“If I may say, Mr Harker, it is a testament to your faithfulness that the name of your former employer, Mr Hawkins, still hangs above the door.” Holmes beamed as he shook the hand of Jonathan Harker, whose greying temples and furrowed brow looked out of place on a man who should by rights be in his prime.
Harker nodded, somewhat gingerly, and walked around the large desk of his office, taking a seat and, as an afterthought, waving a hand indicating we should do the same.
“You are lucky to find me unengaged, Mr Holmes. It is a long way to come without a prior appointment.” His voice was thin; like Arthur Holmwood, it appeared to me that Harker was in poor health. Given the many trials he had endured as described in the Dracula Papers, that was perhaps understandable.
“Of course it is, Mr Harker. I realised that error already this morning, when I called at your home and found it uninhabited.”
The wrinkles upon Harker’s brow deepened. “My home? Then am I to assume this is not a business matter?”
“Oh, it is certainly business to me,” said Holmes. “But it is not the business of your firm. Trust me when I say it is a matter of utmost seriousness upon which I call. I had rather hoped to speak with both you and Mrs Harker—tell me, would it be convenient to do so today?”
Harker’s hands trembled a little at Holmes’s words and, noticing this, he pressed his palms upon the leather inlay of his desk to quell the shaking.
“My wife is visiting an old friend in the north, and will be unavailable for a week or more. But this all sounds rather serious—should I be worried?” He tried to offer a reassuring smile to make light of the situation, though it was a feeble attempt.
“You say your wife is in the north,” Holmes said, avoiding the question entirely. “Surely she has not returned to Whitby, home of so many painful memories?”
Harker hesitated, his thought processes writ large across his features. “She has, as it happens,” he said eventually. “You could call it a pilgrimage, I suppose. With the court ruling in our favour, and that dreadful business put behind us, she has gone to… make her peace.”
“A strange choice of words—‘make her peace’. Lucy Westenra, rest her soul, was killed in London. What is left to do in Whitby?”
“I…” Harker paused, and sighed. He stood, looking more frail now than I had previously noticed, and went to gaze out of the office window. “Mina wanted to see the place where she and Lucy stayed, one last time, and help set Lucy’s affairs in order.”
“And what of Hillingham, Mr Harker?” Holmes asked. “Would your wife’s time not be better spent assisting your good friend Lord Godalming with the affairs at the Westenra estate?”
A tremble again—Harker did not turn to face us when he replied. “No, Mr Holmes. We own Hillingham now, although I doubt we shall keep it. It’s all above board, I assure you.”
I saw the twitch of Holmes’s lip as he clicked another piece of the puzzle into place. I myself was taken aback that the Harkers—who less than a year prior had been hard-working people of middling income—now had considerable wealth in property, and enjoyed a status surely beyond their imaginings.
“Why should I think otherwise? But it is a generous gift for Lord Godalming to give, considering his… predicament.”
At that, Harker turned to us, his face pale. “Predicament?”
“You must be aware, given your great bond of fellowship… why, Arthur Holmwood is gravely ill, and his finances are in a parlous state. It would seem that the inheritance of Lucy Westenra’s property would have been exactly what he needed to maintain the legacy of Ring, and yet he gives one such property to his good friends the Harkers. Truly he is a big-hearted man.”
“Arthur is… the very best of men,” Harker replied. He stumbled awkwardly, resting his hand upon the back of his chair. I thought perhaps he might faint, and stood to assist him. He waved me away at once. “Mr Holmes, why are you here?”
“A perfectly reasonable question, Mr Harker. The Dracula Papers, which I and Dr Watson here have read, contain details of a number of deaths, some apparently at the hands of a Transylvanian vampire. The highest court in the land appears ready to accept these papers as truth. I, however, am less inclined to accept them, for one very simple reason.”
“Oh?”
“I do not believe in vampires.”
Harker stared at Holmes, beads of perspiration forming upon his brow.
“So who do you propose killed my friend Quincey Morris?” he asked at last, setting his jaw firm, though the quaver in his voice betrayed the steel in his eyes.
“Gypsies, as stated in the papers,” Holmes said, quick as a flash.
“Controlled by the Count!”
“As you please.”
“And the lunatic, Renfield?”
“Unknown. We have only one man’s word for those mysterious circumstances.”
“The word of a respected and eminent professor,” Harker snapped.
“Again, as you please.”
“And—and dear Lucy?”
“I am glad you asked that question, above all others, Mr Harker. For I believe that, should I find the true cause of Lucy Westenra’s death, I shall solve this perplexing case once and for all.”
“There is no case to solve!” Harker snapped. “Lucy was… taken. By the Count. He… he—”
“Transformed her into a vampiress, according to Van Helsing—who stalked Highgate Cemetery until you and your friends cornered her in a tomb and cut off her head. Yes, I read that also. If you bear in mind what I told you, Mr Harker, that I do not believe in vampires, then either Lucy was not the woman walking about Highgate, or she was not dead when she was entombed. In the latter case, we have written accounts from your fellows that it was most assuredly not Dracula who cut off her head.”
Harker’s mouth worked noiselessly—Holmes was pressing him, perhaps more than he could bear. How the man managed to run a law firm when his wits appeared so frayed was beyond me.
Holmes went on, “Of course, Miss Westenra’s legal affairs were so tightly controlled that not only did her property fall under control of her fiancé upon her death, but all other legal claims. There is no chance to exhume the body of the deceased—”
“Exhume the… Are you mad?”
“—Without the permission of Lord Godalming,” Holmes went on, ignoring the now frantic-looking solicitor, “which I doubt very much he will give. And so I take it upon myself to gather such evidence that will rather force the hand of the authorities on the matter. I suppose, Mr Harker, that the deaths of the elder Mrs Westenra, and of the late Peter Hawkins of this very firm, were also wrought by this Dracula’s hand?”
“No… Look here, what are you saying?”
“I am saying that those two deaths in particular proved most beneficial for several members of your little fellowship. Arthur Holmwood, and yourself, principally.”
“How dare you?” Harker’s eyes blazed, but his words again lacked conviction. He clutched the back of his chair tightly. I became at once concerned for Harker’s mental and physical state. Holmes’s questioning was of the hard kind that he so often reserved for low criminals and scurrilous blackmailers. Harker did not fit that description by any stretch of the imagination.
Holmes shrugged. “I simply state facts. If my investigations uncover evidence that Count Dracula was indeed behind this string of unfortunate events, then I shall offer you a full and sincere apology for any distress I may have caused you. I hold no vendetta, Mr Harker, I simply wish to satisfy myself that no wrongdoing has occurred.”
“If you had seen the things I had seen…” Harker said, somewhat distantly, and now he did retake his seat.
“Ah, yes. In Transylvania. I understand you were kept prisoner in Castle Dracula for an extended period. Tell me, Mr Harker, did you at any point confront the Count and demand to be set free?”
“I… I tried but once, and saw that it was folly. That is, it was impossible to oppose the Count’s will. You cannot understand the terrible hold he had over me.”
“The same hold that he had over those women who lived within his castle?”
“God no! They were… something entirely different. Oh, God…” Harker buried his face in his hands.
“Holmes…” I said gently, fearing that Harker might have a relapse of the brain fever brought on by his ordeal. Holmes was referring to the three vampire women who had supposedly tried to seduce Harker with their hypnotic allure.
“I imagine,” Holmes said, “that your wife is a forgiving and trusting woman, with a generous heart.”
“My wife?” Harker asked, hoarsely, not looking up.
“Yes. After all, even though the incident at the castle was not your fault, it is a painful thing to a woman to hear of her husband’s infidelity.”
“I never… she…” He faded.
Holmes stood, and moved over to the far wall, upon which hung various photographs, certificates and trophies that I had barely noticed until that moment. One of the photographs was of four men, standing at the site of a part-built railway line against a dramatic background of some exotic, mountainous location; I thought I recognised Harker in the group, but could not see it clearly. At first I believed that was what had grabbed Holmes’s attention, but I quickly realised I was mistaken. I saw now amongst the articles two large knives: a kukri knife, with its wicked, curved blade, and an American bowie knife, both hanging upon a wooden plaque.
“This bowie knife,” Holmes said. “An interesting blade to find in an Englishman’s office.”
“It… it belonged to Quincey. Mr Morris.”
“Then the kukri knife—surely it is not the very same blade with which you cut the throat of Count Dracula?”
Harker’s eyes took on a haunted aspect. “The same,” he said.
“Did the Count bleed?”
“Holmes!” I baulked at my friend’s insensitivity.
“He… yes. He must have recently glutted himself.”
Holmes gave a wry smile, and merely nodded. He examined the knives for a few moments more, before returning to the desk.
“Mr Harker, might I ask when would be a good time to call upon both you and your wife? I would very much like to complete this little interview, and then I shall leave you be.”
“I can think of no opportune moment in the forthcoming weeks,” said Harker. “Mina and I have busy schedules.”
“A pity.”
“I have a question for you, Mr Holmes,” said Harker. “You are a consulting detective, they say. With whom do you consult on this business, that you would go to such impertinent lengths to pry into the affairs of others?”
That was spoken more eloquently than I would have expected from the pasty-faced solicitor. I imagined he had been girding himself to ask the question for much of our interview.
“Mr Harker, my clients vary from the meek and wronged to the powerful and stately, and every last one of them relies upon my utmost discretion. All that matters is that I am here.”
“Yes… here you are. Well, Mr Holmes, I am afraid I can be of no assistance to you.”
“Nonsense, Mr Harker, you have been most helpful already. Although might I ask you for directions before we leave? If you could point us to the Blackall School for Girls, we would be most grateful.”
“The school?” If Harker had conjured some pluck in the last few minutes, it now drained visibly.
“Yes. We need to speak with a certain Miss Reed. Unless you could provide her home address?”
“Why should I know her address?” Harker snapped abruptly.
“You know the woman, do you not?”
“I… she is an old acquaintance of my wife’s.”
“Acquaintance? I had heard they were great friends.”
“The school lies over the river,” Harker said coolly. “I suggest you take a cab—I am sure the driver will steer you well. Now, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you really must let me get on with my appointments.”
* * *
We did not impress upon a cabbie for directions, for Holmes knew the way perfectly well after all. His question about the school’s location had been intended only to rattle Jonathan Harker, and in that he had certainly succeeded. We took off for the school on foot, a rather pleasant stroll that crossed the River Exe.
“Jonathan Harker is a sick man,” I said. “He was not up to such stern questioning.”
“Perhaps,” Holmes replied. “However, his strange behaviour was due more to the fact that he was hiding something.”
“Hiding what?”
“The state of his relationship with his wife, for one thing.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I asked.
“Because, Watson, among the pictures upon his office wall was a photograph of himself, with Jack Seward, Quincey P. Morris and Arthur Holmwood. It was signed by all four men. There was no picture of Mina Harker among them, nor was there one upon his desk. I wonder if his wife’s absence is due to an estrangement, perhaps the very estrangement that sees her travel to Whitby without her husband.”
“Now I concur that is strange, Holmes,” I said. “If Mrs Harker is helping to settle her old friend’s affairs, it is one thing. If she is actually taking charge of the house—which I thought was a boarding house, in any case—that is quite another. How could she bring herself to do it?”
“It could be grief, or some misplaced sentimentality to be near the place where she and her late friend were once happy. Or it could be something more sinister. Nevertheless, the only way to be sure is to visit Whitby at the earliest opportunity, and hope we can catch Mrs Harker unawares.”
“Oh, Holmes,” I groaned. “Must we continue on these laborious door-to-door enquiries? Though you have now told two suspects that we are investigating the death of Lucy Westenra, might I remind you that we do not actually have a client?”
Holmes laughed, and I reddened. “Watson, dear Watson!” said he. “Of course we have a client. When Mycroft sends a titbit of information to me, however veiled, it is not for nothing. Our client is the British government. We rattle cages on their behalf, because they, for reasons as yet unclear, are unable to. Do you understand?”
“Not entirely,” I grumbled.
“You shall, Watson, you shall. Now, look there, the Blackall School. I have a feeling this is where we shall find some quite intriguing answers.”
I looked ahead to where Holmes pointed with his cane. Set back from a cobbled road, beyond a tall wrought-iron rail, was a grand old building of grey stone. It was ivy-covered across most of its southern face, and above the tangles of greenery shot a church-like spire. Dozens of girls in white pinafores ran across the cobbled yard to their lessons, overseen by a rather stern-looking mistress. It was she who we approached. The woman was reluctant to summon Miss Reed to speak with us, but before too long she relented, in no small part due to a sudden turn of charm on Holmes’s part. So it was that we were directed to a cosy staff room.
The young woman who eventually entered was plain of appearance, slight of build, and neatly attired. The rose blush of her cheeks and slight shortness of breath suggested to me that she had made great haste to meet us. She sat down opposite us.
“You are a detective, Mr Holmes?” Miss Reed said.
“I do my best,” said Holmes.
“Then you are here to ask me about Count Dracula, of course—a subject about which I know little, beyond what I have read in the newspapers.”
“Tangentially, perhaps. But tell me, Miss Reed, what led to your assumption.”
“You are not the first to come to me,” she said, somewhat angrily. “I will tell you what I told the others—I know nothing of use.”
“Others?” Holmes said, leaning forwards in his seat. “I imagine you have spoken to Inspector Cotford of Scotland Yard; but who else?”
“I would rather not speak of it.”
“You have been threatened?”
“I… no…”
“Miss Reed, your appearance, which I first mistook for fatigue after some physical exertion, now seems to me to be a form of nervous peroration. You are attempting to disguise your fear. Moreover, you plainly have not heard of me, but you guessed that I was a detective. Perhaps your colleague said something to that effect, but it is equally likely that you have been warned not to speak with me should I pay you a visit. Am I near the truth?”
“I should not be speaking with you,” she said, and stood abruptly, turning for the door.
“Please, Miss Reed, whatever has been said to you, know that we are not your enemies. We seek only justice for your old friend, Miss Westenra.”
Miss Reed stopped, and turned back to us. Her eyes darted uncertainly between me and Holmes.
“Lucy?” she said.
Holmes stood, and invited Miss Reed to take her seat again. He spoke to her in a gentle tone. “I rather expect that your previous visitors were somewhat unconcerned with justice for Lucy,” he said. “But have no doubt, Miss Reed, that justice is our only motivation. I am certain some villainy is afoot, and I intend to uncover it.”
Miss Reed sat down, and looked at Holmes imploringly. “I do not know how I can help, though I am certain you are right. But, Mr Holmes, I am not a strong person. My friends are… gone. What I mean to say, Mr Holmes, is that I have been warned against speaking to you, and I am afraid of what might happen should I tell you anything.”
“If you have nothing of import to tell, what have you to fear?” Holmes asked.
“I do not think that will matter to… them.”
“Before we continue, Miss Reed, are you certain that this room is private?”
“Why… yes. There is no one here who would eavesdrop on us.”
In just two strides, Holmes was at the door, and opened it suddenly. Outside was a short, bare passage, which led to another corridor. There were no adjoining doors, and no persons present.
“Everyone is at their studies now,” Miss Reed explained. Holmes closed the door and returned to his chair.
“Just a precaution, Miss Reed. Now, first of all, describe these men who were so unnerving to you. No, there is no need to protest. I have friends in the police force who will stand guard at your door day and night should I ask it of them. No harm shall come to you, you have my oath on it.”
She breathed deeply. “Very well, Mr Holmes. The men were tall, fair, and well dressed. They spoke in foreign accents, which I took for German, only because the German mistress here at the school is possessed of a similar diction. They told me that should I ever breathe a word of my correspondence with Lucy or Mina—that is, another friend, Mina Harker—then it would go badly for me. They said that if I did not care for my own safety, then perhaps I should fear for the girls in my charge.”
“Why, the devils!” I interjected, feeling my colour rise at once.
“You are sure that they were German, and not, say, Dutch?” Holmes asked.
“Certain. Like Miss Breckendorf, one of them had a peculiar lilt, which I believe is Bavarian, and not common elsewhere.”
“Excellent, Miss Reed!” said Holmes, his admiration for the woman’s observational skills brimming over. “What else can you tell me? When did they visit? Was it on more than one occasion?”
“I remember the timing of it well, Mr Holmes. It was late September last year, just a few days after poor Lucy’s funeral. A week later, Inspector Cotford called upon me, saying confusing things about the ‘bloofer lady’ of Highgate Cemetery, and asking all kinds of frightening questions about vampires, Dutch professors, and… and…”
“And Mina Harker,” Holmes said.
“How did you know?”
“I have spoken to Cotford, and in his opinion there was something between you and Mrs Harker that he could not explain, but which made him suspicious.”
“Cotford is a boorish, unpleasant man. He scared me.”
“I can well understand your feelings towards him. However, he is no longer with the police, and any further dealing you may have with Scotland Yard shall not be with him, but with men in my confidence, you have my word. Now Miss Reed, forgive my insistence on what must be a delicate matter, but I must ask the current condition of your friendship with Mrs Harker.”
“To be frank, Mr Holmes, Mina and I have not spoken for some time. I saw her but briefly at the funeral of Mr Hawkins—Jonathan’s employer, who I had known since I was a girl. Lucy, it seems, represented the last true bond of friendship between Mina and me—with her passing came the end of our long association.”
“Might I ask why your friendship ended thus? From what I understand, Lucy and Mina spoke of you warmly in their correspondence, though you are not explicitly named in the letters we have read.”
She blushed slightly at that. “I do not know what you have read, Mr Holmes, but I assure you any warmth would have come only from Lucy. Since we were girls, Mina has always beheld some sense of competition between us, which I think was her own imagining.”
“On what matters?”
“Oh, everything really. Academic achievement, the obtaining of a station as qualified schoolmistress, and… other things that I would much rather not discuss. Throughout my youth, whatever I strove for, Mina had to have first.” She stopped, evidently finding it difficult to keep her composure.
“I think I understand,” said Holmes. “Tell me, Miss Reed, when your courtship with Jonathan Harker came to a close, were you betrothed?”
“How could you possibly know about that?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“It was evident, first from his words, and then from yours.”
“We… we were not betrothed. Our courtship was in its infancy.”
“But you cared deeply for him?”
“I did.”
“And he for you?”
“Apparently not, for within weeks of him breaking off whatever… arrangement… we had, he and Mina were stepping out together.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she dabbed it away delicately. As one who had fairly recently lost a love, I felt for her keenly.
“Yet you remained friends with Mina?”
“I had no true claim on Jonathan’s heart. I knew Mina had always admired him, although I never realised how much. I gave them my blessing.”
“And if you were so magnanimous, it seems strange that Mina would choose to dissolve that friendship, and at such a difficult time for you both. Tell me, Miss Reed—and please be frank, for even the smallest detail could be of utmost significance—could jealousy, no matter how misplaced, have been the cause of her sudden change of disposition?”
“Partly, yes. We had long had an agreement that Jonathan and I would maintain no friendly contact, as it seemed inappropriate. But at the funeral…”
“Such contact was unavoidable,” Holmes finished for her. “But there was another matter, perhaps; one that Mina referred to in her letters to Lucy, and I wonder if you could elucidate it for me, Miss Reed.”
“If… if I can.”
“The letters were written while Mr Harker was on business in Transylvania. In it, Lucy notes that ‘some one has evidently been telling tales’—referring to some titbit of gossip about herself and her involvement with Lord Godalming and… others. For all his faults, Inspector Cotford believed that someone to be you. It would be of singular assistance if you could tell us those same tales, Miss Reed.”
“They are of a most private and sensitive nature, and belong to the confidence of one who has gone to the grave,” Miss Reed replied, her voice earnest.
“Miss Reed, I am sure that I need not explain how great an injustice has been done. I believe Lucy Westenra to have been murdered, not by a marauding vampire from foreign lands, but by someone known to her. If it were not so, you would not have been threatened by those strange German fellows. I know this is painful for you, but any minor detail from those letters could be of the utmost importance in uncovering her true killer.”
“Very well, Mr Holmes. I do not know why, but I trust you. But I do not need to tell you the contents of the letters, for I still have them.”
“You kept them from the police?”
“I did, but please do not think ill of me. I did it only to protect Lucy’s good name; by the time I came to realise something more was at play, I had told a lie too many, and could think of no way to hand the letters over without coming under suspicion myself. None of that matters now, Mr Holmes. I can spare you a little more time to fetch the letters, if you would be so kind as to escort me, and then perhaps it will feel like a great burden has at last been lifted from my shoulders.”
* * *
We stood across the road from the school, beneath the shade of the elms that lined the road. I had the letters tucked under my arm, for both Holmes and I agreed it would be unseemly to read such private memoranda on the street. Some were in plain white envelopes, which Miss Reed identified as being from Mina Murray, as she was then. The remainder were from Lucy Westenra, and were all in lavender-scented envelopes, tied together with a pretty ribbon. Holmes paced back and forth, drawing the last of his cigarette and exhaling the smoke in a great plume.
“It all fits into place! In her diary, Mina wrote that Jonathan was particularly shaken on the day of Mr Hawkins’s funeral. She postulates in the note that perhaps it is her husband’s recent brain fever, coupled with the sombre funeral, which makes him so nervous. I should have seen it instantly.”
“What?” I asked. “Surely it was just sentimentality—the Harkers were much attached to Mr Hawkins, after all.”
“Jonathan Harker was shaken because he had a tryst with Miss Reed on the day of the funeral. I cannot prove it, but I know now from Miss Reed’s words that it is so.”
“Holmes, that is a scandalous accusation. The poor girl was most upset, and your questions were singularly intrusive.”
“They were, and yet they were necessary. She may well have confessed all when I asked her about the funeral, Watson, or it may have been that the private moment she undoubtedly shared with Harker was purely innocent, but I saw no reason to disgrace the poor girl by making her relive any wrongdoing on the part of herself or Harker.
“If Harker was shaken on the day of the funeral, I would guess he was discovered in the act, probably by Mina, and that somehow this detail was later discovered by Professor Van Helsing. From that day forth, the professor manipulated Mina’s jealous nature, which we have today heard a great deal about, and turned her against her husband. It does not matter if Harker and Miss Reed were acting purely innocently; we know from Miss Reed’s testimony that Mina Harker has a jealous nature, which could easily be manipulated by mere insinuation. Coupled with the story of the strange, seductive women of Castle Dracula, and we have a very solid reason for Mina’s estrangement from her husband.
“Perhaps Harker himself believes his tale, due to his long spell of delirium shortly afterwards. Whether the encounter happened as he described, or even at all, is another thing entirely. What matters here, however, is what Mina Harker believes. And that, Watson, is almost certainly whatever Van Helsing has told her.”
“It seems to me that Mina Harker is a wronged woman,” I said, “led astray perhaps by the professor. We should feel sorry for her.”
“We certainly should not, not yet at least!” Holmes retorted. “If Van Helsing has manipulated her, it is because of worse things than jealousy. The Harkers came into this story before meeting Van Helsing. They came unexpectedly into money, due to the death of Jonathan Harker’s employer and his suspiciously generous will, before Van Helsing set foot in England. They knew of Seward, Morris and Lord Godalming independently of Van Helsing, at least by name and, most importantly of all, they knew Lucy Westenra. It was Jonathan Harker who first cast doubt on Dracula’s humanity when he asked, ‘What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of a man?’
“No, Watson, I do not believe for a moment that Mina Harker is entirely a wronged woman. I believe she was already party to a crime, which Van Helsing discovered through reading her correspondence with Lucy. Her jealousy and willingness to throw her husband to the wolves came later, along with the question-mark over his fidelity. Whatever she is doing in Whitby, I am sure it is of great interest to us.”
“So you want to travel to Whitby now, I suppose?”
“I have been prepared to do so since yesterday morning. Really, Watson, you ought to keep abreast of developments. Thankfully I had a bag sent ahead to an inn there.”
“You mean we aren’t returning home first? Holmes, I have a practice, patients, I cannot simply…”
“Then it is well that I need you to visit the telegraph office. You can wire your colleague and then send a telegram for me while you’re about it.”
“To what end?”
“Wire Inspector Bradstreet by urgent reply. Have him communicate my credentials and a glowing endorsement to the Exeter constabulary. I shall visit them presently and arrange for a policeman to keep an eye on Miss Reed until our business is brought to a conclusion.”
“And what will you be doing while I’m at the telegraph office?” I said, somewhat affronted by being sent on an errand, and rather cross at the prospect of more unexpected travel.
“I shall remain here and keep watch for fair-haired German men,” said Holmes. “Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes is not a man of his word.”