Sherlock Holmes and the Plague of Dracula

by Steve Seitz

  Naturally, not much progress has been made in locating Dracula; Lestrade believes he has returned to Transylvania. I hope it’s true.

  Thanks to a letter from Mrs. Mina Harker, we now know that Jonathan somehow survived Castle Dracula and was in the care of nuns in Buda-Pesth while we were looking for him. Mina joined him there, and they married. No doubt we were within a few miles of the happy couple as our train chugged its way back toward London. Our trip and travail had been for nothing.

  “There is no way you could have known, Holmes,” I said gently, pouring coffee in the Baker Street sitting room. “All Harker’s belongings were there, and if fifty boxes of earth were being shipped out, it’s perfectly natural to assume that a body was hidden in one of them.”

  “So once again we learn the value of keeping our mouths shut until we have all the facts,” Holmes said with a sigh. “I can only hope our friend Dr. Doyle talks you out of publishing this fiasco.”

  I never will. There is no pleasure in chronicling failure. Holmes is not always successful, and I have even seen him completely stymied once or twice. But I see no reason to put those tales before my readers; they want to thrill to the triumph of his exceptional intellect, as do I.

  “Not to worry, my dear fellow,” I replied. “No one would believe it anyway.”

  We fell into a long, comfortable silence that is only possible between longtime friends. It was my quiet, fervent hope that Holmes would be consulted in the disappearance of Silver Blaze, favoured to win the Wessex Cup next week. Indeed, my only wonder is that he has not already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which is the one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England. The horse has vanished, and its trainer, John Straker, has been murdered.

  Yet he has said not one word about it. My companion rambled about the room with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks.

  Work was just what he needed, and it was with relief that I heard him say at last, “I am afraid, Watson that I shall have to go,” as we sat down together to our breakfast this morning.

  “Go! Where to?”

  “To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”

  By this point, fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a corner, so I was not surprised when he finally said it.

  “I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the way,” said I, perhaps with a bit too much hope in my voice.

  “My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field-glass.”

  And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under the seat and offered me his cigar-case.

  I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which had led to our journey. I took copious notes, happy to be back at the chase again, but one more thing needed to be done. The Harkers now live in Exeter, and if we alighted there and caught the next train to Tavistock, we had a two-hour window to call on them and, with any luck, close this part of the Dracula case. If this were not done, it might niggle at Holmes for months.

  “Quite right, Watson,” he replied cheerfully when I made the suggestion. “Better sooner than later. We owe them our congratulations, and there are a few minor points I should like to clear up. It will also be an opportunity to gain fresh news of the Count, who seems to have vanished. At least, he has not visited his estate in London for a while. Two hours ought to be enough.”

  To my surprise, the cab took us up a long cobblestone drive to a sizeable estate on the outskirts of Exeter. The two-story brick house dated back to Georgian times. Gardeners worked busily trimming tall green hedges, and several workmen preceded us up the white marble steps to the door.

  “I thought Harker was a penurious junior solicitor,” I said.

  “Last week, he was,” Holmes replied. “You ought to keep an eye on the death notices, Watson. Peter Hawkins died suddenly. This was his home; I gather he left it to the Harkers. Perhaps he knew he had not long to live.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit suspicious?”

  “Very. They’ve moved in a little quickly, don’t you think?”

  I pounded the ornate brass doorknocker, and a pale young girl with wide, dark eyes and brunette hair pinned closely to her skull, answered.

  “Dr. Van Helsing?” she asked, looking at me.

  “What?” I ejaculated. “Abraham Van Helsing?”

  Holmes presented his card. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson. Is Mrs. Harker at home?”

  The girl stared at me. “So many doctors,” she said, and closed the door.

  Mina Harker presently greeted us, and though her hair was bound in a prim bun and she wore mourning, rarely have I seen such sunshine from a smile. She embraced Holmes warmly, to his distinct discomfort, and when I held her briefly, I felt a rapid heartbeat. I wondered if a fresh difficulty with her husband had arisen.

  Inside was a foyer with a wide staircase to the right. A stained-glass window illuminated the hallway with soft, warm colors suggesting the autumn that was to come, and it was obvious that changes were being made. Light squares on the creamy white walls indicated that pictures had been removed. A large country landscape dominated the left wall.

  Under it was a table piled with unanswered correspondence, small boxes, and a few workman’s tools, while larger boxes were stacked along the walls. The thick oak double doors on the left were open, revealing the parlor, also somewhat disarrayed, and it was in there Mina Harker led us.

  “Mary, please bring tea,” she said. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, the sight of you is the best news I’ve had since we came home! What brings you here?”

  “We are on our way to King’s Pyland,” said Holmes, “and this seemed as good an opportunity as any to congratulate you and your resourceful husband.”

  Mina handed me a cup.

  “If only he was here,” she replied. “I know he’s dyi- eager to meet you. Unfortunately, this best of circumstances has come at the worst of times.”

  “Mr. Hawkins was close to you.”

  Mina nodded. “I mourn Lucy Westenra as well. She was my closest friend, and was to have been married Sunday, but she took ill and died just two days after Mr. Hawkins.”

  We offered our condolences, but Holmes’ eyes narrowed like a hawk’s at this news.

  Tears filled Mina Harker’s eyes as she continued, “Mr. Holmes, I feel as though a house has fallen on me,” she said. “First, Mr. Hawkins invited us here to spend the night. He told us that he was leaving everything to Jonathan because he had no living relations and that Jonathan had been as a son to him, and not twelve hours later he was dead!”

  “What?” Holmes ejaculated.

  “And poor Arthur’s father died the next day, and my dearest Lucy the day after that! Mr. Holmes, everyone whose life touches mine dies! I am the angel of death!”

  I assumed that Holmes knew who this Arthur was, but he gave me no sign.

  Mina wept freely and now Holmes, who so nearly recoiled from her embrace a few m
inutes ago, placed her head on his shoulder. The wolf bite hadn’t fully healed and he winced, but he let that good lady sob gently until she regained herself. I poured brandy from a decanter on the sideboard.

  “I am sorry,” she said, accepting the glass. “Please understand, so much has happened so fast.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Harker,” said Holmes. “That you can still run a household and help your husband with so many of his new responsibilities is admirable, and I expect that you are the one looked to by many in times of crisis such as this.”

  “It is true,” she said, “but without Lucy I have no one to tell it to.”

  “Who is Arthur?” I asked.

  “Arthur Holmwood, now Lord Godalming.”

  I saw Holmes file this nugget away. “He was to marry Miss Westenra.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She suffered some sort of animal bite and lost a lot of blood.” Holmes and I exchanged a glance. “Dr. Seward thinks she contracted a disease from it.”

  “Dr. Seward?” I asked.

  “John Seward, he runs an asylum in London. He was close to Lucy. One of her suitors once, as a matter of fact.”

  “What was his diagnosis?” I continued as Holmes, his gaze alert, sat back and steepled his fingers.

  “It didn’t seem to be a disease he understood. That’s why he called in Dr. Van Helsing.”

  Though I did my best not to show it, I did not regard this as good news. I have been doing much reading on vampirism, and comparing the legends to modern medical research, in case there is something more to my wife’s recent illness than the rantings of a deranged Transylvanian nobleman. Van Helsing’s name figures prominently in the literature. He is not highly regarded in most of the medical community. He has written several articles trying to cite science to support superstitions of the sort we encountered in Transylvania; he even accepts lycanthropy. He has developed radical treatments for some illnesses, and it is rumoured that he experiments on his patients.

  As far as either Holmes or I can tell, Dracula is doing it all from stagecraft. There isn’t anything he does that can’t be faked by a skilled stage magician. Certainly when there is thick fog and five trained wolves to hold your attention, you aren’t likely to notice the sleight of hand. The only thing I can’t account for is the sharpening of his victims’ teeth; it is unknown to medical science at this time. Perhaps I can persuade Holmes to add that phenomenon to his rambling list of scientific researches.

  “What did Van Helsing do to her?” I wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. I was on the Continent for most of this, and neither Dr. Seward nor Dr. Van Helsing will tell me anything. They seem to think I am too delicate.”

  “Most women do not have your determination or common sense,” Holmes said. “I see you have been typing something other than your husband’s correspondence.”

  Mina blushed.

  “Yes,” she said, “there’s something else. Jonathan kept a journal of his adventures in shorthand, and I have been transcribing it.”

  Holmes’ eyes brightened. “Is it here? It might answer many questions.”

  Mina nodded. “I’ll get it for you.”

  She returned with a thick manuscript. Holmes ignored the first third, I assume going directly to the entries dealing with Harker’s time at Castle Dracula.

  I touched Mina’s arm and cocked my head toward the door.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “I should like to give Dr. Watson a brief tour of the grounds.”

  “Don’t take too long, Watson,” he replied. “We’ll need to leave here in half an hour if we expect to catch our train.”

  “How did Mr. Hawkins die?” I asked once we were stepped into the sunshine.

  “Dr. Watson! Are you a detective, too?”

  “Not if you believe Holmes. No, it just seems odd that he would make you and Jonathan the sole beneficiaries of his estate and then die immediately.”

  She smiled. “Oh, no. He was elderly and afflicted with gout. He had not long to live, though of course we all wish he were still with us.”

  We had strolled to a bench by a small pond. On seeing us, a pair of brown ducks left the water and approached, evidently expecting a snack.

  “Poor things,” Mina said. “Mr. Hawkins liked to give them stale bread.”

  The ducks glared at us briefly, then returned to their pond.

  “You said you’d been invited to stay the night?” I asked.

  “Yes. Mr. Hawkins felt terrible guilt for what had happened to Jonathan. Surely he could not have known Count Dracula’s plans when he sent Jonathan to Roumania.”

  I suppressed my first thought and said, “No, of course not.” We walked in silence for a moment, and then I asked, “Was there an inquest?”

  She shook her head. “The coroner saw no need to conduct one. He said the cause of death was obvious.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Mary, our serving-girl, at eight the next morning.” Mina checked her watch. “I have to get back,” she said. “Another guest is coming, and your train won’t wait.”

  We saw Holmes in the hallway as we returned; he was putting out a cigarette in an ashtray on the foyer table.

  “I took the liberty of a quick look round, Mrs. Harker,” said he. “I hope you don’t mind. Thank you for a glimpse at that most illuminating journal. If you can find the time, I would greatly appreciate a copy for my own files, and of course I am eager to compare our experiences with those of your husband. You must let us know when your lives become less eventful.”

  We said our good-byes and she stepped inside, even as her next guest’s coach approached. Curious, we lingered as he alighted.

  Out stepped a man in his sixties, carrying a Gladstone bag. His broad chest and burly build clearly indicated peasant stock, though his head was rather larger than it should have been. His square jaw and bushy eyebrows also indicated ancestry from the farms. He wore his graying reddish hair rather long for a medical man, and his penetrating blue gaze, his eyes tinged with red, denoted intelligence and resolve.

  Holmes stepped forward and extended his hand.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Dr. Van Helsing.”

  The man seemed taken aback.

  “Permit me to introduce my colleague, Dr. John Watson,” he continued. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  Relief splashed across Van Helsing’s face.

  “Ach, of course Madam Mina would summon you!” he exclaimed in a heavy Dutch accent. “I am indeed Abraham Van Helsing. Fool that I am, I should have consulted you sooner.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Has she not told you? About Miss Lucy?”

  “Precious little, I’m afraid,” Holmes replied.

  “I am not surprised. Absent was Miss Mina for much of what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  “There, we must separate what we know to be true from what the authorities will accept. Miss Lucy was my patient, and what I have told the coroner is that she died from loss of blood due to internal haemorrhage.”

  “Caused by?” I asked.

  “How so to put this? Miss Lucy’s blood was taken from her. She had been bitten by a creature, that is certain. The marks have others seen. But where is the blood?”

  “You found none?”

  Van Helsing said nothing.

  “Perhaps excreted through stool?” I continued, though I knew the answer.

  “Nothing so commonplace. We gave her many transfusions, but it was not enough.”

  “Transfusions!” I was aghast. “Doctor, surely you know that transfusions are risky and unreliable, and only used as a last resort. We don’t yet know why some succeed and others fail. How many did you give her?�
��

  “Four.”

  “My God! From whom?”

  Van Helsing’s gaze went from my shocked face to Holmes’ inscrutable one, and he said, “I see that I was mistaken.” He scribbled a note on the back of a calling card, and handed it to Holmes. “I am staying at the Berkeley,” he said. “I would like to talk further, but perhaps now is not the time for business to discuss.” Then he knocked on the door with great ceremony.

  “Don’t you know the danger you put her in?” I shouted at Van Helsing’s back. “Most transfusions don’t work! If you signed the death certificate, I shall demand inquiries!”

  Holmes tugged at my arm.

  “We have a train to catch,” he said.

  Holmes had little to say until we were back on the train. Just as well; I was ruminating upon what to do about Van Helsing’s startling admission.

  In many ways, the medical profession is like a secret society. Each member watches out for the others, and woe betide the doctor who exposes the perfidies of another. To do so is to lose the trust of one’s colleagues; we have all had to handle extraordinary and difficult cases and have had to make snap judgments in an emergency. Naturally, we make mistakes. What outsider can pass judgment on that?

  But sometimes this professional incest goes too far. It is one thing to look with sympathy on another whose problems you share, and quite another to turn a blind eye to evil or incompetence.

  Holmes has often said that a doctor gone wrong is the worst of villains, for he has nerve and he has knowledge. To that I might add perfect positioning to dispose of the evidence. While I have never done so, it is common practice for doctors to conceal minor mistakes in order to protect themselves against litigation.

  So the practices of men like Van Helsing tend to grow, like tumors, across the larger medical community. They persuade the families they have done everything possible when in fact it is they who have dug the victim’s grave. I wonder if we have enough to go to the police.

  “A pretty problem in Exeter,” said Holmes. “What do you know of Van Helsing?”

  “I know now that he is a dangerous quack!” I exclaimed. “You must be aware of his reputation, Holmes; he tries to marry science and superstition. I can’t deny that he has had his share of successes, but I am sure it is only these that keep him in the medical profession.”