by Steve Seitz
With a sigh, I took out my notebook, and made a note to contact Gregson immediately.
“Harker spotted the Count in Hyde Park just over a week ago, looking much as we saw him. His skill with makeup must rival my own.” He paused and continued, “It so happens, Watson, that Peter Hawkins personally arranged the Demeter’s passage, and did so at the behest of Professor Moriarty. I saw the correspondence myself in what is now Harker’s office.”
“I’m surprised he let you read it.”
Holmes smiled with a touch of mischief in his eyes.
“As I am sure Harker would be,” he said. “There is no doubt in my mind that this man made it possible for Count Dracula to get into England at Moriarty’s behest. I am also certain that Peter Hawkins did not die a natural death. But he truly did love Jonathan Harker, Watson, and did not know the nature of the bargain struck between Moriarty and Dracula. I believe that Hawkins discovered Harker’s intended fate, objected to it, and planned to go to the police.
“Hawkins knew he was doomed for this, and he acted hastily to ensure his estate would fall into trusted hands. Just in time, for the night he announced his bequest, an escaped convict by the name of Kraven Brooks was let into the kitchen and hidden in the root cellar.”
“Wait a second, Holmes. Who is Kraven Brooks?”
“He is the father of Mary Brooks, the Harkers’ servant girl. Once I discovered that, much became clear. My encounter with him happened a year or so before you and I met. Brooks’ Christian name proved prophetic - ‘craven’ exactly describes the manner in which he has conducted his life. He is a thief, blackmailer and real estate swindler whose oversized sense of self-importance led him to poison a journalist about to expose one of his schemes. I intervened and the journalist survived, and Brooks was sentenced to thirty years in Dartmoor. But he escaped about six months ago, and it was only natural that he would seek out his daughter.”
Holmes lit a cigarette, and continued, “It was Hawkins’ custom to have Mary Brooks bring a cup of warm milk before bed to help him sleep. Unbeknownst to Mary, her father poisoned the milk, hastening Hawkins’ death. As Hawkins was known to be infirm, no one would question it.”
“How do you know all this?”
Holmes opened a drawer and produced a small glass vial.
“I found this in the kitchen while you and Mrs. Harker took your stroll. I haven’t identified the poison yet, but I believe it is tropical in origin. Where would Brooks get that, and what reason could he have for poisoning his daughter’s employer? The footprints in the root cellar don’t match those of anyone who lives there; the stride and shoe size are consistent with Brooks, as I remember. I have given the case to the Exeter constabulary, who are now searching the countryside for him. I expect Mary shall give him up soon enough. Between them, we’ll have the truth. But right now, we have more interesting fish to fry.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t you want a look at the grave Van Helsing has been watching? Meet me for lunch at Jack Straw’s Castle, and be sure to wear black. Bring your medical bag.”
Evening. If I have anything to say about it, the career of Abraham Van Helsing is about to come to a sudden and overdue end.
What I witnessed this afternoon goes beyond villainy. I can barely steady my pen as I write this, for the man is so far gone in his fantasies that no act, no matter how grotesque or obscene, is beyond his conscience.
Jack Straw’s Castle is an inn in Hampstead Heath, located where Spaniards Road meets the North End Way. Not seeing my friend, I requested a table in the back and sipped a glass of beer until an animated Holmes burst in the door, dressed in black and carrying a Gladstone bag similar to my own.
“You may need something stronger than that after you hear what I have to say,” said he, signalling for sandwiches. “There have been extraordinary doings in this neighborhood.”
“Oh?”
“Surely you have read newspaper accounts of children being abducted by a mysterious ‘Bloofer Lady.’“
I nodded.
“Our link to Count Dracula. She evidently picks the children up, nicks them in the throat, and leaves them for discovery the next morning. Two were found near here just last week. The lady in question matches the description of Miss Westenra.”
“You mean the late Miss Westenra, Holmes.”
“Do I? In any event, one of these children is recuperating from a Bloofer Lady attack at the North London Hospital, under the care of a Dr. Vincent. Do you know him, Watson?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Pity. An earnest man, if not a particularly observant one. He is also one of Van Helsing’s disciples; the man seems to have stashed them all over London. Unfortunately, Van Helsing and Seward talked to him before I did, and Vincent is inclined to take the views of his former master.”
“What is Dr. Vincent’s opinion?”
“The lad had the usual bite marks on the neck, so Vincent thinks that the child was bitten by a bat, possibly of foreign origin, possibly carrying a disease. At least when he used the word ‘vampire,’ he was referring to the bats found in South America. The lad is recovering nicely, and he’ll probably go home in a day or two. He has little memory of his ordeal. He barely remembers Miss Westenra.”
“Vincent saw no indication of human bite marks?”
“No, nor did I.”
Our sandwiches arrived. Holmes, apparently famished, attacked his with gusto.
“It’s only in the last day that I’ve been able to take this case up again,” he said. “Fortunately, Lestrade is having a hard time of it, and asked me to take a hand before another child disappears. So if we get caught, we’ll have an explanation.”
“An explanation for what?”
“For standing over an empty coffin.”
We took a cab to the nearby Child’s Hill neighborhood, where we alighted near one of the churches. Holmes walked briskly along the street toward the churchyard gates, which opened inward to a wide avenue lined with yew trees, whose leaves were changing color and falling as autumn claimed the season. Obelisks, cenotaphs, and mausoleums of all styles and stone gave the place an air of peace, and of history. A warm breeze crossed our brows, rustling the leaves and carrying a slight aroma of fresh earth.
Holmes strode in as though he owned the place. It struck me that perhaps the Holmes family tomb might well be here; he has told me so little of his family history that any new information would be welcome, and I may one day come back on my own.
We slowed down. It was best not to give the mourners at a nearby service the impression that we had come on a mission. Indeed, we passed the Westenra tomb and found a stone bench, out of view.
“Half one,” said Holmes, checking his pocket watch. “They should be leaving soon, and then we can get to work.”
“What sort of work?”
“I don’t think Lucy Westenra ever died,” said he. “I believe that she has come under Dracula’s spell and was coerced into his horrid harem. Drugging her and allowing her out only at night would be an excellent way to reinforce the delusion that she is a vampire. A day or so of being entombed alive would break many a strong man’s spirit, let alone what it would do to a girl bedridden for weeks.”
“You’ve seen her?” said I.
“No, but Miss Westenra is overdue for another attack. I am hoping to find proof in the tomb. I need to take something to Lestrade so that he will have a legal reason to search Count Dracula’s estate at Carfax. Independent, unimaginative eyes would be most helpful in a case like this. Ah!”
The funeral was breaking up, and not long after, the sexton closed and locked the gates. Once we were alone, we made our way to the dark, ancient, and grim tomb of the Westenra family. Holmes fumbled in his bag and produced a large, rusty skeleton key, unlocking the black steel door.
“Note t
hat someone has been here,” said he, “and tried to seal this tomb. There are bits of putty in every cranny about the door.”
A thick stench hit us when we pushed the door open. That foul air held not only more than two hundred years of dank decay, added to it were the sickly scents of rotting flowers, fresh garlic, decaying corpses, and rancid blood. That last is a repulsive scent I would know anywhere, a stench that brings back to me the horrors of battlefields strewn with the dead and dying, of limbs rank with gangrene, of life dripping away from soldiers and civilians alike. None of my adventures since my return to London has brought back those memories so forcefully as did that foetid cloud from the Westenra death chamber.
Holmes cried out and clamped a handkerchief over his face. When at last that ghastly reek dissipated, we went inside.
“I’ll need your most professional manner, Doctor,” he said at last, sorrow in his voice. “We are too late.”
Holmes fumbled in his bag and found a lantern, which cast a solemn glow inside the sepulchre, casting outsized shadows on the granite walls.
Lucy Westenra’s coffin was just inside the door, on a slab to the left. Dozens of footprints were on the floor. The flowers had been piled in a corner, and white wax drippings from candles were evident on the coffin lid.
“Arrogant fool!” Holmes muttered in self-reproach as he removed a screwdriver from his bag. “One of the reasons I’ve been so public about the Pennington forgery is to divert attention from the Bloofer Lady. I thought she’d be safe! Vanity, thy name is Sherlock Holmes!”
He moved with dervish speed, removing the large screws that sealed the coffin lid and dropping them on the floor, chipping away fresh lead solder as he went. Together we pushed the massive lead shroud off the top and lowered it quietly to the floor. The sight was horrifying, but before we could take a close look, a fresh burst of gas sent us outside, where I saw that Holmes was on the edge of shock.
“Watson, what have I done?” he said softly. “Why did I not act to save her?”
“Perhaps she did die after all,” I said. “This is precisely what one ought to expect from opening a coffin.”
“She wasn’t here Sunday night,” he replied. “I came here at nine o’clock and opened the coffin myself. It was empty.”
“My God, Holmes!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I wanted you to see it with your own eyes. If she wasn’t in the coffin, she had to be alive. Everything else we know about this fits in with our experiences at the castle. I should have tracked her down that very night!”
I opened my own bag, and found a flask of brandy.
“For strength, Holmes,” I said, handing it to him.
He took a healthy draught, and handed it back to me; I did the same.
“Perhaps we can help the poor girl yet,” said he as he came back to himself. “We can at least bring her killers to justice.”
Leaving the tomb’s door ajar, we examined the scene, though it took all my experience as a battlefield doctor to keep my nerves steady.
The poor girl had been murdered in the most horrible, gruesome manner. The corpse was drenched in foul blackened blood. A thick wooden stake had been driven with great force through her heart. The villains had cut off the upper portion of the stake, leaving the rest embedded in the corpse. It was sawed in two about an inch above Lucy’s breast, with the remainder placed in the coffin along her outer left thigh. I estimate that it must have been close to three feet long, and thick as a baby’s arm.
Gruesome enough, but they had gone farther. The girl’s head had been cut off with a sharp surgical instrument, and her mouth stuffed with garlic. Yet, even in the face of this desecration, I noticed a look of utter serenity in the poor child’s face. Somehow, she had died peacefully.
“How long has she been dead, Doctor?” asked Holmes.
“At first glance, I must say no more than three days.”
Holmes saw the empty coffin on Sunday, and now it was Wednesday. My heart sank as I realized that the poor girl probably died on the night Holmes last visited this tomb. All he’d had to do is wait; he just missed her. The painful realization of this truth filled Holmes’ eyes and he looked away for a moment.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered.
We stopped talking and gazed at the hideous corpse. Holmes, tall, thin and pale in his black garments, with his grim hawkish visage, looked in that moment like a vicar who has irretrievably lost his faith. Rarely have I seen a man so disgusted with himself.
“Only Van Helsing can be responsible,” said I after a time. “He has corrupted Seward and God knows who else and murdered a girl in her very grave!”
“I know, Watson,” said he. “Would you be so kind as to wait outside while I summon Lestrade?”
October 2, 1890
It is a bitter, dark day for justice.
We took photographs of the poor girl’s desecration. Holmes measured every square inch of the tomb and collected several samples. We had Van Helsing in our very palms, and Lestrade dispatched constables to bring him in.
Yet we have been frustrated again. I came round Baker Street for breakfast this morning only to find Holmes in deep, animated conversation with Lestrade and a young man, about thirty, clean-shaven, brown-eyed and wealthy, to judge from the cut of his clothes.
“Lestrade, there is no other way to look at this than as cold-blooded murder!” Holmes was saying as I let myself in. The three men rose to greet me.
“Ah, good morning, Watson,” said Holmes, who was clearly holding back an intemperate remark. “Thank God you’re here. May I introduce Arthur Holmwood, who recently assumed the title Lord Godalming? He has a mesmerizing tale to tell.”
We shook hands; Godalming’s grip was firm, strong and callused, like that of a horseman.
“An honor, my lord,” said I, and took my usual seat by the fireplace. “What brings you to Baker Street?”
“To be honest, Doctor, I have come here to ask that you and Mr. Holmes cease harassing Dr. Van Helsing and avoid any future involvement in his, or my own, affairs.”
“Lord Godalming was affianced to Miss Westenra,” Holmes said, “and has inherited her estate.”
“I hope you’re not implying that I murdered her for her money,” Godalming muttered.
“You raised that possibility, not I,” said Holmes with irritation. “Doctor, wasn’t it your professional opinion that the poor girl had only been dead for three days?”
“The conditions were hardly ideal, Holmes. I gave you my best guess in the circumstances.”
“The coffin was empty on Sund-”
“Gentlemen, please!” said Lestrade. “Holmes, you must admit that all we really have is your word for most of this. All we can take to the Crown is evidence of mutilating a corpse.”
“For which we had excellent reason,” Godalming said bitterly. “Not that I would expect such as yourselves to understand.”
Mrs. Hudson brought in tea and Godalming began his tale. Holmes crossed his legs and steepled his fingers in the gesture of concentration I know so well.
“Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward took me and Quincey Morris, my friend from Texas, to Lucy’s tomb shortly before midnight Sunday. As I am now its guardian, I had a key, and we went inside.
“I could see at once that the coffin had been opened before, and I was furious with Van Helsing, but he set to work and opened it again. We four looked into it and will all swear that the coffin was empty.”
“I know,” said Holmes. “Most people do not live in coffins.”
Godalming ignored him. “We replaced the lid and locked the tomb. For a while, I dared give myself hope that some horrendous mistake had been made and that the sextons had found her wandering about. How I wanted to believe that! Then Van Helsing did the strangest thing - he crushed some wafers into a wad
of putty and wedged it under the door and all around the edges.
“‘What are you doing?’ Seward asked.
“‘I am closing the tomb so that the undead may not enter,’ Van Helsing replied.
“‘And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?’ asked Quincey Morris. ‘Great Scott! Is this a game?’
“‘It is.’
“I asked Van Helsing what he was using, and he said, ‘The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence.’“
“That’s-that’s sacrilege!” I cried.
“I know, Dr. Watson, but you will soon see why the Professor was right to do it. For as he was completing his grim task, I saw a shimmering figure of white coming toward us down the avenue. Even in the darkness I knew her, but when the clouds parted and the moonlight touched her, there was no doubt; it was my Lucy. She stopped, and I could see she held something close to her breast. She bent her head, and I could see it was a small child, which cried out, either in agony or horror. She came closer to the tomb, clutching it tightly.”
Godalming’s voice began to thicken with emotion, and tears brimmed in his eyes, but after a moment he continued with his tale.
“At the Professor’s signal, we drew back, and when the clouds parted again, my breast was filled with both fascination and revulsion. For though this creature had Lucy’s features, and could be no one else, she had changed. Gone was the innocence and purity that I so cherished; this was the face of a cruel, voluptuous harpy.”
I shuddered, remembering what similar women had done to the man who now trained his steely, hawklike gaze on Godalming, sparks all but flying from his eyes.
Godalming continued:
“As she advanced, Van Helsing motioned us to form a line between her and the tomb. When she drew close enough, he withdrew the slide from his lantern, and the full force of the illumination brought home the horror of what my Lucy had become. Her teeth, so smooth and white and even, now seemed to have been filed to sharp points, and her breath carried the stench of death. But my heart quailed when I saw what was dripping from her lips and chin. Gentlemen, they were glistening with fresh scarlet blood, blood taken from that unfortunate child!”
