Holmes nodded to himself, his gaze sweeping to survey the door.
“A noise caught her attention, and she looked up. She was no longer by herself. There was—the girl.”
“The girl?” I questioned, my interest piqued by the emphasis she placed on the phrase.
“Yes, Mr. Wells, that’s how we refer to this invading, and most assuredly malicious, intruder.”
“So I take it this girl has been sighted on more than one occasion?” Holmes asked.
The queen turned back to us, her face drained now of its color. “Seven sightings to date since the attack.”
“Hence the pervading suspiciousness of your guardsmen and a rather overzealous incident we witnessed at your gate involving a young girl,” Holmes noted.
“Have you seen the girl yourself?” I inquired.
She nodded, with evident trepidation. “Once, upon awaking in my bedchamber.”
“Will you describe her for us, please?”
The queen began to wring her hands. “Her appearance is that of a dark-haired young woman of perhaps sixteen years. Her skin is a bleached white, her eyes dark. She is gowned in white linen and she moves with unnatural grace. She . . .”
“Please, spare no detail,” Holmes directed at her pause. “I assure you there’s no cause to hold back anything, be it for reasons of disbelief or of discretion.”
The queen nodded and said, “In all honesty, she bears a striking resemblance to Mina herself . . .” then paused again.
Holmes signaled me to continue. “Please, Your Majesty, do go on,” I said.
The queen took a deep breath. “Mina quite innocently asked for her name and the girl refused to answer, simply wetting her lips and whispering Mina’s name back to her. Somehow Mina assumed she was in danger and began crying out, hurling books at the girl and racing about the room to keep her distance. Captain Gent heard Mina’s screams and broke the door in . . .”
“Carry on, Your Majesty. What did the captain see upon entering?”
“He found Mina unconscious, with bloodied marks about her throat and upon her nightgown,” she said bravely.
Holmes and I rose and went to the door. He examined the slot where the bolt would secure the frame. “This door has been forced, by several kicks, I assume. See there, the large heel indentations in the wood.”
My attention had been drawn elsewhere, to a singular stain—a handprint, visible only from a particular angle because of the near-matching color and texture of the wood, located about chest level upon the outside surface of the door. “Look at this, Holmes,” I said.
Holmes drew his magnifying lens as the queen came quickly to observe our findings. “It is most certainly blood,” he said.
“Seems as if this bloodied print was created upon arrival, not departure,” I said.
“Please place your hand upon the door for us to examine, Your Majesty,” Holmes requested, and she placed her own delicate hand near to the print.
Holmes lowered his lens. “It seems the size of a young girl’s hand. Certainly not made from the giant paw of your man Gent.”
“Could it be Mina’s print,” I suggested, “made after the attack?”
“But she was unconscious when Gent carried her from the room,” the queen said.
“How tall is Mina?” Holmes inquired.
“Barely one meter.”
“Just over three feet, not tall enough to have made this print. The uniformity of the blood mark clearly suggests a forward thrust made by a girl no taller than five foot two inches and no less than four foot nine inches.”
“Most curious,” I said. Then, turning to the queen, I asked, “Where did the blood on Mina come from? What was the wound?”
The queen looked to us with confusion. “There was no wound upon Mina that I found, though her neck was badly bruised. I bathed her myself.”
“Well, someone was bleeding from somewhere,” Holmes surmised. “Any mythos surrounding the woundless extraction of blood, Wells?”
“None I’m familiar with,” I replied. “Save for Nachzerer, the German equivalent of the Romanian vampire. But there would be exit wounds, bite marks of some sort, as the legend goes.”
“Right,” Holmes agreed. He addressed the queen again. “You say you examined your daughter quite thoroughly and found no such wounds?”
“None, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”
“Forgive me a delicate question, Your Majesty. Has your daughter begun menstrueren?”
“Nee, Mr. Holmes. Nacht neet.”
Holmes made a keening noise under his breath, then said, “We must assume that the bloodprint here and that which was found upon the princess resulted from wounds unknown, prior to the attack. May I request now, Your Majesty, an interview with your daughter?”
“Certainly, I shall take you to her,” she replied.
We then trailed down the corridor, preceded by guards, to the princess’s rooms. The queen entered alone, leaving us to wait outside as the guards took up their posts. I seized the moment to ask Holmes, “Do you suspect Captain Gent of some treachery? He was certainly willing to strike down that girl with the tulips.”
“True,” Holmes replied, “but he stayed his hand.”
“Perhaps due to our presence?”
“An interesting line of thought, Wells, and he was handily present on both occasions; however, I do find him lacking in motivation. If he meant the princess even the slightest harm, this keen mother would sense it. No, my observation of him reveals he is simply a man of action, fiercely loyal though a bit hot-tempered. An honest man.”
I nodded my compliance.
“Look to draw the princess out on any details you feel appropriate, won’t you, Wells? Proceed as if trying to prove that this is a true haunting.”
“Done,” I replied. “I shall play the believer.”
Her Majesty’s voice from within bade us enter.
The princess’s bedchamber was every child’s dream, fitted out with every plaything imaginable, each in its prescribed cubbyhole. The princess herself was propped up on no fewer than half a dozen pillows on a four-poster bed, draped with sheer linen, enjoying her supper on a silver tray. The child positively beamed as we were introduced, kicking her covers away and alighting at the foot of her bed to greet us.
“My daughter, Wilhelmina,” the proud mother presented.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Wells,” Mina offered in a voice that should have belonged to a girl twice her age. “Oh, this is a joyous day. I do proclaim, Mother, that I am cured this very moment!”
“Now, Mina,” the queen said. “The doctors have demanded you keep to your bed for at least three more days.”
“Yes, Mother,” the princess acquiesced. Then she turned and dug through a pile of books beneath her sheets and raised a familiar volume. “Look, Mr. Wells, I have The Chronic Argonaut right here with me.”
“I am honored, Your Highness,” I replied.
“We must hear of the danger that befell you,” said Holmes, bringing us back to our mission at hand. “Of the girl who tried to hurt you.”
Mina offered no resistance, or trace of fear, in recounting the attack, her story identical to her mother’s, a result, no doubt, of the fact that the queen had related it with a meticulous accuracy.
“Did you notice any blood on the hands of the girl?” I asked when she concluded.
“No,” she replied.
“Any peculiar smells in the air?”
She considered the question a moment, then answered. “Yes, I believe I did smell something strange—it made me look up from my book. She smelled like pine trees. Like the forest.”
“How unusual,” I replied. “And what was it about her that first made you realize that you were in danger?”
Again she carefully considered before revealing, “It was how she whispered my name. It was not a regular-sounding voice.”
“How so?”
“It was angry, and not at all hers,” Mina answered.
<
br /> “And pray tell me, what had you been reading before she appeared?”
The child hesitated, almost imperceptibly. “It was a book of fairy tales,” she replied in a softer voice, “by Hans Christian Andersen.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. We’ll leave you to your supper now,” Holmes said, concluding our interview.
“But wait, I have something for you both, a gift,” she said. “Mother, will you please bring me my jewelry box?”
The queen went to a bureau and did as requested, placing the box upon Mina’s tray. The child rummaged through the box, producing a small pouch from which she removed two sparkling prizes. “Here they are!” she announced.
Upon seeing the twin silver rings, the queen chastised her daughter in Dutch: “Mina, dat zijn ringen van je grootmoeders erfgoed!” (“The rings were gifts from her grandmother,” Holmes translated in my ear.)
“Can I not do with them as I please, Mother?”
The queen deferred to the princess, whether from pride in our presence or inability to deny her child, we shall not venture to guess. Holmes would have spoken up to refuse the gifts had I not grasped his shirt cuff at that precise moment.
“We’d be honored,” I said, extending my hand to receive both rings and passing one to Holmes. I slid the beautiful gem on my right ring finger and admired its radiance. Holmes slid his on with mock gratitude.
“They were blessed by His Holiness, Pope Gregory, in Rome, weren’t they, Mother?”
The queen nodded, and Mina raised her tiny frame up on her knees and whispered in my ear.
“I shall treasure it always,” I pronounced before the room, my hand on my heart, as we left the young princess to her books.
In the hallway, the queen offered, “As you can see, the child has a flair for the dramatic, which she has inherited from her father.”
Missing no opportunity, Holmes responded, “Might I inquire, Your Majesty, as to the whereabouts of King Willem?”
“The king is on the grounds at present, Mr. Holmes. If you like, I shall petition him to grant you an audience. Though I warn you, he shares not my dire concern for these events, dismissing any talk of the supernatural entirely.”
“Would you describe your husband’s current relationship with your daughter?” Holmes asked.
“Adoration from a distance,” the queen answered after careful consideration. She called for a lady-in-waiting and gave her instructions in Dutch, then turned back to Holmes. “I’ve sent word to my husband of your request, though it may be some time before we receive his reply.”
Holmes wasted no time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. May we now speak with the other members of the household who have observed the apparition?”
One by one, guardsmen, handmaids, valets, and kitchen staff were summoned before us and we conducted our interviews in her presence—only to find that the queen recollected events far better than those who’d experienced them firsthand, that she remembered details that they had forgotten with astoundingly vivid accuracy—who had seen what and when, every creaking floor plank and flickering light. It was evidence of a diligence that only a mother truly in fear for her child’s safety could produce.
We dined with the queen in splendor, the details of which I shall not render, though suffice to say it was one of the best meals of my life. Afterward, we were granted an audience with the king in his private office.
King Willem III, a gentleman in his early seventies, was tall, like the majority of his subjects, balding slightly, with a white tuft of beard, an aquiline nose, and ruddy cheeks. His eyes possessed a disarming quality and his manner bespoke an impatience with nonsense. It was difficult to match him with the young queen—although it has been my observation that these things tend to work differently with royalty. He complimented Holmes on his high reputation amongst the European law enforcement communities, for which praise Holmes thanked him.
“Mr. Holmes, I am a tired man,” he professed. “I’ve outlived one wife and three sons. It is only of late that I’ve brought the nation into some semblance of economic balance. I’m looking forward to a time, hopefully near at hand, when I can sit by the shoreside and fish. Her Majesty and the princess have been my second chance in life, and I mean to keep them protected.”
“We are your servants on that mission,” Holmes affirmed.
“Much to my appreciation,” the king replied. “There is some dark intent running under my roof, and I mean to expunge it. Therefore, fire off your questions.”
“Are there political enemies of your royal house that we should suspect?”
“None, sir,” the king replied. “At present the Nederlands holds no open disputes.”
“What about personal enemies, Your Majesty?”
The king considered long and hard, then said, “This house was once divided against itself, I sadly admit. My late wife, Sofia, poisoned my sons against me; the announcement of Princess Mina’s birth was not received well by either of them. However, this feud was settled when Prince Alexander passed away.”
“He was head of the Freemasons for a time, was he not?” asked Holmes.
“That is correct, though with them, as in most diversions my sons engaged in, the time was short before there was a parting of the ways. In that case in particular, the way was parted quicker than most. Alexander was too passionate and quick-tempered for the Masons.”
At the mention of the Freemasons I wanted desperately to inquire further, their sometime involvement with unnatural arts demanding the very attention I was recruited for. But Holmes’s quick signal stayed my voice.
“Dankuwel, zijne Majesteit,” Holmes concluded, inclining his head in respect. “We shall leave you to govern your country.”
It had been a long day, full of strange tales and foreign sights. When we returned to our rooms, I sat on the edge of my bed and observed my tired reflection in the ornate mirror. Holmes was still bristling with energy; I wondered what sorcery he employed that kept him so finely tuned.
“Don’t prepare to retire just yet, my dear Wells; I’ve one more task for you before this day’s out.”
I sighed. “Right, Holmes, ever at your service.”
“I’d like you to pop ’round and offer our young princess a bedtime story.”
“You’re joking. It would be highly improper to do so without royal permission.”
“Nevertheless, I’m quite serious,” Holmes replied. “And do give her a choice—one tame story and one dreadful.”
“I’m sure that I don’t see the point.”
“At the very least you’ll gain her favor, Wells. She will be queen someday.”
I looked at him solemnly, trying to gauge his true intent. “And you’ll be off—”
“Attending to other things. By the way, what was it the princess whispered to you after presenting us with these?” he asked, displaying the remarkable brilliant on his finger.
“She told me that they should protect us from the devil.” Holmes arched an eyebrow. “You don’t suppose this whole business is merely a child’s method of drawing us here, do you?”
Holmes leaned his thin frame against the doorway and considered. “Wells, this whole family is trying to tell us something, not just the princess,” he said. “But they are not sure what it is that they’re trying to tell. It’s something they all intuit—the king with his guilty conscience, the queen with her suspicions, and the princess with her gifts to protect us. The entire household is gripped by chimera—it’s an uncanny display of transcendent cognition.” As I digested his words, he straightened and added, “Now do go tell the princess a story. We’ll meet back here by ten bells.”
I watched Holmes slink off, so silent and deft that the guards down the hall took no notice. I approached them moments later and asked to be escorted to the princess’s room, which to my surprise they did without hesitation. The princess seemed delighted to see me.
“I have a few stories I’m concocting, Your Highness,” I said, as if confiding a trusted sec
ret. “One regards a fantastic journey by men shot out of a cannon to land on the moon; the other concerns a mad scientist who transforms animals into half-human creatures.”
“Do tell me about the mad scientist if you please, Mr. Wells,” she eagerly responded.
I returned to our rooms to find Holmes lying, fully dressed, on his bed, fingers clasped behind his head, awaiting my return. “Which did she choose?” he asked, rather smugly.
“The most terrifying story I’ve ever dreamed up,” I told him. “Nearly frightened myself.”
“Not surprising,” Holmes replied, “considering what she’s been reading.” Sitting up, he recited to me his past hour.
“Two things bothered me regarding Princess Mina. One: The fact that she had supposedly locked herself within the tearoom to read—why do that unless you’re reading something that you fear might be objectionable? Two: She hesitated briefly when you asked what she’d been reading prior to the attack.”
“Her mother was present,” I offered.
“Indeed,” Holmes replied. “So I examined the contents of the bookshelves at some length, finding nothing queer, then sat in the very chair and allowed myself to observe. There I saw it—a length of molding, set forward at unequal length to the opposing wall, which quickly revealed a hidden shelf.”
Buttoning on my nightshirt, I demanded, “The contents, man, if you please.”
Lowering his voice, he said, “Have you ever heard of an ancient text called the Necronomicon?”
“Holmes, do say you’re joking,” I whispered. “The book’s fictitious—a rumored work. The title translates from the Greek as ‘Book Concerning the Dead.’ ”
Holmes nodded gravely. “Yes, Wells, though its content suggests even more arcane purposes. A compendium of rituals pertaining to the manifestation of demons. Look for yourself.”
From his travel case he drew forth and handed over a dark ledger-sized volume that was bound in uncured leather and bore a musty odor. I opened to a random page and beheld a nonsensical incantation; scrawled in tedious longhand and accompanied by a cryptic diagram upon the yellowed parchment. I wanted to denounce its authenticity at once; however, the peculiarity of the thing in my hands prevented me from voicing my doubt.
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