The Holmes-Dracula File d-2

by Fred Saberhagen

  Holmes paled at this, and his voice when he went on had a smooth, deadly tone that I have seldom heard in it, and never without grave consequences for the person spoken to. "Let us play games no longer, Count Dracula. I shall be greatly pleased to hear from your own lips the story of how Frau Grafenstein came to her end."

  It was evident from the sudden complete stillness of the figure before us that this shot had told. Then he turned to face us once again, straightening deliberately to full height. The newcomer glared now at each of us in turn, as if to make sure which was most worthy of his anger. His face was almost impassive, save for the eyes, but I could see his long, sharp-nailed fingers working slightly, as if their owner imagined them already fastened on our throats. His voice when he spoke was even deeper than before. "Gentlemen, I give you fair warning—do not fire those guns at me."

  "I repeat," Holmes snapped, "that they are for our own protection only. And now, if you please, the truth about that killing on the docks."

  "I do not tolerate meddling in my affairs, even by the police. They are not your concern."

  "I make them my concern, and I tell you that I already know very much about them. That you killed Frau Grafenstein, for example, and that you drank her blood."

  The man before us answered clearly: "I was extremely thirsty." In a flash it was borne in upon me what I should never have forgotten. That the question of Holmes' mental state entirely aside, we had already seen ample evidence that the man we now confronted must be utterly and violently mad. There was no reason, as I abruptly realized, that one capable of that horrible killing on the docks might not imagine himself to be a vampire, and even carry matters to the extent of traveling about Europe with a trunk half-filled with earth.

  He turned away again, with a fine demonstration of contempt, and bent as if he meant to lift the massive trunk unaided. Nothing in my long association with Sherlock Holmes had prepared me for what happened next. Before I had the least inkling of Holmes' intention, his pistol fired. With a shriek the wounded man spun round on us, clutching his left arm. Far from being cowed, he would, I believe, have hurled himself upon us, were it not that the sight of our weapons still leveled held him back. His face was transfigured into a satanic mask of rage and hatred, while an almost inaudible moan, I think of anger as well as pain, came from his open mouth. I heard a faint outcry from Sarah Tarlton behind me, but I did not turn.

  In a matter of only a few seconds, the man who faced us had himself in hand. I had been on the point of stepping forward to do what I could for his wounded arm, from which the blood had at first flowed freely. But his whole pose was unmistakably one of menace rather than defeat, and the blood-flow ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun, so that I judged it wiser, for the moment at least, to hold my place.

  But when the terrible figure spoke to Holmes, it was almost as calmly as before. "May I congratulate you on thinking of wooden bullets? I had begun to believe all Englishmen were fools."

  Holmes bowed slightly, coolly accepting the compliment. Our antagonist then smiled at us, and in that moment I was very glad of the loaded weapon still in my hand.

  Holmes then performed almost formal introductions, as if we were met at some afternoon social function. The Count—I now saw no reason to doubt that Holmes had discovered the killer's correct name—received Holmes' own name with utter blankness, which seemed to have a disproportionate effect upon my friend's already exhausted nerves.

  "Watson," he ordered brusquely, "take Mr. Moore and Miss Tarlton outside. There are matters I must discuss in private with this man."

  "Holmes," I pleaded, "let me fetch Lestrade, or Gregson."

  "Very well," he answered, after a moment. "Only leave us alone, at once. Whatever happens, do not come back until I call."

  Indicating to the two young Americans that they should precede me, I obeyed Holmes' order and left the room. In fact I feared to refuse, thinking that if not humored he might commit some excess even greater than deliberately wounding the unarmed man. That Holmes had deliberately shot our suspect—however desperate and potentially dangerous, still an unarmed man with his back to us—was for me the final and convincing proof that my friend's behavior was no longer adequately governed by his great powers of reason.

  As soon as the three of us were out on the landing at the top of the stairs, and the door to the sitting-room closed behind us, I took Moore by the arm and whispered to him fiercely that he must commandeer the first cab in sight and take it straight to Scotland Yard. There he was to brook no delay until he had laid hold of Lestrade or Gregson—or, failing those, whatever detective was immediately available—and returned to Baker Street with the police as fast as humanly possible.

  "Tell them," I concluded, "that the life and sanity of Sherlock Holmes depend upon their speed!"

  He swallowed, nodded, and was gone, almost flying down the stairs.

  "And is there nothing I can do?" Sarah Tarlton, a trifle pale but otherwise composed, stood anxiously beside me.

  "On the contrary," I whispered urgently. "There is something you must do, while I stay here." I pulled out the scrap of paper Seward had given me and thrust it at her. "Telegraph—or telephone if you can find an instrument—to Dr. Jack Seward at that address. Say: 'Patient much worse, immediate help imperative,' and sign it 'Watson.' "

  The girl very coolly repeated my instructions, took the note, and hurried off.

  I turned my agonized attention again to the door at the head of the stair. The two voices within were too low for me to be able to distinguish words, but I thought I could hear the deadly strain in both of them. Indeed, there were moments when it sounded like one voice only, murmuring on and on in soft maniacal anxiety.

  Not quite daring to re-enter the room against Holmes' orders, yet scarcely daring to refrain, I waited, one hand near the doorknob, the other still holding my revolver.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In stories, any number of imbeciles may be encountered, ready to deliberately insult strangers who are aiming deadly weapons at them. In real life, there are only a few folk so suicidally inclined.

  "So," I said mildly, when the two men and the lovely young woman had gone out. "You are Sherlock Holmes." I was of course trying to give the impression of some sort of recognition—better belated than never—before a second wooden bullet should leap superbly aimed from my captor's gun, this one to splinter its way right through my vitals. His first shot, I observed, had incidentally punctured my fine trunk, as well as spraying it delicately with its owner's gore. "You must tell me," I went on, "how you managed to learn my name."

  "Tut. I see by your earthen baggage that you are a foreigner, and brought your means of sustenance to England with you. The clothing and coins in it tell me what part of the world you are from. I have heard from witnesses of your accomplishments here, and have seen more evidence of them with my own eyes. Anyone who knows the slightest bit about vampires, Count, must know you by name and reputation; I might possibly have been wrong about your name, but now that I can look you in the eye, I have no doubt."

  "I am flattered. But very few breathing folk know anything of vampires. And of those few, most have the truth of the matter quite thoroughly confused with their damned superstitions. They waste good powder on silver bullets. They assault me with crucifixes, as though I were a devil and not as much a creature of the Earth, a child of God, as they are."

  "I shall not make that error."

  "I believe you. Well, what now?" Looking about the queerly furnished room, I made a careful, empty-handed gesture. "This does not look like my idea of Scotland Yard."

  "No more am I of the official police. Nevertheless you will be well advised to answer my questions. What of Frau Grafenstein?"

  "What of her?"

  My foe took a half-step toward me, righteous anger rising in his voice. "Do you still think you can play games with me? I tell you I know very much—that you killed her, and that you drank her blood." He paused; when he went on, his voice wa
s no longer impetuous, but inexorable. "I know, also, that no prison built can hold you for trial or execution. Therefore I stand here as your sole judge and jury—it is fortunate that there is probably no other man in England so well qualified to do so."

  I took in breath to make a sigh. "Very well—no more games." As I spoke I tested the fingers of my wounded arm, and was gratified to find them movable. Expected pain came with the effort, but not the wetness of fresh bleeding. As a rule we heal with great rapidity even when hurt by wood, if the damage be not immediately fatal and the weapon not held in the wound. "I killed the woman because she had attempted to kill me. Also, I was in need."

  "Of—?"

  "Of nourishment, of course, as well as of revenge. Is there not some old British saying, about killing two birds with one stone? I really hope that she was not a friend of yours."

  "Scarcely that." He paused to study me in silence, his brows knitted with thought. There was something terribly vital he wanted to say to me—perhaps to ask—but he had not yet decided how.

  I gave him half a minute, then interrupted his pregnant silence. "And how is Sally Craddock? I sent her to your police to keep her safe."

  A shadow crossed Holmes' face. "I regret very much, Count, that the girl is dead."

  "Ah. I should have brought her to you, instead of to the police, for safekeeping."

  Holmes looked at me strangely. "The thing that drove her running, screaming, to where her enemies could reach her—was the sight of my face, Count. Or should I say, our face?"

  "I do not understand." But then I did, even as I spoke, and suddenly much was clear to me. For example: Watson, rushing to my aid in that strange room filled with smoke and noise. And again: Matthews, in the cellar, sneering Mr. Great Detective.

  "Ah, yes," I answered. "As you doubtless understand, I have not been permitted the luxury of mirrors for some centuries. But the resemblance is actually that close?" My foe was nodding. "So it must be. And that means that there is some… ah."

  "Family relationship—unquestionably." We had come to the nub of what was bothering Holmes. "What remains to be determined is its exact degree."

  The aim of his revolver had never wavered in the slightest, and he had already proven his marksmanship and iron nerve; one false twitch on my part, I knew, and the great true death would greet me in that room. I may have already mentioned somewhere in these pages that I am—though not all vampires are, by any means—immune to fear, having exhausted at a tender age my whole life's allotment of that arguably useful lading. Yet honor and love of life alike forbade me to perish without a struggle.

  "Mr. Holmes, my first visit to England took place but six years ago. The relationship you propose—well, doubtless it exists, since you are so certain of it. But it cannot be very close."

  "The date of your first visit to England is quite irrelevant." Holmes paused again, then spoke distinctly. "My parents traveled on the Continent, in the year preceding my birth. To my certain knowledge, my mother was long unfaithful to my father; and it is equally certain that one of her paramours was of your race."

  "My race, sir, is the human race."

  "I think you know what I mean, Count." Holmes considered for a moment. "I have—or had; I do not know if he is still alive—a twin brother, vampire from his beginnings. You will pardon me for saying I felt an inexpressible relief on finding your trunk and thus demonstrating to my own satisfaction that you, the killer of the woman on the docks, could not be him. Since my childhood I have loathed and despised all that he stood for. All the things of the vampire world, that haunted my own early years like some—some nightmare made real. All that you are and stand for, indeed."

  "Indeed."

  "Indeed." And with that the vanishingly faint humor of these unplanned repetitions occurred, I think, to both of us. Not that either of us went so far as to smile, but the air had been cleared, and now something seemed to lighten in it.

  "Do you mind if I sit down?" I asked. "Please do. But keep your hands in sight." I did, perching on my trunk. "I think that I begin to understand," I said. As a general rule, the vampire race (I still dislike that term, but there does not seem to be a better) gains members only by adoption, through initiation, rather like a hard-core political party or a religious order. A few of us, as in my own rare case, become what we are by making, as breathing human beings, a transcendent refusal to die, a truly heroic act of will. And there is one other road to the world of the nosferatu, which I had better digress for a moment to explain. It had been known to happen that a normally breathing woman becomes pregnant (in the traditional breathing way) while concurrently carrying on an affair with a male vampire. To such a woman, twins may be born, either fraternal or apparently identical. One of the twins in these cases is firmly committed to breathing. The other will draw air to cry with when he—or she—is spanked, but is in essence nosferatu from the womb.

  But how, I hear a reader asking, how can hereditary characteristics such as facial appearance be passed on through love-making in the vampire style? I answer that, scientists are lately of the opinion that the whole hereditary blueprint is contained in each and every living cell of the body; that living body cells are contained in the blood; and that for a vampire's lover to drink from a vampire's veins is as traditional a part of their intercourse as is the reverse.

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I see," I said to him. "And the year of your parents' travel on the Continent was—?"

  "It was during the summer of 1853." I cast my memory back, or tried to. After more than four centuries of life, sometimes only the very earliest and very latest events are easy to disentangle. "That was only a few months before the outbreak of the Crimean War, was it not? Of course. In my homeland, also, that was a troublous time. And where precisely did your parents travel?"

  "I should prefer that you first tell me where you were that summer."

  I took thought. Was he likely to accept my unsupported word? It would have been possible, perhaps, for a breathing man of genius and determination to have established something of my biography through historical research, provided he knew where to look; and so I might be caught out in a lie. (Had I known Holmes then, I would of course have replaced that "might" in my thoughts with something considerably stronger.) In any case, the situation seemed to demand a response on a higher level than routine falsehood. True, I had begun by lying to this man, in implying that I bore him no ill-will for trapping me and shooting me, but now that denial was becoming true. In fact I had already grown intensely interested in the relationship between us, and wanted to learn the truth of it, however dangerous the truth might be. If I was not the vampire lover of Holmes' mother, then surely someone closely related to me was—how else could the uncanny resemblance between us be explained?

  I drew in breath for speech, and told the truth. "I went no farther west than Budapest that year. And I do not remember meeting a Mrs. Holmes at all."

  A strange constellation of emotions struggled in his face for dominance. "You would remember?" The words were half a plea and half a fierce command.

  She would have been a remarkable woman, I felt sure. "I am quite positive I would."

  Now at last I could detect a hint of relaxation in Holmes' posture. "That year," he said, "my mother went no farther east than Switzerland." His hand holding the gun had actually begun to tremble, not with tension but with its release.

  I allowed myself another smile. "Then, my dear sir, much as I would like to be able to urge some close family connection upon you now, it would appear I cannot do so." Actually, I was not at all eager to have Holmes think me a near relative. Most murders, as we know, are committed within the circle of friends and especially of family, and the man holding the gun was obviously not pleased by the thought that he and I were bound by ties of blood.

  "As to our remarkable resemblance," I went on, "I can only surmise that it is the result of some distant relationship—how shall I put it?—breeding true?" And even in that moment, by the Beard of Allah even
as I spoke, it came to me! My brother Radu, the one they called the Handsome in his breathing days—he had in fact spent a summer in Switzerland about the middle of the 19th century! I tried to think… yes, that had been in 1853. But I saw no reason to announce my recollection just at present. It meant I was Holmes' uncle, or half-uncle. Perhaps no language has a precise word for the relationship.

  If his eyes had probed sharply at me before, they now pressed like twin stakes fine-pointed for bilateral impalement. "Some distant relationship, you think."

  "I regret I cannot lay claim to more than that. If I remember correctly, a branch of the Draculas were drawn into the Wars of the Roses, and I am not the first of my line to set foot in England."

  "Drawn in?"

  "Yes. They would have come from France, I believe, in 1460, with one of the Yorkist lords—perhaps Warwick. I was myself still breathing, then. Whether any historical record still survives, I do not know. It is, as I say, a disappointment that we are not more closely tied."

  "A disappointment?" He laughed, and I knew that he believed me now—because, above all else, he wanted to believe. "You will pardon my expression of relief, Count, on learning that you are not only not my twin, but cannot possibly be the man responsible for his existence."

  I nodded, looking gravely sympathetic.

  Holmes pressed on, pouring out words that he had probably spoken to no other living being, and would probably never speak again. "I have not seen my twin since we were children. I intend never again to speak his name, and it would not pain me to learn that he is dead—certainly and finally dead. It is because of him that my father went early to his grave—because of him and because of my mother, who went to her grave even sooner—went to it, but not to stay. There followed years of hell, ending only when my father and my older brother, with their own hands… do you understand me? Hell ended for us only when her death had become final and absolute. Well, I hate her no longer." Holmes spoke these last words as if surprised by them himself. He paused, he shook his head, and I saw that in a moment he had forced from his mind the horrors—as he saw them—of his early life. It is, although I did not say so to him, a family trait that one is able to control one's own thoughts so ruthlessly and so well.