The Holmes-Dracula File d-2 Read online

  The murder had rather driven thoughts of Miss Sarah Tarlton's problem from my mind. "But by whom, Holmes? Surely none of the regular laboratories would stoop…"

  "Of course they would not. But someone has. And if we can find out where these unknown experimenters are obtaining their subjects, we might be close to learning their identity and the nature of their work. So this morning I carried out a quick survey of all the legal, respectable suppliers of experimental animals in London, and convinced myself that none of them has lately enjoyed a marked increase in business.

  "What, then, of the illegal or informal sources? To test them I dispatched young Murray, and several of his associates in this year's active corps of the Irregulars; with the results that have just given you cause to wonder."

  Holmes knocked out his pipe into the fireplace, and reached for his violin. But before beginning to play, he faced me with a distant, abstracted look. "Has it occurred to you, Watson, that our two most recent cases have something in common?"

  "The warehouse from which John Scott's things were removed is no great distance from the dock where the body of the unfortunate woman was found."

  "True. But I had in mind a feature odder than mere geographical proximity."

  "An involvement with out-of-the-ordinary medical materials."

  Holmes nodded. "Precisely."

  "Something of the sort did cross my mind," I admitted, then located a paper in my coat pocket, and brought it out. "Here is the copy you gave me of Peter Moore's inventory of the material taken from the warehouse. I have looked into it, and find no specific mention of any shirt like the one on the pier."

  "Quite true." Gazing abstractedly past me. Holmes drew from his violin a thin, wild note. "But then Peter Moore did not have time to catalogue all the equipment before it was removed. Watson—"

  "Yes?"

  "Would a peculiar shirt of that type be likely to be of any use to a scientist studying plague?"

  "In some cases, the victim may be driven to the maddest violence by delirium and excruciating pain."

  "The human victim."

  "Yes, of course."

  Holmes put down his violin as abruptly as he had taken it up. "I find, Watson, that the time for concentrated mental effort has not yet arrived. Or perhaps I am simply not capable of it at the moment."

  "My dear chap!"

  "No, no, I am not ill. But this business of the killing on the docks…" Once more Holmes let his words trail off.

  "I can see it has affected you. Is it possible that you recognized the victim?"

  "I did not."

  "Do you think Lestrade will find the escaped madman he is looking for?"

  "I trust he will." Never before had I heard such genuine fervor in Sherlock Holmes' voice when he was wishing his professional rivals success. "If he fails to do so… then I shall have to take a hand, in earnest. And I tell you, Watson, that I would rather not."

  Holmes turned to face me directly as he spoke these last words, and in his speech and manner there was such an unusual depth of feeling that I stepped forward and laid a hand upon his arm. "I think it will be better, Holmes, for you to take a holiday. London in summer is not the most—"

  "Bah!" He shook me off impatiently. "Do not talk to me now of holidays. Perhaps after this affair on the docks is settled." As if to himself he added: "Oh, but it is an offense to sanity."

  "You mean the killer is insane? But that is surely not uncommon in a murderer."

  "I do not mean the killer's motive; or not that alone." Holmes paused, looking at me as if with a kind of silent pleading.

  At last I prompted: "I must say that the case of John Scott does not appear to me any plainer."

  He smiled lightly. "Nor to me, as yet. But that is because that puzzle is incomplete. When I have more of the pieces in hand, I feel sure that they will fall together. But in the puzzle of the killing on the docks, I fear, Watson, that one of the pieces may be of the wrong shape. And what shall we make of that, hey?" Holmes' manner was now grown positively feverish. Emotions I could not identify had him in their grip. "And if the two cases should be connected, Watson, where does the connection stop? What if the whole world is destined to be the wrong shape, after all?" I was now genuinely alarmed. "Holmes, you must abandon this case at once. As your doctor, I insist that you must put it aside and rest."

  "No, Watson." What effort of will it may have cost him I shall never know, but in a few seconds my friend managed to appear fully in control of himself and as formidable as ever. "With regard to other work, I shall take your advice. But it is absolutely impossible that I should abandon either of these two cases until they are solved, or until I am convinced at least that it is safe and proper for me to do so."

  As I stood in silence, not knowing what to think or do. Holmes, now looking perfectly normal, reached for his hat. "I am going out," he said, "to send a telegram or two to Plymouth, to try to learn if John Scott or his imitator has in fact taken ship from that port recently." He paused, looking at me with concern. "All will be well, old fellow, I assure you."

  I shook my head. "I wish I were as convinced of that as you seem to be at the moment."

  "Depend upon it." Holmes had never been more masterful.

  I sighed. "Then, if there is anything that I can do—"

  "There on my desk, Watson, are the letters Scott sent to Miss Tarlton from Sumatra. I should be pleased to have your opinion of them. And there is one thing more."

  "You have but to name it."

  "I fear I stand in need of protection—no, not from my enemies this time, Watson, but from my friends—or, at any rate, my clients. In Miss Tarlton I sense the type, fortunately rare, who is only too anxious to assist the hired investigator, and Mr. Moore's note suggests that he shares this tendency. Such excessive zeal may be basically a result of American energy, but it is undoubtedly intensified by the fact that the young lady, at least, has no routine business to occupy her in London . So when they return here, separately or together, I ask you to consider them as your patients, suffering perhaps from anxiety, and to provide them with such attentions and reassurances as may keep them from taking any investigative action on their own, while I am at work upon the case."

  "I see what you mean, Holmes, and of course I shall do the best I can. I wish I might hold out to them some hope."

  "That John Scott still lives? It is a possibility, but I fear that in the end it will be no kindness to those who love him to present it to them as any more than that."

  As soon as Holmes had gone, I picked up the small bundle of letters from his desk and settled myself in a chair with my back to the window. A few minutes spent pondering my friend's condition left me no wiser than before, and, after determining to keep a very close eye on him for further signs of trouble, I took up the top letter and began to read.

  Skimming over those paragraphs which seemed irrelevant to the problem at hand—irrelevant except in that they demonstrated the existence of a stable, affectionate relationship between young Scott and Sarah Tarlton—I quickly located the few passages in the letters describing the scientist's pursuit of the animal that was supposed to spread the plague. There was no sensationalism in Scott's account; I thought that out of consideration for the girl's feelings he must have tried to minimize the dangers. Still his efforts at understatement could not conceal what a truly heroic achievement had been his, in the struggle through mountains, swamp, and jungle, all virtually unexplored, in the face of a thousand dangers and difficulties.

  Success had at last crowned his efforts, and he had taken the animal he sought. I quote here a small portion of a letter written after he had first seen the creature, but before its capture:

  … the stories that reached me at home in which the beast was described as being a great ape, or ape-like, now seem certainly the result of some fabrication or misunderstanding, and I fear I have shipped a great deal of heavy equipment all the way to the South Seas for nothing, and have hired a dozen more porters than I would oth
erwise have needed. It has in fact the appearance and probably the habits of a giant rodent, larger perhaps than the tapir or the capybara.

  This was certainly of interest, though as I read I could not see that it had any particular bearing upon Scott's subsequent disappearance. I worked my way doggedly through the pile of letters, looking especially for anything relating directly to the equipment taken from the warehouse. But of this I found scarcely another mention; an exception, in the last letter Miss Tarlton had received, was the following paragraph:

  … so there it was, safe in our nets at last, for all its squealing and its snarls. Most of the men who had fled soon returned, and there was work for all hands. The first step of course was to take prophylactic measures against ourselves being infected with the plague, which we did with great thoroughness, as I had schooled the men. Now there is no need for you to be at all alarmed on my account, for the fine equipment that Pete and others have provided will let me bring the "critter" home quite safely for study and perhaps even for public exhibition later. I am sure it is of a species absolutely unknown to science until now. Thank God there cannot be many more like it upon the face of the earth; for if it were not under such good control as I will be able to establish, the animal would represent a terror and a potential weapon more fearful than the largest battleship.

  Almost at the end of the same letter, I came across the passage to which Holmes had earlier referred:

  … good news of another sort has come in via the native "grapevine." Another party of Americans or Europeans is said to be camped about ten miles away, on the banks of the Indragiri. I've sent an invitation for them to come for a visit, as I could use some company to share my triumph with.

  I had just finished this last letter when a visitor was announced, who proved to be none other than Mr. Peter Moore. I had expected a man of middle age, but Mr. Moore was still on the youthful side of thirty-five. Well dressed in clothes of modern cut, dark-haired, and of a little more than middle height, he met me with a level though anxious gaze, and a fine manly handshake.

  "Very pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. Sarah tells me you seemed very sympathetic. But of course it's Mr. Holmes that I'm really anxious to talk to. To find out how I can best be of help. Is there any progress yet toward finding John?"

  Despite the young man's open look and generally trustworthy appearance, and his evident anxiety, I felt it wisest in Holmes' absence not to discuss with anyone his thoughts on the matter. Therefore I countered Moore's question with one of my own. "How is Miss Tarlton? I see she has not come with you today."

  "Sarah is… all right, I suppose." Moore gestured wearily. "As well as can be expected, given the burden that she bears. She's a very determined girl, and right now she's determined to control herself and simply wait, having finally put the case in Mr. Holmes' hands."

  "I should say that her policy is a wise one."

  "I'm sure it is. But I'm afraid I just don't have her patience. I had to let you gents know I'm ready and willing to do anything I can to help locate John."

  "Is this your first visit to London, Mr. Moore?"

  "Oh, no. My mother's family is English, or was." We had arrived at what might have become something of an awkward pause, when to my relief a distraction arrived in the form of Mrs. Hudson, who announced a second visitor. "It's Inspector Lestrade, sir."

  "By all means show him in." The Inspector's face was rather more animated, and less strained, than it had been when Holmes and I left him standing on the pier a few hours earlier. He entered carrying in his hand a large canvas bag, of a kind I had previously seen used to hold evidence. There was something hard and solid inside, for the bag made a substantial sound when Lestrade set it down. I assured him that Holmes would very likely be back in a matter of minutes, and that it was quite all right for him to wait. I introduced Mr. Peter Moore as a friend of another client, dropping by to volunteer his services.

  "Oh, ah!" said Lestrade. "Please to meet you, sir. You've nothing to do, then, with the business on the docks—so I can speak freely. I don't mind telling you both, gentlemen, that I don't know how Mr. Holmes does it—but he does. Mr. Moore, if your friend requires a miracle, I'd say he or she has come to the right shop."

  "What is it, Lestrade?" I asked.

  "Why, the oddity, just as Mr. Holmes predicted. I was lucky enough to be able to get divers on the job within a matter of minutes after you'd left. And on the bottom of the Thames they found this bag." Stooping to open the canvas container, Lestrade brought out of it another bag, which if unfolded would have been even larger than the first. "And containing these."

  As he spoke, Lestrade undid the fastenings of the inner bag. Metal clashed as he let its contents slide out upon the carpet. There lay before us two pairs of heavy manacles, circles of steel connected by short, strong chains. "Darbies and leg-irons, I make them out to be, though they're a good deal different from the style we use at the Yard. I've got people at work already trying to trace 'em. Especially made, I'd say, and extra strong. As you see, both pair are locked. The keys are missing."

  Peter Moore came near to shouldering me aside when Lestrade displayed his find. I looked at the young American in surprise, but quickly forgot my ruffled feelings when I beheld the strange expression of excitement on his face.

  For a few moments Moore seemed unable to find words or even gestures to express his thoughts. Then he seized one set of the manacles and held them up. There were only a few spots and traces of rust on the bright steel, which could not have been long in the river.

  "These were made by my company in New York," Peter Moore burst out. "And they were with John in the South Seas."

  Chapter Seven

  Stepping on shaky legs from that droll imitation of a coffin, I knew that I had recovered my identity not an hour too soon to save my life.

  Nowhere but in the hallowed soil of my homeland would I, vampire, be able to find rest. Turning impulsively to the cowed sailor, I barked out: "Tell me! Where shall the unclaimed baggage be taken, from a ship unloading at the East India docks?" Of course I had in mind the great leather trunk that had accompanied me to England; besides containing large sums of money, my own clothing, and papers of identification under several names, it was half full of that sweet stuff I needed more than air.

  Huddling in mute fright, the man could only shake his head. Of course there was no reason why he should have known anything about baggage-handling procedures, or what had happened to my trunk. Nor had I myself the least idea of where to begin a search; so it was indeed fortunate for my hopes of survival that during my London visit six years earlier I had taken certain measures with the idea of establishing a permanent residency.

  Never mind how foolish those ambitions of mine were proven when the pack of vampire-hunters fastened on my trail; I have told that story elsewhere. The point was that some at least of those scattered, secret nests I had then built for myself, and lined with imported earth, must be still intact after no more than six years—or so I devoutly hoped, as I stalked out of that noisome dormitory toward the main doors of the hostel.

  As I drew near those doors my purpose of departure must have been obvious, for the gatekeeper at once emerged from some cubbyhole nearby. He was a large man, garbed now in a blanket that he had draped about him like a toga, and evidently accustomed to peculiar midnight fits among his clientele. In a voice heavy with authority he warned me that the doors were going to stay locked and barred until daylight.

  "Just toddle back't' bed now, like a good chap. Wot business you 'as out there will keep till—whoa!"

  Quite gently I set him out of my path, for they were good Christian folk who operated the shelter, and they had served me well—aye, better than they knew. I threw the bar aside, and bent my waning strength, one hand to push and one to pull, upon the lock. It was strong, but not to be classed with those gorilla-manacles. Presently I heard the splintering of old wood, and could feel metal bend beneath my fingers. To pay for the damage I tossed a gold so
vereign behind me as I left, and I silently vowed a future donation upon a grander scale.

  The greasy fog had grown even thicker. A few paces along the street, away from the flaring gaslight, and I was out of human ken. A silent pause of a few moments was required, in which to reorganize my restored powers; then in the form of bat I let the pavement drop away beneath my feet, and sought the free winds of the higher air.

  Once risen past the heaviest of the mist, I took my bearings from the stars, and set a course to the southwest. In my estimation the best hidden of my caches deposited in 1891 lay beneath the floor of a disused stable, behind a house in Bermondsey.

  Even in bat-form, I could still feel the back of my head throbbing from that accursed bludgeon-blow. Whose arm had held the wood that struck it? Whilst flying over the river I could not help but look for one particular large rowboat among the myriad craft that lined the wharves; but of course any such search would have been hopeless, even without the heavy, swirling London fog which grew but deeper and chiller as the night wore on.

  Nor could I guess which of the shrouded buildings was the one in which I had been held a prisoner—I only knew it must be somewhere near the water. Nor had I any idea where to begin a search for the blond, arrogant young doctor, whose nameless face burned in my memory. Nor for Matthews, nor for the "other lads" who served the same infamous cause, whatever it might be. Perhaps, I mused, I would have to begin by tracking down the shadowy Barley, who " 'ad 'opes" of being able to furnish the evildoers with something that they needed—before June 22, which date meant nothing to me.

  There was of course another associate of the plotters whose name and face had been left in my possession. Sally, though a dweller in the abyss of poverty and crime, had suffered torture and risked death in trying to set me free, and thereby had established a claim upon my honor as great as any the greatest and most lovely queen on earth could ever have created. Now I should never be able to go peaceably about my own affairs until I had avenged Sal's injuries as well as my own, and had done all I could to see her through the whole affair in safety. The recent incident on the pier had gone some way toward accomplishing these goals; it had been, however, no more than a good beginning. But before planning the satisfaction of honor, I must first make sure of my own survival.