My journey was interrupted by an unusually turgid slog of traffic along Spaniards Road, caused by an upturned ox-cart. I was forced to alight the omnibus and continue up the hill to the pub on foot, running the gauntlet of the bicyclists who seemed intent on riding the lanes regardless of the congestion and drizzly weather.
Seeing the obstruction up ahead, and an unpleasant-smelling load spread across both road and pavement, I took a winding path through the heath, leaving the cries of annoyance and frustration of cabbies and draymen behind me as I passed beneath the aged boughs of oaks and sycamores. The park was surprisingly quiet, with only a few walkers braving their Sunday constitutional after the previous night’s particular, which still left the taint of smokiness upon the air and a yellowish haze upon the horizon.
I had walked for perhaps ten minutes, and was not far from my destination when I heard the crunch of a boot upon the gravel behind me. I thought nothing of it, until I heard it again, immediately close, and followed by the laying of a hand upon my shoulder. I turned at once, and found myself staring into a pair of steel-blue eyes, set into a broad, angular face shaded by a homburg.
“Doctor Watson. You will come with us.”
At once I recognised the man’s accent as German, and saw tufts of fair hair protruding above a collar that sat upon rather broad shoulders. The man’s grip upon my shoulder tightened as he spoke.
“What’s all this about?” I snapped. Did he know of the evidence I carried in my bag? Where did he plan to take me? These questions and more flashed through my mind.
“Please, mein Herr, we wish only to speak with you. Privately.”
As he said this, I saw movement directly ahead, and another man stepped onto the path—the twin of the German who stood beside me.
I attempted to shrug the man away. “Unhand me, sir,” I said, raising my voice in the hope of attracting the attention of passersby; there were none immediately at hand, however, and though I felt panic rise in my breast, I would not show obvious distress while I could perhaps glean something from my opponents.
I studied them as perhaps Holmes would, scanning them quickly. They were identical, save that the one in front of me wore spectacles. They were large—taller than me, and as broad, both with fair hair and pale blue eyes. Their chins were square and lightly stubbled. They wore smart grey suits, grey overcoats and matching hats. Their shoes looked expensive, but were spattered with mud, as were their trouser-legs. All of this I discerned in an instant, though I knew not what good it would do me if I were to be captured.
“Come now, Doctor. We have a carriage beyond those trees there. We shall talk, and that will be all. There is no cause for alarm.”
The grip tightened again, and I felt a shove in the small of my back, forcing me towards the other man, who grinned as he took hold of my other arm.
“Actually, gentlemen, I think there is every cause for alarm. Unhand the doctor, if you please.”
All three of us turned at this interruption, and standing on the path behind us was Sherlock Holmes! His eyes were narrowed. I had rarely been so happy to see my friend, and I noted a whisper of a smile upon his aquiline features as he recognised my expression of relief.
“Ah, Mr Holmes,” said my first captor. “You save us the trouble of finding you, no? Why don’t you come along, too, and we shall work this out like gentlemen.”
“Whatever you have to say, you may say it here,” Holmes said.
“I think not,” said the second man, and marched over to Holmes, great hands outstretched to seize my friend.
In a flash, Holmes had stepped sideways, his lithe limbs strong and nimble; he swept aside the German’s grasping hands, and his right leg hooked the man’s ankle, sending him sprawling onto wet gravel before he knew what was happening.
I took my cue, for if Holmes had come to fight, I knew our predicament must be serious. These were, after all, the men who had threatened dear Mrs Hudson, and it was this thought that lent strength to my elbow as I struck my captor’s midriff.
His hand released me at once, and I spun about to strike him a left hook. The larger man was fast, however, and even as I turned I felt his fist connect with my jaw. I staggered at the force of the blow, my vision blurring. I heard Holmes scuffling with his man, and shouts in English and German. Great arms were around me again, hauling me backwards. My medical bag dropped now from my grasp, and I saw the wax cylinder roll across the path. I could not lose it!
I threw my weight against the man, pushing him against a tree with all the force I could muster. This time I was able to pull free and duck his counter-attack. I swung a left hook, connecting with the man’s jaw satisfyingly.
“That is for Miss Reed!” I snarled, and then gave him my most powerful right, striking him on the bridge of the nose and sending him crumpling to the ground. “And that is for Mrs Hudson!”
I turned to see how Holmes had fared. His man was similarly prostrate, and Holmes gave me a familiar smile and a wink.
“Holmes!” I gasped.
“Don’t stand there gawping, Watson,” he said. “Take hold of that man.”
From further along the path came a hue and cry, as someone had evidently been alerted to a scuffle on the heath, and a crowd of people was rushing to see what was going on.
I hoisted my man from the ground, and was about to question him, when I saw Holmes spring backwards. A dozen or so passersby had arrived, and let out a collective gasp as they saw Holmes’s opponent pull out a gun. Bicyclists, ramblers and park vagrants alike ducked for cover as the German aimed his revolver.
“Your last chance, Mr Holmes,” the gunman snarled.
Before I knew it, Holmes also had a revolver in his hand.
“I think not, sir. The game is up,” Holmes said.
“You would risk firing into the crowd, Herr Holmes? I think not. Believe me, I have no such scruples. Now, drop the pistol.”
Holmes paused for just a second, and then dashed quickly, making for the trees behind me. The German fired. People screamed.
Everything to that point had happened so fast that I had not had time to think. Even now, I acted purely out of instinct, for my blood was up. A moment before the gunman pulled the trigger a second time, I gave his associate a sharp shove in the back, sending him stumbling towards the shooter, and directly into the path of the bullet. I could not have timed it better if I’d had all day to plan the manoeuvre, for the bullet struck the German’s breast just beneath the heart.
A look of relief flickered over Holmes’s features, before his sharp mind and rapid reflexes took control of the situation. He turned back and darted at the gunman, who appeared much disturbed by the felling of his partner in crime, and had lost all heart for the fight. He fled from Holmes, waving the gun about to part the gathering crowd like the Red Sea before Moses. Holmes took after him for only a short time, but gave up quickly as the press of bodies before him began to close in on him. Angry shouts came from the crowd; voices of shock and confusion rang out, challenging our authority, and demanding justice for a wounded man they did not even know.
Holmes stepped forwards imperiously. “Someone fetch a constable at once!” he commanded. “My colleague here is a doctor, and he shall attend to this man.”
As if to illustrate the point, Holmes went to retrieve my bag, sweeping up the wax cylinder as he did so and placed it back in the bag. As he handed it to me, Holmes muttered: “It appears this bag is full of evidence, Watson. Guard it with your life. Of secondary note is this wretch—it would be well if you could save him, if only so that we may question him.”
I nodded and set to work, as Holmes stood again to placate the crowd. Minutes later, the trilling of police-whistles cut through the rumblings of discontent from the assembled onlookers, and two red-faced policemen pushed their way towards us. Holmes directed them to secure a Black Maria for the wounded man, call a hansom for ourselves, and send word to Inspector Bradstreet to expect us at B Division headquarters presently.
By the time more policemen arrived, I was certain that the German could not be saved, and he had not confided in us any last words. His breaths came in stertorous rasps, his face was a deathly pallor. Holmes was careful not to allow this grave assessment to reach the ears of the crowd until enough officers arrived to keep them at bay, for some of them still held us with a great deal of suspicion.
I was more than thankful when we received word that the Maria had arrived—I had exhausted almost every medical procedure imaginable to make it appear that I was saving the lost cause before me. Two constables came down the path carrying a stretcher, and I helped load the patient onto it. Holmes and I in turn were escorted back to the road where a cab awaited us.
* * *
I stood gravely over the dead-room slab as the police surgeon carried out his examination of the body.
“What do you make of it, Holmes?” Inspector Bradstreet asked.
“It is curious,” Holmes said. “The man is dressed well, in a suit with German tailoring, wearing German spectacles, and has false papers about his person. His revolver is German and I imagine that, when your surgeon has extracted the bullet, it will not be traced to any maker here in England. I have a witness who has once before seen these men, and heard them declare some association with the German embassy. I would, therefore, conclude that they are indeed spies.”
“Yet you sound uncertain?”
“Spies, Inspector, are by their nature inconspicuous fellows. These men are not. They are large and distinctive in feature. Twins, no less, who have been seen together more than once. This man bears tattoos upon his body that would suggest some time spent in the navy—see here the obligatory anchor motifs, and the names of several Frauleins, probably waiting in various ports. Their shaving regimen is lax, their shoes caked in mud from not one but several days traipsing about. Something does not sit well with me here.”
“Ex-navy, you say. Hired guns, then? Assassins, Mr Holmes.”
“That had also crossed my mind, Inspector. However, I don’t believe they actually wanted to kill me.”
“But he fired…”
“Yes. However, I rather suspect I forced his hand by drawing a gun of my own and refusing to come quietly. From his prostrate position, he may have been firing a warning shot, which only struck home when his brother hove into his sights. I feel perhaps I am responsible for an unnecessary death, and one that will only serve to make this man’s brother ill-disposed toward me should we meet again. I fear it was a misstep—I wonder now if we should just have gone along with them and heard what they had to say. However, at the time there was no way to know if they simply planned to do away with us.”
“About that, Mr Holmes. Waving a revolver about in broad daylight… it makes it very hard to defend you.”
“Yet I am sure you will do your best, Inspector. Now, to your office?”
* * *
I took a sip of the police station tea, which was weak, and a poor substitute for a small ale at Jack Straw’s.
“What happens now, Mr Holmes?” Bradstreet asked.
“We go on, Inspector. Watson has had a most successful morning, perhaps better than I could have hoped for. I myself was not idle before I was forced to go to his assistance.”
“Yes, Holmes,” I said, “how did you know to be there? It’s almost like you were using me as bait.”
“Come now, old boy, I wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“You jolly well would,” I grumbled.
“We were both followed from the moment we set out this morning, Watson. I lost my man early, of course, but I had no way of warning you. Instead, once my business was concluded I set about watching the roads for you. When the wagon overturned on Spaniards Road, it was most fortunate for my purposes, for it meant there was only one way by which you would come to meet me. Of course, if you were delayed unduly, I would have assumed the worst and come looking for you at the asylum; as it was, I had no reason to suspect the Germans would do anything more than watch our movements.” Holmes turned to Bradstreet and changed the subject, perhaps hoping I wouldn’t question just how much he had left to chance with regards to my safety. “Inspector, is there a phonograph in the station?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes. The police surgeon uses it from time to time.”
“Excellent. Have it brought up, there’s a good fellow. Watson came by a wax cylinder from Dr Seward’s collection, and I wonder just what it contains.”
Bradstreet sent a constable down for the phonograph at once, and in the meantime Holmes lit a cigarette and asked me many questions regarding my interview with Seward, and the subsequent conversation with Hennessey. As was his way, he interrupted often, in order to clarify some detail or other, and he seemed to devour the information with great interest.
“I am intrigued in particular about Seward’s continued feelings for Miss Westenra,” Holmes said.
“He carries a torch for the late Miss Westenra,” I said, “even after all this time. I believe this melancholy accounts for much of his erratic behaviour.”
“Seward appears to me a fellow of weak mind, which would make him of great use to Van Helsing. When Seward was led into the crypt by Van Helsing, for instance, he saw what he wanted to see, because his feelings for Lucy were so strong. From all else you have told us, I would say Seward is a trifle unbalanced, perhaps as a result of his great loss. Overall, Watson, what did you make of Dr Seward?”
“It would appear,” I began, “that Seward was once a perfectly fine doctor; well-regarded, idealistic and diligent. I would suppose that there were some notable gaps in his medical knowledge, which given his specialism in illnesses of the mind is hardly surprising, and this would account for him abrogating his responsibilities while in the presence of Van Helsing. However, it is with some confidence that I can say that Seward is not simply a man out of his depth. I found him to be a man of low ethical fibre, and prone to sycophantic outbursts where Van Helsing is concerned. Furthermore, his lack of compassion for his patients was, frankly, disturbing. Add to that his complicity in Dr Hennessey’s blackmail, and I think we have a man who is not so much in the thrall of Van Helsing, as a willing accomplice.”
“Very good, Watson. If what you discovered about Renfield is true, then we need to widen our net.”
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Bradstreet interjected. Holmes and I had spoken at length about Renfield on the way to the station, and we had rather kept the inspector in the dark.
“Which part, Inspector?” Holmes asked. “The bit about Renfield having been a solicitor sent to Transylvania, or the part where Van Helsing murdered him?”
Bradstreet’s face was a picture, and he barely managed to compose himself when the door opened and two constables entered with the phonograph. It was older and larger than the machine owned by Seward, and took both men to carry it. When they had gone, Bradstreet sat down behind his desk and puffed out his cheeks.
“You’d better start from the beginning,” he said at last.
I apprised Bradstreet of all I had been told by Hennessey with regards to Renfield, presenting to him the journal as evidence.
“The implication is clear,” said Holmes. “Either Jonathan Harker was extremely unfortunate to have encountered almost the same maddening experience as Mr R. M. Renfield, or the entire account was a fabrication, based on Renfield’s diaries and letters to Hawkins.”
“You think Mr Harker also complicit in a crime?” Bradstreet said.
“It is not only Watson’s findings that led to this conclusion, but my own investigation this morning, during which I uncovered similar incriminating facts. I shall come to that in good time. Taken together, Harker’s part in this sorry affair becomes all the clearer. At first I had thought him one of Van Helsing’s useful idiots, manipulated by a cunning wife whilst in a state of ill health,” Holmes explained. “While Harker does indeed seem frail of mind, it is likely not through brain fever contracted in Transylvania, but through guilt and worry. It was a grave error on my part not to realise this sooner, for if I had known I might have been able to glean more in Exeter when I had the chance.
“Harker’s employer, Mr Hawkins, was undoubtedly murdered by the Harkers for the purposes of inheritance fraud—a remarkably transparent fraud, at that—but now it is clear there was another reason, too. If Hawkins had lived to see the Dracula Papers published, he would have recognised Harker’s diaries as being the experiences of his former clerk, Renfield. He was likely the only man alive to know the extent of Renfield’s delusions and, being a kind man who felt responsible for his employee’s circumstances, paid for his treatment at Purfleet Asylum. What Mr Hawkins did not know was that Renfield would meet a rather ignominious end there.”
“The murder you spoke of?”
“Indeed. I think Watson has pieced this together well enough. Watson, would you explain to the inspector how Van Helsing managed to do away with poor Mr Renfield?”
“If memory serves,” I began, “the events as described in the Dracula Papers run thusly. Van Helsing first asked to examine Renfield on the evening of 1 October, and found the man inexplicably raving, with no clue as to what might be afflicting his mental faculty. It is certain that Van Helsing learned of Renfield’s obsession with Count Dracula, and of the Count’s connection to the house, Carfax, after this encounter.”
“Assuming he did not already know of it from his conversations with Jonathan Harker,” Holmes interjected. “Exactly when Van Helsing began to concoct the finer points of his elaborate character assassination of Dracula has not yet been ascertained—given the arrangement of the Dracula Papers, and the fact that they have been clearly doctored more than once, we may never know.”
“Quite. Seward’s account in the papers tells us he saw the patient sleeping—his chest ‘rising and falling’ at least—shortly before midnight, and placed a man on watch at Renfield’s cell. The next morning, 2 October, Seward found that the man on watch had fallen asleep at his post, and therefore could not be relied upon to report on Renfield’s state. Indeed, before dragging this confession from the orderly, Seward said he found the man’s manner to be ‘suspicious’.”
“Suggesting that there was more to his lapse of diligence than mere dozing, and that even Seward was in the dark about what had transpired in Renfield’s cell,” Holmes said.
“I was coming to that. There was no mention of whether or not Seward checked on Renfield again that day. In fact, he was much distracted first by Harker and Holmwood, then by Van Helsing, who apparently struck out from the asylum to visit the British Museum, where he hoped to find books that might help him conquer the curse of vampirism.”
“Books that he could have consulted at any time up to that point,” Holmes interrupted again, “and yet instead chose to return to Amsterdam on more than once occasion for the purposes of similar research.”
“Holmes…”
“I am sorry, Watson. The floor is yours.”
I cleared my throat. “So we know that Van Helsing stayed in guest quarters at Purfleet Asylum overnight, and then made a show of leaving. For the rest of the day, Seward noted that Renfield was strangely quiet—what he meant, of course, was that he had received no reports to the contrary, for he did not personally visit the patient.
“Late on the evening of 2 October, an attendant burst into Seward’s room and told him that Renfield had met with an accident. The man had cried out in his cell, and when the staff had entered, they found Renfield lying face down on the floor in a pool of blood. Seward rushed to check on the man, and quickly ascertained that his face had been beaten against the floor of the cell, his back, an arm and a leg all broken. Seward’s first response was to move Renfield to a bed, which undoubtedly caused great pain and would have hindered any chance of recovery for the broken back.
“Professor Van Helsing was called for at once, and arrived at the cell within minutes. Van Helsing, for the benefit of the watching attendants, loudly confirmed Seward’s assessment that Renfield’s state was due to a ‘terrible accident’—that the man had beaten his own head against the floor in a fit of crazed temper, inducing a violent fit that had led to the breaking of his bones.
“Van Helsing went to fetch a medical bag, and decided immediately to operate on the man with the apparatus he had conveniently brought along, even though he’d had no time to fully examine the patient. The attendants were dismissed, and instead Arthur Holmwood and Quincey Morris were sent for to assist in the surgery—I would suggest that an honest and upstanding man like Morris was required in order to witness what followed, and more to the good that he had no knowledge of surgical procedures. Harker was asleep upstairs, yet no one sent for him.
Within minutes of looking at the patient, Van Helsing decided that the best course of action was to administer an emergency trephination, by which a depressed bone could be removed from Renfield’s skull, and any blood clot cleared. This method has been known to have an instantaneous effect, providing relief from pain and allowing the patient some lucidity—this is precisely what happened here, and Renfield was able to answer questions put to him by Van Helsing. However, it would have been impossible for any physician, regardless of skill, to gauge accurately where the hole should be bored after such a cursory examination. If the trephine was administered to the wrong location, that moment of lucidity—or, in Renfield’s case, insane insight—could only have foreshadowed death. Remember that I was an army doctor, and studied the work of George Macleod, who determined that ‘preventative trephining’ on the battlefield was an archaic practice that could do more harm than good. Macleod was writing more than thirty years ago, and yet we are to accept that Van Helsing’s knowledge is so up-to-date that he teaches medicine to this day.”
That drew a smile from Holmes, which I took as approval. Bradstreet looked very grave.
“In my opinion,” I concluded, “this entire passage of events was engineered by Van Helsing. Most likely, the professor paid the attendants to turn a blind eye to Renfield for the entire day, and then to beat him viciously. Van Helsing himself was ready to answer the call, and made sure that Renfield would never recover from his injuries by performing slipshod surgery.”
“But you said that Van Helsing questioned Renfield, in front of an honest witness,” Bradstreet said. “Why would he do that, Doctor? And what did Renfield say?”
“I am sure Holmes has an opinion as to why,” I said. “As for what was said—”
“Renfield told Van Helsing of a terrible dream he’d had,” Holmes said. “A dream in which his ‘master’ had entered his cell, in the form of mist, and attacked him without mercy. He also told the assembled ‘Crew of Light’ that Mina Harker was his master’s next target, at which point everyone rushed upstairs and forced their way into Mina’s room, just in time to find her stupefied and covered in blood, with the Count bent over her. The dark figure escaped in a puff of smoke, and all in attendance were finally convinced of the evil that they faced.”
“You do not sound convinced, Mr Holmes,” Bradstreet said.
“Because it is the most obvious case of misdirection I have ever heard of! Consider the evidence contained within the Dracula Papers themselves, Inspector. Abraham Van Helsing is noted for his skill at hypnotism. It would have been a small matter for him to hypnotise someone like Renfield—a highly vulnerable and suggestible individual, already prone to fantastical delusions. Using drugs and hypnotic suggestion, Van Helsing implanted the entire false memory of this ‘waking dream’, and then ensured it would become violently embedded in the man’s consciousness by having the attendants viciously beat him. After the slipshod surgical procedure was conducted, Van Helsing questioned Renfield, doubtless using some kind of verbal trigger to ensure the man relayed the concocted story verbatim. The story included some nonsense about Mina Harker being in mortal peril, and we are to accept that at that very moment—completely by coincidence—the Count was upstairs, drinking Mina’s blood.
“Everyone in attendance rushed upstairs, leaving poor Mr Renfield alone to die from his injuries. Right on cue, they saw the Count attacking Mina Harker, but were unable to stop him escaping. Now, all of the actors in our little story were accounted for, bar one. A man who, up until now, we have believed to be innocent of any real crime, and too addled by brain fever to be part of Van Helsing’s deception.”
“Jonathan Harker,” Bradstreet muttered.
“Harker can’t have been playing the part of the Count, Holmes,” I interjected. “In the account given, he was present in the room, swept aside by Dracula and reduced to a stupor while his wife was bitten.”
“There are three distinct possibilities, Watson, all of them equally likely,” Holmes replied. “Firstly, let us say that the entire episode is a fabrication. Of the witnesses, since Quincey Morris is dead, and Lord Godalming is indisposed, Van Helsing has been free to make up whatever story he likes. However, I still do not believe Lord Godalming to be fully complicit in these crimes. There remains a risk, therefore, that his conscience could get the better of him, and he could denounce the truth of these events if he ever recovers his wits. Let us then consider the second possibility—that Van Helsing recruited a man to play the part of Dracula, and the whole scene was staged for the benefit of Morris and Holmwood. We know Van Helsing has associates of strong physicality, whom he could call upon if needed—one of them lies in the morgue below us.
“But there is a third possibility, and although it sounds incredible, it is my preferred theory. That the intruder was Count Dracula himself.”
Bradstreet caught his breath. “You mean to say, after everything, you now believe in vampires?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Holmes sniped. “Vampires are not real, but Count Dracula is—or, rather, was. His existence has never been in question, only his nature. I believe he was lured to the asylum that night by some clever ruse on Van Helsing’s part. It is easy to think that he may have been directed to Mina Harker’s room unwittingly, to find her and her husband in a terrible state. He would have assumed—as would anyone upon seeing Jonathan and Mina Harker covered in blood—that a fight had taken place between man and wife, and perhaps a murder committed. Harker then attacked him—we know that Dracula’s clothes were in disarray. Dracula was a large and powerful man, and fought Harker off, as no doubt he was meant to. Harker crumpled to the floor and acted as though in a stupor. Dracula then stooped over Mrs Harker to inspect the body, and she at once grabbed him, as though in her death throes perhaps, covering him in her blood.”
“But why was she bleeding?” Bradstreet asked.
Holmes suppressed a flicker of annoyance at the interruption.
“The Harkers would have made a good scene of this before Dracula arrived, especially knowing that Mina would be examined later. I first thought they would use animal blood—or even the blood of an asylum patient—in order to complete the ruse. But they needed Mina Harker to be weak and pallid for the benefit of Holmwood and Morris. Therefore, I imagine Mina’s blood was extracted using Van Helsing’s instruments, and then dashed upon her clothes and around the bed. Puncture-marks would have been made in her neck, just as the bloofer lady inflicted them upon those poor babes on Hampstead Heath.
“At this point, Dracula would surely have understood what was happening, and that he was falling into a trap—doubly so if he recognised Harker, for the solicitor’s presence there would have been too much of a coincidence.
“At that moment, the door opened, and there was the professor, along with the rest of the Crew of Light. Dracula must have believed that he had been framed for assault, if not murder—he had no way of knowing if Mina Harker was simply wounded or dying. He was like a trapped animal, caught in two minds of which way to escape. He first ran at his foes, and then checked himself, deciding instead to make for the window and climb out onto the quad. At this moment the Harkers’ plan was completed. Whilst all eyes were on Dracula, Jonathan Harker set off a small smoke-bomb, of the type used for a sudden flash and puff of smoke in the theatre, and threw it under the bed so it would not be found later. Already making for the window, and deciding not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Dracula dove from the window, climbing down the dense ivy that clings to the old part of the asylum.”
“Too far-fetched, Mr Holmes,” Bradstreet said. “Why not kill the man there and then, and have done with it?”
“Because Van Helsing needed to convince his followers that Dracula was an Un-Dead. Any enquiry would have found that Mrs Harker’s injuries had not been inflicted in a struggle with the Count. Even if Van Helsing could have come up with a suitable story, there were at least two members of his own group who would have opposed him. No, he needed to have Morris and Holmwood on side, body and soul, and this charade was the way he did it. When Dracula eventually died, it was after being hunted by the Crew of Light, for everyone in that group either believed wholeheartedly that they pursued a vampire, or else were part of the conspiracy.”
Holmes grinned triumphantly at his own cleverness. Bradstreet lit another cigarette.
“Now,” Holmes said, after his summation had sunk in, “shall we finally see what’s on this cylinder?”
Dr Seward’s Diary, 21 September 1893
Something has been troubling me—a good many things, actually—but in particular something that transpired today.
Professor Van Helsing has been in the strangest of moods, which initially I put down to his great sorrow at failing to save Lucy. He speaks in riddles, and has several times taken me aside and impressed upon me in the most guarded terms a need for secrecy, for a great evil, he says, pits itself against us.
After the funeral, we were overheard talking by Quincey Morris, whose noble bearing dissipated in an instant, to be replaced by a fierce presence. The American is a fellow as strong in moral fortitude as he is in body, and his eyes blazed as if with the righteous fire of the peculiar preachers they have in the Americas. As he towered over the professor, I saw in his eyes the determination that has led to the United States fulfilling its “manifest destiny”, and knew at once that Quincey P. Morris was not a man with whom to trifle.
“I see you, Professor,” he said. “I see you takin’ all these papers, and wrappin’ up that little girl’s affairs in your legal bindings and double-talk. I see that it benefits Art, and that’s the only reason I keep my peace, be assured of that. Be equally assured that, should this arrangement change, and Art is made to suffer by your dealin’s, I shall rain down holy hell upon whatever dark confederacy the two of you have going on here. Do I speak plain enough for you, Professor?”
The professor, though small of stature compared to the American, stared back at him with an utterly fearless resolve. I had seen Van Helsing rattled these past days, by mysterious illnesses and talk of the supernatural, but I had never once seen him cowed by a mortal man, and that clearly was not about to change.
“You speak plain enough, friend Morris,” Van Helsing said. “I see you are a man most cautious, and not a trusting one, eh? That may stand you well in the days and weeks to follow. But you are misplace in your suspicion; I am not your enemy.”
“No?”
“I see the way you look at me, friend Morris, and at John here, also. You give me that same look when first we meet. But was it not you who spoke of the terrible things you saw out on the Pampas—those things that remind you so well of Lucy’s suffering. Was it not you who alone understood the signs of the vampire?”
Van Helsing referred to the conversation we had had on the night of Lucy’s passing, when Morris had told us of his experience of gigantic vampire bats out on the great plains of Argentina, and how the animals upon which they preyed bore symptoms strikingly similar to Lucy’s.
“It was me who said it, and I saw your eyes fair light up when I did. But I don’t suppose for one minute that you suspected a damn vampire at work up to that point. I think I gave you the idea, Professor. I saw a change come over you in that moment. You remember how that night I patrolled the house the whole evening through, with my six-shooter ready? Do you think I was lookin’ out for vampire bats, here in England? No, sir. I was makin’ certain that none of you fellas called in on Lucy during the night. Maybe if I’d been here earlier, and done the same for these last few weeks, there’d be less garlic hangin’ in that girl’s bedroom window, and life yet in her sweet body.”
At this, I became indignant. I had known Morris, on and off, for some considerable time, though I fancy he had never truly liked me the way he had Arthur. But to accuse me of having any hand in the death of Lucy, whom we both loved, was beyond the pale.
“Look here, Quincey,” I said. “Lucy’s ailment is beyond anything I have ever encountered in my years as a doctor, and Professor Van Helsing here is one of the foremost specialists in these matters. If he could not save her, then no one could have, and that is the truth of it. If the professor seeks to keep the details of this terrible incident from the public eye, or even from the hands of the authorities, then I am certain it is with good reason.”
“And what reason might that be?”
The professor spoke again, his words full of authority and steel. “The world, friend Morris, it is not ready for the knowledge that I could bestow. It is not ready to know that true evil walk amongst us. You know it; you have seen it—I see that in your eyes. And before our time is done, you will come to understand that I was right, and I did everything in my power to help that so-dear girl. You loved her, yes? We all did, to me she was like a daughter, and you three men loved her as truly as any men ever loved a woman. It is grief that drives you now to anger. But what we need, friend Morris, is for that anger to change its direction. I swear to you by God that we give you an enemy soon enough, who will be the true and righteous target for your rage. We give to you the enemy who take dear Lucy from you, for it was not sickness that took her. You think you give to me the idea of ‘vampire’? No, you merely were the first to give voice to that which other men think impossible. If you have vengeance in your heart, I ask only that you stay it for now. Go with Arthur, be a good friend to him in his time of need, and if when all this is done you still doubt the word of Professor Van Helsing, then you may take up your ‘six-shooter’ as you say, or that big knife you carry always, and strike me down. Gott im Himmel is my witness.”
“Upon my oath, Professor Abraham Van Helsing, I shall hold you to that,” Morris said. “If you can back up your claims, and show me Lucy’s killer, then faith, you’ll find no truer ally than me. I will leave you be for now, and as you rightly say it’s because Arthur has need of me, and he seems to trust you. But woe betide you—both o’ you—if it turns out that trust is misplaced.”
“I take that as fair warning,” the professor answered, with a wry smile. “For my sake, we hope I give you no cause to mistrust.”
With that the American took his leave. That in itself would have been enough to trouble me, but the professor’s reaction after Quincey had gone was peculiar indeed. He turned to me and said:
“This could be a business most unfortunate, yes, if we do not provide the proof that Mr Morris so seeks. He is a man of principle, John—the kind of man who cannot be bargained with if he feel wronged. If we cannot satisfy him, we shall have to take other means to keep him quiet.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, worried at once by the ominous tone the professor had taken.
“Oh, mind me not, John. It is just a turning of the phrase. We shall show Morris the truth he seek, but first I still must convince you, eh?”
The professor would be drawn no further, and moved on to other matters. Foremost in his mind seemed to be the subject of Mr and Mrs Harker. Professor Van Helsing has mentioned them several times today, and has made a great show of sending a telegram to them, to inform Mrs Harker of Lucy’s death. It is strange that of the great pile of correspondence that the professor has confiscated, only the Harkers have been selected for a personal missive, and an invitation to come and join us in London. He speaks of the woman, Mina, most highly, although he insists that they have never met, and he only knows what a fine woman she is from Lucy’s own journals. He will not let me read those journals, though he himself has pored over every word several times. I cannot help but wonder if she wrote of me; if she wrote of why she passed me over for Arthur.
But I have again let melancholy and sleeplessness bring me to a bitter state. Best I end this recording now.
I make this recording on a separate cylinder. The professor has already intimated that my phonograph diary may be required in the near future, as a record of the grim business upon which we have embarked. These strange misgivings are not for his ears, for I would hate him to think less of me for any dark thoughts that cross my mind as a consequence of my unutterable sorrow.
Bradstreet leaned back in his chair so far I thought he might topple over, and once again blew out his cheeks.
“There’s your man’s motive for killing Morris,” he said.
“It’s almost like you already knew what would be on that recording,” I said, slightly disgruntled that the evidence I had procured at great risk had not provided a new avenue of thought for Holmes.
“Not for certain, Watson, although the problem of Quincey P. Morris has occurred to me frequently. It stood to reason that the funeral would be the one time that tempers would boil over between men who all claimed to love Lucy Westenra. Do not fear, Watson—your efforts have not been in vain. You were clever to select this cylinder in particular, for it confirms my suspicions.”
“It’s a fine thing we have here,” Bradstreet said. “Yet I must caution both of you not to get ahead of yourselves. This cylinder was stolen by the good doctor here, after all. Oh, do not look at me so, I do not plan on arresting you, Dr Watson. Only know that if we mount any case that relies heavily on this evidence, either Van Helsing or Jonathan Harker will see that it is never heard in court. They will have the judge’s ear, I am certain, and this recording will be inadmissible because of the dubious means by which it was acquired.”
“Then we shall have to ensure our case is watertight,” Holmes said. “A pity, though, for the cylinder also quite clearly points the finger at Morris’s killer.”
“You mean Van Helsing did the deed himself?” Bradstreet asked.
“Preposterous,” Holmes said, and Bradstreet cast his eyes downwards at the rebuke. “No, when Watson and I visited Jonathan Harker in Exeter, he had Mr Morris’s bowie knife hanging on his office wall, alongside the kukri knife with which he murdered Dracula. At that time, I thought that Harker truly believed Dracula was a vampire, and was thus innocent of premeditated murder. I assumed that he displayed the bowie knife as a sentimental reminder of his great friend, honouring the man who laid down his life for his wife. As things now stand, there is another reason that he would keep that weapon in so prominent a place. And it is the more probable reason. He is displaying the weapons as trophies.”
“What could Harker possibly have against Quincey Morris?” I asked.
“Nothing at all, at first,” Holmes said. “But consider the recording we just heard. Immediately after being threatened by Morris, Van Helsing brings up the subject of the Harkers. At that time I believe he was already blackmailing Mina Harker, and it suddenly became forefront in his mind just how he would use the murderous, ambitious young couple. He knew perhaps that Seward would not kill for him—this is why he dealt with Renfield himself. Holmwood certainly would not have the fortitude for the task, being a bosom friend of Morris. Van Helsing, as we can tell from the recording, was physically outmatched by Morris, and was already under suspicion—it would be tricky to get the drop on such a man. So who better than the newcomer to the group, an unassuming solicitor—in fact a smiling assassin, who would purport to come as a friend, but who would kill if so commanded?”
“It is feasible, but it is all conjecture, Mr Holmes.”
“It is, but it is the best theory I have for now. I shall either prove or disprove it as we go on.”
“Well, if it’s true, then this is a dark business, Mr Holmes, and it draws darker with each revelation.” Bradstreet rubbed his hand across his shadowed face.
“And yet I cannot help but think that there is still more to the story of Quincey P. Morris. Perhaps the forgotten hunters will be able to shed some light on the matter.” Holmes’s mouth twitched as he forced down the semblance of a knowing smile. It was his most infuriating habit—I knew immediately that he had been holding back some knowledge until such time as he could dazzle us with it.
“Forgotten hunters?” Bradstreet took the bait.
“We have so far believed that the Crew of Light consisted of five men and one woman,” Holmes said. “This is what we learned from the Dracula Papers. But once there were two other men in this loose confederacy, and I believe their stories—their suppressed narratives—are central to the resolution of this case.”