The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(4)
“What did you put in?” I asked. “Some destructive acid compound?”
Holmes went back to his pipe and got it going again before he answered. “Powdered silver,” he finally answered. “Discovering this reaction was more accident than method, I must admit.”
“Silver…” Nothing in my long medical history, nor in my unusual dealings alongside Sherlock Holmes, had prepared me for so extraordinary a statement.
“Yes, I quite understand your reaction,” Holmes said. “All this leads us to infer the existence of a sufferer of an as yet unknown blood disease that leaves the victim so robust that a young woman is still capable of an active climb that would strain even an accomplished athlete.”
“Climbing? But how on earth could you know that?”
“There are abrasions on the skin and, as well as traces of stone fragments both within the abrasions and underneath the fingernail. Not all of these are new, which suggests more than one such climb in the recent past. At first, I considered the possibility that she had been shut behind a stone door, or some other explanation for the abrasions, but the abrasions lead me to believe that the activity must have been climbing. You recall that I said there were no signs of the regular calluses that usually accompany the physical activity I would associate with a working woman. In addition, a professional climber would have specialized calluses, very hard and smooth, and there are no signs of these, either. This indicates either a woman of the higher class or an invalid excused from menial labour. Either answer seems at odds with our climbing theory, does it not? Or at the very least an unusual combination.
“Most blood diseases are debilitating to the victim,” I said, incredulous. “I can hardly imagine such a person making a strenuous climb.”
“Nor can I,” Holmes said. “Yet I can find no other explanation which meets the facts that are presented to us.”
“Good Lord,” I said, remembering the prominence of haemophilia in the royal family. “You don’t suppose that this woman could have been royalty.”
“I consider it highly unlikely,” Holmes said. “Remember, there was no sign of any jewellery, which makes it unlikely to be someone from court.”
“What does this all mean?”
“We do not have enough data for a complete determination,” Holmes said. “But I have several lines of inquiry. I believe that my next step is to visit West Sussex, where I know a man who deals exclusively in Indian cigarettes. One of the few places in England that carries this distinct tobacco.”
“Then I shall come with you,” I offered.
“That is by no means necessary. I think you would find this preliminary investigation very tedious, and there is not likely to be any danger at this stage. Also, I will send out several telegrams to other tobacconists, and I will need someone reliable to await their reply. But keep your revolver ready, Watson! With such a clue as this first one, I have no doubt that I shall have need of it, as well as your firm resolve, before this case is concluded.”
Chapter 02
CARFAX ESTATE
I spent the rest of the day without further news, and the only break in the monotony came when a small package arrived for Holmes from the Ingerson Rifle Company. Having been given directions to intercept all of Holmes’s mail for him, I opened the package with trembling hands, lest another severed body part should await me. Instead, I found a card from the company with a short note: “Per Your Instructions – Ralph Ingerson” and two small boxes. I opened these and found that they were laden with gun cartridges. But no ordinary cartridges. While the casing looked normal enough, the bullets themselves gleamed and shone, even in the moderately lit study. Silver. Of course, I made the connection between these and the unusual reaction to silver in Holmes’s test, but I couldn’t for the life of me imagine how that could make this kind of ammunition necessary. A bullet of lead would serve just as well, I should think, and besides I could hardly imagine an instance where we might need to shoot the victim of the case. Deciding that this portion of the matter was quite beyond me, I set the package aside and continued to wait.
No sign of Holmes came, and Baker Street received no further correspondence that night, but a telegram was waiting for me when I woke the next morning. It read thusly:
Come down to the Kensington Hotel near Kirby Cross train station in Essex County at once. Will send a cab. Come armed. Bring Ingerson package. SH.
I had Mrs Hudson send for a cab immediately. My old army habits stood me in good stead, and I was able to get my things together quickly enough to be ready for the driver when he pulled up to our kerb.
*
It was only a few hours later when I stepped out of the train and onto the platform at Kirby Cross. I hefted my luggage and found a cab waiting for me. The driver, a large fleshy man, grunted when I requested the Kensington Hotel and departed immediately. In just a few short minutes I saw a hotel sign, but was amazed when we rattled directly past it without pause or even any sign of slowing. I hammered my cane on the roof of the hansom, but the driver ignored me utterly. I was quite beside myself, particularly since we seemed to be entering a seedier and more disreputable part of the sleepy county. The hansom finally came to a halt underneath a huge yew tree. I burst out of the cab and shook my stick at the driver.