The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(8)
With a swift motion, he picked up a scalpel and cut off a small portion of the finger and placed it on a small dish. He then placed the dish on the corner of his chemical table, near the window, where the last bit of daylight shone on it.
“We might have done this accidentally,” Holmes murmured, “if not for the abysmal weather.”
“What in the world?” I said, sitting bolt upright as a small curl of smoke puffed from the dish. The sample burst into low flame, then went up in a cloud of acrid smoke like a Chinese firework gone horribly awry. Smoke plumed up from the table, and we were both coughing uncontrollably before Holmes managed to cover it with a metal serving lid in order to smother the flame. Even so, we had to stumble around opening windows and waving sheaves of paper to drive out the smoke, and it took a great many minutes to clear our sitting room.
“Well, Watson,” he said with a wry smile as we fell back into our chairs. “It seems my flair for a dramatic demonstration has somewhat backfired on me. Yet, clearly you will have to concede that there must be more to this vampire business than we at first believed. This also indicates, when you consider the details of the woman in the courtyard’s death, that we have not one vampire, but two in this case. Each of them missing a finger.”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “I cannot fathom how this could possibly be. If it were true, why has there been no outcry other than a collection of old fairy tales and that Polidori twaddle?”
“I’m inclined to think that this condition is rare, and the numbers of the afflicted must be very small,” Holmes said.
“What you say must be true,” I said, “but I still cannot bring myself to fully comprehend the undead. I simply cannot imagine how this could be, and yet I must.”
“I think, perhaps, ‘undead’ is a term that is best discarded,” Holmes said. “Vampires, or those infected with this blood disease, are remarkable, but still human and still fall in the purview of science rather than superstition.”
“But what of the rest?” I said. “Turning into mist, or a bat, or being repelled by the holy cross?”
“I should think that we are not quite forced to accept all of the information that comes to us without some examination as to its merit. It occurs to me that some portions of these lurid tales are rife with more superstition than logic. The power of the cross to hold such a fiend, for example. Why should this be? But when you consider that many such crucifixes are made with silver, and that this material might well give such an assailant pause, this I can credit. But I am ahead of myself, Watson, and it is a mistake to theorize too heavily without all the data.”
“But how did you know? How could you possibly have come to this impossible conclusion?”
“How indeed?” said a sonorous, cultured voice.
I sat bolt upright at this sudden intrusion, so startling was it. Holmes was even more galvanized, and leapt to his feet.
The man standing in our doorway was tall, taller even than Holmes, and equally gaunt. His features were sharp and strong as well, but there the similarities diverged. Instead of Holmes’s lean, ascetic features, this man’s bushy eyebrows, long black moustache and great mane of black hair combined to create an impression of fierce grandeur. Like a barbaric king he was, noble and proud without a trace of shame, and clad in a black cloak over a dark, sombre, expensive suit that looked many years out of date. The spatter of the rain and crash of thunder came loudly through the still-open window, which was curious in itself, as there had been little foreshadowing of such a storm.
“Be wary, Watson,” Holmes said levelly. “We are in grave danger here. Consider the noise on the steps.”
“But I heard nothing!” I said, quite taken aback at this unreal series of events.
“Precisely.”
“You are an interesting man, Mr Holmes,” the intruder said. “With a shocking clarity of perception.” His English was excellent, but the intonation marked him clearly as foreign. He moved idly towards the window, as if unaware of his actions, and Holmes took several corresponding steps towards his desk. I was keenly reminded of two predators, the bloodhound and the wolf, stalking each other with deadly intent and malice.
“But, I assure you that your wariness is not necessary,” the man said in a conciliatory tone. “Please sit, I mean you no harm.”
Holmes moved behind his desk and picked up the revolver there. I made to follow suit. I still had the gun in my jacket pocket, and it would have been a moment’s action to stand and draw it. When I tried, however, I found I could do nothing of the sort. I could not even take my eyes off the man’s own, which burned like coals in the low flickering light of the small hearth fire we had burning. It was dark outside, which I hadn’t noticed until now, and our comfortable sitting room in Baker Street felt transformed, a fragile and uncertain shelter in a dark and menacing world.
“That is quite enough,” Holmes said, proving his own mobility by raising and cocking the gun in his hand.
“Guns mean little to one such as…” the man started, but his voice trailed off as Holmes calmly held up a bullet between thumb and forefinger. Even in the flickering and dim light, the gleam of silver was apparent.
“Most exceptional…” the man said. “A keen and disciplined mind, not to be distracted or diverted from its purpose.” He smiled, and some tension in his eyes seemed to relax its grip. I found that I could move again. I sprang to my feet and yanked out my own revolver. Holmes held up a restraining hand, though, so I took no further action.