Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies

by C J Lutton

  Clearly the experiences he was sharing served to shape my friend into the solitary, though brilliant, man he became.

  ”The code seems complex but is effective because of its simplicity,” he continued. ”Mycroft and I fell upon a code called ‘Swine in the Pen.’ It was used in the fifteenth century by the Freemasons to confound authorities. It's based on the ancient game of x's and naughts. We divided the twenty—six letters of the alphabet into four sets of letters, using the grid of the game twice as one key and two dissecting lines, forming the letter X, as the other two parts of the key.

  “The first grid contains the letters A through I; the second, J through R, the third part contains the letters S through V, and the fourth W through Z. To differentiate between the first and second grid, the second contains the dots. Similarly, the fourth key, to separate it from the third. It's simply a matter of removing the letters and substituting that portion of the keys with the corresponding letters.”

  I stared at Holmes questioningly.

  ”Judging by your face, Watson, I'm aware that this appears complicated, but once it has been mastered, its simplicity is quite profound. Of course, you recall the Adventure of the Dancing Men? This is simply a different cipher.”

  I shook my head in total confusion.

  ”Ah, yes, perhaps an example.” he said. ”Following the key, your name would appear thusly.”

  Holmes drew the figures on a piece of paper.

  Still confounded, I remarked, ”Show me what you're talking about. I just...”

  He proceeded to lay before me a most clever scheme of deception. Having finally grasped the code, I understood that he was indeed correct. It was simplicity at its most profound.

  ”Now that you know the secret,” said Holmes, stretching to his full height, ”please decipher the note.”

  I sat at the desk and began to convert the code to words. After some thought, I completed the first word. Startled, I pushed the chair back and began to rise.

  ”But Holmes,” I said, ”are we to go back to Sussex? I thought that preposterous matter was cleared up a long time ago. This is pure rubbish! Am I to assume that you actually take this matter seriously?”

  ”I not only take this matter seriously,” Holmes said, ”but I can assure you that what I've seen and heard recently, what you have just written is not far from the realm of possibilities.”

  ”Holmes,” I said, ”you're not suggesting that such a creature can possibly exist?”

  ”Not only can it exist – it does exist.”

  ”Balderdash!”

  ”Since you question the veracity of such a possibility, kindly finish the task at hand, and I'll ask nothing further of you this evening.”

  I turned away and finished deciphering the note. I heard Holmes sit back into his chair. Glancing around, I noticed that he was fidgeting with his mother's ring. I turned my eyes back to the paper and was greatly shaken by the magnitude of its implications.

  If this is to be believed, I thought, then the world is damned!

  4

  A Most Horrible Creature

  The words jumped from the page:

  Vampires Real.

  Take Care as Discussed.

  Bram

  Holmes shook his head sadly. “During one of our talks, Mycroft mentioned the name of one of his agents, Bram. Hence, the letters BRAM on our card here would no doubt imply that it was he who had this sent to Mycroft.”

  The events of the day conspired to overwhelm me. The subterfuge. The leaping out of cabs. The room was warm, and the rolls I’d eaten weighed pleasantly in my stomach. The crackle of the fire in Holmes’ fireplace seemed hypnotic. Or perhaps it was the sense of homecoming, of the familiar companionship offered by my old friend, that relaxed me. I cannot pinpoint why I slept, but somehow I must have dozed, for I awoke with a start. Holmes had managed to drape a blanket over my shoulders whilst I slept, and he was now standing over me, peering at the note.

  He looked into my eyes and said, ”I've kept your room just as you left it. Turn in for the night, Watson. We will see what the morrow brings. A package should arrive, I would think.”

  Arrive it did, with all of the commotion of a barreling train to accompany it. I was jostled from my fitful sleep by Holmes as he cried out my name. “Watson! Come quick and bring your kit! There's been foul play!”

  I threw back the bedclothes and grabbed my medical bag. I did not bother to dress properly as I burst out of my room, but I did grab my robe and secure it with the sash. By the time I reached my friend, I saw that Holmes was dressed in a similarly informal manner. He was having difficulty supporting a man who had collapsed in his arms. Of course, I hurried to assist.

  ”Help me to get Harker to the sofa,” Holmes said. “Be careful now, he's severely injured.”

  Together we struggled, carrying the dead weight of Mycroft’s personal secretary around the clutter of the room. The journey was rather hazardous because there were papers strewn all over the floor. When we made it to the sofa, we carefully placed Harker on it.

  As Holmes hovered nearby, I endeavored to carry out an initial exam. Toward that end, I found no broken bones on the unconscious figure. Thus, I began a more detailed examination of the man’s wounds. Due to their superficial nature, the lacerations and bruises were not life threatening. I cleaned these as best I could. Harker’s skin felt clammy and his pulse was both weak and rapid. He also displayed shallow breathing, pale skin colour, and rapid heartbeat. Taken all together, these symptoms signaled that my patient was suffering from extreme blood loss that had sent him into severe shock. However, try as I might, I could not see the external signs of exsanguination that I would expect.

  ”Well, Watson?” Holmes’ voice came from across the room. This surprised me as I hadn’t realized my host was no longer standing at my side. Indeed, my friend was on his hands and knees, retrieving the papers strewn about the floor. Craning his neck, he peered under the table, chairs, and the remaining furniture within his lower domain. Then, like a leaping cat, he dove for the small divan. His hands clasped a small object that I recognized as a gift from an appreciative client to whom Holmes would only refer to as the Jersey Lily.

  Whenever he spoke of the woman, his lips pursed into a small tight smile. It was difficult to determine whether or not it was actually a grimace. Disgusted with the trinket in his hand, he tossed the object back under the divan and began his search anew. He continued to search the area around the divan. Finally, he seized upon the item of his quest.

  ”Watson,” he shouted, ”a true Archimedes moment.” Holmes rose to his feet, waving a paper in his hands. ”It's just as I'said. The card came from a report cover, and now we have the entire puzzle.”

  Ignoring our unconscious visitor, Holmes strode triumphantly towards me, whilst continuing to wave the paper he held.

  ”So you see, Watson...” Collecting himself, he stopped speaking and glanced down at our guest. He asked, “Will Harker make it?”

  ”I can find no life—threatening wounds, but I'm afraid I'm at a loss to explain his condition. Besides his displaying all of the symptoms of shock, there are also indications of severe blood loss. Yet I find no cause to warrant my diagnosis. Therefore, I can offer him no treatment.”

  ”Do you not find that curious, Watson? And what about those puncture wounds on his neck?” Holmes went on. ”Remember what the note said, or do you still maintain that it is the ranting of a mad man?”

  I was stung by Holmes’ tone and was about to remind him of our little adventure in Sussex. After all, it was my friend's own words that called the existence of vampires “pure lunacy!” Fortunately, the stirrings of Harker quieted my angry words.

  ”Mr. Holmes,” Harker murmured, ”How did I… Where am...?”

  ”All in good time,” Holmes said, softly. ”Where's Mycroft? Is he still alive?”

  ”Holmes!” I exclaimed, ”Leave the poor man alone. He's endured enough for now. Chances are any answers that he may give und
er your interrogation will make little sense to either of us.”

  ”You may be right, Watson, but allow me one question. Harker’s answer may clarify the urgency of the matter.”

  I nodded.

  ”Now, Harker,” Holmes continued, sounding much more strident than I'm sure he had intended, ”I know that you've been through a torturous ordeal, but it's imperative that you answer this question right now. Do you believe in vampires?”

  Harker's eyes went wide with terror, and he began to sob uncontrollably.

  I sat on the edge of the sofa, attempting to offer a modicum of comfort to this wretched human being. I glared at Holmes, feeling that he had taken cruel advantage of Harker's weakened condition to prove a point. Harker slowly regained his composure and lay quietly for some time. I thought he had gone off to sleep and was about to stand up, but his stirring held me planted to my spot.

  ”I never did believe in vampires. Not before. But I do now,” he said. His body trembled violently. I turned to Holmes to inform him that I was going to give the patient a sedative, but he was nowhere to be found. I glanced towards the door of his bedroom. It was shut tight.

  Turning my attention back to Harker, I was surprised to find him quietly staring at me. Confused by this sudden calm, I tried to recall whether or not I had already given him the injection. To my alarm, I found the needle and sedative untouched and still in my kit.

  Flustered, I felt Harker’s eyes continuing to study me, watching my every move. I slowly turned to face him. My discomfort grew as I drew the liquid into the syringe and placed the needle on the table. A look of cunning had taken over Harker’s features. I could sense he was weighing something in his mind. Somehow I knew he was considering violent action against me. I quickly admonished myself. Harker was in no condition to attack me. None. Surely I was letting my imagination get the better of me.

  Suddenly, a forgotten and yet familiar child's voice began speaking to me. But Harker's lips remained still.

  ”Listen closely, old chum,” said the voice from long ago, in a tone I can only describe as menacing, ”the playing pitch isn't level any more. This time I shall win!”

  I gasped as there was no mistaking the voice as belonging to my childhood friend, Percy Phelps, a chum I called “Old Tadpole.”

  An evil presence filled the room. Harker, seeming to draw comfort in my fear, was the cause. Moving his neck, swaying it to and fro like a cobra seduced by a snake charmer’s music, Harker watched me. His eyes narrowed to mere slits. I shrank back from him, attempting to rise from the divan. I stumbled to my feet in terror.

  ”That's right,” said another voice, one more cruel and mocking than before. ”In order to win this game, there'll be the devil to pay.”

  A malevolent laugh assaulted my mind and wrested away any confidence that I had. In my haste to move away from the peril, I bumped the table and carelessly knocked the syringe to the floor.

  ”Ah,” said, still another voice, ”do be careful.”

  Expecting to see Harker when I raised my eyes from the floor, I was horrified to find myself staring into the pained face of Mycroft Holmes as he stared back at me.

  ”Holmes!” I bellowed, backing away from the horror. ”Come quickly!”

  ”What is it?” He came bursting from his room with his shotgun at the ready. ”What's the matter?”

  ”It's Harker,” I said, nodding towards the sofa. My voice became shrill. ”There is something evil within him! Just look at him!”

  We gazed down at the now sleeping figure. To all appearances, the man seemed harmless as a lamb.

  ”I don't understand!” I protested, dazed and confused by this improbable turn of events. ”Impossible! Not just one minute ago, he spoke to me in different voices. Holmes, this man is evil. I know it. Maybe it's me. Perhaps I'm going mad.”

  ”Calm down, Watson,” Holmes replied. ”You are not going mad. Trust me. If it would be but so, then we would be able to deal with that malady. There have been great advances in the healing of minds. However, I can assure you, the madness has just begun. If what I've read in this report is true, I'm afraid there'll be the devil to pay.”

  ”That's exactly what you said before, Holmes. I mean what Harker said before in your voice. ‘The devil to pay,’ is what he said. What in heaven’s name is happening?”

  Holmes leaned forward, placing his nose next to Harker's lips and sniffed the air round him. He turned Harker's head sideways and studied the puncture wounds on his neck more closely, before sniffing them also.

  ”Curious. There's a faint odor of aconitine,” Holmes said. He pondered his findings, and then shook his head. ”It makes no sense. Well, never mind that. The devil you say? It would seem so, my friend. It would seem so.

  ”I want you to listen very carefully, Watson,” warned Holmes, as he glanced down at Harker and frowned. ”Our survival rests on your shoulders, and it's your responsibility to make sure that nothing untoward happens to our guest.”

  Again, he took up pacing. This time he walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and I observed that he wore his mother's ring on the small finger of his right hand. Moved by such an outward display of sentimentality, my concern grew stronger.

  What horrors does he imagine happened to his brother? I thought, but I was reluctant to hear the answer. Whilst my mind wandered, Holmes had gone into his room and returned, clutching the sash from his robe.

  ”Have you given Harker a sedative yet?”

  ”No.” I stopped rather than recite the litany of my confused thinking. I could not bear to go over it once more.

  ”Please do so now, before he awakens.”

  I retrieved the fallen syringe and hurriedly cleaned off the needle.

  ”No time for the niceties, Watson, just do it. He's beginning to stir,” said Holmes, with increasing urgency.

  I injected Harker and watched as he quietly fell deeper into unconsciousness. Holmes pushed me out of the way and expertly tied Harker's hands together with his sash.

  ”What on earth?”

  ”Quick, Watson!” Holmes gestured for the sash from my robe. Again, he deftly trussed up Harker. The knotted device held Mycroft’s secretary in a clever combination of pressure and design.

  It was obvious that the more Harker would resist, the more pressure would be applied. If, on the other hand, he lay perfectly still, he would be fairly comfortable yet secure. Holmes rummaged through the desk, opening and closing the drawers noisily. Finding what he was looking for, he held it up for me to see. It was a leather gag.

  ”You may have need of this,” said Holmes, as he tossed it to me. ”Under no circumstances are you to loosen the bindings. If Harker awakens, give him another shot. Keep your medical bag close at hand. It is imperative that he remains as quiet as he is now.”

  ”But Holmes...”

  ”I'm off to see Inspector Kelleridge. Our two friends from last night may be ready to do a little talking, though I suspect very little will come of it.”

  I was surprised to find that I had completely forgotten about them.

  ”Remember, Watson, even in this condition, Harker may still be dangerous. Take any and all precautions to keep him subdued. While I'm at the Yard speaking with Kelleridge, read this.”

  Holmes handed me the stack of papers that Harker had brought in and the ones previously scattered around the floor of the apartment.

  ”It makes for interesting reading. Remember, be alert and expect anything. I'll return as soon as I can and I expect to have some associates with me.” He finalized his instructions and glanced at the shotgun still in his hands. ”I'll leave this. You may have need of it.”

  After Holmes dressed, he checked on Harker once again. With a curiously sad smile, he nodded and left the apartment.

  Having no desire to receive visitors in my pajamas, I quietly walked to my room. Never turning my back on Harker and leaving the bedroom door open, I felt around for my clothes and promptly dressed. Remembering Holmes’ words to expect
anything, and sensing the presence of evil that permeated our rooms, I felt obliged not to risk my daily toilette. Instead, I quickly ran my fingers through my hair and prepared to make the best of a very bad situation.

  My mind worried over a flurry of contradictory rationales. I worried over the appearance that Harker's confinement would convey should any unexpected visitors arrive. I covered his bindings with an afghan, but not before checking to see that Harker’s hands and feet were secured. I chuckled, knowing that Holmes had once again proven to be a formidable student of vinculum.

  As luck would have it, my observation and actions were quite timely. Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door and brought in breakfast.

  ”Mr. Holmes said you might be requiring some breakfast, Dr. Watson,” she remarked as she eyed Harker and my nearby medical bag, casting a questioning glance cast in my direction.

  ”Good old Holmes,” I said enthusiastically, as I watched the landlady clear away the remains of last night's repast. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, she set out my breakfast and left me alone with my thoughts.

  5

  The Diary Of Terror

  As I sat down at the table, it suddenly occurred to me that I still held the papers in my hand that Holmes had given me.

  Setting them down, I helped myself to Mrs. Hudson's excellent meal and was pleased to find that I had a hearty appetite. I was well into my third scone before I began to read. And just as Holmes had foretold, it was a report. The cover stock was missing a rectangle. The aperture was slightly out of plumb. Indeed, this had been the source of the mysterious calling card. The entire text of the cover with the two missing pieces now supplied read as follows:

  —Vampires—

  A report by

  Bram