by C J Lutton
”Yes, Mr. Holmes. It shall be as you've requested. The usual payment schedule?”
”Of course,” said Holmes.
They shook hands briefly, and with a polite nod of his head in our direction, Thaddeus Wiggins said, ”Gentlemen.”
”My word, Holmes!” I sputtered, after the young man had left. ”Is that the same scruffy little ruffian that I remember?”
”Quite the gentleman, isn’t he?” said Holmes, with a lift of his eyebrow. “Since you and I had gone our separate ways, I found it necessary to replace an astute observer such as yourself. I've taken young Thaddeus under my wing.”
”Good show, Holmes,” I said.
”He's a most remarkable student,” my friend continued, ”and when the time truly arrives for me to retire and tend to my beekeeping, the world will someday read of the great exploits of Thaddeus Wiggins. Watson, he's a much more astute logician and observer than I was at his age. His abilities are astounding. Sans peur et sans reproche! But enough of this, there's much to prepare. If you would gather around the maps, gentlemen, I will show you where this adventure has led me.”
Holmes guided us through most of Europe, painting a portrait of blasphemous occurrences, deceit, and treachery in such vivid and lurid detail that it sorely tested the bounds of sanity. Stabbing his finger at the map to position the locations more emphatically, Holmes revealed a remarkable test of will against the supernatural. His battles, ritualistic in their repetition, enslaved his single—minded determination of good over evil. Without so much as a blink of an eye he entered through the gates of hell and cut a swath through the hordes of the undead. Many of his adversaries lay impaled with stakes through their hearts, and their vile resting places had been sanctified with holy water. As each battle was waged, the more ferocious and cunning became the enemy's plans. Shockingly, it was because of Holmes’ ruthlessness and daring that there were only three vampires left. Two of whom had escaped to America, and the third, as of yet, to be unmasked.
Unbeknownst to me, Holmes had returned to London weary and battle—tested. I shook my head with sorrow, feeling I had let my friend down. Holmes noticed and said, “My friend, you fought your own battle with demons after your wife’s death. We are together again, moving forward.
“That brings us to the present day. Whilst traveling, I had sent word on ahead that I would meet Mycroft and Harker at the Diogenes Club when I returned to London. Of course, that meeting never happened. I went to the club at the appointed time only to find that both Mycroft and Harker had mysteriously disappeared,” Holmes said, concluding his recitation.
He did not say that he had been greatly worried about his brother when he came to call on me. He did not need to. The deep measure of his concern was etched on his face.
Holmes’ recap of his hunt to quell or support the rumors that had existed for centuries ended of course with our present situation.
We sat around the table in troubled silence, mulling my friend's words.
”To my knowledge,” Holmes announced to our group, ”there are three remaining vampires. Two have fled to America. The third, I believe, is here in London, trailing me. It's of paramount importance that he be destroyed before we leave our glorious old England. With his destruction, we'll move ever closer to the Master. So, gentlemen,” Holmes walked to the cabinet and returned with a decanter and four glasses. He poured the clear liquid into the glasses. I stood shoulder to shoulder between my good friend and Langston. Drummond had taken his glass and stepped behind me. Holmes lifted his glass high and said, ”I offer this toast: Be wise in your judgement and let us wash our hands of a friend who associates with our enemy!”
”Hear, hear!” we chorused.
I had been prepared for the warmth of a fine liqueur, but I was disappointed. ”But Holmes,” I said, “it’s only water.”
No sooner had these words left my lips than a bestial scream filled the room. The shock of it caused me to drop the glass I was holding. Instinctively I whirled around, pulling out my revolver as I turned toward the commotion. Drummond sprawled on the floor behind me. The man was clawing at his throat in tortured agony. His shrieks and howls assaulted our ears as he thrashed about. Skirling and moaning, he writhed in agony. High—pitched wails and guttural growls emptied from his blistering lips.
Drummond's nails extended until they turned into grotesque claws. They tore deeply into the folds of his neck, leaving large gashes of exposed tissue and muscle. His lips parted and drew back flat against his teeth. Before my astonished eyes, his exposed canines grew longer and more menacing. Putrid vapors spewed from his mouth, as he, like Harker before, howled in agony. Drummond’s bones snapped and flesh tore.
Langston, Holmes, and I stood transfixed as we watched the man’s transformation. His arms flailed and extended fully, taking on the guise of a winged creature. Perhaps a specter would be a more apt description, for his every feature became a blur of motion, making him difficult to see clearly as the mutation continued.
Fleshy folds of skin jutted through his torn clothes. The slowly creeping flesh was covered with black and brown coarse hairs. Incredibly, these flaps of tissue attached themselves to his hips and extended up under his arms all the way to his wrists. His hands blackened, and traces of the gauze—thin membrane formed webs between each finger. A large single claw replaced both of his thumbs.
Knobs of bizarre pulsing bulges undulated along what had once been Drummond’s entire body. The man’s legs bent with deformity and collapsed inward. Brown—grey skin became taut as it shrank against the skeletal frame. The toes split through his boots. The toenails ripped through his socks. The creature's head narrowed into a triangular shape. He swiveled left and right; his bead—like eyes searched for a way of escape. Even as he looked around, he curled his lips and dripped a foul vomit onto the floor. Drummond’s fleshy ears had thinned and turned pointy. They twitched in the direction of every sound from the street. His tiny black eyes registered every movement. The creature’s nose was now flat against the head and with only slits for nostrils. These nasal openings flared and tasted every scent. The creature’s entire body trembled, as did the three of us onlookers.
Drummond was now a complete obscenity.
The monster shakily took his first tenuous steps, as would any infant. He slowly unfurled his ghastly wings. The billowing black cowl blocked the light from the lamps in the apartment. The size of these extended arms were huge. When outstretched, the limbs crowded the three of us human onlookers into a far corner of the flat. Panic constricted my throat as this harbinger of death rose to his full height and stood erect before us! What was once an ordinary man named Drummond now stood as a towering testimonial to evil incarnate. From deep within the beast's throat came a high—pitched wail. In a blurring instant too fast for the mind to comprehend, the creature flapped his wings and shrank to the size of an ordinary bat. This winged creature flew around the rooms, squealing and screeching. Finding nowhere to hide, he fluttered toward a corner of the room and hovered near the ceiling.
In the excitement, Holmes had the presence of mind to retrieve the mallet and stake. He held them behind his back in one hand as he calmly walked over to the bat. Holmes stood below the creature and stared up at him.
”Your soul is mine,” said Holmes in a soft, menacing voice. ”Come and meet true death … if you dare.”
The creature stared at Holmes.
With each hypnotic flap of his wings, the vile demon continued its vigil up near the ceiling. Meanwhile his tiny but sinister eyes gazed down upon us ... waiting.
”You black—hearted devil!” hissed Holmes. ”You prey upon the weak and defenseless. You're nothing but a scourge upon mankind, and we're here to rid the world of the likes of you.”
The hellish creature reacted by swooping down from the ceiling. Folding his wings flat against his tiny body, he dropped straight down like a stone. But Holmes was prepared. He avoided the creature's plummeting body by stepping aside at the last instant. Ju
st as the falling bat was about to open his wings and fly, Holmes grabbed him by the back of his head. Pinching the flesh between his fingers, Holmes held the monster firmly in his grip. The bat squealed in pain. Holmes continued to apply pressure to his tiny skull. His wings buffeted the air, but Holmes held firm. Finally, the creature began to tire. He folded his wings tight into his body and hung limply in my friend's hand. Holmes hurried to the mantel.
”Watson, quick!” he shouted. “I need your help.”
With great effort, I forced my feet to move and came closer to my friend.
”Hold these!” Holmes cried as he thrust the mallet and stake into my hands.
”Well, little devil,” Holmes said, ”are you ready to meet your maker?”
Whilst still clutching the bat, Holmes reached for the dagger embedded in the mantel, and the unanswered correspondence that it held floated to the floor. He pressed the creature against the wooden mantel and kept the point of the knife against its throat. With a sudden shifting of his weight, Holmes impaled the sorry creature to the wood mantelpiece.
The bat's throat spurted a steady stream of blood as he thrashed hopelessly and attempted to rend himself free. I couldn't help but feel pity for the creature. He swayed frantically from his exertions.
”Stand back, Watson!” Holmes ordered, taking the wooden tools from me. He placed the stake into his left hand and pressed it against the bat's chest. The bat ceased his struggle and watched Holmes’ every move.
After raising the mallet high over his head, Holmes brought it crashing down. Savagely he drove the stake through the creature's heart. The bat gurgled a last desperate and pleading screech and dropped his head to his bloodied chest. The heart, being a mindless muscle, continued to pump blood out through the gaping wound. But the bat was mortally wounded, and slowly the creature's life came to an agonizing end.
With a tug, Holmes pulled the dagger out of the splintered wood of the mantel and dropped the lifeless bat into the roaring fire. A final spasm stirred the ashes where the bat landed. The spent form curled tightly in the flames. As we watched, Drummond's final throes of existence ended. The tortured soul disappeared in a haze of smoke and rose up the chimney.
The heady exhilaration of Holmes having vanquished the enemy, quickly dissipated and a pall of doubt crept into my heart. I'd witnessed and participated in a ruthless execution. Suddenly, I had a fuller understanding of my friend's warning that we might have to take ”special license.” I felt both sickened and relieved. What other choice did we have but to dispose of Drummond in his altered form? None.
”I am next, Mr. Holmes,” came a voice, filling the room with menace. ”Come to America, if you dare. We will fight to the death once more. Remember the Falls!”
”Moriarty,” Holmes whispered, shaking his head. Peering into the flames, he added, ”So ... I am expected.”
My mind was reeling as I asked, ”Who the devil was that, Holmes?”
”Exactly right, Watson. It was the devil himself. Moriarty. Need I say more?”
Whenever he spoke of his nemesis in this manner, I knew any further attempt to wrest the information from him would prove pure folly. After casting a sideways glance at a stunned Langston, I pursued another direction of query.
”What just happened here, Holmes? What of Drummond?”
”Ah, Drummond.” Holmes frowned. ”My suspicions were aroused because of a number of curious reactions on his part that if taken individually would appear innocent enough, but taken in their entirety, led me to believe that he was the third vampire.”
Once Langston found his composure, he asked, ”What reactions, Mr. Holmes? I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”
”Earlier when we scuffled with Harker, I observed Drummond averting his eyes as I put the crucifix to Harker's neck. At the time, I thought he merely had a weak stomach. But Drummond reacted like a scalded cat when I poured the holy water on Harker. In fact, he retreated with the alacrity of a panicked man. And of course, there was that curious glance Harker cast his way just before passing out.”
”But, surely, they weren't enough to warrant such a conclusion?” said I, disappointed by the sparse evidence.
”Can you explain the resulting consequences and transformation after Drummond swallowed the holy water? I’m sure you have deduced that was what was in the decanter,” Holmes said.
My friend waited for our response, and when he was met with silence, he continued.
”It was when I leaned forward to listen to Harker's whispered words that I saw the two fresh droplets of blood on Harker’s neck.”
”What?”
”Don't you see?” snapped Holmes, pounding the table. “Langston was outside searching for any sign of the victim you shot at, and you,” he pointed to me, ”kept me company whilst I changed my clothes. The only one left to inflict the new wounds was Drummond. It had to be Drummond! I hollered at the precise moment you fired. The bat was pushed backwards with such force that I was sure you hit it. As Langston and I neared the steps, Drummond came out of the shadows. I assumed he was waiting in the darkness for our appointed hour. Alas, he was a clever monster, who merely transformed back into human form.”
His words made sense to me. I said, ”Looking back at the confusion of the moment, it was a logical assumption, Holmes, but what of his clothes? Look at the heap of shredded clothing over there. How did he meet you with his clothing intact?”
”Your deductive powers are admirable,” said Holmes, ”but he obviously shed them before he transformed. Then he merely dressed again when he met up with us.”
”But what of me, Mr. Holmes?” Langston queried. ”Why did Drummond leave me alone? He had many an opportunity to do me in. More than I care to remember! While I’m at it, what caused Drummond to scream in such pain?”
”Ah, yes, to answer your last question first, Langston, we all drank from that decanter,” Holmes said, as he pointed to the cut—crystal glasses. ”As I stated earlier, the decanter was filled with holy water. As to your first question, I’ll admit that is a puzzlement. Was Drummond aware of your daily toilette, Langston?”
Langston was startled by Holmes’ statement.
”Let me explain this to you, Watson,” said Holmes, turning to me. ”Prior to Langston's arrival in London, I had made the necessary arrangements for him to be quartered at The Whitehall. It was there that I had occasioned to meet with him privately. Whilst in his room, I saw several large casks that upon closer examination, revealed a red wax seal melted onto them. Embedded within the wax was the relief of a cross. When Langston came out of his bedroom, I glanced inside his open door and noticed that next to the washstand was a similar cask with the seal broken. The carpeting of Langston’s hotel room was discoloured from wetness and a few drops of water still dripped down the side of the bowl. I deduced that the dripping occurred when Langston hefted the cask to pour its contents into the bowl and spilled some of the water over the side. Since the cross on the wax implies that the casks came from the church, it follows that the water is holy water. Don't you see? Langston bathes in holy water. Is that not correct?” Holmes asked, looking again at Langston.
“You are right on the mark, Mr. Holmes,” said Langston.
”All right,” I said, ”but where does that leave us now? What's to happen next? You called out the name Moriarty. You can't believe that Moriarty is at the bottom of all this? It's impossible! No one could have survived that fall! Not even Professor Moriarty!”
”It was his voice,” Holmes said. ”You must remember, Watson, with whom we are dealing – a creature of the undead walking within our midst.”
”But it's Moriarty I'm talking about,” I said.
”Precisely. Moriarty died at Reichenbach, of that much we are certain. His death, however, may not be what you have come to expect.”
”What are you saying? Is he dead or not?” I needed an answer for the sake of my sanity.
Holmes’ eyes glazed as he recalled that infamous day. He explained, �
��After our battle at Reichenbach, I climbed down to the bottom of the falls to retrieve his body. I never found it. In fact, I found nothing of him at all. The one curious find, however, was the cave beneath the falls. Strewn about the entrance were the skeletal remains of small animals. As I entered the mouth of the cave, I heard the fluttering wings of the chiropteran, bats, if you will. Seeing no footprints in the moist ground, I knew that no one could have walked about without my having noticed. I heard noises outside and exited the cave in time to see a commotion at the top of the falls. It was you, Watson. You were at the top of the falls. You were determined to know exactly what had happened to me. Having formulated my plan earlier, I slipped away through the thick growth.”
”But what of Moriarty?” I insisted.
”He was in the cave. Someone or something had managed to bring him into the cave without leaving a trace of evidence. I'm aware that you think I obsess over Moriarty, but back in '94, I was sure that our paths had crossed. A crime organization was being formed back then. It was unlike any other previously formed cartel. It was compartmentalized; leaving each compartment or cell to act independently of the other, but reporting only to a single leader that had come to the forefront. I was told that he was referred to as the Napoleon of Crime. It fits, Watson. It's his subtle hand and his vanity. All there! Everything points to him. His vanity has brought him out of hiding from a trail that had suddenly gone cold. It has to be him.”
Harker moaned and began to stir.
”Holmes,” I said. “It’s Harker. He's coming ’round.”
”None too soon, Watson. Ah, that should be young Thaddeus and Dr. Bell coming up the stairs,” Holmes said, calling out, “Come in!” before any of us heard a sound. I had never met Dr. Bell before, but Holmes had spoken of the man on many an occasion. I had long looked forward to meeting the man who had taught the great Sherlock Holmes.