Sherlock Holmes--A Betrayal in Blood
Page 1
Contents
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Coming Soon from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Author’s Note: Dating Dracula
About the Author
Sherlock Holmes
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Sherlock Holmes: A Betrayal in Blood
Print edition ISBN: 9781783298662
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783298679
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First Titan Books edition: March 2017
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Mark A. Latham. All Rights Reserved.
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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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For Steve Lymer, who’s always wanted to be in a
Sherlock Holmes book, and now he is.
“I want you to believe… to believe in things that you cannot.”
Abraham Van Helsing
CHAPTER ONE
A STRANGE TALE
“Good heavens, Holmes,” I said. “You’re not really reading those, are you?”
I was astonished, upon rising for breakfast, to find my friend Sherlock Holmes already busying himself with a large dossier, a plethora of newspapers, and numerous case-files. Holmes was not known for rising early, and certainly not for working at such an hour.
Holmes made some utterance and waved me away, and I looked about the room in despair. He had clearly been active for some time, given the abject disarray of the Baker Street rooms, which had been put back to order only days ago following the rather trying events following his return to London from his long exile. Since then, I had resolved to spend some time at Baker Street, to ensure no further attempts might be made on Holmes’s life.
The object of his latest obsession was queer indeed; that the sceptical and pragmatic Sherlock Holmes I had known for so long would pay any heed to the so-called “Dracula Papers” was a puzzle.
This collection of documents detailed the battles of a crew of “vampire hunters” against a fiend who took the form of a Transylvanian nobleman; the events had unfolded between May and November of the previous year, 1893, in London, Whitby and Transylvania itself. Composed by numerous hands, collected together the Dracula Papers exonerated the hunters themselves, whilst damning the late Count Dracula. Four young men had accompanied one Professor Van Helsing and Mrs Mina Harker, née Murray, on a mission to rid the world of Count Dracula, purportedly a blood-sucking vampire from Transylvania. This much I knew from the newspapers, which called the men “intrepid vampire hunters”, or the “Crew of Light”. Of these men, one had perished in the adventure—a Quincey P. Morris of Texas. The others still lived in England, and had become celebrated in the public eye: Jonathan Harker, a solicitor, and husband to Mina; Dr Jack Seward, who had the running of a lunatic asylum at Purfleet; and Arthur Holmwood himself, now Lord Godalming. This last was a tragic figure, for there was a deceased girl in the case, Lucy Westenra, who had been Lord Godalming’s betrothed, and he himself had cut the head from the poor girl’s corpse in order to stop her rising from the grave. The affair had taken a great toil on the young lord, who had not been seen in public since, though he had married surprisingly soon after Miss Westenra’s demise.
Only the most sensationalised versions of events had thus far made it to the public attention. The inquest into the facts of the case had dragged on for no small time; most people expected the Crew of Light—particularly its illustrious leader, Van Helsing, to be exonerated of any wrongdoing, and perhaps even to receive some honour for its role in Count Dracula’s defeat. I had heard a little more of the details from idle chatter at the club, but it was certainly not the kind of thing that Sherlock Holmes would normally concern himself with.
I sighed, and rang for Mrs Hudson.
“You will take breakfast, at least?” I asked.
“What? Oh, if you like.”
My friend, so generally enervated by his work, was tired, that much was plain to see. Dark rings had formed around his eyes, and his sharp features were more drawn than ever, his skin almost luminous in pallor. Holmes had been back at Baker Street not even a fortnight after his miraculous return from “death” and the capture of the dangerous villain Colonel Sebastian Moran. Yet it appeared that a case had already presented itself to Sherlock Holmes, and a strange one at that.
A soft rap came at the door, and I opened it for Mrs Hudson. She craned her neck to peer in at Holmes, and frowned when she saw him crouched on the floor in his dressing gown, marooned upon an island of crumpled papers. Then her frown swiftly changed to a smile of unexpected warmth.
“It’s good to have him back, Dr Watson,” she said softly. “For all he has driven me to distraction over the years, it was quite something else without him, don’t you agree?”
“I… yes, quite something indeed.”
“I still can’t believe he’s here, large as life. Back from the dead.”
I appreciated the change of subject, even if her concern was more for Holmes than myself, and the moment of awkwardness passed.
“Yes, Mrs Hudson, I think so. Breakfast would be excellent.”
“Mrs Hudson!” Holmes exclaimed, and in two large bounds he was at the door in all his dishevelled splendour, looking like the ghost of the great detective. “You may need to be quick about it if breakfast is to be had, for I am expecting a visitor this morning. Early, I should think. Dr Watson may have to wait for his toast.”
Mrs Hudson closed the door behind her, and I turned to Holmes, who had already begun to pick up his newspapers in great armfuls, throwing them over the back of the sofa in an apparent attempt at tidying up.
“Holmes, why are you reading this stuff about Count Dracula with such relish? And why on earth would you expect a visitor this morning in connection with it?”
He paused abruptly. “Watson, I believe I shall make a detective of you yet. You have deduced that the visitor and the curious case of Dracula are connected?”
“Your absorption in those papers could indicate no other reason, for you are always single-minded in the pursuit of a case. My questions stand, however—why the interest in this matter? It is, after all, already solved.”
“Is it?” Holmes’s mouth twisted into a little smile; his eyes fair sparkled from within the purplish-black sockets born of his months in Europe tracking down Moriarty’s circle of confederates. But there was strength there still—Sherlock Holmes may have been physically exhausted, but his brilliant mind worked as rigorously as ever.
I could see I was walking into a trap, but I was so intrigued that I did so willingly, for it was often the only means of extracting the juice of a tantalising case from him.
“As I’m sure you have seen from yesterday’s Times, Holmes, Sir Toby Fitzwilliam himself has exonerated Professor Van Helsing of any wrongdoing, and has spoken in the highest possible terms of the professor’s associates. The Count is dead, though a string of poor victims lie in his wake. The full contents of the Dracula Papers are set to be made public any time now—although I see you have found a copy already. What is there to be gained by looking over the facts again?”
“My dear Watson, there is always something to be gained by looking over facts, especially when they have been presented to me in such a strange fashion. Indeed, while there is nothing here that has not already been seen by the highest authorities in the land—I include Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, whose judgement I believe to be impeccable—the most intriguing fact is that they came to me at all. Just look where they came from, Watson.”
Holmes handed a card to me, upon which was printed neatly, “The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall”. On the back of the card was written, in royal blue ink, a single initial: “M”.
“Mycroft,” I muttered, my interest at once piqued. Sherlock’s brother requested aid but rarely, and when he did it usually heralded excitement, or danger. “Did he attach a note?”
“There was no need, Watson. It was clear from my brother’s very involvement that I was intended to read what he sent me and find something that the authorities had failed to notice. The Dracula Papers contain twenty-seven journal entries, letters, telegrams, articles and sundry reports. In addition, the version Mycroft has given me includes several police reports that will not be included with the papers to be made public. There is also some interesting marginalia, not all in Mycroft’s hand. I have read every word twice over, and several yards of column inches in the popular press besides, and I believe I have hit upon the crux of the matter.”
“Twice over… When were these delivered, Holmes?” I asked. I had dined out the previous night, but I had returned at a quarter to ten while Holmes was playing his violin—there had been no sign of any papers in the rooms then.
“Shortly before midnight,” he replied.
“Then… you must have been up all night. Really, Holmes, you must learn to look after yourself. As a doctor I—”
“Come now, Watson, there will be time enough for that later. Tell me quickly—what do you know of the case of Count Dracula?”
I disliked the way Holmes dismissed my concern for his well-being, but knew there was little to be done. “As much as anyone,” I said, sighing. “This Dutchman, Professor Van Helsing, and a small group of other men—”
“And a woman,” Holmes corrected.
“I was getting to that. Yes, and a woman, too, a Mrs Harker, I believe. They uncovered a plot by a… a… well, it is too terrific to describe.”
“A vampire,” Holmes interjected again.
“Yes, well, humph. A plot by a vampire, indeed, to gain a foothold for his reign of evil here in London. The professor put a stop to it, and has been lauded as a hero. Why, all of London is stirred up over the story.”
“Very true,” said Holmes. “But tell me, how much credence do you give to the tale?”
“Why, had it not been for the ruling of Sir Toby in the courts yesterday, I would have scoffed at the notion of a vampire, here or anywhere else for that matter. But you yourself said that Sir Toby Fitzwilliam’s judgement is impeccable. So…” I shrugged, not wanting to admit the existence of the Un-Dead to my sceptical friend. Sir Toby was one of the most respected judges in the land and, some said, a member of a secret intelligence agency. I wondered in which capacity Mycroft Holmes was acquainted with him.
“Indeed. Which is why there must be more to this story. For as we know, vampires do not exist.”
“The evidence suggests something to the contrary,” I said. “Unless you yourself are now the one twisting facts to suit theories.” I tried not to look smug. Holmes somehow managed to look smug enough for both of us.
“And you believe that is what we have? Facts?”
“Well… are you suggesting that Sir Toby has been hoodwinked?”
“I am asserting most confidently that he has allowed a popular version of events to become known to the public, because he lacks the evidence to disprove it.”
“A man in his position does not need evidence to renounce the word of a Dutch professor,” I scoffed.
“Ordinarily, no. But Abraham Van Helsing is no ordinary academic. I have heard his name several times in the past, most recently while I was on grave business in Austria. He is a clever man, Watson. A cunning man. There must be more to the story—there must be some reason for Sir Toby to lend his assent to this… poppycock, and for my brother to involve me. I believe I have the nub of it from the papers, what there is of them.”
Such strong terms from Holmes suggested he was ruffled. I abandoned any further questioning about Van Helsing for the time being.
“You do not have all of the papers?” I said instead.
“Oh, yes. I have all of the official material.”
“Then what, Holmes?”
“All in good time, Watson. First of all, be a good fellow and open the door for Mrs Hudson.”
A quiet knock came at that moment. There was no elementary trickery in this—Holmes’s hearing was sharper than a bat’s, and I knew he must have heard the tea tray rattling a good few seconds before I did. I opened the door, and bade the landlady come in.
No sooner had she set the tray down than the bell rang downstairs.
“Oh dear me,” said Mrs Hudson. “Now there’s someone at the door. Might I leave you with breakfast while I go and see who it is?”
“Indeed you may, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes, already exchanging his battered dressing gown for a jacket, “but I can save you the bother of an identification. It will be Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard.”
Mrs Hudson, to her credit, did not look surprised. She went downstai
rs, and a few minutes later, the bearded Inspector Bradstreet was ushered into the room. I shook his hand, and bade him sit, casting a rueful look at the toast-rack that would have to go ignored for now.
“Your landlady said you expected me, Mr Holmes,” Bradstreet said, “though I cannot guess how.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said I.
“A simple matter of timing, Inspector,” Holmes smirked. “I received the Dracula Papers late last night from a certain person in government. The dossier was marked with the stamp of Scotland Yard’s B Division, and given our previous working relationship it seemed obvious that you would be selected for this interview. As to the timing—the subject matter is of pressing import, otherwise the papers would not have found their way to me at such an unusual hour. Someone wished to give me a head start on the reading, it seems. As such, I knew you would head to Baker Street as soon as you reported for work today at, I suspect, eight o’clock. The traffic at this time is heavy, to say the least, and so I estimated forty minutes for the journey. You took thirty—I congratulate you.”
“Well I’ll be blowed. But as it happens, Mr Holmes, the journey took forty-five minutes, it’s just that I left a bit earlier than you thought. I’m an early riser, you see. Force of habit. I’m afraid you’ve made a second mistake, also,” the inspector said, drawing a raised eyebrow from my friend. I confess I rather enjoyed that moment, for I do not believe Holmes had accounted for a genuine error.
“Oh?” Holmes said, pleasantly enough despite his obvious—to me—chagrin.
“You said I would have been sent, on account of us working together on that blue carbuncle case, among others; but that was some time ago, Mr Holmes, and there are few at B Division now who’d remember it. No, when I got in this morning, Mr Holmes, there were some already talking about you because of this Dracula business, and I requested the assignment.”
“Might I ask why?”
“On account of a friend. A very old friend.”
“Cotford,” said Holmes.
At this name, which was new to me, Bradstreet’s mouth dropped open. Presently, he replied, “Why… yes. But how?”