“Oh!” said Holmes eagerly. “The plot thickens.”
How nice for Mrs. Hudson that she got to answer the door once that morning to someone who didn’t make her scream. The third time is the charm, they say. I listened for Lestrade’s step on the landing but could not detect it. Nevertheless, he soon stood in the open doorway, wearing a hangdog look. I began to welcome him, but Warlock clapped a hand across my mouth and said, “Lestrade, how good to see you. You have permission to enter, only once, for the purpose of solving this case.”
Stepping through the doorway, Lestrade gave a resentful look and muttered, “You’ve no reason to fear me, Warlock.”
“Caution is its own reward, Lestrade. Now tell us, why have you come?”
“The same reason as always: some fool has got himself done in. I’m afraid I’ve located our Mr. Strangerson.”
9
I MADE TEA. IT WAS A DREARY SORT OF DAY AND BOTH of our Scotland Yard friends had nothing else to savor but the bitter broth of professional defeat—a perfect day for Ceylon tea. Soon Warlock and I held steaming cups. For Grogsson, I filled our never-used watering can, though it still looked small in his hands. Lestrade also had a teacup. He held it close, as if treasuring the heat, but I never saw him drink. Arthur Charpontier didn’t touch his, either. As soon as we were all arranged in the sitting room, Lestrade sighed and began to recount his effort.
“I don’t mind telling you, I suspected Joseph Strangerson of the murder of Enoch Drebber. The two were from out of town. Who here would even know Drebber, much less where to find him? Would any Londoner have had the time to form a vendetta? It seemed to me Strangerson was my man. I began looking for him. I went about by night, peeping in windows and knocking on doors. I went to public houses, taverns, hotels and rooms to let, hunting him, always hunting. The dark hours fled, but still I searched, beneath the cursed sun. At last, I came to Halliday’s Private Hotel, on Little George Street. When I asked for Strangerson, the desk clerk said, ‘Finally, you’re here. He’s been waiting for you all day and all night.’”
“Oh? You told him you were Drebber?” I asked.
“No, but he assumed so and I saw no need to correct him. He was perfectly willing to take me up to the room, despite the early hour. We had not made it to the top of the stairs before I realized something was amiss. That wonderful smell… that rarest of blood. Most of the blood was Strangerson’s—a common brew, I’m afraid. But the killer’s blood—that most perfect draught—was there as well. I had the clerk open the door. Strangerson lay by an open window, still in his nightshirt, killed by a single stab wound to his left side. The murder weapon was still lodged in the body—a pearl-handled knife with an eight-inch blade. It struck him right to the heart.”
“Ha!” yelled Torg, who loved a good killed-in-a-single-blow story.
“Stabbed?” I cried. “But our man is a poisoner. Could it be there are two killers on the loose?”
Lestrade shook his head and insisted, “Same man. It would be strange indeed to find two killers with that same rare blood. Besides, look what I found in Strangerson’s mouth.”
Lestrade began divesting himself of Mr. Strangerson’s personal effects, which he had purloined from the crime scene, preferring our help to his colleagues’ at Scotland Yard. Sure enough, there lay the aged bakery paper.
“It is the same kind,” Lestrade said.
“It is, in fact, the same one!”
I went in triumph to the cupboard and withdrew the tiny corner I had torn from the wrapper. It fit exactly.
“By Jove,” breathed Holmes.
Grogsson seemed to care not at all. Lestrade was wonderstruck. “How on earth did he get it back?”
“Ask Holmes,” I said bitterly, adding, “And this time, we are keeping it! I’ve had quite enough of entertaining murderers, thank you.”
“As you wish, Watson,” smiled Holmes.
“So, you have seen the killer?” Lestrade asked.
“Rather.”
“Well, we are in luck,” Lestrade said. “He was also observed leaving the scene of the crime. A milk-delivery boy noticed a ladder propped against the wall of the hotel, under Strangerson’s window. He saw a man come down the ladder and run off for a nearby cab. Perhaps we can determine if it was indeed the same man. The milk-boy said he was tall—over six feet…”
“He was,” I answered.
“…red-faced and ruddy-haired…” continued Lestrade.
“Indeed.”
“…in a red and white gingham dress.”
“That is our man.”
“How fortunate,” said Lestrade. “We almost missed the witness entirely. Until I questioned him, the milk-boy assumed the killer was simply a cross-dressing carpenter of some sort, performing window maintenance in the dark.”
I made a mental note, on my sister’s behalf. Her son was so simple she worried he might never be employable. Perhaps he should become a milk-boy. “What is the rest of this?” I asked Lestrade, indicating the pile of personal effects he had deposited on the table.
“Everything except his clothes,” said Lestrade. “Almost five pounds still in his wallet, so we know it was no theft. Identification and papers—he was American, like Drebber. A novel. A pipe. There was a glass of water on the bedside table, but I left it there, thinking it was the hotel’s…”
“What is this little box? Anything in it?” I asked.
“A few pills,” said Lestrade with a shrug. “His medicine, I suppose.”
I froze. No. Not likely. The box was old and battered; it bore every sign of having traveled far and wide, for some length of time, probably in someone’s pocket. It was not the type of pillbox dispensed by a doctor, but a wooden keepsake box, such as one might purchase at a curio shop. There was no label stating what kind of medicine lay inside, but I thought I knew. With trembling hands, I opened the box. Within lay two pills, irregular and crude—clearly homemade.
“The poison,” I said.
Everybody drew closer to stare at the pills, Warlock asking, “I say, Watson, are you sure?”
“No,” I had to admit, “but these are like no professionally made pills I have ever seen. I suspect that this box belonged to the killer, and that he planned to poison Strangerson. Perhaps Strangerson resisted, so the killer stabbed him. This is just conjecture, of course. I can’t be sure this is poison until we test it.”
“Good idea,” said Warlock. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wherever are you going, Holmes?” I asked.
“A test, Watson! A test!” was all he said, before disappearing out our door.
Only when he was gone did I realize how very uncomfortable I was in the company of Grogsson and Lestrade. Grogsson stared at me, silently, challengingly. Lestrade’s eye kept wandering to the helpless form of Arthur Charpontier. I suppose I should have offered them food of some sort. Then again, the Baker Street Irregulars had eaten most of what we had and Lestrade still hadn’t touched his tea. Something in me recoiled from the notion of offering to feed a vampire.
I must have stared too long for, without turning to me, he gave a pained grin and grumbled, “You aren’t about to start asking foolish questions about garlic, are you, Dr. Watson?”
“No. No. I… Pardon me for staring.”
Lestrade shrugged. “You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I must congratulate you: you are doing very well, Doctor.”
“Why, thank you. It turns out that ferreting out a criminal is much the same thought process as diagnosing illness, so—”
“I was not thinking of the case,” Lestrade interrupted, “though you seem to have a deft hand at that, as well. No. I am referring to how well you have dealt with us.”
I had nothing to say.
Grogsson grunted out a laugh at my discomfort. Even Lestrade allowed his regular dourness to fall away for a moment. He chuckled, shook his finger at me and said, “You are a man of science. I would have thought you incapable of operating amongst such a profusion of a
bnormal creatures.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” I said, my voice hoarser than I’d intended.
“No,” Lestrade agreed, “but rest assured, Doctor, I intend you no harm. Humans who speak with our kind are a rare commodity. Humans willing to live with Holmes are even rarer. That ought to keep you safe from Grogsson. I have encouraged him to remember how very cross Warlock would be if Grogsson lost his temper with you.”
The comment caught me off guard and I laughed at the silliness of it. Grogsson turned his head towards me and bellowed, “Not make fun!”
“No! I’m sorry! I don’t mean to insult you,” I protested. “I only… I can’t imagine… I mean, Warlock is not a brave man; I just can’t see him standing up to you, Grogsson, that’s all.”
Grogsson turned away from me and mumbled, “Thought doctors wuz smart.”
Lestrade smiled, “Well, Torg, I suppose that just means he hasn’t really met Warlock Holmes yet.”
Grogsson gave a wry snort. Lestrade crossed one leg theatrically over the other, pressed his fingertips together and said, “Let me tell you something you ought to know. Suppose the three of us decided to murder Holmes in his bed tonight. Suppose he had no warning, no weapon and you brought that service revolver of yours. I tell you this: tomorrow morning, Warlock Holmes would wake up, safe as a babe in arms; there would be a bubbling pile of molten pistol on the floor and no such thing as Grogsson, Lestrade or Watson.”
This speech had a strange effect on me: I became lonely. Though I did not understand how the unassuming Holmes could be a match for either Grogsson or Lestrade, I did not doubt the news. Rather, it had the effect of removing my last confederate. Though I knew him to be unusual, I still perceived Holmes as basically human, like myself. Somehow, Lestrade’s words had removed him from that sphere and left me the only man amongst monsters. It hadn’t been so bad, until I was alone. I hung my head and mumbled, “I don’t know what I’m even doing here. Can I be of any help at all? I am only a man…”
My thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous crash—Grogsson had smashed the table. When I looked up, I beheld him staring at me with a primal rage in his eye. He bellowed a challenge and balled his fists. I shied back and fell from my chair. In an instant, Lestrade was between us, shouting, “Torg! No! Remember! He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t know.”
I think I was beginning to form some words of thanks, when Lestrade rounded on me. I was surprised to see his face alight with anger, as well.
“I think you should apologize, Dr. Watson,” he said.
“For what?” I asked, drawing another cry of rage from Grogsson.
Lestrade gestured for him to calm down, but his gaze made it clear he thought me the stupidest creature on earth as he said, “Look out that window, Doctor. What do you see? Is London peopled by vampires? By Grogsson’s kind?”
I made no answer.
“I am sure that Grogsson or I might best twenty of you, but can we best two billion? No, Dr. Watson, the battle has been fought; the matter is decided. This is the realm of man. You are the most powerful force in the world—the undisputed masters of earth. How dare you best us so totally and call yourself slight? How dare you make us run and hide ourselves and obey your strange customs for fear of our very lives, then declare yourself ‘only a man’?”
I sat stunned for a moment then said, “Well… I’ve never thought of it like that…”
“What luxury,” Lestrade sneered, then grumbled to Torg, “You’d better tell Warlock you’ll get him a new table.”
My head swam. I understood what he was saying, but I wanted to protest that such treatment was not reserved for only monsters. It applied to all of us. How welcome were African tribesmen in London? Or Chinamen? Or anybody who dared to step outside his front door wearing the wrong hat? Wear a top hat to the lunch counter or a boater to the opera and you’d find out in a second exactly how much mercy London has for outsiders. None. Returning from the army, I myself—a native-born, well-educated doctor—had almost fallen through the cracks and found myself digested by this greatest of cities. I suppose I had known my society well enough to expect no pity. Yet, at the time, it did not seem unfair to me, or even unkind. Suddenly, mankind’s policy of intolerance—which I had always obeyed but never much considered—made itself clear to me.
How total.
How cruel.
My thoughts were interrupted by Warlock, who returned at that moment, proclaiming, “Gentlemen, a test!”
In his arms was our neighbor’s flop-eared puppy. Off guard as I was, this sufficed to jolt me back to my senses.
“Warlock, no! Surely not!” I protested.
Now, I am a man of the world. I understand that the medical knowledge I possess was built upon the corpses of many an unfortunate experimental subject, both animal and human. But this really was beyond the pale. Rocco was a three-week-old basset hound, blessed with the kindest disposition I think I have ever encountered in beast or man. But he also bore the dual curses of short legs and long ears. Either one of them, in isolation, is harmless; together they are burdensome. Rocco could not take two steps without treading on an ear and tumbling to the ground. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.
“You are not going to poison that dog!” I insisted.
“Watson, calm down. This animal is doomed,” said Warlock.
“Because you intend to poison it!”
“No, no, Watson,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been watching him for days. I can feel the pale reaper, following this poor little mutt. One way or another, I promise you, this dog will not survive the week.”
“Preposterous!”
“I tell you, Watson, I am very in tune with this sort of thing. I don’t know what fate awaits young Rocco here, but I know this: we can save him from it!”
“By poisoning him?” I cried. “Warlock, you are not feeding those pills to that dog!”
“Of course not,” Lestrade agreed. “We need some for evidence. The dog can have half of each pill.”
He already had a kitchen knife and was carefully sawing the pills in half. Before I could stop him, he tossed half of the first pill over to Warlock. I moved to snatch it from his hand, but Grogsson caught the back of my collar between his thumb and forefinger and held me as easily as you would a kitten.
“Here, boy! Here, Rocco!” Holmes cried, dangling the half-pill in front of the puppy. When Rocco was sufficiently excited, Holmes tossed the pill up in the air so Rocco could catch it. He wolfed it down happily and waited for more. We all drew close, rapt in morbid curiosity, waiting to see what would happen. The puppy sneezed. He barked twice. He leapt upon Warlock’s knee and licked his nose, hoping to restart the game. When it became clear none of us were playing any more, he lost interest and began sniffing around the room, lost in the fascinating rat smell. Five minutes passed. Then ten.
“Hmmmm…” mused Lestrade, “some poisons take days, I suppose.”
“Not the kind our man used,” I said. “Remember, the killer stood and watched Drebber die. Do you suppose he poisoned him on Wednesday, then figured out exactly the correct time to pick him up on Friday, spirit him to an abandoned house and watch him expire? No. Our killer’s poison is quick.”
“Not work on dogs?” Grogsson suggested.
“Possible,” I said, “but most acute poisons are deadly to a wide range of organisms.”
“Perhaps it isn’t poison,” said Lestrade. “Maybe it is medicine after all.”
I screwed up my face and shook my head. “They’re too irregular to be professionally manufactured pills. If they are medicine, they must be homemade. But you have a point, Lestrade; perhaps they are something else entirely.”
We all paused to wrack our minds for a moment. What other small, round edibles might somebody place in an unmarked box and carry on their person? Warlock snapped his fingers and crowed, “Ah! Perhaps they’re candy!”
“CANDY?” cried Grogsson, lunging for the box. We tried to stop him, of course, b
ut I think I might have had better luck trying to wrestle a carriage and six to a halt. He gleefully popped half of the second pill into his mouth and smiled for just a moment before making a face and spitting it to the floor, shouting, “Aaaaaargh! Bad candy!”
It was a good thing for all of us that he spat it out as quickly as he did, for it would have been no small task to move his body out of our sitting room. Almost before the half-chewed gob of poison hit the floor, a worried expression passed across Grogsson’s face and he suddenly contorted. He fell to the floor, twitching awfully. Warlock and Lestrade stood stunned. I knelt down to sniff the pill. It smelled pungent, but not acidic. Nor did Grogsson grasp at his throat or belly as if they were burning.
“Get him to the bathtub!” I shouted and snatched up my medical bag. The three of us struggled to drag him into the bath and I poured my entire bottle of ipecac down his throat. For a moment I thought him too far gone to swallow and prayed he would not choke on it, but enough must have made it down to his gut to take effect. In seconds, the emetic properties of the syrup took hold and he began to… emit. I had not paused to consider how much food might be necessary to sustain an individual of Grogsson’s size and energy, but let me tell you, it was an impressive volume. It was a good thing we hadn’t taken him to the sink or commode; he could have overflowed them both. Equally impressive was the strength he possessed in his abdominal muscles, which caused him to void with such efficacy that, for a few moments, he might have been mistaken for the world’s most revolting fire hose. Soon there was nothing left in him and his retching and twitching subsided. Warlock looked about the vomit-drenched ruin of our bathroom and noted, “We’ll be wanting Mrs. Hudson to come up and do some cleaning, eh?”
We dragged Grogsson back to the sitting room and made him as comfortable as possible on the floor. We didn’t give him the sofa because Arthur Charpontier was still recovering there and we couldn’t have lifted Grogsson, in any case. It took him half an hour to regain his senses. His hands shook and he looked positively green. His first words after his ordeal were the same as his last words before.
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