by C J Lutton
A gentle tapping at our door announced our visitors.
Thaddeus and Holmes’ mentor, Dr. Bell, entered the flat. I was surprised by the man's diminutive size. After listening to Holmes go on about him, I envisioned a giant of a man. I've since learned that he is nonetheless a giant. Perhaps not in stature, but rather in deeds, heart, and courage. At the time, however, my prejudices came to the forefront. I believed Dr. Bell’s head was much too large for his slight body. Shortly thereafter, I quickly learned that his oversized skull contained a formidable brain that easily rivaled Holmes’.
Dr. Bell’s closely cropped and curly white hair arched upwards. It sat upon his high dome—shaped head like a poorly fitting hat. The man’s feathery, snow—white brows undulated nervously, reminding me of a crawling centipede. The eyebrows contrasted with his brown—nearly—black bespectacled eyes. As he came further into the flat, I noticed that Dr. Bell walked with a pronounced limp. His handsome suit had been expertly tailored and adapted to conceal his shorter left leg. He leaned on a gleaming black—lacquered cane. Instead of a standard knob at the top, the cane ended with a magnificent silver rendering of a wolf’s head that the doctor cupped in the palm of his right hand.
The man was a paradox. Though frail in appearance, he carried himself like one who is used to getting his way. His dark, brooding eyes appeared sleepy, but again what a contradiction! Behind the wire—rimmed frames of Dr. Bell’s glasses were a keen sense of alertness, a shrewd expression of understanding, and an overall impression of intelligence. All these traits were magnified through his thick lenses. I immediately took a liking to the doctor.
”Sherlock!” cried the doctor, walking towards Holmes. ”I see that you have been away, yes?”
”Please explain your assumption, Doctor,” said Holmes, beaming with delight. Undoubtedly, Langston and I were witnessing a game these two old friends had played many times before.
”It is so, is it not?” Dr. Bell asked rhetorically. ”Yes!”
Answering his own question with a firm nod of his head, he said, ”You have been mountaineering, I see. Hmm, perhaps in Eastern Europe.”
The doctor limped his way to the right of the mantle, pausing to examine a rucksack and a pair of shoes, hanging from a peg. Pinching a clump of dirt extracted from one of the soles, he sniffed it and rolled the dirt between his right thumb and forefinger.
”Elementary!” he exclaimed. “The Carpathians or the Transylvanian Alps?”
But before Holmes could answer, the doctor corrected himself, “No, no, no! It is both the Carpathians and the Transylvanian Alps. N’est—ce pas?”
Sherlock Holmes bowed.
”It is so,” continued Dr. Bell. “The kletterschuhes perplexed me, knowing them to be of Germanic origins. But upon closer examination of the roped soles, I did observe older traces of the Bavarian Alps mingled with the newer soil of the other two mountain ranges. As for the rucksack, those less learned would consider the worn spots and fadings unusual, but to my eye the marks and scrapes could only come from within by the jostling about of pitons, hammers, and karabiners. By simply raising the rucksack and letting it fall, my observation was confirmed by the familiar jangle of the tools that I just described. Of course, the book on the corner of the mantel also indicates an interest in caving, The Speleologist's Handbook. Sherlock, is there not enough crime on this planet's surface to satisfy your calling? Must you now look for criminals in holes in the ground?”
Holmes smiled at the doctor.
7
Watson, Meet My Mentor
“Gentlemen,” Holmes said, ”I want you to meet my mentor, Dr. Joseph Bell. His tutelage and unparalleled powers of deductive reasoning lit a flame under a remarkably dim and lazy young boy. He took me under his wing, much the same way that I'm presently teaching Thaddeus.”
Dr. Bell bowed his head formally in the direction of Langston. A frown crossed the doctor's lips, as he turned to faced me, and I began to feel uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, he reached into his coat and withdrew a book.
”Dr. Watson,” he said, ”would you be so kind as to make a modest dedication?”
I glanced down at the book's cover and was surprised to see that it was A Study in Scarlet. The publication detailed Holmes’ and my first adventure together.
“Just put, ‘To my good friend, Joseph Bell,’ and sign it, if it isn’t too much of a bother,” Dr. Bell said.
Feeling quite the fool and embarrassed by Dr. Bell's request, I wrote the dedication.
”Excellent, Dr. Watson,” said Dr. Bell. ”I wasn't at all sure whether you would acquiesce to my request. That is why I paused before greeting you. I am suddenly impatient to show this to my lovely wife.”
”Well done, Watson!” said Holmes, then turned his attention back to his mentor.
”To business! Dr. Bell, please examine Harker over there and see if my observations and conclusions are correct. Thaddeus, what have you to report?”
”I did exactly as you asked, Mr. Holmes. First, the obvious: Dr. Bell was contacted and it was his decision that rather than to have my man wait for a reply, he would accompany us back here and discuss the matter with you personally. Second, all three telegrams have been sent. All are from different offices, as you instructed. My men are positive they were not followed. Lastly, I have personally attended to the procuring of safe quarters for you. Of course, the proper perimeter has been addressed and secured by my men. Rest assured, no one shall question your comings and goings. You or someone of your choosing will be escorted safely and unseen to ascertain whether or not my selection will be satisfactory and meets your needs. Will there be anything else, Mr. Holmes?”
”Very good. Thaddeus, if you'll assist Dr. Bell for a moment, I must confer with Watson.”
”As you wish, Mr. Holmes.” Thaddeus went to the doctor's side and then they spoke in whispers. Holmes pulled me away to the other end of the room.
”Watson, you and Langston go with Thaddeus and inspect our new home. If all is satisfactory, send word back. Have Thaddeus make arrangements to convey the rest of us there safely.”
Holmes glanced once again over his shoulder at the assemblage of men in the flat.
”Here, take this,” he said, handing me a chain with two silver crosses on it. ”If everything is satisfactory, send just one of the crosses back with the messenger. If you're at all suspicious, do not let on. Give the messenger a specific word—let’s use ‘cross’—and I will not follow him, unless he repeats it to me. It's imperative that you remain calm. Oh, and do not mention any of this to Langston.”
I nodded.
”If the runner returns with the false signal, I’ll be alerted to a possible trap and take the appropriate measures required to extricate you from harm. One other thing, you are never to be without that cross. Keep it always on your person. Do you understand?”
I nodded and draped the chain around my neck.
”Take care, my friend,” Holmes said. “It would seem that I am again sending you into harm's way, but there's no one I trust more than you.”
”Holmes, I feel Thaddeus has things well in hand, and I don't foresee anything happening to either of us. You've taught him well, just as Dr. Bell was diligent in your education. You should be very proud. You've taken a scruffy, disrespectful hooligan of the streets and turned him into an outstanding citizen. Even if you do not say it, I shall say it for you. Well done, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Well done!”
”Let's go, Wiggins! Langston!” said I gruffly. ”Thaddeus Wiggins, everything best be as you've stated or there’ll be the devil to pay!”
I quickly grabbed my hat and coat and then vacated the safe haven of Baker Street. Wiggins and Langston abruptly excused themselves, falling in step behind me.
At this particular juncture, I feel obligated to explain that I was not present at Baker Street whilst Holmes and Dr. Bell tended to Harker. The details of that interaction were subsequently reported by Dr. Bell.<
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* * *
The Usefulness of Hypnotism
in Retrieval of Post—Traumatic Events
By Dr. Joseph Bell
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my longtime student and protégé, sent a message to me, requesting my assistance with a puzzling case of great import. The facts are confounding indeed, since they involve matters of security only known to those at the highest levels of Her Majesty’s government, I shall endeavor to sketch them out as succinctly as possible.
A man named R. W. Harker, a personal secretary to Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes’ brother, had suffered a trauma that resulted in the man being possessed. Yes, I know that in medical circles such language is greeted with scoffing and guffaws of laughter, but I cannot call his condition by any other name.
Quite naturally, Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted to know the measure of such delusions. Since I have a modest reputation for being knowledgeable in such matters, I was asked for my opinion. After a brief examination of Harker, I ventured to share an option. “Mr. Holmes, it is possible that I may be of some assistance. I have been working with a colleague of mine, Dr. James Braid, a surgeon and alumnus of the University of Edinburgh.
Braid had seen firsthand evidence of what was then called ‘animal magnetism.’ He learned a mechanism for inducing this mental state. A methodology he has since shared with me. I do not know if it will work, or for that matter, if it has ever been attempted before. What I am suggesting is hypnosis.
It has long been my theory that the brain stores everything that it comes in contact with. Those things that are too terrible to face may be pushed far back into the unexplored recesses of the mind. Preserving, if you will, in a private filing cabinet, hundreds, perhaps thousands of experiences that are not present in the conscious state of mind.
Hypnosis opens the pathway into the subconscious.
Perhaps it can even bring those terrible experiences to the conscious state of the mind. After explaining this method, I asked Holmes, “Shall I try this upon Harker?”
Holmes replied quite forcefully, “I must find out everything. This is a matter of my brother’s life and death. Moreover, the answers might well pertain to national security at the highest levels.”
With this permission granted, I moved through the methodology. Harker proved a willing subject. He quickly surrendered to my soothing voice. Once the man was “under,” I stepped aside and allowed Mr. Sherlock Holmes to question the subject.
First, Holmes asked Harker if he could hear him, and the subject affirmed that he could. Next he asked Harker for permission to ask him questions. Since a prior trauma was in evidence, Holmes gently reassured Harker that he need not be afraid. Holmes explained that anything Harker would say and see could not harm him. Once Holmes had Harker’s verbal agreement that he understood, Holmes proceeded.
“Do you know where Mycroft is?” asked Holmes, as one goal was discovering where Mycroft Holmes had gone after the man vanished.
“Yes,” Harker replied.
Holmes sighed with relief and asked, “Is he alive?”
Harker paused, peering into the unknown, and said, “Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Here and there. He is in two places.”
“What do you mean by two places?” Holmes prodded.
“His body and spirit are separate.”
At this point, Holmes and I exchanged looks of concern. Was Harker unable to answer or was he too confused to provide us with helpful information? We could not tell. Holmes resumed his questions by posing a query designed to elicit a specific response, “Which is the more important of the two?”
“Without the spirit, life does not exist.”
Knowing now which course to pursue, Holmes asked, “Where is the spirit?”
“Under the earth.”
I must point out that by this juncture, Mycroft Holmes had vanished without a trace for nearly a full day. His brother, Sherlock, was quite rightly concerned for his safety. The blasé answer, “under the earth,” seemed more like a taunt than a true rendering of a location.
“Where?” Holmes demanded.
“In the Master’s caverns,” said Harker.
Here, I must add that Harker believed himself to be a minion of a vampire. As my colleagues can confirm, a strong belief creates an alternate reality every bit as forceful and realistic as that which most of us experience as truth. One need only look to the placebo effect or the success of a voodoo practitioner to confirm that what is real to the mind is also real to the body. Holmes wisely did not challenge Harker’s belief that a vampire truly existed.
“Is the Master with him?” Holmes asked, playing along.
“Yes,” said Harker.
“And what of the other one, where is he?” Holmes persisted. His singular purpose was to locate Mycroft.
“The great falls.”
Seeing that Harker could add no more to his explanation, Holmes continued by asking if others might be held in the same place as Mycroft Holmes. “What of Bram? Where is he?”
“Hiding on hallowed ground.”
“Is the Master expecting me?” Holmes hoped to discover if an ambush had been set up.
“Yes,” Harker faltered. “You must first face his servant of the falls. If you should come to the Master first, your brother’s life shall become eternal.”
At this point, Holmes hesitated. The threat to his brother’s life was almost overwhelming. Studying our subject, Holmes pulled me aside and asked, “What do you think, doctor? Is Harker telling me the truth?”
“As he knows it to be, Sherlock,” I said. “That is all I can tell you.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. The idea that Harker might only have limited access to this important information had upset Holmes. He thought for a moment and came at the question in another way, a more circuitous route.
“Harker, what can you tell me of Bram’s five agents? Where are they?”
“Dead! All dead!”
I could plainly see that this last question had unsettled Harker’s mind. His body went rigid as his eyes broadened in fear. Grasping the sofa, he attempted to hold on. His body floated above the divan and drifted. Harker held his arms stiffly at his sides as he levitated. Gradually his body righted itself as if he were standing, but his feet were clearly off of the carpeted floor. His eyes were glazed, peering through the unknown. His mouth opened and began to speak, but his lips were not moving. They were locked open in a twisted manner. The voice came from within, but it was not Harker’s voice. This voice was unearthly.
Harker’s body said, “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Bell, I am he! I am the one whom you call the Master. My names are many. My goal is one. I shall rule this plane that you call life with my minions! Ignorance and prejudice have stalked me always. I have the power of eternal life. I cannot die. Ah, yes, gentlemen. I do choose my words carefully. I am alive. It is a fact—I cannot die. Many have had the audacity to challenge my powers only to grovel at my feet in abject surrender. Rather than watch you both stumble around in this imbecilic fashion, I felt it prudent to assist you. You may ask me anything, anything at all and I will answer you truthfully. You have but one question, so do be precise, gentlemen. There are such things as half—truths.”
Once again, the evil presence’s booming laughter rattled the glass in the windows. Harker continued, “You may confer in private. I shall not listen. Take all of the time you need. I am in no hurry. After all, I do have Brother Mycroft to keep me amused.”
This, of course, was the worst threat that the monster could level at Sherlock Holmes. I could see that the gravity of the question had rattled him. He turned to me for counsel.
I thought a moment and then said, “We must proceed logically. We must determine what is important. I cannot vouch for how long Mr. Harker will stay in this submissive posture. Therefore, the question you ask must elicit actionable information.”
Holmes and I whispered quietly for some time.
“I am waiting, gentlemen!” said
Harker, and I could swear the man was floating above the divan.
“If you are who you say you are,” said Holmes, relying on our planned query, “and what you have said is the truth about your inability to die, then how do you explain the many vampires that I have already killed?”
“Mr. Holmes,” said the vampire, “is that the best that the two of the greatest minds of this century can come up with? Your fear has obviously clouded your judgement. Do you not care that I hold your brother’s life in my hands?”
At that point, Holmes was so angry at the vampire’s allusion to Mycroft that he picked up a wooden mallet and wooden stake on his sideboard. He walked over and stood in front of Harker. He raised the mallet and shook it in front of Harker’s unseeing eyes.
Going along with what Harker believed himself to be, Holmes said, “I may not have the pleasure of seeing you die, vampire, but I will surely take pride in the killing of ... how did you say it? Ah, yes, one of your minions.”
Holmes pressed the stake against Harker’s chest. This threat alarmed both me and Harker. Early on in this adventure, I had been warned by Holmes that this case would seemingly make a mockery of my personal beliefs. Indeed, at that very moment, I also worried that the case had corrupted my moral code.
“I have but to give the command,” said Harker. He, too, was highly agitated. His voice rose in mighty anger. “Push me further, Sherlock Holmes, and your brother’s heart shall become food for the jackals. Is that what you want? I have afforded you and Dr. Bell every courtesy. I merely seek the same. It will be on your heads that Mycroft Holmes dies a painful death.”
Holmes lowered the weapons.
“I tire of this charade,” growled Harker. “Since you have asked a question, I am disposed to answer it and keep my word. I shall not harm your brother Mycroft until you see him again. That is, I shall not harm him until you are here to watch as I rip his beating heart out in front of your eyes. As to your childish question, I said I cannot die. Those who serve me will have eternal life and exist till the ends of time. Unless, of course, they are killed.”