4 January 1901
But I am alone. “M” has gone.
He came to me this morning and told me that he felt quite himself again. The fresh air, rest, and brisk exercise had quite recuperated him, and he wished to re-enter society. I confess that for my own sake I was overwrought, but for his sake, I acquiesced. He spoke of wishing to leave us in haste, as snow flurries had begun to fall.
“Your fires shall burn brightly tonight!” he said.
I granted him his liberty immediately. His “brother” arrived to convey him away, and he left as he had arrived, a nameless gentleman, and I had thought the matter concluded.
How wrong I was! For tonight it is as if all his fixations and tremors attenuate themselves to me! Where before I suffered nightmares, now I am in an absolute terror, and so have turned on my phonograph so that I may record my state of mind. As I stare into the flames in the grate in my rooms I see the figure in the crackling waves of heat! Now I turn my head and see him looming upon my threshold, arms extended as if to choke the very life out of me!
“Back, demon! You are but a figment of my imagination!”
But my imagination has the best of me. Images churn before me—the Count and my poor Lucy Westenra, a full vampire bride; impalements, beheadings, blood gushing everywhere! And in the midst of it that man, eyeing me curiously through a glass he holds to his eye, as if I am a specimen!
“Begone! Demon, get thee to hell!”
And now he comes!
5 January 1901
I awoke to find Miss Holder’s pale white face staring past the shoulder of my strongest orderly, Mr Driscoll, who was tying me to my bed. Me! Dr Adams, my assistant, was preparing for me a syringe—of laudanum, I determined—and the flames of my fire seemed to reach for me like the long fingers of demons! I stared at all in utter horror.
And then I saw the face of the man. In the window, and in the mirror above the fireplace mantel, and then in the very flames themselves!
“He is coming for me! He is coming!” I cried.
And then, as one, they began to scream, too! Miss Holder shrieked like a banshee and tore at her hair, her dress. Mr Driscoll left off tying me and wove back and forth, back and forth like an automaton, gibbering and laughing. Dr Adams stabbed himself directly in the forehead with the syringe, and fell down in a quivering heap beside my bed.
As the imp approached, his face melted and great fangs protruded from the mess. A caul swallowed up his head and tiny winged things capered and danced upon it! The clanging of church bells and ship bells and the great chittering of a thousand starving rats filled my ears. I saw them coming at me, creatures and monsters and the thing that held sway over them all!
I shrieked and flung myself at him. I had patients and staff to protect. I could not let him take me.
I railed at him, at it. I flailed, arms like windmills, legs like the great pistons of a train! I tried to bite it; I would do anything to save the world from it, anything!
I do not know how long I battled thusly; but at length I heard an English voice saying, “No more of this! No more!”
And then I became aware that I was being dragged from my asylum, which was heaving with smoke and screams of panic. I fought and strained, but to no avail. We moved past the cells and out into the receiving room, my kidnapper and I!
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” I implored.
“Satan?” the figure roared, as if with great good humour.
I saw his crazed smile, and then he flung me into a snow bank. The shock stunned me into silence and I began panting, sucking in large gulps of icy night air.
Fire and brimstone ebbed from my sight; and demons and rats; and I beheld the tall man I had often spotted in the periphery of my vision.
So now I die, I thought, bracing myself. I die at the hand of the phantom that haunts me.
But the man held a handkerchief over his mouth and was fiercely coughing. He seemed to have no fear of violence from me whatsoever.
Surely the Devil does not cough, I told myself, though I could not inhibit my reaction as he reached toward me. I scrabbled backwards away from him, commencing to shriek once more.
And then I saw Miss Holder standing beside him, gazing at him for the all the world as if he were her protector. He, and not I.
“Dr Seward,” he said, “you have been poisoned, and it is playing tricks on you. Pray draw in as much fresh air as you are able or you will surely go to Bedlam.”
“Please, Doctor, do as he says,” Miss Holder implored me. Orange flames were dancing on her face and hair, and tears shimmered like jewels upon her cheeks.
As I exerted myself to strenuous breathing, I turned around in the snow. The shock that grabbed hold of me was as overwhelming as those which I had felt when we had beheaded Lucy and dispatched Count Dracula to hell.
My asylum was going up in flames! The walls and parapets were ablaze; smoke boiled to the moon, and the roof crashed in as I watched. Years of investment, and toil, my fears and hopes for the minds of our sufferers, rushing to destruction!
My staff was surrounded by our madmen, some of whom were capering and dancing, rejoicing in their freedom. Others were crying like widows, and still others, like tiny, heartbroken children.
“My asylum!” I protested. “I am ruined!”
“No,” said the man. “You are alive, and that is enough to ask for in a misadventure such as this.”
“How dare you, sir,” I said, though I was mortified to speak so to the man who, clearly, had saved me. “You know nothing of my fortunes, nor of me.”
Nor I of him, for of a certainty, he was not Satan.
“I know plenty.” He regarded me once more, studying each detail of my person. “Miss Holder wrote to me of you and described you to a T. Nicely done,” he said, and she flushed and curtseyed. “I know that you are Dr John Seward, more familiarly called ‘Jack.’
“I know that you offered hospitality to one who would have me believe he is dead from our encounter at the Reichenbach Falls of Switzerland. His name is Moriarty, and I know that he poisoned you with radix pedis diaboli, or Devil’s Foot Root, which he sprinkled liberally on your woodpiles, in hopes that when you lit logs in your grates, you would release its noxious fumes and perish, or at the least be rendered so mad that no one would believe any tales you had to tell of a gentlemen called “M.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Miss Holder said to me, sinking to her knees in the snow beside me. “I knew things were not right. And I so wrote to Sherlock Holmes, and asked him to come.”
I blinked. I knew the name, of course. He was the world’s greatest consulting detective. Was it actually true that he stood before me? Or had I gone mad indeed?
As if in answer, Sherlock Holmes smiled faintly at Miss Holder, and inclined his head in her direction.
“It was very brave of you to send for me, my dear, seeing as you left my company under rather…compromising circumstances.”
“What sort of circumstances?” I asked sharply. “Would you be so kind as to elaborate?”
“I would never be so unkind,” Holmes replied. “All that you know of Mary Holder is all that you need to know. Item one: After she had raised the alarm and implored me to help you, I wrote back to her and advised her to quit your employ to save herself any mortification. But she refused to be parted from you. She is utterly devoted to you, and it appears that you have been quite unaware of it.
“Item two: Mrs Eliza Seward has obtained a writ of divorcement on the grounds of insanity, and you, sir, are a bachelor.”
6 January 1901
And thus it was that as Jack’s asylum burned to the ground—in the same manner that Mr Rochester’s mansion burned in that dreadful novel—his feeling for me was kindled. And I felt myself to be free of the terrible consequences that a single occasion of momentary madness had wreaked upon me. For I am�
��or I was—Miss Mary Holder, the niece of the banker Alexander Holder, from whom I attempted to steal a priceless beryl coronet—one of the treasures of the realm—for the man I had believed to be my lover, the insidious blackguard, Sir George Burnwell. I knew when I met him that Mr Holmes suspected me, and that I had to run away.
As soon as I left my beloved Uncle Alexander and my cousin, Arthur, who loved me, I knew that I had made the worst mistake. I wept bitter tears, but there was no going back. I had made my bed, to be quite coarse, and I must lie in it.
Of course Burnwell threw me over. That was to be expected. I came to understand that that was how he treated all his “darlings.” I was forever soiled, and therefore had no expectations of marriage. I had no idea what I should do…save what other fallen women have undertaken to survive. But I thought that I should rather die, and began to contemplate the manner of my self-murder.
Strangely, at the soaring height of my desperation, a sum of money came to me by post. I thought it might be from Uncle Arthur.
I know now that it was a gift of mercy from Sherlock Holmes.
With the funds I secured a place in a nursing college, and from there, I came to work for Jack. He was such a caring, dear man, deeply scarred by his tragic marriage and the torments that had led up to it. My heart beat only for him, and I determined to be useful to him until I could no longer be of service, and to love him from afar forever.
Then Professor Moriarty came, and hid himself among us, a wolf among sheep. I knew that our “M” was a wrong man, but I did not know how wrong until Mr Holmes answered my summons and revealed all.
It is Mr Holmes’s birthday tonight. And while he is far away from us—he being in England, while we have settled in Texas, the family seat of Quincey Morris, who gave his life so that my Jack might live—we have had a party in his honour. The cakes are made, lemonade and candies laid on for our little son Sherlock, and we are a jolly party of four: Jack, Sherlock, I, and dear, sweet, Dr Van Helsing, who as you may imagine, is quite old and frail. The dear man lives with us now, and we love him with all our hearts. He tells the story often of his and Jack’s foray against Count Dracula.
In turn, I recount some of the many adventures Jack shared with Sherlock Holmes until such time as we decided to make our way to America. Perhaps you would like to hear some of them as well, you who are listening to my phonograph diary. I have recounted them all on these wax disks, and I do hope they will outlive us. No; I do not hope.
I am certain of it. For like my love for Jack Seward, our story will last forever.
Mary H. Seward
Discovered in Nancy Holder’s attic April 7, 2019, San Diego, California
Sherlock Holmes and Dr Nikola: The Adventure of the Empty Throne
Brad Mengel
As I look back over my association with Sherlock Holmes, I find nothing on that day we met many years ago that would have suggested that he and I would become friends, or that we would still be sharing rooms in Baker Street together. I cast my mind back over the adventures we shared over the years, the villains we foiled such as Professor Moriarty, Klimo, and The Devil Doctor from China.
The year 1892 was a particularly fruitful one for The Holmes Consulting Detective Agency. There were many cases of note; Wisteria Lodge, where my step-brother, Don Jose De Martinos, ‘The Tiger of Equinata’ was discovered after fleeing a revolution; The Sign of The Three, which led Holmes and I to Tibet to investigate the murder of the High Priest of Hangkow by the criminal conspiracy known as The Three; and The Baritsu Master, an exploit that delves deeply into that Japanese system of wrestling that only few in the Western world fully comprehend. But perhaps the most intriguing and interesting case of the year began on a cold evening in early January.
Holmes and I had just returned from a concert given by The Australian Songbird, Miss Hilda Bouverie. We had just turned into Baker Street, when one of the many street urchins that populated London came up to us.
“Mr ’Olmes! Doctor Nikola!” greeted the young boy as he saw us. “Mrs ’Udson said that you might be ’eaded this way when she chased us out of ’er parlour.”
I immediately recognised young Wiggins, the leader of the group of scalliwags and larrikins that Holmes had hired to act as his eyes and ears throughout London, his own Irregular network of informants.
“Well, you shouldn’t have wiped your mouth on your sleeve after eating the carrot cake, young Wiggins,” greeted Holmes after making the same identification.
The young lad’s jaw dropped in amazement. “I don’t know ’ow you do it, Mr ’Olmes.”
I have to admit that I was in no mood for Holmes’ theatrics as I was keen to return to my cat, Apollyon. “Holmes knew Mrs Hudson had baked a carrot cake and that Mrs Hudson would offer you a slice. The fact that there are crumbs on your sleeve tells us that you wiped your mouth with it. Although I admire your restraint, waiting for the third slice to do so. Now I take it that you have a reason to be looking for us other than to be amazed by Holmes’ deductions? I take it that it has something to do with the letter in your pocket.” I snapped, knowing it would irk Holmes.
Wiggins stood looking even more dumbfounded as he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. For his trouble, I plucked a half Crown out of mid-air and handed it to him as Holmes took the envelope.
“Thanks, Doctor,” Wiggins said, as he disappeared into the teaming throng that is London.
Holmes looked at me with annoyance. “Let’s return home and read this letter from my brother, Mycroft.”
“Obviously, it’s important, or he would have waited for the post, or used a telegram,” I replied as we continued down the street in companionable silence.
We soon reached the door of 221B, to be greeted by Mrs Hudson. “Mr Holmes, did that lad find you? The little terror took three pieces of my carrot cake, so there’ll be no supper for you and the doctor.”
Holmes assured her that we had no need for cake and would most likely be heading out again shortly. That did little to placate the long-suffering woman, as she bustled to her room muttering all the way.
Holmes and I soon mounted the seventeen steps that lead to our rooms. Holmes grabbed the jack-knife from the mantle and sliced open the envelope.
I sat in the chair on the left side of the fireplace and Apollyon took his usual place on my shoulders. I could see that Mrs Hudson had given him a saucer of milk while we were away, the fact that her arms bore no scratches meant he was getting used to her. Holmes read the letter and snorted before handing it over to me.
It was a short missive. “Meet me at Diogenes. M.”
“Typical of my brother, too lazy to even write his own name,” Holmes declared.
“I would think that a man who is sometimes the British Government would have access to more resources than one of the Irregulars to deliver such a simple message,” I declared as I stroked Apollyon.
At that Holmes’ face turned a most intriguing shade of red. “How on earth did you know that?”
I steepled my fingers and smiled at the Great Detective. I had, as a matter of course, compiled a complete file on Holmes and his family when I moved into 221B, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “Perhaps I’m a psychic.”
At that, Holmes turned purple. “This agency is founded on the principals of rational scientific investigation, and we do not deal in spiritualist mumbo jumbo!”
It was a long running debate between us. Holmes refused to acknowledge anything that was impossible to his rational mind. I gave him some peace before he might have a heart attack. “Or maybe I deduced it from the letterhead and the watermark on the paper.”
Holmes’ face returned to normal as did his breathing. “Of course, that’s what it is.”
I caught him glancing at the locked draw which contained his cocaine; I had weaned him off that poison when I moved in. While he might be more pliable on the
drugs, with the dangerous men that we often faced it was not wise to have any of his faculties impaired. I quickly diverted his attention by rising, as Apollyon leapt from my shoulders, and taking my hat off the hook. “Let’s visit your brother.”
Holmes was a few steps behind me as we entered the street. I signalled for a cab, and one soon came along. The driver was Baxter, one of my own agents, responsible for keeping tabs on Holmes’s movements. Holmes gave the address of the Diogenes Club.
During the trip Holmes explained the unusual nature of the Club. “The Club was founded by Mycroft so that men who were otherwise unsuited to traditional clubs through either misanthropy or shyness would have a place to go. Silence is strictly enforced in the Diogenes. We will be taken to the Stranger’s Room, which is the only place in the club where one may speak.”
As predicted, on our arrival the doorman silently ushered us to the Stranger’s Room. There we found Mycroft Holmes. Where Sherlock was tall and lean, his older brother was still tall, but much stouter.
Mycroft offered his hand. “Doctor Nikola, so nice to finally meet you. I enjoy reading your accounts of my brother in The Windsor Magazine; it’s the only way I can discover what he is doing.”
I shook his hand and returned the greeting. I could see that Mycroft was worried. While he looked the typical civil servant in government employ, there were very subtle clues he was far more than that. His right cuff was more worn that the left indicating that he was right handed and had been doing much writing lately and that he had not changed cuffs for a least a day. The slightly longer right sideburn confirmed that he was, indeed, right handed, and that he shaved himself. The tiny nick just below his right ear indicated that he had been distracted whilst shaving. The slight trickle of blood told me that he was shaving to meet his brother this evening. The ‘stiff upper lip’ was not just an expression for men like Mycroft. Clearly, there was a problem. It could only be professional, as Mycroft worked just around the corner from his club and his home, and he had no personal life to speak of. The fact that the Holmes brothers did not communicate was evidence of that. One does not become as important to the government, as my file indicated Mycroft was, if you were not dedicated to the job. The fact that Mycroft did not use his official resources for this problem, instead, using Wiggins to summon his brother was very suggestive.
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