She turned to face me, and swallowed. "No-no, the peelers don't want't' buckle me, 'cept fer wot I did at Barley's."
"Then to the peelers, as you call them, you shall go. And you must tell them all you can—be willing to give evidence and they'll protect you day and night. Tell them where that building is, where I was held a prisoner. And say you'll testify against that young doctor—what's his name?"
"Dr. David Fitzroy. I 'eard it once."
"Fitzroy." I breathed the name a few times, savoring its syllables. "And also any of the others whom they can manage to arrest. Name them all. Fitzroy is the leader?"
"Not 'im. The way 'e talked sometimes, I know 'e got 'is orders that 'e 'ad't' follow."
"From?"
"I dunno who." A ghost of Sal's normal spirit showed in her eyes, and glad I was to see it. "Me turn evidence? Stand up't' peach on 'em in court? Ah, if I on'y dared! Jem'd be alive now if it weren't fer them."
"You must dare. Never fear, you will not be called upon to testify, as they shall never come to trial. I swear it, as I swore the same to Matthews."
"Ah… "
"Fitzroy." Once more I enjoyed the name. "Yes, you must tell the peelers all you can, even about me, I shall not mind. And they will keep you safe—for long enough."
"Ah…"
"But all you mean to tell them, you must tell me first…"
Chapter Fourteen
Late though the hour was, and tired as we all were, the urgency of the matter would not allow of any delay. Holmes and I dressed, went down with our visitors to the waiting carriage, and rode with them at a brisk pace through almost deserted streets. Then, at the same hospital where I had first encountered Sherlock Holmes, in a small, guarded dissecting-room not far from that very laboratory, Sir Jasper Meek showed us the body which had been so horribly deposited before his door.
The corpse was that of a grizzled and unshaven man, past middle age, and thin as any of the homeless poor. It bore the classical tokens of the plague, in the form of hard, black swellings in groin and armpits. Additional marks on wrists and ankles indicated that the victim must have been heavily manacled at, or shortly before, the time of his death.
Holmes, bending close through the reek of carbolic to examine the body, soon disposed of our impression that the man had been a derelict in life.
"The illiterate poor," said he, "do not spend a great deal of time holding a pen between thumb and forefinger, as this man undoubtedly did. We might bring in the next of kin of any elderly clerks reported missing during the last month or six weeks. It may help us if we can learn this victim's identity, and how and when he was taken as an experimental subject—are our opponents seizing people on the street at random for that purpose?"
"The police, then, are to be notified?"
"I recommend informing Inspector Lestrade, after swearing him to secrecy. He has the capacity to follow instructions to the letter—once he can be made to understand them—and also to keep a closed mouth when necessary. Yet we must not tell even Lestrade the full story. Not yet."
Holmes returned to his examination of the corpse. "These small red marks clustered on the chest—they have the appearance of flea-bites, have they not, Sir Jasper?"
"Indeed they have," replied the illustrious physician. "Though why they should be so curiously concentrated I cannot guess. The body elsewhere is remarkably free of any evidence of attack by vermin. I say remarkably, assuming this man to have been kept in poor and unhealthy conditions during the last days of his life."
"Quite. Well, unhealthy is surely not too strong a word."
I ought perhaps to interject a comment here, to avoid puzzling my future readers unnecessarily. It was not until 1905, some eight years after the events herein described, that the bite of fleas was generally understood by the medical community to be the ordinary means of transmission of plague to humans—although as early as 1894 it had been confirmed by repeated studies that epidemics of plague in rats coincided closely with those in man. John Scott's work in Sumatra, had any of his results survived, might have greatly speeded the advance of science in this direction. In 1894, also, Alexandre Yersin in Hong Kong, and Kitasato in Japan, both succeeded independently in isolating the plague bacillus, Pasteurellapestis; and in the following year Yersin had prepared a serum to combat the disease. Recalling this as I stood in the dissecting-room, I mentioned the existence of a serum to Sir Jasper, but he only looked grave and shook his head. Of course, months of effort would have been necessary to provide London with enough of the serum to be of substantial help against an epidemic.
The door opened, and a senior official of the hospital, his face very grave, looked in to make an announcement. "Gentlemen, more police are here with another body that has just been found. The marks appear similar."
Holmes at once directed that this cadaver also be brought into our room, where it was laid out upon the remaining table. I was scarcely surprised to hear that this corpse had been brought up during the continued dragging of the Thames near the murder site. When found, it had been sealed inside one of John Scott's oilcloth bags, and wearing one of the peculiar shirts that had made up part of his expedition's equipment. The body had been in the water too long—perhaps a month, I judged—for us to be able to determine whether there were any flea-bites on the chest.
Working beside me in the intolerably close, foul air. Holmes suddenly swayed, so that I felt it necessary to put out an arm and steady him. He muttered to me in a low whisper: "But I feel sure that the fleas bit this man also, Watson. Again, the drinking of the blood. Do you see? The fleas will have it, or the other. And in this case which is deadlier?"
I tightened my grip upon his arm. "Holmes, you are coming home with me. Immediately, for you must rest."
For once, I think, I was as forceful as he himself was wont to be. Still, when he acquiesced almost meekly, I was surprised. Holmes perhaps enjoyed my reaction, for there was a faint twinkle in his eyes when we had taken leave of the others and were out of the dissecting-room. "As yet, Watson, no directions have been given for the delivery of the ransom. Do you mark that? It means that we have yet a little time to spare. It may mean that things do not go smoothly for the blackmailers. I pray that it is so… but in any case, you are right, now is the time to rest."
Early next morning, Lestrade appeared at Baker Street. The inspector was somewhat mystified by the orders he had received from his superiors to cease work on all his current cases and place himself completely at Holmes' disposal. He came in bemoaning the fact that he was thus being forced, without explanation, to drop his work on the Grafenstein killing. And this just when, as he put it, there had been "a shocking development, but one that promised to be helpful."
"And what might that be?" Holmes demanded sharply.
"Why, another murder."
Lestrade went on to inform us that one Jem Matthews, formerly of "the fancy," and since his retirement from the ring one of the most accomplished ruffians in London, had been brutally slain during the night just past, in the lodgings of a young woman named Sally Craddock. "You might have noticed her at Barley's, gentlemen. She was the one who gave the alarm. And she had just been arrested and put into the van there when that scoundrel we were after leaped onto it somehow and drove off."
Lestrade went on to explain that an hour or so before dawn the girl had walked into the Commercial Street police station, of her own volition and evidently in a state of shock, to report Matthews' killing. She had begun to give evidence, saying that the wanted man—whose name she insisted she did not know—had quarreled with Matthews, and had slain him somehow by brute strength when Matthews drew a knife. Then, in the midst of being questioned, Sally Craddock had fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion, almost a coma; a police surgeon was in attendance upon her now.
I was glad that Holmes and I had had the chance for a few hours' sleep and some breakfast, for within minutes of Lestrade's arrival the two of us were in a cab and once more on our way to the East End, while th
e inspector at Holmes' orders had begun his search for information regarding missing clerks.
"You are certain, then," I asked Holmes as we rode, "that Jem Matthews' killing is connected somehow with the blackmail scheme?"
"If it was in fact done by the same man, the one we have been searching for. And there seems little doubt of that."
"This mad fellow appears to be at the center of it all."
"He is at the center, certainly, or very near it. But I think he is not mad. Watson, we were interrupted last night just as I was trying to reconstruct the events taking place on the pier and culminating in the Grafenstein woman's death."
"I am prepared to listen."
"But you do not yet, I think, see the importance of these events in the whole tangled skein of crime confronting us. In this I include not only the violent deeds of this peculiar killer, but the blackmail threat, and even the disappearance of John Scott."
"I am also prepared to learn." "Excellent. Let us then begin with Frau Grafenstein standing or walking on the dock at approximately midnight, her pistol in her purse and, I fear, no very good intentions in her heart."
I interrupted: "How do you know she was not brought to that deserted spot against her will?"
"By some assailant who allowed her to retain her pistol? Whom, nevertheless, she did not attempt to resist until that lonely place was reached? It is conceivable, I suppose—but let us try another hypothesis first."
"Yes, I see. Go on, Holmes."
"As I remarked to Lestrade, the river is very often used to dispose of bodies. We saw last night evidence that it has been so used, for a month or longer, by those who are now threatening to loose the plague upon us. Surely it needs no very great leap of the imagination to suppose that Frau Grafenstein, given her background in chemical science and its abuses, was in league with them. That her presence on the dock was connected with the disposal of yet another experimental victim. But this time—something went wrong."
Holmes' eyes turned piercingly upon me as he went on. "At some hour near midnight, her short-barreled but powerful pistol was fired; at or about the same time, matching bullet-holes were made in the shirt, and a bullet of a caliber to fit the pistol lodged in the boat-house wall. Also, the lady had her throat torn out.
"Again concurrently, or nearly so, the oilcloth bag containing the manacles was left in the water near the spot. Does it suggest anything to you, Watson, that when that sealed bag was recovered it contained no body? And no shirt, whereas we found a wet shirt on the pier?"
I replied: "The intended victim was not dead after all, and managed to escape."
"Very good! I do not mean to imply that your answer is the wrong one, when I repeat that the bag when found was still fastened shut, not cut or torn in any way. I wish only to point out what a very remarkable escape that must have been."
Another thought, somewhat distracting, had just occurred to me. "Holmes, if what you say is true, this man is most probably infected with the plague. If it should go into the pneumonic form, he will represent a deadly peril to the whole city, with every breath he takes."
My friend was silent for a moment, and I thought he looked at me strangely. "I cannot say it is impossible, Watson. But I think that particular danger is not one which need greatly concern us."
"I am sure I do not see why, if this man is infected."
Holmes peered ahead, impatient at some snarl of traffic that was momentarily delaying us. "Do you recall, Watson, those scratches on the planking of the dock? I examined them very carefully."
"I do."
"The radius of their arcs was equal to the length of long human arms—of arms as long as mine—or of the arms of the man who wore that shirt."
There came an unfamiliar creeping sensation along my scalp. There seemed to loom, just beyond the limits of my understanding and imagination, some horror that threatened to unnerve even Sherlock Holmes, and which he was endeavoring to point out to me—to point out slowly and indirectly, as if he were reluctant to speak of it at all. For the first time in my life, perhaps, I truly understood how a vague danger may sometimes be more terrible than one definitely known. "Holmes," I cried, "I do not see what you are getting at."
His eyes again were fixed on mine relentlessly. "Those scratches were made by the killer, Watson. By the same man, tall, lean, inhumanly strong, who so closely resembles me—and who has now killed again. My one hope, Watson, my one hope is…"
"Yes?"
"That he is killing with justification. In self-defense or with some other purpose that he considers honorable."
I thought aloud: "He stole money from the woman's purse."
"He took her money, yes. But he might have seen that as an honorable act—to the victor belong the spoils of war. I have hopes, because he next scrupulously bought the clothing that he needed."
"A peculiar concept of honor, I should say. For a man of this day and age, at any rate."
As if to himself, Holmes murmured: "Ah, if I could only be sure that he is not."
"I fail to understand."
He shook his head. "I spoke of my one hope. If he is behaving honorably, that means he is actually our ally, an ally we sorely need against our terrible enemies—and he may gain for us the time we need."
"His feats are certainly incredible."
"No ordinary human being could match them." Holmes sounded now like a professor encouraging a student, and he was still watching me intently.
Not knowing what I was expected to say, I went on: "He is a madman, certainly, and in his paroxysms must be immensely ferocious and strong. But we have known that from the first."
Holmes said evenly: "I think he is not a madman. It is my belief that this man is a vampire."
For a time there was no sound in our cab but that of its creaking motion, and the steady beat of the horse's hooves. A kind of mist had come before my eyes, and I could find no words with which to reply.
My friend's voice now seemed to reach my ears from a great distance. "Watson, I know it is a hard thing when the mental habits of a lifetime must be discarded. Had I not—had I not some private sources of information, I might well be as reluctant as you are to face the truth. But I shall need your help when I stand face to face with this vampire, and nothing less than the truth will serve to prepare you for the confrontation."
What was I to do? In my despair I realized that to suggest to Holmes that he was not himself, that overwork had at last taken its toll upon his mind, would be worse than useless. The least harmful result I could imagine was that he would no longer communicate his true thoughts to me at all—and that, I felt, would prevent my helping him in any way toward recovery.
Meanwhile Holmes' voice pursued me, and in it I now heard the dreadful certainty of madness. "Think, Watson: the man survived not only infection with the plague, but drowning, and after that a gunshot through the body. Think of the horrible strength and ferocity that tore out the woman's throat and took her blood, then pulled apart those iron locks and heavy timbers at the hostel. No doubt we shall see fresh evidence of the same powers at the end of this little ride."
"I must think about it, Holmes. You must give me time to grasp it."
"Of course." I could hear a certain weary relief in my friend's voice. He thought that I was almost ready, or at least on the way to being ready, to grant that he was right. I had deceived my friend. My heart sank further, if that were possible.
"And now," he added, "here we are." It was a vile neighborhood in which our cab had stopped. Here, as at the docks, I glimpsed the little mob of curious onlookers kept at a distance by police; here again, there stood a uniformed officer on guard, this time at a dark doorway, into which he passed us with a nod.
Having groped our way down into the damp and dimness of a wretched cellar apartment, we found Tobias Gregson, his electric torch in hand, evidently making an inch-by-inch search of the floor for clues. At our arrival he scrambled to his feet and offered greetings, his face a study in mixed emotions.
Holmes now seemed almost buoyant. "Have you any word yet, Gregson, on the identity of your supposed maniac?"
"No sir, we have not. It's my own thinking now that he's not escaped from anyone's custody, but has just freshly gone off his nut."
"Well, this latest modification of the official theory has the attractive quality of some freshness, at any rate. Now let us inspect the evidence."
A second electric torch was resting on a small, shaky table; Holmes picked it up and tried it. "Switched on, you see, Watson, but the batteries are dead. Gregson, if I might borrow yours for a moment? Thank you. And so, here is the killer's latest victim."
Against the far wall of the cellar lay the body of a man dressed in cheap clothing. Though he was young and powerfully built, in death his brutal features had acquired a curiously aged, exhausted look. In the middle of the forehead a great depressed fracture was plainly visible, beneath a discoloration of the skin.
Holmes ignored this for the moment and examined the throat particularly. "No sign of a wound here. Do you think, Watson, this man has been exsanguinated?"
"I think not."
"Gregson, what did the medical examiner say?"
"Sir?"
"The question is, has this body been drained of blood?"
Gregson blinked. "No sir, nothing was said along that line."
Beside the man's body lay an evil-looking clasp-knife, open. This Holmes now picked up, and on the tip of its blade he declared a tiny bloodstain to be visible.
Gregson commented: "That'll support the girl's story, Mr. Holmes. I mean that this beauty here was threatening her."
"I am very anxious to speak with her; but still I felt it necessary to look in here first. Right wrist broken, wouldn't you say, Watson?" Holmes was offering me the dead man's arm to feel, as impersonally as if it had been a chicken wing.
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