The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(2)

“Murder then,” Holmes said. “And it took you somewhat out of your way, into the Farringdon district, I should say.”

Lestrade started. “I’m familiar with your cunning ways, Mr Holmes, but how you could know all that without yet hearing or seeing any of the clues is quite beyond me.”

“You brought the clues in with you, Lestrade,” Holmes said with a wave of his hand. “It is no secret that they’ve torn up the pavement in order to begin construction in Farringdon, and in doing so thrown up a great deal of the red clay that I see about your shoes. I know your route was to Norwood, as I sent you there, and Farringdon is well out of the way. The fact that it is still wet and that you were in too much of a hurry to do more than a casual scraping at our doorstep increases the impression of great urgency. Also, your face and demeanour suggest something disturbing, despite your many years with Scotland Yard. What else but murder?”

“Well, I suppose my face does tell the tale plainly,” Lestrade admitted. “I expect you remember Stross, the forger in Norwood that you turned us on to last week?”

“Yes, quite,” said Holmes. “Did you find him at the address I gave to you?”

Lestrade nodded. “We did, and in the process of apprehending him we came upon something murkier than a simple forgery. When asked about it, the rascal would say nothing. This is a man who would send either of us to the bottom of the Thames without the slightest hesitation. To make matters stranger, this cool customer, who hadn’t broken so much as a sweat during his arrest, actually broke down in tears when we questioned him about it!” The little detective held up the cigarette case. “We have been able to get nothing intelligible from him.”

“And this is the item here?” Holmes asked. He gestured at the cigarette case.

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing it with me.”

“Let us see what we can make of it,” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together as he warmed to his task. Lestrade handed the cigarette case over without further comment.

“Lacquered teak,” Holmes said. “Expensive, but not otherwise extraordinary. It has seen some use by a man once wealthy who has since fallen on hard times. The clear markings of an amateurish repair applied to the hinge tell us that. Now then, let us look inside.” He fell abruptly silent when he opened the box.

I shifted in my seat to get a closer look and gasped as the significance of what I saw struck home to me. “Good Lord, Holmes!” I said, for rarely had I seen a more shocking example of brutality and horror.

Inside, nestled neatly in red velvet like a rare jewel, lay a freshly severed human finger.

Holmes leaned closer, deeply affected not with shock or disgust, but with eager interest. He pulled his lens from a drawer and examined it all together first, then carefully removed the finger. He looked further into the box and made a satisfied noise. “This was originally used for cigarettes, as one might expect,” he murmured. “Traces of them are still here.” He carefully pulled a scrap of tobacco out and snuffed at it like a bloodhound. “An unusual and expensive brand. Made in India and not much seen in England. It has a very acrid taste that would not be popular.”

Then he began a minute study of the finger itself. It was clearly a woman’s finger, and showed no sign of decay that I could see. The hand it was taken from must once have been long and white, a beautiful sight before this horrible disfigurement had taken place. Holmes measured the length and width of the finger and even scraped underneath the fingernail, which was long and unpainted.

“The ring finger of the left hand,” he murmured. “Very recently cut. It is difficult to be certain, since the cut has fallen very close to where a wedding ring would lay, but I would say that we are missing any sign of the indentation such a ring would make, so we can safely assume she was not married. The finger has no calluses, so we now have either a woman of the higher class or an invalid excused from menial labour. Very curious.”

“What could anyone want with such a grisly trophy?” I asked. “Was it some kind of proof of kidnapping?”

Lestrade shook his head. “I have not yet had the chance to communicate with any other departments in the city, but there’s no such missing person that we know of, and no ransom note was found. Nor do we have any idea who might receive one until we identify the victim.”

Holmes shot an acute glance at Lestrade. “When did you get this?”

“We found it this morning, when the arrest was made. After finding this little bit of nastiness, we searched the house, but to no avail.”

Holmes frowned, clearly displeased with this information. He sprang up and went over to the table in the corner that held his equipment for chemical experimentation, taking the box and finger with him. He rummaged among the retorts, test tubes, and little Bunsen lamps before extracting three empty tubes. He added a small amount of water to each, then carefully added a sample of blood taken from the finger to the first, and a sample from the box to the second. For the third, he jabbed a bodkin into his own finger to supply a few drops. He absently covered the self-inflicted scratch with a piece of sticking plaster, a habit I knew he performed in order to prevent accidentally poisoning himself while handling toxins. Then he measured a small amount of white crystals, dropping them into the waiting vessels. He followed this with a few drops of a transparent fluid from an angular green bottle.