Séance for a Vampire Page 15

  Presently, seating himself again, he resumed the narrative of his captivity. "Our criminal's accent is Russian, I should say. Though I have some small knowledge of the language, I cannot be absolutely sure—perhaps his native tongue is some antique dialect of Russian. That would suggest that he is of considerable age. Definitely he is a native speaker of one of the Slavic languages; with years, perhaps centuries, of intermittent practice in the English tongue, yet still the traces linger."

  "Holmes—"

  He turned to me with an inquiring look.

  "Holmes, is the name 'Count Kulakov' familiar to you?"

  He thought for a moment. "No. Who is he?"

  "I ask because a man of that name 'phoned to Baker Street and left a message of sympathy for me."

  "Sympathy? Because of my supposed demise?"

  "I assumed that was the reason. The name sounds Russian, and your mention just now—"

  "Quite so." My friend was frowning. "Count Kulakov. But no, I am acquainted with no one... well, we shall see."

  Dracula, who had been listening intently, asked: "And you really can give no reason why you were spared?"

  "I cannot. Perhaps, as I half-seriously suggested a moment ago, it was out of a mere uncertainty as to what to do with me. During the hour or more that I was in the immediate presence of my enemy, I am sure that there were intervals, some lasting a full minute, when he was not entirely aware of everything about him. Could I have freed myself from my bonds during one of those periods, I might have been able to escape. But the cord was strong, the knots were skillfully tied, and I was not allowed time to overcome them."

  "You say he was 'not entirely aware'?"

  "That is understating the case. The actuality was something more frightening; the word 'catalepsy' comes to mind. It was rather as if my antagonist were functioning in a trance, or under some kind of posthypnotic suggestion."

  Dracula and I were both intrigued by the medical possibilities, and the prince urged his cousin to give us more details.

  Holmes did his best to provide them. The foreign vampire had sat immobile for minutes at a time, staring at nothing, as far as Holmes had been able to discern, except the very darkness of the night. "Again, the suggestion of real insanity looms. Had he been a breathing man, I should have strongly suspected epilepsy, or drugs."

  At this, Dracula shook his head doubtfully. "Among us, both epilepsy and drug use of any kind are practically unheard of." The prince paused before adding, with evident reluctance: "Unfortunately, we do have cases of insanity." He paused again before admitting: "And they are not particularly rare."

  Holmes turned toward his cousin. "Prince, he may have given us a valuable clue. There was a certain name he uttered—I do not think it was his own, but he pronounced it more than once. Does the name 'Gregory Efimovitch' mean anything to you?"

  Dracula shrugged minimally. "Male. A Christian name and patronymic, according to the Russian style of address."

  "Of course. But—?"

  Our vampire colleague shook his head. "No. As the name of an individual, it means nothing to me. No more than does 'Count Kulakov.' Well, possibly they are the same."

  Holmes returned to the question of Louisa Altamont. His brief observation of that young woman when she appeared at the séance had been enough to convince him, even as I was convinced, that she had definitely passed into the nosferatu state. But my friend had seen nothing of her; indeed, he had seen or heard no one but his captor during the period of his captivity. He was keenly interested when Dracula reported that Louisa's tomb was occupied by a living member of that race.

  "We must call upon her, Prince." Holmes consulted his watch. "Tonight, if at all possible."

  " 'Call upon her'?" I asked, puzzled.

  "In her tomb, Watson, in her tomb!" Even as I shuddered inwardly, I took comfort in the fact that my companion had so far recovered as to display a flash of his old impatience.

  Prince Dracula took the suggestion with perfect calm. "To arrange a conversation with the young one who now sleeps among her ancestors should not be too difficult. It may be that in the process, we will encounter the one who put her there as well." He smiled. "If so, that problem at least may be rather quickly settled."

  The detective now turned his attention to me and requested that I give him a more detailed account of the events in and near the house following the séance. I complied, describing as fully as I could the savage attack on Abraham Kirkaldy, my conversations the next morning with Armstrong and Merivale, and the subsequent attempt to murder me in London.

  Holmes reacted with considerable alarm upon hearing a partial account of my communications with Mycroft.

  He beat a fist softly upon the arm of his chair. "But this I did not expect! I must telephone—no, I prefer not to appear in public just yet. Let my survival remain a secret, if possible, for a little longer. Watson, you must find a telephone at once. Call Mycroft and reassure him regarding my safety." "Cousin Sherlock," interposed Prince Dracula, "before you do that, allow me to make a suggestion."

  12

  The prince proceeded with a formal request for our opinions on a plan that had suggested itself to him. This involved returning to the chapel and there setting up an ambush in force, with the object of trapping the slayer and kidnapper when the latter sooner or later returned to the hidden crypt. But Holmes immediately though diplomatically expressed grave doubts regarding the likelihood of success and soon we had all agreed that the idea was untenable. After all, Holmes had lain in confinement from very early on Wednesday morning until around midday on Thursday, and the villain had not returned to the crypt during that interval. Given his evidently uncertain mental state, it seemed perfectly possible that he might never go back at all.

  With that decided, our next step was to communicate with Mycroft. Knowing the extreme regularity of the man's habits, I felt confident of being able to reach him at his desk at the ministry—or at the Diogenes Club during the evening, from a quarter to five till twenty to eight. After that, he was sure to be found in his rooms just opposite the club, across Pall Mall.

  The Saracen's Head, like most other inns, boasted a telephone. But since the instrument was located on the ground floor, any conversation conducted there might be uncomfortably public. Other 'phones were sure to be available somewhere in the village—at the other inns, and at the railroad station if nowhere else—but I felt that a similar problem would surely arise whichever one we attempted to use.

  The prince, always at his best when faced with an immediate tactical problem, quickly suggested a scheme to enable me to conduct my call to London without being overheard. Dracula proceeded me downstairs and went into the public room, from whence, a moment later, I heard his voice raised in unfamiliar tones, calling jovially for a round of drinks for the house. With bewildering facility, he had adopted the character of a commercial traveler. When I presently followed my ally downstairs, all potential eavesdroppers were concentrating eagerly upon a story of amatory adventure, as thoroughly improbable as it was distracting. This tale was scarcely concluded before it was followed by another. In using the telephone, my only remaining problem would be the occasional wave of boisterous laughter emanating from the pub down the hall, which might interfere somewhat with hearing.

  Reasonably confident now of privacy, I put through my call and had the satisfaction of promptly reaching Mycroft—the further satisfaction of remembering to call him by that name, and of being able to assure him that his brother was now safe.

  "But," I added, "he wishes to remain for a time out of view, and so has sent me to the telephone."

  "Thank God!" came the heartfelt sentiment across the wires. "Sherlock has come through what must have been a terrible experience. Can you tell me whether the precise nature of it was... was...?" It seemed that there were certain words Mycroft could not quite bring himself to say.

  "It was, I regret to say, of the kind that we discussed in London. But he has come through it well."

&nb
sp; "Thank you, John, for your honesty." Again the voice on the other end was quavering. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "There may be several things." We conferred briefly, quickly agreeing that there was no immediate need for Mycroft to come to Amberley.

  "I was not looking forward to the journey. Tell me, what does Sherlock request?"

  "First, that you gather and pass along any information currently available on any unusual activity you can discover taking place in the Russian immigrant community in London."

  "A large order." Mycroft sighed faintly, a sound of relaxation indicating, I thought, that the fact of his brother's current safety was sinking in, and that he was looking forward to being able to resume his own regular activities, which consisted almost entirely of the gathering and ordering of information.

  After a moment's thought, Mycroft continued: "Just now we have in London the unity conference of the Social Democratic Party, which includes in its membership Russians as well as many other nationalities. The gathering has just moved here from Brussels, with the encouragement, not to say prodding, of the Belgian police. There are several prize rascals to be found among the delegates, along with a number of sincere reformers. Actually, I was studying the dossier of one of the men only this afternoon, trying to decide in which category he belongs."

  "Not," I asked, "that of a man named Gregory Efimovitch?"

  "Who is that?"

  I did my best to explain. There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. "No, John," Mycroft answered presently. "The information on my desk concerns one Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, age thirty-three. A writer of revolutionary propaganda, under the pen name 'Lenin.' I don't see how this Ulyanov, or Lenin, can be your Gregory Efimovitch."

  Nor did I. Mycroft, provided with such details as I could offer, promised to do his best to ascertain whether anyone prominent in the revolutionary intrigues, on either side, bore that particular Christian name and patronymic. Currently, the appellation was as unfamiliar to him as it had been to any of us.

  Sherlock had given me several additional requests to pass along to Mycroft: First, pursuing the idea of a mysterious treasure, my friend wished to learn the origins of the Altamont fortune—not a difficult task for one who, like Mycroft in his position of power behind the scenes, had the whole resources of the British government at his fingertips when he felt it necessary to call upon them.

  Second, Sherlock had also inquired whether there were any Russians or other Eastern Europeans known to be living or visiting in the vicinity of Amberley.

  Our 'phone conversation was soon concluded, without either of us mentioning directly the once totally forbidden subject of vampires. Still, I felt justified in concluding that Mycroft had successfully adjusted to the facts of the situation and was bearing up better than his brother would ever have predicted.

  Perhaps I had better explain to my readers that Mycroft Holmes, though he received very little publicity or recognition, at times almost was the British government. I thought it perfectly possible that in that capacity he might already have some information regarding Count Kulakov.

  This supposition proved correct. Within two hours Mycroft had 'phoned back to me at the Saracen's Head, to pass along the information that several months ago a Russian gentleman named Alexander Ilyitch Kulakov had taken a country house within a few miles of the Altamonts' estate.

  While I was engaged in this second call, Prince Dracula had once more entered the public bar and resumed his role of entertainer. Still, I refrained from saying openly on the telephone that we were facing the definite possibility that this Kulakov and our mysterious vampire were one and the same.

  "Is there anything more you can tell me about him—Mycroft? It may be vitally important."

  "Yes, John, actually there is a fair amount of information." And Mycroft relayed to me the suspicions then current in British intelligence circles, that the Russian count was quite likely mixed up in the conflict between terrorist revolutionaries and the Okhrana, or Tsarist secret police. Each of these parties was known to have agents in England. Some people, men and women, were double agents, trying to play both sides.

  "And his personal description, Mycroft—his appearance?"

  "I have never laid eyes on the man myself. But he is described as tall and well built, about forty years of age. Has red hair and beard and greenish, peculiar eyes. He seems to be heir to some remote but extensive Siberian estates that were his father's and grandfather's before him. Another—"

  "Red hair," I repeated. "And beard. Tall and powerful. Even green eyes."

  "That is the description I have been given."

  Mycroft had more information at his fingertips. The Russian count had apparently come to England unaccompanied save for a faithful servant or two. Our own intelligence service supposed him, and doubtless his servants as well, to be involved, in some way hard to determine, in the ongoing duel of secret agents between the monarchy and the revolutionaries.

  There was still more. Mycroft had discovered a dossier on one man bearing the given name and patronymic of Gregory Efimovitch, who had attained a fair degree of prominence in the intrigues among Russian exiles, and Mycroft had already set in motion an investigation to determine his current whereabouts.

  "Can we establish any connection," I asked, "between this man and Kulakov?"

  "So far I cannot. But sooner or later we will discover the link if it exists."

  Presently I rang off the telephone, looked in at the public bar to let my colleague know the latest call had been completed, and preceded him back to our rooms to report to Holmes.

  On my arrival upstairs I found my friend in conversation with Martin Armstrong and Rebecca Altamont, both of them much restored in appearance from the last time I had seen them.

  Armstrong and Rebecca Altamont had each awakened in Baker Street shortly after noon that day, Thursday, and had been promptly handed my messages by Mrs. Hudson. After our landlady had provided them with a hasty meal, the young people had come rushing back to Amberley on the first train available. The two appeared at the Saracen's Head at seven o'clock on Thursday evening, after having stopped first at Norberton House to bathe and change.

  They came to our inn partly with the intention of seeing Inspector Merivale, who also occupied a room there. Further, Holmes had said he wanted to see Armstrong, and I had sent a message to Norberton House—where any request from me was rather coldly received—asking the young American to call on me.

  On the arrival of Armstrong and Miss Altamont, Holmes had ordered tea to be served in our rooms, and I found him entertaining our visitors there.

  Prince Dracula, now once more relieved from his duties in the bar downstairs, looked in, and I had introductions to perform. "This is Mr. Prince," I said, using an alias we had agreed on earlier, "who has come down from London with me. He is another associate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

  Prince Dracula had been looking forward to a well-earned sleep, in his own room, during the day's remaining daylight hours. But he was also eager to meet these people who were so deeply involved in our mystery. "How do you do?"

  I thought that Rebecca Altamont colored slightly when Dracula bowed and greeted her with continental politeness—an assured manner which clearly indicated his noble origins.

  Later, I heard from both Martin Armstrong and Miss Altamont, that they on seeing Dracula for the first time, had taken note, as I had myself, of the strong resemblance between the cousins. Though neither of the young people said anything at the time of their introduction, both, as they told me later, were ready to believe there was some family connection. Still, I thought the present likeness not as great as it had been six years earlier; my friend, I realized, had aged perceptibly in that interval—the change was more noticeable in the hours immediately following his confinement—while Holmes's distant relative impressed me as looking even younger in 1903 than he had in 1897.

  Both Miss Altamont and Armstrong, of course, were delighted to learn that Holmes had
managed to avoid serious injury while in captivity. Soon the young man eagerly demanded of my friend what news he might have of Louisa.

  Holmes shook his head. "There is no news directly; I did not see her, or hear her name mentioned."

  The American's face fell. "But you know now who her captors are? They must be the same men who held you."

  "Very likely. But as yet, I can tell you nothing on that score."

  Rebecca broke in: "At least you can tell us whether my sister is still alive? You now have evidence of that?"

  Holmes looked very grave. "I am afraid I cannot promise you an answer on that point either."

  Armstrong leaped to his feet. "What do you mean? God! Don't tell me the scum have killed her after all? Or that they have... have..."

  "I said that I can promise you nothing. But perhaps I can show you something that has a bearing on Louisa's fate. Can you come with me tonight?"

  "Of course—wherever you wish!"

  "Am I to be excluded?" demanded the young woman.

  "By no means." But then Holmes turned to face Armstrong fully, and my friend's expression was grim. "In return, Mr. Armstrong, I require complete candor on your part. Will you now tell us the full story of how the rowboat was capsized?" Holmes's expression had grown still more ominous. "I am convinced that in your earlier account of the matter to us, you omitted certain details of great importance."

  At this key point, our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Merivale. Soon Armstrong, in the presence of Scotland Yard, admitted that there was something he had not told.

  While Rebecca Altamont, her face suddenly pale, sat back in her chair, the inspector demanded: "Why did you say nothing about this until now?"

  Armstrong looked pleadingly from one of us to another. "Gentlemen, it was so strange a thing that I couldn't bring myself to mention it. But now—now that we know Louisa's still alive—why, it's plain that whatever is going on must be very strange indeed. And this odd piece will fit in with the rest somehow." He turned an appealing look in my direction. "Do you see what I mean, Doctor?"