Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies

by C J Lutton

  I’ve reluctantly decided to include within this manuscript a few of the actual pages from the report. The frame of mind of the author and the journal's veracity are for you to judge. You are forewarned that the contents you are about to read are most desperate and exceedingly graphic. I am compelled to leave the pages uncensored to allow you to reach an objective conclusion.

  * * *

  Mr. Mycroft Holmes

  c/o Diogenes Club

  London, England

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  Since our last meeting together, and acting as your agent on behalf of Her Majesty, I have recently returned from America, as per your instructions. If you or your brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are reading this report not in the presence of my company, you must conclude that I have fallen victim to him. I pray that we are not too late to vanquish this merchant of the undead.

  It is as we have feared – a vampire! I have followed him through Hungary, Transylvania, Scotland, and America. Wherever he has traveled, he has left nothing but death and destruction.

  The following pages will offer some insight as to what the world has in store. I have tried to be as forthright and as objective as possible. I have written this report as a diary, making sometimes daily entries whenever I came upon his trail.

  You must in all haste go to America. For it is there that you will find him.

  I have taken the precaution of excluding his name and his exact whereabouts from this report. You will be contacted by five trusted associates of mine. Please follow their instructions. It is through them that you will learn of his name and whereabouts.

  The five messengers possess a specific timetable to act upon. Each carries a portion of the complete details as to the hiding place and the assumed name of the Father of Lies.

  If for any reason my precautions fail, then all hope is lost. God save us all!

  Your obedient servant,

  Bram

  * * *

  MONDAY — Budapest. I am being followed, I fear. Dark night. He is here; I feel him. Couldn’t find his lair. Two suspicious deaths, one human.

  TUESDAY — Arrived at castle too late. He’s gone. Found twelve bodies in the ruins.

  WEDNESDAY — Was contacted by G. Was told of vampire’s powers and weakness. Identified vampire as a count. Am told again by G of vampire’s history.

  THURSDAY — G impaled upside down on gate to the city. Heart torn out, neck mauled, stake through heart pinning it to the ground. My name written in blood. Panic overtakes the city. Everyone is suspicious of me. I sleep with a brace of pistols.

  FRIDAY — Bleak and rainy day. Went back to ruins, no vampire. Sent soil sample to M. Have decided to stay indoors until information from M arrives. Cannot eat. Losing weight. I hope M comes!

  SATURDAY — Heard wails of pain this evening. Remain confined. Having fitful dreams. A bat attempted to enter through the fireplace. Worried about my well—being. Took precautions. We’ll see...

  SUNDAY — Stranger at my door. I hid. Still not eating. Losing my mind. Hallucinating badly. Heard pounding at my door. A bat outside my window this evening. Heard wolf howling. Room closing in on me. I am not safe. Daylight arrives!

  MONDAY — A wolf is sitting outside, just watching. A liquid seeps under my door—it is blood. My body is trembling badly now. My hands are shaking. Can’t take any more. Forced myself to eat. Food wouldn’t stay down. Dusk is falling. The wolf is gone. Thousands of bugs come crawling into the house. Rats appear from nowhere. A foul stench fills the room. I am suffocating. I retch violently. God save me! God save me! A bat hangs upside down outside my window. His eyes glow red. He is watching me. I am afraid to close my eyes. I know the end is near.

  * * *

  These are but two pages taken from the journal. I could not, in all good conscience, place before you the complete report. The horrors that had befallen so many good people would be too much for a sane and rational mind to comprehend. However informal were (or are) my religious beliefs and those of the individuals connected with this case, our various faiths were tested beyond comprehension, resulting in irreparable harm to our very souls.

  Having served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I've experienced firsthand the fear and helplessness one encounters behind enemy lines. I attributed most of Bram's journal to the writings of a panicked soldier. Understanding the sort of duress that can fatigue the mind, I assumed that he misconstrued the actuality of purely innocent circumstances. But as this case progressed and wended its way through a maze of incredible and supernatural events, my earlier assumptions of Bram's veracity were dramatically altered.

  I now know that every word of his incredible and horrible journal is precise and factual. So completely immersed in my reading was I, that dusk had fallen. I shook out the evening's chill and set aside the journal. Expecting to find Harker sleeping soundly, I glanced across the room. I was distressed to find him lying on his side on the divan and staring intently out the window. A numbing sense of foreboding washed over me as the slight tilt of his head hinted that he was listening to – or for – an unknown sound. The intensity of his gaze drew me to stare out the window as well. As I did, a palpable fear crept into my heart. Harker was waiting for something. But what? Then I heard it. To my horror, I realized the window was open. This made no sense at all because when Holmes had left earlier, I had shut the sash tight. Fear seized me and I leapt to my feet to rectify the situation. A chilling gust of wind pocketed the drapes and caused them to flutter.

  I did not make it to the window. As I crossed the room, I was stopped by the sight of Harker. My patient’s eyes had rolled up in his head so that only the whites were visible. He moaned with lustful anticipation. Mad and entirely consumed by some unknown and evil presence, Harker struggled against the bindings beneath the afghan. I flinched as he screamed a torrent of blasphemous profanities. He continued to thrash about, and I knew what I had to do. Reflecting desperation, his face grew dark and angry until he smilingly withdrew his hands from beneath the blanket, stretching his bruised arms out full. My medical bag was near enough that if he realized its presence, he could easily snatch it up.

  I wanted to keep my distance from that gross distortion of a man. But Holmes’ words rang in my mind, “Take any and all precautions to keep him subdued.” One look at the writhing creature on the divan told me my friend had been right when he had warned me that Harker might be dangerous. I could see that given his liberty, Harker would attempt to kill me. Acting purely for reasons of self—preservation, I roughly (and I must admit not at all professionally) administered an unmeasured dose of the sedative into his neck.

  He turned his head toward me, his eyes seeing me for the first time. Surprisingly, he offered little resistance as the drug took hold. Whilst a look of absolute sorrow crossed his face, he relaxed serenely back onto the divan and succumbed to unconsciousness. This glimpse into the humanity of my patient stirred my latent training as a caregiver. I moved to replace the blanket that had slipped off of his prone form. It was then that a horrible realization deepened. Harker’s hands and feet were untied. Jumping back, I nearly stepped on our two sashes, neatly folded and lying useless on the floor. How near a thing it had been. What if the man had gotten away? What havoc could he wreak?

  Badly shaken by the sudden turn of events, I dropped the empty syringe on the floor. I moved immediately to retrieve Holmes’ shotgun from the back of the door. I hurriedly checked its load. I had no more than assured myself that I was armed when an odor of death came flooding through the open window. This time I ran to the fluttering drapes straight away in the hopes of staunching the sickening wave of noxious fumes. But at the very instant that I drew back the drapes, I saw a bat. The foul creature hung there in the night sky. Its wings billowed slowly as it hovered, framed and exposed by the open window. The creature's mouth was drawn back and flattened into a grotesque and hideous grin that exposed its fangs and dripping blood. The evil visitor eyed me hungrily. I knew that it was contemplating
my death. I tried to aim the gun, but I was confused by shouting and the pounding of feet running up the stairs.

  My tattered nerves were stretched to their limit as I braced the gun against my torso. I heard my name being called from the direction of the window. I whirled around. Two booming roars deafened my ears. My soldier’s instincts took over, and I ducked down, seeking to shelter myself. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room. With an ear—splitting crash, wood splintered, spattering bits and pieces of oak into the air. The door burst open and a blur of bodies streamed through the door and into the flat.

  ”Watson, are you all right?” asked a voice nearby.

  I felt dizzy and light—headed.

  ”Steady, old boy,” said Holmes, as he rested a hand on my shoulder, ”did you get it?”

  ”Holmes!” I cried, coming out of my stupor. ”Did I get what?”

  ”Here, Watson, have some brandy.” My friend pushed a heavy glass in front of my face. My hands shook too hard for me to hold it, so Holmes lifted it to my lips. The aroma of alcohol flowed into my nose. Tentatively, I sipped the amber liquid. Its burning trail sliding down my throat revived me.

  I blinked. And blinked some more. I was surprised to see the shotgun in my hands. Wisps of smoke wafted from the barrels. I tried to think, to review what had happened, but my mind would not make sense of it. I was at a loss as to what to do. The complicated task of drinking the brandy whilst holding the shotgun seemed suddenly too difficult to manage. Unable to do both, I stood there dumbly with a white—knuckled grip on the weapon.

  “Steady, old chap.” Holmes gently pried my fingers free from the gun and placed it on the table. I clutched at my glass and sipped the fiery liquid.

  ”Everything's all right, Watson,” said Holmes, as he led me to a chair. There my knees buckled, but this time, they aided me in assuming a seated position. ”You're safe and amongst friends.”

  Knowing that my reply was not expected, I sat sipping the brandy whilst feeling completely mortified and confused as to what had just happened.

  ”Langston? Drummond?” Holmes called over his shoulder. The two men who had arrived with him stepped forward. ”Allow me to present my good friend, confidant, and associate, Dr. John H. Watson.”

  They nodded respectfully. “Peter Langston,” said the tall one, offering his hand for a shake.

  “Henry Drummond,” said the shorter of the two, as he also gave me a hearty handshake. He was a thin man with a waxy complexion and eyes the color of water. I found him exceedingly hard to look at.

  ”Now,” Holmes said, ”Langston, go outside and see if Watson here was successful in killing the fiend. Drummond, keep an eye on our friend Harker over there and be sure that he's restrained again. Watson and I have a few things to discuss. Come on, old friend. Keep me company while I change.”

  Shakily, I rose from my chair and followed Holmes to his room. As we walked, I noticed that his clothes were badly torn and filthy. When he turned his back to me, I saw a nasty abrasion on his neck. The white of his collar was speckled with blood.

  ”Holmes, your neck! What happened?” Alarmed by the sight of my injured friend, my medical training took over.

  His hand quickly shot to the ugly wound as he reassured me, ”It's nothing, Watson. I ran into some trouble. But, to quote an astute philosopher, ‘It is some compensation for great evils that they enforce great lessons.’”

  Holmes’ demeanor bespoke a new vigor and confidence that buoyed my own spirits immeasurably.

  “Your ordeal must have been terrifying,” he said. “Even I, expecting the worse, was not prepared for what I encountered. For centuries, people the world over have spoken of a great evil roaming the land in the form of a mythical creature. I had decided such creatures were merely folklore. Old wives' tales, if you will. But I will tell you this: The veracity of Bram’s journal can no longer be questioned. I've been able to verify this horrifying reality for myself. Watson, we're dealing with vampires. In fact, there are at least three that I'm aware of.”

  Shocked, I was about to interrupt, but the happenings of just moments ago came crashing into my head. I recalled everything. Everything. I knew in my heart that Holmes was speaking truth. The day of reckoning had arrived. For whatever reason, my friend and I had been chosen to intercede on behalf of all humanity. We sat dumbfounded by the enormity of the task ahead.

  Holmes broke the silence.

  ”Now for some good news. I've every reason to believe that Mycroft is alive. I've not found him yet, but all indications are that we will locate my brother. I've put the word out through all of London, and feel that we shall not have to wait too long before we get results.”

  6

  A Traitor In Our Midst

  I was overjoyed at my friend's words and prayed that he was not being overly optimistic. I watched him fidget with his mother's ring and wondered whether he felt the same.

  ”When Langston...” Holmes began. ”Never mind. I hear him returning. I'll tell you of my plan when we're all settled in. I'm afraid we'll have two more guests for the evening.

  ”Please go out and entertain our new guests, whilst I finish changing, Watson,” he said. I prepared to greet our new guests. After the formalities were dispensed with, I came away with an unexpected sense of danger. I decided to keep my eye on them and inform Holmes of my suspicions later.

  Some time elapsed before Holmes came out of his room. Attired now in his mouse—colored dressing gown, I noticed that he had administered to his own wounds. As he came over to us, I noticed he had found another sash to secure his dressing gown.

  In unison and quite unintentionally, the two guests and I sprang to our feet, as if royalty had entered the room. Taken aback, Holmes paused in mid—stride.

  ”Come, come, gentlemen, I'm just a small cog in the service of Her Majesty.”

  I appreciated Holmes’ attempt to put us at ease.

  ”Shall I deduce, Langston, by your failure to communicate otherwise that my good friend here missed the target? Or did he hit that fiendish creature as it watched through my window?”

  “I’m afraid, sir, that there’s no evidence of any luck in that regard,” said Langston, shaking his head.

  ”Watson,” Holmes said, ”I'm afraid that you should have depended on your revolver, or perhaps the smaller pistol you usually have secreted under your vest.”

  I tugged at my vest self—consciously. In my haste this morning, I had neglected to tuck my small pistol into its accustomed place under my vest.

  ”Poor Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes continued, steering the conversation in another direction, ”she will surely kick us out for the damage we've inflicted on this house. Thankfully, she’s gone to her sister’s house for a fortnight. She told me of her plans this morning, explaining that she would leave after serving you your breakfast. So we are all to be bachelors for a while.”

  Holmes’ mood turned serious. He shut the window, securing it and drawing the drapes. He arranged them carefully so that no one could see inside and spy on our gathering.

  ”Clear off the table,” he said, turning back around to face us. ”Watson, how did you ever miss breaking the glass? All I've found are some pellets embedded in the sash and sill.”

  He went about the room securing the remaining windows in the same fashion. Crossing back to the door, he shut it tightly whilst making sure the lock was functioning properly. Still dissatisfied with this achievement, he went over to one of the straight—backed chairs and carried it to the door. Bracing it under the knob, he shook it until it was tightly wedged. The room was now dark and secure. Or so we hoped.

  When he was satisfied with his precautions, Holmes walked over to the shelves and withdrew a stack of maps. Returning to the table where we had gathered around, Holmes unfolded all of the maps and spread them out. He moved the lamp to the center of the table and turned up the wick. It immediately filled the room with a cheery brightness, offsetting the lack of natural light.

  We stood in a circl
e, silently watching him pore over the maps. Grabbing the journal, Holmes flipped the pages back and forth and read the various entries. After having found what he was seeking, he stopped reading and again returned to the maps. Taking a pen, he drew a circle. He continued in this manner until he read the last page of the report and put the journal down, straightening its pages. Eyeing each one of us in turn, he stood silently for a moment, going over everything in his mind.

  ”That's it, then,” said Holmes with a nod. ”For the purpose of being factual, I'll explain what has happened thus far. Please, let's all sit down and make ourselves comfortable.”

  But before I could indulge in relaxation, I had to check on Harker. I went over to his limp form on the divan. I watched the steady rise and fall of the blanket. He was sound asleep. After inspecting his bindings, I returned to the table where the men had already organized the maps into a single stack.

  Once we were all settled, my friend began, ”Most of you know through Watson's writings that my brother is in the service of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. What you may not know is in what exact capacity he serves. The Queen, as she grows older, has become interested in the supernatural. Fearing her upcoming appointment with the Grim Reaper, she wanted to find out whether or not there is life after 'casting off this mortal coil.' I don't mean to sound flippant. Those were the very words Her Majesty used when explaining her wishes to Mycroft.”

  Holmes paused long enough for the words to register in our minds and to relight his pipe.

  ”When I was informed of the Queen's desire,” Holmes continued from behind a wall of smoke, ”I thought it smacked of madness. I figured the old girl had gone soft. I respect her immensely. When Mycroft made mention of this particular folly, I voiced my concern for Mycroft's good name and reputation, should he decide to undertake such a desperate assignment. As for me, I wanted no part of it, but Mycroft gleefully took on the challenge. We spoke no more of it for some months. Through my contacts, I heard there was a marvelously diverse group of individuals parading in and out of Mycroft's club. Many of these people were of the highest moral character and reputation, whilst others, to be gracious, were of questionable and dubious pedigree. However, there was one common thread that bound these individuals together: they all had varied degrees of expertise in the realm of the occult and supernatural.”