriarty soon and familiarize myself with his correspondence. A good third of the work-load seems to be coming from him, and he appears to have had a hand in shipping the Count’s boxes to England. No correspondence since Sept. 13.)
The door opened to reveal one of the tallest, leanest men I’ve ever seen, narrow of face and with a mesmerizing gaze that seemed to reach back into my mind and read everything there. His dark frock coat and his dark hair, thin and swept back, together with his beak-like nose and pale skin gave me a start. I have been thinking too much of vampires lately, a feeling that did not fade when he ran a cold, critical gaze over me.
Then his features softened somewhat and he presented his card.
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Jonathan Harker,” he said. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”
Relief! Mina has told me much of his exertions in my behalf.
“At last!” I cried. “My wife cannot sing your praises highly enough.”
“I am pleased to hear that, though she is hardly justified in doing so.”
“You gave her the hope she so desperately needed while her childhood friend was wasting away. Losing us both would have left her in despair, and she might well be dead of a broken heart by now. It was by God’s mercy alone that I escaped and survived.”
“I perceive that to be true,” he said, “though I see you found some other means of egress from the castle other than crawling down the wall. The catacombs, perhaps?”
“The powder magazine,” I said. “There are hand-holds carved into the exterior walls in various parts of the castle, and the one I used led to an old storage room. I found muskets and gunpowder casks there.”
“That would be the western face of the castle.”
“Yes.”
I led him to the office and offered him a cigarette, which he accepted.
“I found a tunnel in there,” I continued, “and it connected to a cave that came out in a copse by the road, about a quarter-mile from the castle. I imagine it was intended for the purpose of ambushing marauders. I was starved, feverish, and delirious. I have few clear recollections before my rescue in Buda-Pesth.”
“I should like to hear your recollections, if you please.”
“Haven’t you read my journal?”
“Yes, but I have not read all of it. Perhaps you have new insights since then.”
“Not the least that Count Dracula has established himself in London. I saw him with my very eyes not a week ago.”
Holmes’ eyes widened with interest. “Are you sure it was he?”
“There is no doubt, but somehow the Count has taken fifty years off his appearance! The Dracula I knew was an old man; he could have been between seventy and eighty. The man I saw in Hyde Park looked my age, but I can never forget those ghastly red eyes, those feral animal features, nor those wolf’s teeth. It was Dracula, mark my word.”
“I believe you,” Holmes said evenly. “Pray give me the benefit of your experiences.”
It took nearly an hour. The tale grew easier in the telling, and I realized what Holmes was trying to do; freshen my recollection so he could ask pertinent questions. When I finished, he asked, “Do you believe those women were vampires?”
“With my heart and soul,” I replied.
“Did they take your blood?”
“They would have, had not the Count stopped them.”
“Was that to be your fate? To be given to them when Dracula had no further need of you?”
“Of course.”
“If they did not take your blood, how did you know they were vampires?”
“I saw them materialize out of the moonlight, Mr. Holmes. No earthly creatures can do that.”
“They can with mirrors. I have exposed several fake mediums, and know their methods.”
“There are no mirrors at Castle Dracula. Surely you know why.”
“Yes, but I am not sure you do.”
“I know you are a man of science,” I said, “but I cannot deny my experiences. Every word I wrote is as true as Mina’s heart.”
“That you fully believe it I have no doubt,” said Sherlock Holmes. “But I was attacked by those women, too. They drank my blood, and made me drink theirs.”
“My God!”
“And yet I sit before you, in the pink of health.”
Begging his pardon, I rose and went to the washroom, where I keep a spare shaving-kit. Retrieving a glass, I returned to my office. Holmes’ face was clearly visible in it.
“You could have spotted my reflection in the windows,” he said. “But as you see, I am no vampire.”
“How did you escape that horrid fate?”
“I, too, fell ill with fever and delirium, but my partner Dr. Watson pulled me through.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Please understand, Mr. Harker, that I do not doubt your veracity. I simply find vampirism itself difficult to accept. I believe Count Dracula does everything he can to promote the illusion of a vampire colony at his castle to maintain his power in the province. Fear is an excellent means of control, especially in a land as riddled in superstition and folklore as is Transylvania.”
“Yet you were fooled too, at least for a time.”
He took a fresh cigarette from his coat pocket, lit it, and looked at me. Then he smiled, displaying a set of sharp fangs!
I jumped. My hand stole toward the crucifix I now wear at all times, when he opened his mouth and the fangs fell into his hand.3
“Hollow them out and fill the tiny chambers with extract of belladonna,” he said, tossing the false teeth on my desk. Small, clear drops oozed onto my blotter. I wondered whether I should question my sanity.
“Not enough to kill,” Holmes continued, “but enough to induce hallucinations and dizziness once injected into the bloodstream. Practitioners of witchcraft have used it to give themselves visions for centuries. After that, it’s just a matter of repeating injections until the victim succumbs, either from the poison or from blood loss, assuming our ‘vampire’ is really taking any.”
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
“I commissioned them from a theatrical supply company.”
“That’s what you think happened to me?”
“It is a theory that fits the facts. In your case, Dracula poisoned your food to keep you weak, pliant and confused. In my attack, the women used devices similar to these. You were the victim of an elaborate hoax, Mr. Harker, as was I.
“Count Dracula is a madman, but a madman who knows his game to perfection. You will find, I think, that you have yet to directly witness any miracles or magic. Between misdirection or terror, someone as skilled and experienced as Count Dracula can make almost anyone believe almost anything.”
“Why do all that if he were going to kill me anyway?”
“People can escape from Castle Dracula, Mr. Harker, as you yourself have proved. Yet, even now you are unwilling to believe the probable over the impossible. To a mind as insidious as the Count’s, the illusion must be maintained at all times.”
“Did you know this when the women attacked you?”
Holmes shook his head. “I was sick for days. Only recently have I been able to construct a hypothesis and test it.
Poison, stagecraft and terror, Mr. Harker. There are no vampires.”
The confidence imbued in me by Van Helsing sank like a stone. Doubts about the whole adventure crept back into my soul.
“It sounds so obvious when you explain it that way,” I replied.
“Surely it is less frightening than worrying about vampires,” he said.
“How did the Count make himself so much younger?” I asked.
“How close were you when you saw him?”
“I spotted him across the street, in Hyde Park.”
“If you were closer, I expect you would have spotted a wig and makeup.” Holmes stubbed his cigarette out and then asked, “I encountered him myself a few weeks ago, and I would place his age at about five-and-thirty.”
“Did you see any makeup?”
“No, it was too dark. But then, he might have made himself up to be old when he met you. A few strokes with a comb and some talcum powder can add years. Perhaps he is a younger man who, for reasons of his own, wished to appear old to you.”
I looked at the fake fangs on my blotter and realized it could all be true. I began to distrust my own memories.
“Mr. Harker, we were both attacked. You did not die, though you were intended to, and I did not die. The fact that we have both fully recovered and can shave without fear ought to tell you something, don’t you think?”
I could think of nothing to say.
“May I ask about something else?” he inquired. “What were Mr. Hawkins’ dealings with Professor James Moriarty? Mr. Hawkins was Moriarty’s solicitor.”
“He was, but I haven’t met the man yet. I know most of the firm’s clients, but Professor Moriarty never came to this office as far as I know. Why?”
“Because evil, like water, finds its own level. Are you aware that none of Count Dracula’s boxes of earth was ever examined by Customs?”
“I’m still straightening out the correspondence, Mr. Holmes.”
“Of course. May I ask how Mr. Hawkins died?”
I paused, wondering why he wanted to know such things.
“Not that it has anything to do with Transylvania,” said I, “but between old age and gout his time was coming, and he knew it.”
“Is that why he invited you and Mrs. Harker to dinner the night he died?”
“I believe so. I have no reason not to.”
“You were the only guests?”
“Yes.”
“And the servant girl?”
“She has been in the house for a little over three months. I understand that her mother is dead and that her father is in Dartmoor, but for what she won’t tell us. Why are you asking me these things?”
“Everything may be relevant, Mr. Harker. What is the girl’s last name?”
“Brooks.”
“May I take a look at Professor Moriarty’s correspondence?”
Now I took umbrage. “With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, you ask too much! A client’s confidentiality is sacred!”
“As no one knows better than myself,” he replied with a small chuckle. “You just passed a character test, Mr. Harker, and I am pleased to say that Mrs. Harker has chosen very well. As I expect you know, I have pressing business in Devonshire. But once your lives settle down, I would be honoured to have you and your sterling wife join me for dinner in Baker Street.”
He rose to go. I’m sure my relief was obvious; Sherlock Holmes can be an intimidating man, and I should hate to have him stand against me.
September 30, 1890
I do not know for sure, but I am nearly certain that someone has been in my offices since yesterday.
Everything is where it should be, but small things tell. Stacks of letters are just a little bit further to the right than they ought to be, and a letter from Professor Moriarty opened to my merest touch. His letters usually need to be slit with a letter opener. I suspect an agent of Count Dracula has been here, trying to divine my plans.
Whether Mr. Holmes believes in vampires or not, I am certain they walk the earth, and I know they do not need doors to enter buildings! All the doors and windows are locked, as I left them; who else could have come in here?
There is no time to worry about this now. Far more urgent is finding out what happened to all those boxes of unholy earth the Count has brought into my country. I must hear what Mr. Billington has to say. Off to Whitby!
Chapter Nine: Lucy Westenra’s Crypt
Dr. Watson’s Journal
October 1, 1890
Back in London again, following another triumph for Sherlock Holmes in the recovery of Silver Blaze. We have even earned the forgiveness of Colonel Ross, who paid the price for publicly doubting Holmes. Not only that, I made a tidy packet on the race, which means a gift for Mary. I have become a contortionist in my efforts to make her happy and speed her recovery.
“I imagine you’re looking forward to the evening editions,” I said to Holmes after Colonel Ross left Baker Street yesterday afternoon.
“Let Inspector Gregory have his day,” he replied. “He has a promising career ahead of him, if he is willing to learn, and it was he who gave us the initial facts. I see no reason to impede him. I much prefer your versions of my cases, my dear Watson, though you make what ought to be simple instructions in logic and science far too romantic.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” said I. “Now what else have you been up to? I came here to enjoy your company, and I’ve hardly seen you these past few days.”
“I have been watching Jonathan Harker being drawn into a maelstrom,” he replied.
“Holmes, you promised to drop this. What of Mary?”
“Your house is redolent with garlic and crucifixes. That avenue is closed to Dracula, Watson. We may now try again.”
