by Bill Crider
“Let me hear no more of this,” said Holmes. “It is all nothing and less than nothing. We will, I assure you, find some very human villain at work here.”
“But the bites,” said Stoker. “Such bites were never made by human teeth.”
“You have seen them?” Holmes inquired.
“No. But I believe what I have heard. Mrs. Montgomery would never stoop to falsehood.”
“She is a woman,” said Holmes, whose disdain of the female sex knew no bounds. “And even the best of women cannot be trusted. But for now I will accept your word as to her veracity.”
After that remark, we rode in silence save for the sound of the coach as it rolled over the road. The Surrey countryside soon came into view, and we saw the brilliant green willows that lined the river Mole. When we passed an old stone mill, the coach turned off the main road and onto a rougher path that led through the greensward and across a wooden bridge over a shallow stream of brackish water. We soon arrived at a rustic country house that appeared from the outside to have many commodious rooms. The flower beds were blooming with red and white, and I recognized the distinctive bell shape of the Lily of the Valley. I was reminded that Mrs. Montgomery’s first name was that of the flower.
The coach stopped outside the door, and when we stepped down, Stoker said, “This is Mr. Brasov’s country home. The boy is inside, along with the rest of the family.”
“I should like to see the boy first,” said Holmes, “in order to examine the bites.”
“Very well,” said Stoker, and made use of a bronze knocker on the door, which was almost at once pulled open by a wizened old man dressed all in black.
“Good morrow, Wladyslaw,” said Stoker. “These men are Dr. Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, here to see young Robin.”
“Come in,” croaked the old man, standing aside, and we entered the house, which was quite dark after the sunlight outside.
Wladyslaw Tedescu led us along a hallway to a large sitting room. In it were two women, one of whom was obviously Mrs. Montgomery. She was tall and regal, though her face was sad in the curtained gloom. The other woman was older and wore black. She was undoubtedly Mrs. Tedescu. Fidgeting in a wing chair was a young lad, who must be Robin, and standing behind him was an earnest-looking fellow that I took for the tutor, John Cabot, who was nervously rubbing his fingertips with his thumb.
“Bram!” Mrs. Montgomery said when she saw us. “Thank God. Is this Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes,” said Stoker, smiling at her use of his familiar name, “and Dr. Watson is here as well. Mr. Holmes wishes to have a look at Robin.”
Mrs. Montgomery crossed the room with such grace that it almost appeared she might be floating. She was very beautiful, with raven hair, blue eyes, and delicate skin. She pressed Holmes’s hand, looked into his eyes, and said, “You must help us, Mr. Holmes. This is like some sort of horrible dream.”
“It is no dream,” Holmes said. “Yet horror is largely a product of the imagination.”
He walked over to the chair where Robin sat and asked why the curtains were drawn.
“The light bothers me,” Robin said sharply. “I cannot bear it.”
“It is the blood of the vampire mingling with his,” said Mrs. Tedescu hoarsely. Her accent was heavy, but she was easily understood. “Soon he will become one of the children of the night.”
“Rubbish,” said Holmes. “Utter nonsense.” He then spoke to the man standing by the chair. “We must have light if I am to examine the bite. Are you Mr. Cabot?”
“Yes,” said Cabot in a pleasant voice. “Shall I open the curtains?”
“Please do so,” said Holmes, reaching into a pocket of his jacket for his magnifying glass.
Cabot pulled back the heavy curtains, and sunlight flooded the room. Robin flinched away, but Holmes gently turned the boy’s face toward the window. Robin jerked his head back, but Holmes took a firm grip.
“You may close your eyes if the sun bothers you,” said Holmes, as he scrutinized the boy’s neck with the glass. He studied it for what seemed like quite a long time before he said, “Come here, Watson, and tell me what you make of this.”
I walked across the room and took the glass. Through it I examined the bites, of which there seemed to be two, both made by the same set of teeth. Or fangs.
“Well?” said Holmes.
“One bite,” said I, “seems almost fresh. The blood is still oozing, though the bite is supposed to have been incurred last night.”
“That is the way of the vampire,” Cabot said. He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. “The creature’s saliva mingles with the blood to infect the body and to keep the wound fresh for later feeding. This boy needs a man to stand between him and the forces of darkness, and if no one else is willing, I shall be glad to do so.”
Mrs. Montgomery smiled at this, and Cabot preened a bit, but Stoker was not amused. He said, “Good Lord, man, have you no sensitivity?”
“I believe in speaking the truth,” said Cabot. “I am sure that Mr. Holmes would agree that the truth is always better than a lie.”
Holmes did not deign to reply. Instead, he said, “I would like to see the boy’s room. How many people have visited it since the so-called vampire attack?”
“No one save for myself,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “I heard Robin cry out early this morning and went to inquire about the cause. He was in such a state that I sent for the doctor, who discovered the bites.”
Robin reached up to scratch his neck, but his mother stopped his hand. He yanked it away from her, but she took it again. After a brief struggle, the boy gave in.
“Don’t touch those places, Robin. Please, don’t touch them.”
“They itch,” said Robin. “I must scratch them!”
“No, you mustn’t.”
“Perhaps Dr. Watson can prescribe a remedy,” said Holmes. “But first we must see the boy’s room.”
The butler, Mr. Tedescu, led Holmes and me upstairs to a room at the end of a hall. He opened the door, and we went inside. The room was dark, the curtains drawn.
“Walk around the wall and open the curtains, Watson,” said Holmes. “Do not disturb anything in the room.”
I did as he asked. When I pulled the curtains, the room was bright with the sun. The bed stood nearby, and beside it there was a small table that held nothing other than a glass of water.
“The window, Watson,” said Holmes. “Examine it to see if it has been opened.”
I looked at the window and then gave it a try. It seemed stuck in its position, and I told Holmes that I would wager it had not been opened in years.
“As I thought,” said he. “Nothing has entered that way, not even a mist or fog.”
With those words, Holmes wasted no time in beginning his minute inspection of the room. He got down on hands and knees and went over the floor, staring for quite some time at the edge of the carpet.
“Come have a look, Watson,” he said after a time.
I knelt beside him, and he showed me what appeared to be a bit of dried mud. When I said as much, Holmes remarked that a small amount of dirt might tell much if it could talk, and almost as much if it remained mute. He picked the dirt up carefully and dropped it in a bag from his pocket.
“Feel the carpet here,” said he, indicating a spot near where the dirt had lain.
I touched my fingers to the rug and felt the slightest bit of dampness.
“From the fog?” I asked.
“I said that there had been no fog. This is something more sinister than that.” He turned to Tedescu, who had remained in the doorway. “What is the purpose of this glass of water?”
“That should have been removed,” Tedescu said. His English was really quite good. “My wife must have been flustered and forgotten it. Each evening, Mr. Cabot reads to the young master, and he sometimes needs to refresh his voice. I shall take the glass away.”
“No,” said Holmes. “Leave it there. Well, Watson, I believe I am near the solution
of the matter, though there is still more to be discovered.”
“Near to the solution, Holmes?” said I in astonishment. “Surely you are joking.”
“I seldom joke, Watson, and never about a matter as serious as this.” He turned again to Mr. Tedescu and said, “Where is Mr. Brasov?”
“He is in the stables, sir. He has no groom, as he prefers to care for the horses himself.”
“What is his relationship with is wife?”
The old man blinked. “I do not know what you mean, sir.”
“I believe you do,” said Holmes.
Tedescu lowered his eyes and said, “They get along as well as any man and woman.”
Holmes looked at me as if to say that he knew what that meant.
“My wife and I get along famously,” said I, “if that is what you are thinking.”
“I am sure that it is as you say, Watson,” said Holmes, “for you are the most amiable of men. But it may be that Brasov is not.”
“He is a good man,” said Tedescu. “And all men love my mistress.”
“Of that I am certain,” said Holmes. “Mr. Brasov is uncomfortable with the idea of the vampire, I take it.”
“You cannot blame him for that,” said Tedescu. “But he is no coward, no matter what you might think. All in our country know of the depredations of the night-flyers.”
I expected Holmes to say something of the foolishness of such a belief, but instead he changed the subject.
“Does the boy eat with you in the kitchen?” he asked. “Or at the table with his parents?”
“Oh, at the table, sir. Only my wife and I eat in the kitchen.”
“And your wife prepares the meals?”
“Yes, sir. She is an excellent cook, if I may say so.”
“Indeed you may,” Holmes responded. “Well, Watson, I believe we have learned enough for our purposes. Let us go down and join the others.”
When we returned to the parlor, it almost seemed if no time had passed, with everyone in approximately the same places as when we had left. Mr. Cabot, however, had moved next to Mrs. Montgomery to put a comforting arm about her shoulders.
“Have you discovered anything to thwart the vampire?” she asked anxiously.
“There is no vampire,” Holmes replied. “Merely someone wanting others to believe that one exists.”
“What do you mean?” said Cabot. “We have all seen the evidence.”
“Seeing is one thing,” said Holmes. “Interpretation is an entirely different matter.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Montgomery.
“It is a matter of constructing a reasonable hypothesis from the evidence,” said Holmes, “rather than an unreasonable one. For example, did anyone ask where a vampire might have come from or why it might attack your Robin?”
There was no reply, and Holmes continued. “Of course not, for there could be no logical answer, and the idea would at once have seemed ridiculous. But let us suppose that there is indeed a reason why someone would want it to appear that a vampire had come for a visit.”
“But what could the reason be, Holmes?” I asked.
“There could be many reasons, but in this case, it was a woman,” said Holmes. “It was Mrs. Montgomery.”
“But I do not understand,” she protested. “How could I have been the cause?”
“Women such as you inspire men to do stupid things from time to time,” said Holmes. “Sir Henry Irving seems to have a tremendous admiration for you. He was willing to recommend my services and send his coach to fetch me.”
Mrs. Montgomery blushed and said, “Anyone would do the same.”
“Perhaps,” Holmes said. “At any rate, it is not Sir Henry with whom we are concerned here.”
“Who, then?” I asked.
“Mr. Cabot,” said Holmes.
“You lie, sir,” Cabot said.
Mrs. Montgomery moved away from him. She took her son’s hands and drew him from the chair. They walked over to stand by Holmes.
“Please explain yourself,” she said.
“Gladly,” said Holmes. “As I did not believe in vampires from the first, I knew there must be some human agent involved. When I examined Robin’s neck, I knew it. Did you not see it, Watson?”
“See what?” I asked, completely at a loss.
“The shape and size of the bites,” said Holmes. “The Y shape of the larger one is indicative of a bloodsucker, true, but not a vampire. It is the mark of the three jaws of the leech. The leech typically attaches itself to its host by both ends of its body, but the sucker on the front end is invariably smaller than the one at the rear. The bite of the leech often bleeds for hours after the animal has been removed.”
“Leeches might easily be obtained in the stream we passed over on the way here,” said Stoker. “In fact I have seen them there.”
“Thank you for the confirmation,” said Holmes. “I was sure that was where they were found. I expect we can find one now in Mr. Cabot’s quarters, contained in water.”
Cabot started forward, but Stoker stepped in front of him and put a hand to his chest.
“You blackguard,” said Stoker. “Stop there and allow Mr. Holmes to finish.”
Holmes nodded. “The carpet in young Robin’s room was slightly damp because of water spilled on it when Cabot removed the leech from its container, and there was a bit of dried mud from Mr. Cabot’s shoe, mud that got there when he visited the stream.”
“But the symptoms,” Mrs. Montgomery said. “How can they be explained.”
“Poison,” said Holmes.
Mrs. Montgomery gasped.
“Not a lethal dose,” Holmes assured her. “When we arrived here, I noticed the flowers growing in the beds. The Lily of the Valley can be quite dangerous. If the flowers are picked and put in a vase, even the water can become harmful. Robin cringes from the sun because of the dilation of his pupils caused by the dose he ingested from the water glass beside his bed.”
“But that was Mr. Cabot’s glass,” said Mrs. Tedescu. “I took it to the room myself.”
“But will Mr. Cabot drink from it now?” asked Holmes.
Cabot shook his head.
“I thought not,” Holmes said. “Mr. Cabot slipped in a bit of Lily of the Valley, perhaps from the stem or leaves, and offered Robin a drink. Is that not so, Cabot?”
Cabot remained mute, but Robin said, “He asked if my mouth was dry. I took a drink.”
“The effect of the drug would be enough for Cabot to apply and remove the leech undetected,” said Holmes. “After he had read the boy to sleep, of course.”
“But Holmes,” said I, “how did you know it was Mr. Cabot?”
“His fingers,” said Holmes. “Did you not see how he was rubbing the tips with his thumb?”
“Yes, but I made nothing of it.”
“To get a leech to bite, sometimes one must give it a reason,” said Holmes. “One way is to give it a bit of blood as an appetizer. Mr. Cabot pricked his own fingers to place blood drops on Robin’s neck, and his fingers still itch as a result. Is it not so, Mr. Cabot?”
Again Cabot refused to speak.
Holmes shrugged. “No matter. If we inspect the fingertips, we will discover the truth.”
Cabot put his hands in his pockets and balled them into fists.
Mrs. Montgomery said, “But why? Why do such a thing?”
“Because he loves you,” said Holmes. “As do many men, I am sure. He hoped to prove his bravery and shame your husband.”
“I am ashamed, indeed,” said a voice from the doorway behind us.
We turned to see a tall man dressed in riding clothes. He had a chiseled face, and aquiline nose, and side-whiskers.
“I am Nicholas Brasov,” he said, “and I stayed out of my own house because of superstitious fear. I see now how stupid I have been. I ask your forgiveness, Robin. And yours, Lily.”
Mrs. Montgomery and Robin went to him and embraced him.
“You have no need to
ask,” said his wife. “For you have done nothing for which you need forgiveness. You are here now.”
“And I am discharging you, Mr. Cabot,” said Brasov. “Leave now, and never come near my house again.”
Cabot’s face was a mask of hate as he stalked from the room, but he said not a word.
“Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Montgomery when Cabot was gone, “you have done our family a great service.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Robin. “I am glad to know that the vampire was not real.”
“There are worse things than imaginary vampires,” said Holmes. “I pray you never meet another.”
“You are welcome here at any time,” Brasov said. “I had heard of you, but I did not believe. Now I do.”
“You must come to the theater,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “I am sure Sir Henry can arrange tickets for you.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “And now, Watson, I believe it is time for us to depart.”
As we rode back to town in Sir Henry Irving’s coach, Stoker remained thoughtful and silent for the most part. I said to Holmes, “I am sorry that this case demanded so little of you. It can hardly have engaged your interest.”
“You are mistaken, Watson,” said Holmes. “It was most lucky that I was called upon. Someone else might have failed or, worse, even encouraged the idea of the vampire. In that case, something far more terrible might have happened. It is awful to see a tutor betray the trust of those who employ him. Such betrayals can result in horrors of a very human kind.”
With those words, my friend turned his face from me and looked out the window at the passing countryside, though I doubt that he saw it. He said not another word until we reached London.
When we had been deposited at Baker Street, Stoker leaned out of the coach and said, “Mr. Watson, I have read and admired your accounts of Sherlock Holmes. You may not know that I, too, am a writer of sorts.”
I confessed that I did not know.
“That is no surprise, as I write fiction of the wilder sort. However, I have an idea now that I believe will bring me greater recognition than I have attained heretofore.”
“And what could that be?”
“A novel about a vampire,” said he. “I shall read about those people you mentioned, Mr. Holmes, Tepes and Bathory, and I shall see what I can learn.”