by Steve Seitz
Title Page
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE PLAGUE OF DRACULA
By
Stephen Seitz
Publisher Information
First edition published in 2012 by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2012 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2012 Stephen Seitz
The right of Stephen Seitz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by www.staunch.com
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following for their help and support: Bob and Sally Sugarman in particular for taking this project on; Jeanne Cavelos, whose sharp eye for error and authorial missteps turned this novel from a hobby into an actual story; and my wife, Susan Austin, for unflagging love and support.
Further thanks to Steve Emecz at MX Publishing and Gargoyle Books in Rome for giving this tale new life.
S.S.
Introduction
For years, devotees of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson have been searching for Watson’s fabled tin dispatch box, last known to be in the care of Cox & Company in London. That box contained Watson’s notes and records of his cases of Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, many stories have been written claiming to have been based on the documents contained therein. But there is one problem with those stories: the Charing Cross branch of Cox & Company was obliterated by Nazi bombs during World War II. Watson’s records went with it.
However, that does not mean everything was lost. Watson was a compulsive scribbler, and kept a daily journal, which he first mentions in A Study in Scarlet. The doings of his life naturally included his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and that journal survives.
How do I know this? Because those volumes sit next to me as this very moment as I write this. I have no doubt of their authenticity; they have passed a series of extremely expensive chemical tests and handwriting analyses. There are plenty of extant samples of Watson’s handwriting; once he became famous, many of his patients kept his prescriptions so they could have his autograph. I am also convinced that Watson is the physician most responsible for the bad reputation doctors have for poor handwriting. If only he’d used a typewriter!
I come by these volumes (almost) honestly; Watson left his estate and belongings to Sherlock Holmes after his death in London in 1929, at the age of 77. Holmes put them into storage and forgot about them.
They come to me because my great-aunt married a man named Holmes, who turned out to be a distant relative. Both Sherlock Holmes and his brother Mycroft died childless. Neither death has ever been announced, and my every inquiry has hit a very British brick wall. I doubt we’ll ever know when or how Mycroft died. But Sherlock lived into his ninetieth year, leaving this world in 1944, serving his country to the end.
His estate had to be settled, and luckily my great-uncle was stationed in England when he received word that, so far as could be determined, he was Sherlock Holmes’ closest relation. He did not care; a farmer from the hills of upstate New York, he had no idea who Sherlock Holmes was, but was grateful to have the farm at Sussex Downs, its contents, and of course, the money. My great-uncle sold the farm. Luckily, he was also an incurable pack rat. He took everything else back home in case he could use anything on his own farm; the Holmes hives, in fact, are still producing honey. What Uncle Bob couldn’t use went into the attic.
On a family visit when I was ten, I was playing up there when I came across a musty old trunk, one of several. I tugged at the lock, but it didn’t give. That aroused my curiosity, and the more the lock refused to budge, the more determined I was to break it. Finally, I found an old toolbox, grabbed a screwdriver, and snapped the brittle tin.
Inside, a treasure trove: a heavy revolver, many scribbled pages of manuscript, a dried snakeskin, fake beards and moustaches, but mostly copybooks. The scrapbooks, notes for monographs, the never-completed Whole Art of Detection, The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, so much more.
In the other trunks, I found manuscripts, letters, memoranda, newspaper clippings, all kinds of tobacco apparatus, an ancient hypodermic - everything but Holmes’ famous Stradivarius. (My great-aunt persuaded Bob to donate it to the Smithsonian. The violin on display there may well have once belonged to Sherlock Holmes.)
I opened one of the copybooks and discovered I could barely read it. The handwriting was atrocious, and I wasn’t accustomed to Watson’s usage then, so I took it home and stuck it on a shelf. Several years passed, and I discovered The Hound of the Baskervilles, which quotes Watson’s journal extensively. That rang a bell, and I examined the long-forgotten volume. The journal extracts quoted in Hound came right from the journal in my lap; they were not much changed in the final publication.
I have since hauled all the combined personal effects and extant papers of Holmes and Watson to my home in Vermont. In Watson’s daily journal is the first draft of Holmes’ cases, as they occurred day by day, as well as details of the unchronicled cases Watson hinted at from time to time. Once Watson realized how intense interest in Holmes had become, he kept separate, more detailed notes of his experiences for publication, while using the journal to keep track of events in his own life.
I have also learned the extent to which Watson changed things to suit his stories. Names, dates, and places; often, Watson transplanted events from one case into the published account of another. It was necessary to do so; with every word, Watson was at great risk of libel.
For example, Watson knew of Professor James Moriarty and his right-hand man Colonel Sebastian Moran well before “The Final Problem.” Moriarty and Moran both appear in The Valley of Fear, which took place in 1887, but was published in 1914. However, “The Final Problem,” which appeared in 1893, was Watson’s first published account of Moriarty. Watson pretended he had never heard of Moriarty in order to tell a better story.
What you now have in your hands is extraordinary: how Holmes and Watson became enmeshed in the notorious case of Count Dracula. In general, I have retained the epistolary form used in Dracula, quoting directly from the sources, rewriting and paraphrasing mostly for the sake of clarity. Happily, there has been no difficulty in securing outside documentation for the Dracula story; the Harker, Godalming and Seward papers have been freely available for years, and I have used them where they fit into the story. Most of the Harker and Seward entries appear here for the first time. To obtain them, I contacted the British law firm my family used to settle the Holmes estate in England - the one founded by Peter Hawkins, in fact, known today as Hawkins, Harker, Graham & McFarlane. Their tireless researchers were able to find the letters, journals, and newspaper clippings I needed, and more. (Amanda Keswick’s note to her pa
rents, for instance, was stuck to the back of an RSVP pasted in her wedding album.) All other entries are from Watson’s journal or letters unless otherwise noted. I have peppered the text with footnotes where appropriate; I hope the reader will not find these overly intrusive.
I should note that I have left out a lot. Watson wrote everything down, including the details of his generally mundane daily life when he was away from Baker Street. In his journal he comes across as a stronger personality than he did in the Sherlock Holmes memoirs; as often as not, Holmes turned to Watson for a medical opinion, but in the Canon Holmes seems to know all and even instructs Watson. Again, Watson sacrificed accuracy for a better story. Watson’s own modesty has forever enhanced the reputation of Sherlock Holmes, and I hope we can help correct the record a little. Watson was far more than a sounding board in the partnership.
There are twenty of the journals, covering the years 1886 to 1927, and fascinating reading they often make. Besides filling in the gaps of the Sherlock Holmes saga, we find many of the missing details of Watson’s own life: his second career as a police surgeon, the story of his stormy third marriage later in life, his experiences in Afghanistan and in World War I, the death of his brother, and more. If there is sufficient interest, perhaps additional sections of the journal might see publication.
Stephen Seitz
Springfield, Vt.
Part One: Castle Dracula
Chapter One: Mina Murray
Letter, Dr. John H. Watson to Mary Watson
August 3, 1890
Dear Mary,
Holmes is dozing, so I am taking this opportunity to explain my actions over the last few days. I apologise for the suddenness of our leave-taking and for the hasty note I left. But you must admit that our domestic life of late has been somewhat strained, and your increasing visits to Mrs. Forrester I can only view as escape from my company. The situation is wearying me, so when Sherlock Holmes asked me to accompany him to Transylvania, I must say it was with considerable relief that I accepted.
You are still my wife, however, and I hope this time apart will give our hearts a chance to heal, and to cleave together once again on my return. It is only fair that I give you an account of my doings while I am away. I will post this missive when the train stops at Trieste.
As you know, last Wednesday I called on Holmes at Baker Street after visiting a patient who lives nearby. Naturally, he called me in before I had a chance to knock.
“My dear Watson, how good of you to come!” he said. “Your visit could not be more fortuitous. I am expecting a client. Tea?”
A steaming pot and two cups had already been set out, and Holmes fetched a third. I could see this anticipated client was about to break a spell of tedium for my friend. When Holmes is bored, he tends to slouch around the flat in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, hunting through newspapers for sensational items of interest, looking like nothing so much as a heron with its wings clipped.
Holmes had been indoors too long; his normally pale complexion seemed even whiter than the last time I had seen him, and his long, thin fingers were stained yellow, a sure sign that he had been smoking more cigarettes than usual. His grey eyes were sharp and bright with anticipation, and he paced about the room with determination.
Today he was smartly dressed in tweeds and tie. The thick stack of unanswered correspondence usually affixed to the top of the mantel with a rusty jackknife was gone. He had shelved his books and indexed his documents. Some sort of malodorous chemical experiment was also in progress on the acid-stained laboratory table by the window, which, mercifully, was open. (The aromas emanating from your kitchen are far preferable to those from Holmes’ often rammish chemical investigations.) I confess that hearing the familiar bustling sounds of Baker Street’s traffic from the window stung me with nostalgia, for I’ve hardly seen Holmes since the wedding. I took my accustomed armchair by the fireplace, with a burst of anticipation as I did so. For while a stable, domestic life has its charms, one does sometimes miss the hunt.
Holmes offered me a cigar from the coal scuttle.
“Her name is Mina Murray,” Holmes said. “She believes her fiancé, Jonathan Harker, is in deep trouble somewhere in Transylvania, and she suspects he may have come to harm. We are to find him.”
“We?”
“If you care to come. You’re bored, my dear Watson. You suspect the patient you just left - your first visit this morning, if I’m not mistaken - is a hypochondriac, and I flatter myself that you took this patient as an excuse to visit. Besides, you’ve lost five pounds since our visits to Wisteria Lodge, and your face lit up like a schoolboy’s when I said I was expecting a client.”
“He’s not a hypochondriac, exactly, but he does tend to inflate the importance of his ailments. How did you know? And why the first?”
“You usually start your rounds at eight. It’s a little after nine now, hardly time for more than one examination. Your bag is still locked, which tells me you have not yet opened it. There are no finger marks on your top hat, where I see your stethoscope is in its accustomed place. Having touched neither, I perceive that you either diagnosed the patient’s problem at once and solved it on the spot, or that you diagnosed no problem whatever.”
“His complexion told all. He’s allergic to paprika, but did not know it. It has been a dull summer, Holmes.”
“Perhaps we can relieve our ennui, for Miss Murray is now approaching.”
The door opened, and the page introduced a slender, dark-eyed woman of medium height, sharp, bird-like features, and fine chestnut hair tucked into a chignon. Her practical air and modest, unassuming dress marked her as a governess or secretary. I wondered if her fiancé had simply run off with a fiery gipsy woman. I know what a taste of the exotic can do to a man. (Think where would we be, Mary, without the Agra treasure and the Sign of Four. I’m grateful that you enjoyed my account of the case more than Holmes did.)
“Oh, you’re a doctor,” she said on learning my name. “Do you know anything about somnambulism?”
“Precious little,” I admitted. “My wife has been given to bouts of it lately. It is usually a symptom of something else. Do you often walk in your sleep?”
“I never have,” she said. “I am staying with a close friend who has been suffering from it.”
“I can examine her if you-”
“Pray sit down,” Holmes said, offering her the sofa while he took the armchair opposite. “What may I do for you?”
“As I explained to you in my letter,” she said, “I have reason to believe that something terrible may have happened to my poor Jonathan, who, as I may have mentioned, is a junior solicitor, working in the employ of Peter Hawkins-”
“Ah, you did not tell me that,” Holmes said. “Has Mr. Harker ever mentioned a Professor James Moriarty to you?”
My ears pricked at once.
“Yes,” Miss Murray replied. “He is one of Mr. Hawkins’ clients, and apparently an important one, for Mr. Hawkins handles all his matters personally. But beyond that, I know nothing about him.”
Holmes nodded and lit a cigarette. “Pray continue, Miss Murray. Please give me every detail, and be as precise as you can.”
“Though Jonathan is the most junior member of the firm, Mr. Hawkins selected him for a most important assignment,” she said, as if she had prepared a speech. “A certain Count Dracula, of Transylvania, is purchasing an estate by the name of Carfax, in Purfleet. Mr. Hawkins’ firm was engaged to find a suitable property for the Count and make the arrangements. This was done, and all that remained was getting the Count’s signature on the contracts.”
“Do we know why this Count Dracula did not come to England himself?” asked Holmes.
Miss Murray shook her head. “He was willing to pay Jonathan’s expenses and he provided a handsome retainer,” she said. “Jonathan left for Munich at the end
of April.”
“Why do you think he has come to harm? Has he not written?”
“At every train stop, but after he arrived in Transylvania his letters became sporadic.”
“That could be explained by an inefficient postal system. The trains are notorious in that part of Europe. I take it you have brought some of his letters?”
“Yes.” She opened her handbag and extracted two. “One is to Mr. Hawkins, and one is to me. I would expect the letter to Mr. Hawkins to be brief and businesslike, which it is, but so is the one he wrote me, and that is not like him. And neither letter is in his usual style.”
“Did you bring any of his other letters?”
She handed over what she had. Holmes examined the first few and shrugged. But the letter dated June 12 arrested his attention.
“Here, Watson, take a look at this.”
It read:
My dearest Mina,
How delightful is the spring in Transylvania! Every bush, every tree, all of Nature is alive with promise. Lest I forget springtime in England, however, the time has come at last for me to return to my land and my beloved. Please forgive me for staying away so long.
My business with Count Dracula is concluded and I shall soon be in Bistritz and on my way home.
With all my love,Jonathan
The letter to Hawkins was dated June 19, and read simply:
All is finished with Count Dracula. He has signed all the contracts, I have answered all his questions, and prepared for the business he plans to conduct once he reaches England. I am advised that he will be sailing from Varna sometime in the next few weeks. It is to be hoped that I will have the pleasure of acting as the Count’s representative once I am safe on native soil. I am sorry to be so brief, but my carriage awaits.