“Well…no.”
“Others in the line? Surely one would alert the rest. I have heard nothing.”
Irene frowned. “Perhaps they are still formulating their demands.”
Holmes shook his head sharply. “Ridiculous. Come on. You are brighter than this.”
Irene stood and drew herself up to her full height. “All right, then, not ransom!”
“And not hounds,” I said.
For a moment I thought she might pounce upon me. My skin prickled with the anticipation of transformation and delicious violence to follow. But she only said, “If not the bloody hounds, then whom?”
“Other vampires,” said Holmes. “A rival bloodline.”
Irene closed her eyes briefly and sank back into my chair. “I confess I did think of that myself. But again, to what end? Godfrey was on reasonable terms with others of his status. He obeyed the laws as far as who and how many to turn, cleaning up after feedings, keeping our secrets.”
Sherlock tapped his chin absently. “If not rivalry and not ransom then we are left with precious few motives from which to choose.” His expression brightened. “There is only one thing for it. We must put aside our speculations and prejudices. Find the clues and follow them to their logical conclusion, no matter how unlikely.”
“Where do we begin?” I tried not to sound overly excited. Irene and I may never be friends, but it was still unseemly to appear eager over a client’s misfortune. In truth, though, I was almost as stir-crazy as Holmes and the thought of new work filled me with anticipation.
“I assume you did not report the crime scene to the authorities—human or heads of other bloodlines.”
“Of course not. Far too risky on both fronts. And I was very careful not to disturb the scene.” She gave him a brief smile. “I knew you would prefer it pristine.”
He bowed his head. “Then we begin at Godfrey Norton, Esquire, and padre nostro’s abode. Just outside New York City, you said?”
“Only about an hour and a half’s ride from here. My car is parked just outside.”
“Then let us away.” Holmes was sweeping toward the door before the final syllable had left his mouth.
Irene and I exchanged glances. For this case alone, for his sake, a truce is declared. We nodded our mutual agreement and followed in Holmes’s wake.
• • •
We were standing in the midst of the wreckage that had been a sumptuous parlor. Norton’s country home was a pricey affair set in a town where very large houses were positioned very far away from one another. “Fathering bloodlines pays rather well, eh?” I said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Being a successful attorney for several centuries certainly does,” Irene replied.
Holmes ignored us as he continued inspecting and discarding objects, peering behind draperies and under sofa cushions. Finally, he slammed down a throw pillow as though it had insulted his integrity. “Damn it all, how am I supposed to concentrate with all this stale blood in my nostrils?”
His fangs were more obvious than normal. “Steady on, old friend,” I said.
“This is your curse upon me, Mrs. Norton. My mind distracted by hunger, like a champion dog losing a race because he caught scent of fresh sausages!”
I tried not to be offended.
Irene folded her arms beneath her bosom. “It is not my fault, Mr. Holmes, that you have yet to master your appetites. You men, always assuming you can figure these things out for yourselves, only to…” She shook her head, and nodded in my direction. “Even the actual dog in the room shows greater restraint!”
“Excuse me,” I began indignantly.
Holmes cut me off. “Yes, well, perhaps he can use his discipline to come up with the clue that is utterly eluding me!”
“Perhaps I can,” I snapped. Then I realized that my keen sense of smell probably could be of service. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply over one of the larger blood spatters staining the oriental carpet. Establishing Norton’s scent, I proceeded to circle the room, inhaling deeply. I identified household odors like cleaning formulas and toiletries and discounted them.
“Anything?” asked Holmes, impatience underscoring the word.
I spotted a large, overstuffed chair with a footrest that showed significant wear. Surely the favorite of the master of the house—we gents all have our preferred thrones. Remembering Irene’s territorial violation back at our flat, I made my way over to it. Pressing my nose against the headrest, I sniffed, raised my head triumphantly, and proclaimed, “Ah, there it is.”
Holmes read me immediately. “Of course!” He appeared at my side in that disconcerting way vampires have, where you never see them move yet they’re suddenly there.
“What are you on about?” Irene’s gaze flitted between us.
Holmes tapped the chair. “As we have established that this is the site of abduction, not murder, and yet there were no signs of either doors or windows having been forced, we can only conclude that your husband knew his foe. In fact, he invited him inside.”
I said, “This chair is well worn. A favorite, I presume?”
“Yet the most recent occupant was not Norton,” said Holmes. “Now, if I have a favorite seat and invite an acquaintance over, I would ask them to sit across from me, while taking my preferred perch.” He nodded to the comfortable-looking but far less worn chairs across from Norton’s. “A good guest would never presume to sit in the master of the house’s favorite. However, this person did.”
“A deliberate affront,” I said pointedly.
“Exactly. So he welcomed a single visitor only to be insulted, and then assaulted by the same.” Holmes vanished. A moment later he cried, “Kitchen!”
Irene and I joined him. He tapped an answering machine attached to a landline telephone. “The older we vampires become the less we tend to keep up with the times.”
“True enough,” murmured Irene as Holmes pressed the rewind and then play buttons.
There were twenty-odd messages from clients and repairpersons, and several hang-ups. And then: “Godfrey Norton, I am a child of the Inner Temple line. Tomorrow you will expect me within the first hour after sundown. I have a proposition you must consider.” The machine identified the message as having been left nearly five weeks prior.
“There you have it. Another vampire is the culprit.” I felt vindicated.
Holmes was scowling in that way he had when unraveling a particularly knotty problem. Drumming his fingers on the granite countertop, he said, “This recording has been here all along. Did it not occur to you to check it the first time?”
Irene shrugged with one shoulder. “I was much disturbed after confronting the gory scene and fled immediately. After all, someone had overcome the paterfamilias. What chance would I have stood if they were lying in wait?”
“Quite reasonable. Did you recognize that final caller?”
Her expression was neutral but I sensed it was taking her much effort to create that illusion. “I did not.”
Holmes regarded her with one eyebrow cocked. “Really. You are going to try to deceive me?”
Their gazes met and held for several seconds. She faltered first. “I may have detected something familiar. It has been a very long time.”
“Indeed it has.” Holmes turned to me. “Tell me exactly what you smelled upon that chair. Every individual odor.”
I shrugged. “Hair pomade with a musky scent. A touch of cologne—”
“Cheap? Common?”
“Well, I am no expert, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say expensive. The elements used in its construction were—”
“So, wealthy and vainglorious,” said Holmes, waving away the rest of my data. “And that accent.”
“Distinctly European,” I said. “And rather formal for modern times.”
“You did not recognize it?”
“Well, it sounded a bit Slavic, I suppose, or perhaps—Germanic?”
“Top marks.” Holmes clapped me on the
shoulder. “It is difficult to identify an accent from a country that no longer exists. Specifically, the distinctive cadence of old Bohemian nobility.”
“Bohemia?” I echoed as Irene flinched. “Well, isn’t that intriguing?”
We positioned ourselves in front of her as she studiously avoided our gazes. “Indeed,” said Holmes, “considering the original case that brought you into my—our lives. So, do tell, why is yet another Bohemian nobleman cross with you?”
Irene drew a deep breath and released it, slowly. “Because…it isn’t another Bohemian nobleman. It is the same one.”
“You mean—” I began.
“Yes, damn it!” Composing herself, she continued. “That was none other than Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein. Briefly the King of Bohemia.”
Our silence was met with defiance. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. Surely you figured out decades ago that that silly photograph was never why he was so desperate to find me.”
“You had turned him.” Holmes’s tone contained a hint of betrayal. “That was the true blackmail he feared then.”
“I was still young and foolish, and he was going to be king. He craved immortality—you know how monarchs can be, never wanting their reigns to end. He made me heady promises in exchange for my gift.”
“But, as I recall, he ultimately abdicated,” I said. “Although the scandal of your encounter never came to light, he yielded to a younger brother and vanished from courtly life.”
“Yes, and the reason for that was kept well hidden,” said Holmes. “Except, of course, the whispers our kind can never completely silence.”
“About?”
“Disappearances. Suspicious deaths, including that of Clotilde, his bride and the daughter of the Scandinavian king. The Bohemian court did not wish to be associated with the kind of scandal that threatened the British monarchy during the time of the Ripper.”
Irene pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. “Wilhelm was locked away and his brother installed in his stead. Couldn’t control his urges.” She cast a sidelong look at Holmes. “Or didn’t want to.”
“So, after centuries, he tracks down your erstwhile spouse. To destroy him and thus end his own miserable existence?” I asked.
“If that were the case, the deed would already have been done,” said Holmes, as Irene shuddered. “No, Norton is merely the bait to draw her out. We can only assume that your ex-husband still harbors enough loyalty to continue protecting you, or you would have been approached months ago.”
“So much for your gift,” I said, nodding in understanding. “Instead of ruling for eternity, or at least for as long a reign as he could have gotten away with before his subjects questioned his longevity, he wound up imprisoned, likely until Bohemia itself ceased to be. Motive enough, eh?”
Holmes gave me a look I could only describe as vaguely disappointed. But rather than enlighten me as to how I had misspoken, he said, “So, if it is you the deposed king seeks then to retrieve Norton we need only offer up his prize.”
Irene glared. “I am to be sacrificed in Godfrey’s stead?”
Holmes studied the fingernails of his right hand as though they were of far greater interest than Irene or Norton’s fates. “Or we can wait and see if the ex-king chooses to end his misery by lopping off Norton’s head. Of course, we will only know of his decision when you and I and the rest of our line crumble into dust.”
Irene opened her mouth, appeared to reconsider, and snapped it shut again. Her eyes glimmered with the keen intellect that had so impressed Holmes all those years ago. I could almost see her running calculations: What should I say next? What will benefit me most?
At last, she said, “Your point is well taken. You and your loyal—friend—will keep me safe?”
“You are a paying client,” sniffed Holmes. “Therefore, we shall do everything in our considerable power to ensure your safety.”
Irene frowned. “Is that all I am, then?” When he didn’t respond, she nodded. “So, how do we let Wilhelm know that I want to meet?”
In response, Holmes tapped the answering machine. “Apparently, the former king is not up on the latest technology either, as he didn’t bother to erase this evidence—or he deliberately left the machine untouched in hopes you would play it and respond when you inevitably found this place. In which case, he is probably quite cross that you originally fled the scene without further investigation.” He picked up the receiver and held it out to Irene. “But better late than never, eh?”
• • •
The deposed king wasted no time sending a car around for us, driven by a ghoul whose stench made the ride supremely unpleasant. The large, misshapen creature drove us over hill and dale to a remote, abandoned campground. Upon arrival we were ushered into a rundown lodge decorated in cobwebs, abandoned rough-hewn furnishings, and rotting wood. In the midst of the sizable main room slumped a badly beaten vampire. Iron nails fastened his hands above his head to a thick wooden pole at his back. His feet were nailed to the floor.
Irene caught sight of the piteous figure of her once-beloved and gasped. “Oh, Godfrey. I am so very sorry!” She dashed to his side and crouched beside her miserable ex-husband, hands cupping his face, a portrait of spousal tenderness and concern.
“That was almost believable,” murmured Holmes.
Before I could ask him to clarify, Grand Duke Wilhelm von so forth and so on entered the room from a side door. He looked much as I remembered him—at least six feet six inches tall and broad as an American footballer. He was flanked by two equally sizable human men who bore stakes and mallets strapped to their hips, and two ghouls who could have been twins to our driver in appearance and stench.
Our driver-cum-escort planted his ham-sized hands on our shoulders and propelled us forward to stand directly before Wilhelm. He released us but maintained his position directly at our backs.
Holmes glanced over his shoulder at the brute, grinned, and winked as though making a friendly promise. The ghoul snarled in return.
Wilhelm diverted our attention. “Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. How unexpected to make your acquaintance again after so long. I suppose thanks are in order, as you have finally, at long last, retrieved for me Miss Adler.”
Holmes shrugged. “I doubt that indiscreet photograph still troubles you. So, tell me, your majest—oh, sorry, I suppose that title is no longer accurate.”
Wilhelm bared his fangs. “I am once king and forever. No one could strip me of my birthright!”
“Yet your family did exactly that,” Holmes pointed out. “How unfortunate. The last time we met, you had everything you wanted—a bride, a vast inheritance, and reassurance Mrs. Norton would not upset any of it.”
“She had already, though the extent of her betrayal was unknown to me at the time.” Wilhelm snatched Irene around the bicep and hauled her up so quickly her feet actually lost contact with the floor.
I sensed tension from Holmes beside me and anticipated his flight to her defense. Instead, he folded his arms and continued as though nothing untoward were happening. “I do sympathize, I truly do. She didn’t consult me before turning me, either.”
Irene, wincing in pain, shot Holmes a demanding look: What are you doing?
“No, Mr. Holmes. What this creature did to me was far more devious.” Wilhelm gave Irene a shake that rattled her teeth. “She seduced me as a woman before purring in my ear that she could offer me so much more. An eternity of wealth and privilege. A moment’s discomfort spent passing from Leben, then to rise again and rule forever—first as myself, later by passing as my own descendants. A pretty lie, ja?”
Norton groaned and opened his swollen eyes. My training called. “Please, this man needs a doctor. Allow me to tend to him—”
“Bah, he does not matter now, beyond living on so that we all might.” Wilhelm waved me over to Norton.
I crouched by his side, tending to him as best I could. Holmes’s continued existence was motivati
on enough, although I must admit I had a certain professional curiosity.
“Why aren’t you healing?” I whispered in Norton’s ear.
At first, all he could manage was a moan, but then he forced out, “Injected…poison.”
What poison could possibly affect a vampire, particularly a paterfamilias? I sniffed close to his jugular vein. Ah, there it is. “He injected you with garlic oil?”
“Please.” Norton whimpered. “It. Hurts. Help—”
“I will do what I can.” I didn’t have my bag with me, and even if I had I would have lacked the equipment needed to filter the oil out. All I could do was assess his outward injuries, which were numerous. He hadn’t succumbed to the huge Habsburg easily. No doubt he’d been tortured since his capture as well.
Something else troubled me as I examined Norton—his demeanor. As I realigned his broken bones, he whinged and groaned, and I swear I saw bloody tears beading in the corners of his eyes. Granted, he had been grievously abused, but still. Where was the strength, the taciturn nature of a vampire lord? A doctor shouldn’t judge but as a fellow night creature I couldn’t help but take Norton’s measure and find him—lacking.
My attention was drawn back to the discussion between Holmes and Wilhelm, who was saying, “…believed she could capitalize on my favor, that I would make her my queen someday. As though this low-born creature were worthy of such an honor!”
At this, Irene hissed. “You underestimated me, just as men always—” She stopped before finishing the thought, jaw muscles bunching visibly beneath her pale skin.
“It hardly matters now.” Holmes still sounded as though they were all chatting over tea. “Bohemia does not even exist anymore. I am sure since you regained your freedom you were wily enough to sock away enough for a rainy immortality. Your relatives who deposed and imprisoned you for your—appetites—are dust. So, you have scant cause to wish Mrs. Norton ill anymore.”
Holmes held out his hand, palm up. “Allow us to collect the poor remains of her love and depart. You have punished the paterfamilias ultimately responsible for all our conditions, and as you can see by Mrs. Norton’s demeanor, she is most upset by her beloved’s injuries, so you have punished her as well. Your revenge is complete.”
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