Sherlock Holmes and the Plague of Dracula

by Steve Seitz

  But first I must record the events that led to the tragic demise of Sherlock Holmes. My tears have run their course, and I must force myself to proceed, while the details are still fresh in my mind.

  One day I will share this story with the world, should I ever bring myself to publicly admit the truth: that I was as much Moriarty’s marionette as surely as if I’d had strings attached to my limbs.

  Holmes maintained his cheery demeanour as we set out at about ten o’clock. By early afternoon, we had made our way to the Reichenbach Falls, actually the Upper Reichenbach Falls. Years of carving by nature have created a channel of jagged black rock down which roar powerful cascades of water, swollen by the spring snowmelt, that plunge 300 feet or so to a tremendous black abyss below and a dark pool of unknown depth, the vast endless spray creating permanent rainbows in the sunlight - a magnificent sight that will forever hold a bitter memory for me now.

  On we climbed up the path which has been carved through the rock to the top in order to afford travellers a full view, but it is a narrow path; the only way in is also the only way out. We stood silently, Holmes and I. I took in the majestic view; the top of the Reichenbach looks over towering snowcapped Alpine mountains, rich and green fields and forests, and the ancient glaciers that feed the flowing waters.

  For his part, Holmes was leaning on his Alpine-stock, scanning the rock face and looking like nothing so much as a hawk soaring over the fields looking for prey. Not for him the magnificent power and beauty of Nature this day; I now realize he was looking to join the battle. We stood wordless for several minutes, when I heard my name being bellowed by a young Swiss lad who ran panting up the path. He handed me a note in Steiler’s hand, claiming that an Englishwoman had fallen ill at the hotel, and was demanding to see an English doctor.

  “Perhaps she doesn’t speak German, Watson,” Holmes said on reading the note. “Surely yours are the most capable hands any of our countrymen could request in times of crisis. By all means, attend to the poor lady.”

  “Holmes, remember why we are here.”

  “It has never left my mind, dear fellow, I assure you. Our young companion here seems to be worried about his father. Perhaps I can be of assistance to him. I’ll tarry here a little longer and meet you this evening in Rosenlaui.”

  How bland a parting, especially in light of what I know now. I need hardly go into detail here about what must surely be obvious: the note turned out to be fraudulent. Steiler told me it had been written by a tall, bald Englishman whose couldn’t keep his head still - add master of forgery to Moriarty’s endless list of sinister talents. It took more than two hours, but, my chest huffing like a locomotive, I made it back to the top of the Reichenbach Falls.

  Holmes’ Alpine-stock still leaned against the boulder at which I had last seen him standing, sending a chill to my heart that had nothing to do with the cool and moist Alpine air. The young Swiss lad vanished as well; a Moriarty stooge, no doubt. One of the small, lingering niggles is Holmes’ comment about the boy being worried about his father. Perhaps Holmes detected some sort of hold Moriarty had over the man. Or perhaps he was simply a local rustic in need of a few easy schillings.

  It took me a moment to come to my senses, so overwhelmed was I at the horror. Surely Holmes would know what to do; and so I made my attempt.

  Holmes’ admonitions about observation and deduction vivid in my mind, I followed the path to the scene of the battle. The impressions in the earth, the broken saplings, scrapings on the rocks, told the whole story.

  Moriarty was more than Holmes’ intellectual equal; he must have also been Holmes’ physical equal as well, deceptively strong and quick. Holmes was adept at boxing and fencing, but in the mud was writ someone tripping over a tree root. I recognized a body contour, with a deep impression from a knee near the right ribs. A piece of the bank gave way just above the fall. The mortal enemies were struggling at the bank when it collapsed, and they both hurtled to their doom over the black rocks into the maelstrom far below.

  Yet I still have one final word from Sherlock Holmes, who had rested his staff on top of his silver cigarette case. When I picked it up, a small square of paper fluttered to the ground, three pages from his notebook and the note which lays on the desk before me and roils my heart.

  “MY DEAR WATSON:

  “I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you.

  “In particular, it pains me to report that Moriarty never lost track of us. As we toured the battlefield at Waterloo, I spotted the unmistakable silhouette of Col. Sebastian Moran, who, as you know, serves as Moriarty’s chief of staff. Bold as day, he was leaning against the Orange monument, following us with his binoculars as if we were a pair of prize antelope grazing on the plains of the Serengeti. But I knew he, or one of his underlings, would be there, for while we were on the train to Brussels, I spotted more than one porter peering into his hat. It was the simplest of matters to investigate this unusual occurrence; I arranged to bump into one of them when the train lurched, dislodging his headgear. Your photo was nestled in the lining. Moriarty had seemingly bribed every porter in Europe to keep an eye out for you. In my arrogance, I assumed it was not necessary to disguise you; indeed, I shame myself to have endangered you in this manner. I should have sent you home there and then. But had I done so, the game would have been exposed, and Moriarty’s reign would never end. In any event, who better than you, my dearest, stalwart friend, to make sure that the ends of this affair are neatly and properly tied?

  “I have already explained to you that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.

  “Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed ‘Moriarty.’ I made every disposition of my property before leaving England and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to the kind-hearted and forgiving Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

  “Very sincerely yours,

  “SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

  The local constabulary have confirmed my observations, and now I have the sad duty of bringing my friend’s body back to London.

  Chapter Twelve: The Funeral of Sherlock Holmes

  May 9, 1891

  Sherlock Holmes has returned to God.

  To accommodate Mycroft Holmes, the memorial service was held at a chapel near the Diogenes Club. He maintained a tight, firm hand over the whole affair, and only a very few were allowed to attend.

  I was pleased that Mycroft agreed to burying Holmes in the city, rather than some little-visited family tomb in the country. If Holmes is not buried in London, I should rarely be able to visit him; neither could Mycroft.

  I believe Holmes would have approved of his brother’s choice of chapel; it is dark and intimate, lit by sunshine streaming through a stained glass history of the Crusades and Christianity. Mary and I took a seat close to the front, next to my one-time dresser Stamford, who introduced me to Holmes ten years ago. We have not kept in close touch since then; I have sometimes seen him at the Criterion Bar or at Simpson’s, and on those occasions when I visit Bart’s.

  “I’ve hardly seen Holmes
since he moved his laboratory to Baker Street,” said he, after I introduced my wife. “It’s as if my sole purpose in God’s plan was to bring you two together. I have greatly enjoyed your chronicles, Watson; that’s why I came today.”

  “You will forever have my thanks,” I replied. “Where would any of us be without him?”

  Mrs. Hudson arrived shortly and joined us. Among the other mourners, I spotted the hereditary King of Bohemia himself, Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismund von Ormstein, once again failing at incognito. It was gratifying to see Helen Stoner, whom we saved from a vicious swamp adder, not to mention an equally vile stepfather, and Sir Henry Baskerville, who must have crossed the Atlantic from Canada in record time. Inspectors Gregson, Lestrade and Patterson represented Scotland Yard. Dr. Conan Doyle came as well; I am meeting him soon to discuss the best venue for publishing my memoirs.

  Of course, the late Irene Adler is missed; she is the only woman for whom Holmes ever held a soft spot in his heart. We never solved her mysterious death..

  Yet, save the massive Mycroft, nowhere did I spot anyone recognizably from the Holmes family.

  Once the vicar concluded his remarks, Mycroft took the lectern. Usually an imposing man, to-day the weight of his grief seemed to settle into his shoulders and diminish him. Indeed, we are all a little lesser now.

  “You will forgive our family, I hope, for having said goodbye to Sherlock in a separate service this morning,” Mycroft said. “But those of you whose lives he has touched, those of you whose lives he has saved, deserve your own farewell. For you gave purpose to his life. He could have entered government service, as have I; he could have devoted his genius to medicine, or music, or chemistry.

  “Instead, he chose to apply his matchless abilities to the detection and eradication of crime, treating this endeavour as a science and art, rather than as a trade. In doing this, Sherlock changed the world, for now the criminal can no longer conduct his work unseen in the dark. If he smoked a cigar, left a footprint, or even a single thread of cloth, he can now be caught. How often has Sherlock Holmes amazed us by telling each detail of our lives on a moment’s acquaintance? How many villains came to justice because my brother was able to give a precise description after a few minutes alone with magnifying glass and measuring tape? I see the Scotland Yard delegation nodding; the number must be considerable, indeed.

  “Dr. John Watson, the world owes you its thanks as well. For had you not shared Sherlock’s adventures, it might have taken years for his methods to catch up with the constabulary. Though he had his quarrels with the way you told your tales, he was certainly indebted to you for the results. Through your writings, the man and his methods will live far longer than the seven-and-thirty short years we were privileged to have him on this earth. Farewell, my brother, and my friend.”

  My poor pen is barely adequate to convey the power of his words. Around me, eyes glistened, and handkerchiefs dabbed at them. It took a moment for me to gather my thoughts, and I took my place before the assemblage, keeping my voice as even as I could.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for your kind words. I, too, know the unbearable pain of losing a brother. Now I have lost my closest friend, my dearest companion, the best and wisest man whom I have ever known. I feel that loss keenly, for had my own wits been as sharp as his, had I been thinking as clearly as I should have, had I not been duped, I should not be standing here today to share your grief.

  “I never sought literary garlands, nor did either Holmes or myself ever quest for fame, fortune and glory. Indeed, what appears in the public prints is often so far from the truth that I

  felt compelled to set the record straight. If, in the course of this, we have brought benefits to those I see before me, I am thankful.

  “But we are here for different purposes, you and I. You come to pay tribute to the man who delivered you from danger and difficulty. I am here to atone. I have let him down, and that will be on my heart for eternity.”

  Trembling, I took my seat next to Stamford, who squeezed my arm in sympathy. The service soon concluded and we pallbearers - Mycroft, Stamford, Reginald Musgrave, Lestrade, Victor Trevor, and myself - loaded the casket into the hearse. It seemed lighter than it should have to me. Perhaps Mycroft shouldered a heavier load than the rest of us.

  The burial service was brief, almost perfunctory. The memorial exhausted us all, and I, at least, had no tears left. Once the vicar finished and Mycroft threw the first handful of earth onto the coffin, we began to drift away.

  Since then, I have had a note from Mycroft, requesting me not to undertake a biography of my friend. He feels that the two narratives I have thus far published are enough.

  But I will not let Holmes’ memory die. If Mycroft objects to a formal biography, I shall respect his wishes. My own recollections are a different matter. I have published my reminiscences before and shall again. I still have my notes from our cases, and, of course, this journal.

  Holmes may be gone, but he will not be forgotten. Mycroft be damned! The tales of how we averted a scandal that threatened the king of Bohemia; the terrifying Hound of the Baskervilles; the singular case of the Red-Headed League; Hugh Boone and his twisted lip; the bizarre tale of Violet Hunter, and all the others, should be laid before the public so that the world can see what it has lost in that keen and remarkable mind, and that well-hidden, but empathetic, heart.

  Chapter Thirteen: The Farringdon Street Ghoul

  Dr. Watson’s Journal

  June 12, 1891

  It seems that my life with crime has not ended, after all.

  At about four this morning Mary and I were awakened by a furious pounding at the door. Fearing an emergency, I donned my dressing-gown and found an anxious Lestrade, his ferret-like face tight with fear, standing in the fog.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor, but you’re the closest physician,” the inspector said. “Come quickly! We may have another Ripper!”

  I donned clothing as quickly as I could, grabbed my bag, and followed Lestrade into a waiting hansom.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “There’s a dead drab in an alley on Upper Thames Street,” he said. “Her name’s Deborah Burke, age about three-and-forty, whored herself for gin and a flop. One of the other girls saw her head into her usual alley with a customer, then she heard Deborah scream. Another man ran into the alley.”

  Lestrade paused.

  “And then?” I prompted.

  “And no one came out. Damnedest thing. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

  “If the victim is dead, then what do you need me for?”

  “To officially determine the cause and manner of death and to put some of that knowledge you’ve gleaned from Mr. Holmes to good use.”

  “Now, Lestrade, really, I’m not a detective, as Holmes so frequently reminded me.”

  “You were with him for nigh on ten years and the three of us have examined God knows how many bodies. I cannot believe you haven’t picked up something. If the Ripper’s back, then every second counts.”

  Upper Thames Street is a gray, grimy loathsome neighborhood near the wharves, den of addicts, prostitutes, and thieves. Indeed, I found Holmes in disguise there once while he was investigating a case.

  Two constables blocked the entrance of a grimy alley, beyond which I could see the corpse. The stench of blood, dirt and filth struck me at once; when we lit the lanterns, rats scattered.

  A horrific sight greeted me when the pale yellow glow passed over the body, but there was one reason to breathe easy; this was not the work of Jack the Ripper.

  “How do you know?” asked Lestrade. “He was caught in the act. There wasn’t time to finish.”

  “Take a look,” said I, kneeling and preparing for my examination. “Bring the lamp a little closer. You can see the slash across the neck goes from left to right. Whoever
did this took her from behind and was right-handed. As you know very well, Lestrade, the Ripper was left-handed.”

  It was, of course, Holmes who originally pointed that out to me when we were called into the case in 1888. I am certain Holmes knew who the scoundrel was, but he never told me, and the case remains officially unsolved to this very day.

  This victim, as Lestrade had told me, was about forty-three years old, and destined to die of cirrhosis had she not been attacked. On further examination, I found more than one wound; a large, deep gash was visible near the jugular, as well as a couple of other wounds in the same general area, likely inflicted by the knife used to make the fatal incision. The rest of the body was unviolated, except by venereal disease. The wounds were so severe that she must have bled to death in minutes.

  “If you need a cause of death, it is from blood loss resulting from the throat being slashed,” I told Lestrade. “There is no doubt of murder, but it is not the work of Jack the Ripper. Perhaps the work of a similar madman, but at least not that one.”

  “That is somewhat comforting,” the detective said.

  Too late, I thought about footprints, and how Holmes would have chastised me for disturbing the scene. Now it was overrun. In any event, the fog was as thick as molasses. It would have been easy for someone to slip away.

  “Any idea who the passerby was?” I asked.

  Lestrade consulted his notebook. “About six feet tall, lean, pale, dressed in black, face covered by a cloth cap, according to Mrs. Jensen.”

  “What about the knife?”

  “We searched the alley and didn’t find it.”

  By now, the sun had broken the city skyline and soon we wouldn’t need lamps to examine the scene. Though my work was done, this case aroused my curiosity, and I wondered if, in my own meagre fashion, I might successfully apply Holmes’ methods.