Séance for a Vampire Read online

  In the circumstances I could say or do little to assure him that such was not the case.

  "Mesmerism, that's it," Armstrong suddenly announced with an air of triumph. Looking at each of us in turn, he nodded decisively. Evidently, during his intervals of abstraction, the young American was working out to his own satisfaction the details of a theory explaining the mystery of Louisa's reappearance.

  " 'Mesmerism'?" the inspector inquired wearily.

  "Yes. As I said before, it has to be some kind of a gang, very well organized, and they've been holding her captive under a hypnotic influence. Nothing else will quite explain all the details, such as Louisa's being compelled to say exactly what they wanted, when she was among us."

  Merivale, whose night must have been very nearly as sleepless as Armstrong's or my own, drew a long, slow breath, and then at last gave vent to his irritation. "See here, sir, we'd better get one or two things straight right now."

  "Yes?"

  Merivale's voice was blunt. "Did you, or did you not, see Miss Louisa Altamont lying dead less than a month ago? Did you not see her put into the family vault?"

  "I... had thought I did." The young American looked grim for a moment. Then his face cleared and he burst out: "But now I know better! Inspector, I am certain that the living girl I saw last night—and touched, and spoke with, in that dark room and on the terrace—I know she was my Louisa. Great God, don't you suppose I could recognize the one I—" For a moment his feelings overcame him.

  Presently, having recovered himself, Armstrong went on in a calmer voice. Evidently it was only now becoming clear in his mind that the great and joyous fact of Louisa's resurrection might not be nearly as obvious to others as it was to him.

  "As to the identity of the poor girl we buried last month... well, the truth is, I was totally mistaken. It's been said that all dead bodies look alike. It was certainly someone who in life must have strongly resembled Louisa."

  Merivale still fixed him with his steady policeman's gaze. "You are asking us to believe that the corpse of some stranger—a body that I suppose was conveniently provided by this gang of which you speak—was put into the Altamont family mausoleum? Under Louisa's name?"

  Armstrong only glared back stubbornly.

  The inspector persisted. "And their motive?"

  "Money."

  "Ah? But I am told that neither of the Kirkaldys has ever asked for money. There was the robbery, of course, though certainly not of any treasure. We have yet to see how that's connected with the rest. And in my experience, sir, people attempting a swindle or extortion may begin by kidnapping. But not by faking a death, or committing murder, and then bringing back a ghost."

  "Inspector, all I know is that last night—"

  Merivale interrupted brutally. "You realize that your theory requires Louisa's parents to have been mistaken, too, at the time of the burial? That they did not know their own daughter?"

  There was a brief pause before Armstrong replied, but his answer when it came was serene with quiet triumph: "They knew her last night. And so did I."

  Merivale was momentarily taken aback. But then, seemingly determined to settle once and for all this theory of a revived Louisa, the inspector returned relentlessly to the attack. "Forgive me, sir, I know these are painful matters, but if we are to take your theory seriously I must probe into them."

  "Go ahead."

  "Very well. My understanding is that the body—that of the drowned girl you buried last month—was not mutilated in any way? In particular, there was no injury about the face?"

  The youth heaved a great sigh. "No. The coroner of course concluded that she had died of drowning. Scarcely a scratch was visible, as I recall. Except for the rigor of death, the girl's face was quite undamaged. But ah, what a difference, now that I look back! How could I have ever been deceived? Dead is dead, while Louisa is so, so essentially, unquenchably alive..."

  Certain ineradicable memories, acquired in 1897, prompted me to break in with a question: "Were there any wounds, even small ones, elsewhere than on the face?"

  Both men looked round blankly at my unexpected interruption. Then Armstrong responded: "Nothing of importance, as far as I know. Now that you mention it, it seems to me that the coroner did mention two small scratches, or punctures, on the throat. But I noticed nothing of the kind. Perhaps the mortician could tell you more about the details of the poor girl's condition—whoever she was."

  Merivale was frowning at an Americanism. " 'Mortician'? You mean the undertaker? Ah, just so." The inspector nodded, then asked: "Once again, either at the time of the tragedy or since, have Louisa's mother or father ever expressed the slightest doubt that the body found on the bank of the river was their daughter's?"

  "They have given no sign of any such uncertainty," Armstrong admitted.

  "Even now?"

  "Even now," Martin reluctantly agreed. It was his turn to sigh. "I talked with both of them just before we left the house. They both realize now that it was truly Louisa who came to us last night—but they insist on regarding her as some kind of ghost, or ectoplasmic form." The young American shook his head in pitying amusement. "They've both been taken in by this spiritualist nonsense."

  And he continued to insist that his beloved Louisa was not dead, had never been dead, but that she had been somehow imprisoned or enslaved, and must be rescued.

  Suddenly, pacing the platform and then spinning round on his heel to confront Merivale, he had a new suggestion: "It occurs to me that there's a simple answer, Inspector. If you doubt what I am telling you, have the body exhumed. If you cannot find the living woman, you know where the dead one lies. There must be, if we look for it, some difference discoverable to prove that that poor girl in the tomb is not Louisa Altamont."

  The inspector growled something to the effect that, unless the girl's parents suggested such a course, he could not consider it.

  I, for my part, endeavored to be comforting, insofar as that was possible without contributing to the false hopes Armstrong had so rapidly built up. The inevitable crash of disillusionment, when it came, would be violent indeed. With our adventure of 1897 in mind, I feared that exhumation might very well disclose inexplicable horror, and I was perfectly certain that nothing in the way of comfort was at all likely to result.

  And yet I could tell no one openly that the conclusion I had drawn from the apparition was quite different from young Armstrong's—and from any speculative theory of Inspector Merivale's. While Armstrong had concentrated entirely on the essential presence of that white figure, I had carefully observed the mystery of its coming and going, the fact of its passing unhindered through locked doors or windows. Above all, I had noted the absence of any reflection in the mirror formed by the windows—and all I had observed had taken me back six years.

  Abruptly the young American, seemingly unable to contain his excitement, and evidently despairing for the moment of making us see the glorious truth, announced that he was driving back to Norberton House at once and asked if the inspector wanted to return with him.

  Merivale shook his head. "No, sir, thank you; I'm going to try to get an hour or two of sleep here at my inn. I'm fair beat, and I've already arranged for a room at the Saracen's Head." The distinctive signboard of that establishment could be seen clearly, swinging slightly in the morning breeze, not a hundred yards from where we were standing, down the main street of the village.

  Armstrong did not delay, but left us with an impatient wave; in a few moments he had cranked his motor into roaring life again, and was gone, leaving a faint cloud of dust hanging in the village air.

  In the ensuing silence, the inspector and I were left alone, at least for a few moments, on the platform at Amberley Station. There were indications that this time alone would be brief, for already the whistle of the oncoming train could be heard and the smoke of its engine was visible above some distant trees.

  Merivale began by informing me frankly that he did not know what to make of the claim t
hat Louisa Altamont might be still alive.

  "See here, Dr. Watson, I'll put my trust in you as a steady, reasonable observer of last night's events. And as a student of the whole affair up to this point. No doubt Mr. Holmes, before he went away, shared with you all his thoughts on the subject?"

  With that the inspector fell silent, assuming an expectant look I found quite irritating. I said: "I am afraid that Mr. Holmes does not always share his thoughts with me. As for last night's apparition, I never approached it quite as closely as did either Armstrong or the Altamonts—or Sherlock Holmes. And of course I was never acquainted with the girl in life."

  "I see." Merivale, hands behind his back, leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. Again, delicately stroking his mustache, he frowned as if he still thought I might be holding something back. "First, in the interest of thoroughness, let me be absolutely clear on one point. Does Mr. Holmes have any theory along that line... that Louisa Altamont might still be living?" His deprecating smile indicated what answer he fully expected to receive.

  I did my best, in my exhausted state, to consider my reply carefully. I was constrained by the fact that, at some future point, it might become necessary, regardless of the risk to my reputation, to reveal all to the police. "I cannot say that he had ruled out the possibility," I responded finally.

  Merivale's jaw dropped, and he stared at me in astonishment. "By all that's holy! You mean the young chap might be right? Then who was it that her parents buried here three weeks ago?"

  Already I regretted my first reply. "Inspector... I will say this much: I believe you would be wise to delay any inquiries along that line until... until you are able to consult with Holmes himself upon the subject."

  Merivale scratched his head, then smoothed his mustache. "Well, I suppose that's not much to ask; Lord knows, there are plenty of trails to follow that look more promising. Those two mediums, to begin with."

  We briefly discussed other aspects of the case, including the mysterious jewel robbery, before my train pulled into the station.

  Merivale's parting advice, as I climbed aboard, was to get some rest. "As I told the young man, Dr. Watson, that's what I intend to do myself. I had a full day yesterday and I'm about at my own limit. A couple of hours' sleep, then back to work. By noon I'll have twenty men on the job here, and I promise you we'll find Mr. Holmes if he's still in the area— and willing to be found."

  I muttered something in response, and repressed an urge to underline for the inspector the fact that neither Holmes nor I had yet turned fifty. Though Merivale had actually said nothing about my age, it seemed to me that in his urging me to rest, there was a certain almost-patronizing tone, that of a grown son or daughter looking after an aged parent. A strong implication that neither Holmes nor I were as young as we once were, and that in dealing with the twentieth century and its affairs, we must expect to find ourselves occasionally too exhausted to keep up.

  In fact I dozed on the train, caring not what the other passengers in my carriage might think.

  It was a little before noon when I disembarked from a cab in Baker Street, and saw the first newspaper headlines proclaiming that Sherlock Holmes had disappeared. Other sensational aspects of the previous night's events were also featured in large print.

  MYSTERIOUS SÉANCE IN BUCKS

  SHERLOCK HOLMES MISSING

  FAMOUS DETECTIVE ABDUCTED TO OTHER WORLD?

  "DEAD" HEIRESS STILL ALIVE?

  It occurred to me that one or more of the servants at Norberton House had very likely been talking to reporters—and only then did I belatedly recall that Armstrong himself was a journalist, probably not loath to report on private matters to his London colleagues if by doing so he thought he could facilitate the search for Louisa.

  I ignored the inspector's well-meant advice to get some rest. (And did my best to put out of my mind his insinuations, however well-founded, on the subject of age.) Instead I nerved myself for my next task, that of summoning a vampire. I fully expected that the experience would not be pleasant, though its exact nature still remained to be discovered.

  8

  On entering our old lodgings in Baker Street, I found two messages awaiting me. Both were notes in the handwriting of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. The first one I happened to pick up was her record of a telephone message, received an hour before my arrival: Count Kulakov—Mrs. Hudson had spelled the name out carefully, in block letters—had telephoned to offer me his sympathy and would 'phone back at another time. After puzzling briefly over the question of who Count Kulakov might be, I could only conclude that he was an acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes and had already seen the early morning newspapers.

  The second message I considered of vastly greater moment. It recorded another telephone call, this one from Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes's elder brother. Immediately this intelligence drove all thoughts of the unknown Count Kulakov from my mind.

  And in my memory rang certain words Sherlock had said to me at the time of our adventure six years earlier, in the only discussion in which my friend had ever drawn back for me the curtain which concealed from the world the mysterious and terrible events of his own childhood.

  On that occasion Holmes had said: "Watson, you must pledge me this instant, upon your honor, that you will never mention the subject of vampires to my brother Mycroft; it is the one thing that would undo him utterly... Mycroft's childhood must have been worse than mine, for he is seven years my senior, and must have seen more, and understood more at the time... the mere mention of vampires could destroy him."

  Once more I scanned the message from Mycroft. It begged me to telephone him as soon as possible—and of course I moved to comply with this request at once, using the instrument in our sitting room.

  The telephone rang even as I was reaching for it.

  The voice on the line, though distorted somewhat by its passage over the wires, was undeniably that of Mycroft, and called up in my mind's eye a vivid image of the man himself: considerably taller and stouter than his brother, yet bearing a strong family resemblance.

  Mycroft had seen the morning papers with the news of Sherlock's disappearance, and from his agitated manner it was soon evident that certain elements in the story had strongly suggested to his clever brain the horrible truth— that vampires were involved.

  "Watson, tell me the truth—what is happening?"

  "Mr. Holmes—" I began.

  "Watson, I beg of you, put an end to this damned formality between us! How long have we known each other?"

  "I'll tell you. Almost fifteen years have passed since my brother introduced us. That was at the time of the Affair, as you called it, of the Greek Interpreter."

  "Is it really fifteen years, then?"

  "It is indeed. Consult your records if you doubt the fact. No doubt you would find it difficult, and perhaps confusing, to call me simply 'Holmes,' as you and Sherlock cling so obstinately to that form of address between yourselves. But this is an emergency, and 'Mr. Holmes' is no longer acceptable. Therefore, from now on I intend to call you 'John,' and you will call me by my Christian name as well."

  "Mycroft, then," I responded. But my heart sank when I considered what I ought to say to Mycroft next.

  He was too impatient to wait be addressed. "It is true, then, that Sherlock has disappeared?"

  "I fear so."

  "Does the matter really stand substantially as the newspaper stories have it?"

  "I have not yet read them—I have seen only the headlines. I am afraid—"

  "Then the most startling particulars are true—I mean, that he has been carried off by—how does the newspaper put it?—by 'some mysterious agency'? Following—what does it say?—'an attempt to communicate with the spirits of the dead'?"

  "I suppose the stories are substantially correct," I admitted. "Although I have not read them yet. The attempt was made to reach one spirit only," I amended—and again could not think of what I ought to say next.

  "The spirit of the recently deceased yo
ung woman, Louisa Altamont?"

  "Yes. At the request of her parents... of her mother in particular."

  "And you are telling me that this attempt to reach beyond the grave... in some way succeeded?" I could sense him waiting with a feverish concentration for my answer.

  "I..."

  Mycroft's keen brain—his brother considered him his intellectual superior—evidently read volumes into my sheer clumsy hesitation. "I beg of you, John, tell me the truth. Tell me all you know about the 'mysterious agency' that carried Sherlock off."

  "It was a human agency, of that much I am sure."

  "One man?"

  "I believe so, yes."

  "A man, I take it, of phenomenal powers—of a truly extraordinary nature?"

  "Yes, Mycroft. Yes."

  There came over the wire what sounded like a despairing sigh. "John, I am going to ring off now. I am coming round to Baker Street to see you." This announcement, to anyone who knew Mycroft's fixed habits, was startling in the extreme. "I have in hand another matter or two of the greatest urgency, requiring my attention first. But you may expect me within the hour."

  Mrs. Hudson, who had also seen the newspapers, was naturally disturbed by my confirmation of the fact that Holmes was missing. But, as she reminded me with determined cheerfulness, we had weathered many a crisis in the past; and this latest difficulty did not delay her orders that my bath be drawn at once, and that a hearty breakfast be made ready for me when I came down to the sitting room shortly after noon.

  Freshly bathed, shaved, dressed, and fed, I felt my energies somewhat renewed. Still I had to force myself to put aside my worries concerning Mycroft, and all other matters not bearing directly on the problem at hand, and concentrate upon the effort now required of me, to establish contact with Prince Dracula. This task had been the reason for my return to London.