The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(36)
“You once feared an army of vampires storming London,” I said. “Surely the present situation is far preferable?”
“For the average resident, the state of affairs is certainly preferable,” Holmes said, giving the window another look of disgust before giving up his vigil.
He sank restlessly into his lounging chair. “But the situation is quite trying for a specialist. Little did I imagine the mistake I made assigning Shinwell Johnson to patrol the morgues.”
“Surely he’s capable?”
“That is precisely the problem,” Holmes said with a languid wave of his hand. “He’s certainly capable enough to dispatch the commonplace problems. If only they weren’t all commonplace!”
“I should hardly call it that,” I said, a bit shocked at Holmes’s dismissal of so gruesome and brutal a task, especially when I remembered my own disorienting and bestial transformation into a creature of the night. If I could emerge from such an experience and reassert my own humble personality and morals, certainly some of the other victims could, as well? However, our experience – and Shinwell Johnson’s reports – did not offer much hope for this. Only a handful of new vampires appeared each month, but all of them demonstrated themselves as murderous beasts, without hope of rehabilitation.
“What of the Mariner Priest?” I asked.
Holmes sighed. “Nothing has changed. We’ve thoroughly broken his organization here in London and the Mariner Priest himself remains untouchable somewhere out at sea. I’ve been keeping track of any ships that have gone missing, but as you know, one missing ship, even if we could ascertain that the Mariner Priest was the cause, does very little to accurately pinpoint the fiend’s position. It is possible that he is, at this time, somewhere west of Portugal. I fear pursuing him at sea for the mischief he could make here in London without our restraining hand. I fear that there are certainly vampires left in London, or else we would not need Shinwell Johnson’s services, but I see no sign yet of any organization. Still, the Mariner Priest roams the seas unchecked. No, it is a hopeless tangle!”
Mrs Hudson’s polite knock announced her. “Telegram for you, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes leapt from his chair and snatched the envelope out of her hand. Mrs Hudson shook her head and left with an exasperated sigh as he tore the envelope open.
“A case, Watson,” Holmes said. “We are saved! It comes from Gregson. A murder over at the H?tel du Chateau Blanc. We’ll need a cab. Mrs Hudson.” He made a song of it, “Mrs Hudson!”
*
The H?tel du Chateau Blanc, on the Chelsea Embankment, was a hotel made up to look like a castle, complete with an eccentric, if somewhat ill-smelling moat fed from the Thames and a working drawbridge. The architects had limited themselves to painting the portcullis on the front doors, however, and these were currently thrown open. I looked back briefly, but somewhat gratefully, at the torrential downpour. In a city like London, having to avoid the open glare of the sun wasn’t much of a hardship.
Several constables waited for us in the lobby. One of them showed us directly up to one of the rooms where Gregson waited with the body.
Gregson came over as we entered the room, pulling out a small notebook. “Ah, there you are, Mr Holmes. Dr Watson, I was deeply sorry to hear of your loss. Tuberculosis. Such a bad business.”
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, thinking of the real fate that had befallen Mary. An actual case of tuberculosis seemed a kinder one. Gregson looked uncomfortable for a moment.
“What do you have for us, Gregson?” Holmes asked, eager to get to work.
“It’s a pretty little puzzle of a case, all right. Let me show you.”
I was something of an old campaigner, but could not suppress a shudder when I saw the waterlogged mass on the hotel floor that had once been a living man. He had been tall, possibly thin, but was now so puffed and bloated from being in the water as to be ponderously corpulent. An ugly fringe of lank hair clinging about the head and a dark, heavy moustache were the only features that remained to help with identification. The remains of a sodden dark suit and coat were still wrapped about him, and a similarly soaked hat lay on the floor beside him.
Holmes indicated the window where, even from here, we could see the ponderous passage of the Thames below. “What presents the difficulty? Surely it can’t be too much for Scotland Yard to account for a drowning victim near the water?”
“It is the timing and nature of the drowning that is perplexing, Mr Holmes. I will explain. Yesterday evening, a Miss Lucja Nowak and her sister arrived at the hotel, alone. By all accounts of the hotel staff, Miss Nowak is a young American. Her younger sister is a child, somewhere in the neighbourhood of ten or twelve.”
“How did they know she was an American?” Holmes said. “Her accent?”
“That,” Gregson said, “and her luggage, which was marked as coming from New Bedford. There is a ticket stub among her items for the Atlantic steamer the Lady Evelyn, which arrived just yesterday. I sent a man down to confirm this, and Miss Nowak’s name is on the passenger list. She must have come straight here from the ship.”
“Excellent, Gregson. You quite surpass yourself. Do continue.”
“The two of them kept to their room and saw no one all evening. You will have noticed that the main exit is directly past the front desk, which is always manned. There is a service entrance, but this area is populated by the staff around the clock, so we can be very sure on this point. Early this morning, while it was still dark, they received a visitor. This desk clerk says the man was quite belligerent, and did not give his name, but did show him this badge.”