Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies
Page 30
Sitting round the campfire, we talked about our encounter with Dracula, but as the night wore on, the constant hardships of the case caught up to us, and we grew silent. Our exhaustion dulled our brains, and we fell asleep where we sat.
Breaking camp the following day, we followed the tracks that Thaddeus had found, which led us away from the river and to the right.
We spent the new day traveling in the caverns. In every instance, when we felt hopelessly lost, we found a different route to explore. Thaddeus was walking about fifty paces in front of us when he shouted, ”Over here! There's another tunnel!”
We ran to his side and saw a narrow passageway that led upwards. Hungry, tired, and left with no other route, we shuffled our way up the steep incline.
”Someone's coming,” Holmes whispered, pushing us to the floor. As we flattened ourselves to the floor, the detective brought up Aramis. We held our breath as we heard the sounds of men's voices.
”Oh, no!” I whispered, wondering what fresh horror awaited us. ”Not again!”
”Mr. Holmes!” called a familiar voice. ”It's me, Wilson! Are you there?”
We didn't answer. Could this be another trick? Was Dracula well and truly vanquished? Had Professor Steiglitz sent someone else to toy with us?
The beams from the other party’s lanterns swayed back and forth as they walked. Slowly, the faces behind the lamps could be seen. At the front of the group was Wilson!
He smiled with relief, as he spied our grinning faces. We jumped up and grabbed hold of him, pumping his hand excitedly. He said, ”I'm a little early, Mr. Holmes, but I just couldn't sit back, not knowing what had happened to you.”
”This is one time,” Holmes responded, ”that I am exceedingly glad someone did not follow my orders.”
My old friend turned suddenly serious. ”What of my brother, Mycroft? Have you any word?”
Wilson laughed loudly. ”It's the most incredible thing, Mr. Holmes. Your brother was found locked in a closet in his office in the Diogenes Club. He claims he was there the entire time. I’ve been told that your friend Harker found him. At first, Mr. Mycroft Holmes appeared to be in some sort of a coma or trance, but miraculously, he woke right up and asked if you were back yet.
”Now, here is the bizarre part, Mr. Holmes. Supposedly, he said that he knew you had killed Dracula. He even said that he was there to see it all! Can you believe that? I'll say one thing though, from the moment he was found, the messages have been nonstop. He's really burning up the wires. What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes? I mean, his knowing that you killed Dracula and all that?”
”Mycroft has his ways,” Sherlock Holmes replied, shaking his head.
We followed our rescuers back to the bright sunshine of the surface. Once there, we were pleasantly surprised that Wilson had made arrangements for us to stay at a nearby hotel. When we climbed into the carriage, we discovered that Wilson had even thought to pack food, just in case he found us. Never had sliced tongue, pickles, cheese, and bread tasted so good to me.
Once we arrived at the hotel, Wilson said, ”My men will be outside your suite, should you need us.”
Holmes thanked him and Wilson left the room. As the door shut behind him, we looked at each other and grinned foolishly. Exhausted, Holmes collapsed on the divan and covered his eyes with his arm. Thaddeus slumped in an overstuffed side chair. I wouldn’t let either of them sleep until I’d examined, cleaned, and dressed their various wounds.
”Holmes?” I asked, as I bandaged his many cuts.
”What is it, Watson?”
”Do you think Mycroft actually saw us?”
”I'm sure of it.”
”But Mr. Holmes,” Thaddeus interrupted, ”I have a question. If Dracula was as powerful as we supposed him to be, how come we were able to do him in so easily? He knew we were coming, but he made no preparations for his defense nor did he try to escape. He was killed almost as easily as Moriarty. How do you explain that?”
Holmes sat up and sighed heavily. ”Dracula was the most uncommon of villains, but he made the most common mistake. He thought himself to be invincible.”
”What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked, as I packed away the contents of my medicine bag.
”Watson, if you think of yourself as being immortal, then what's the purpose of setting up a defense? You cannot—you will not—die. For centuries, Dracula has been hounded to the corners of the earth, but he has always prevailed. Believing that your pursuer is destined to failure, what's the practicality of defending yourself? I'm sure he found it amusing to watch his victims as they made their preparations.”
Holmes paused for a moment. He appeared to be deep in thought. Thaddeus and I said nothing as he mulled over his various ideas. Finally, Holmes said, ”No man is wise enough, or good enough, to be trusted with unlimited powers. Especially Dracula. His mistake was believing what he himself told others. It's ironic, but absolute power not only corrupts, it paradoxically weakens the most powerful among us. Do you understand?”
We nodded.
Holmes said, ”To borrow from Shakespeare, ‘What fools these immortals be, when first they practice to deceive.’”
We groaned at Holmes’ feeble jest. We spent the rest of the day lounging about and taking turns bathing and scrubbing the dirt of eons off our bodies. Wilson had supper brought in, and we ate noisily and enthusiastically. Then we slept soundly.
We were of good cheer the next morning. After all, our mission was accomplished. However, there was yet more heartbreak to endure. On our way back to Albany, we came upon the site of the first attack by the unearthly wolf pack. Twenty—seven men and their horses had been mauled by the wild animals that later surrounded our train.
From what Holmes and Thaddeus were able to deduce at the scene of the carnage, Bill must have been the last one to die.
There were ten dead wolves strewn round his body. I recalled his words when he had spoken of Holmes, “He gave as good as he got.” Surely the same was true for this valiant engineer. Sadly, we found sweet innocent Scotty beneath his fallen brother's corpse. To his last breath, Bill had attempted to shield his brother from the destruction. In the back of Scotty's skull was a perfectly round bullet hole. The pistol had been fired at such close range that Scotty's hair had been singed by the gunpowder. In Bill's hand was the revolver. Scotty never felt a thing.
Epilogue
As I write this final page of our report, I'm sitting in my accustomed chair at 221B Baker Street. Across the room, I can see Holmes’ slouched figure. He is puzzling over another clue from the Rampart Murders. Those particularly heinous crimes became front page fare when...
No.
That is another case. I shall save it for later.
In Holmes’ lap, keeping him warm, is the pelt of an animal with magnificent black fur. My friend has adopted the habit of stroking it absent—mindedly, as he ponders the imponderable.
Mycroft has fully recovered from his ordeal.
Thaddeus and Harker have become the best of friends and are considering opening a practice similar to that of Holmes’. I'm sure that we will soon be reading of the exploits of Thaddeus Cadwallader Edwards. The young protégé has decided to dispense with the trappings of his past exploits and drop the name “Wiggins.” I think it’s a fitting tribute to his dear departed sister, Emma, that he now calls himself “Edwards.”
Dr. Bell, I'm happy to report, is living comfortably with his wife. Langston, at last report, is said to have taken to the pulpit. It has been remarked, sad to say, that the townsfolk consider him quite mad. I fear they might be right. Bram surfaced about a month ago and is said to be writing another book. A novel? Perhaps...
I have recovered completely, and I am happy to be back at Baker Street. I have plans to put pen to paper and revisit some of the other more incredible cases Holmes and I have worked on.
And what of Holmes? You might ask.
He is simply Holmes.
A little older and a little wiser, perhaps
. But he is still Holmes, and I am anxiously awaiting to hear those familiar and exciting words, once more...
”Watson, the game’s afoot!”
~ THE END ~
Acknowledgments
A very special thank you to Joanna Campbell Slan, who took on this project and brought it to a better place. Without her input, this book would not have happened. I am eternally grateful.
— Roberta Lutton
About the author…
CJ Lutton
CJ (Carl John) Lutton was a Renaissance man, “a person who has wide interests and is expert in several areas.” In addition to serving in the US Army for four years in Germany, CJ worked many jobs throughout his life: digging graves at cemeteries, running a print shop, owning an advertising agency, teaching at a correctional institution, and working at a high school. He even tried out for a position as quarterback for the New York Jets! Throughout his life, he wrote. Among other works, he completed four books and had notes for others that featured Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick, Dr. John Watson.
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