by Steve Seitz
“As a doctor, you should wish to see me healed. Amanda, I promise you, is the very salve.”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Long life and happiness, old friend.”
He embraced me. “And to you. Fret not, John, I know what I’m doing.”
And so I continued to indulge champagne, joking and dancing until long after a decent man should have come home. It must have been two in the morning when I tried to dictate my last entry. I barely remember what I said, and I’m not sure I want anyone to hear it.
July 5, 1891
It is happening again. Were I as superstitious as Van Helsing, I would believe there is a curse on the Godalming family.
Amanda Keswick, Arthur’s fiancee, is being attacked by a vampire. I received a frantic call from Arthur this morning.
“You must come quickly, John,” he said. “Amanda’s been sleepwalking!”
“Arthur-”
“There are marks on her neck, John. You know what that means.”
I made haste to the ornate Langham Hotel near Hyde Park, my stomach clenched and my palms white. This could not be. We hunted Count Dracula across the continent to his Transylvanian lair. We fought off his ruthless gipsies. The Count is now burning in the hell from whence he must have come. He is dead. I saw it done. I saw Jonathan Harker slash his throat and poor, brave Quincey Morris obliterate the vampire’s heart with the Bowie knife that I now have on my wall, my only memento of that brave American. The Count cannot have come back. It is not possible.
(Pause.)
The Keswicks are staying in an upper-floor suite, replete with everything a vampire might want; plenty of hand- and toe-holds, a balcony, large French windows, and a susceptible young girl.
I found them in Amanda’s bedroom: Arthur, Eustace Keswick, his stout wife Petunia, and another doctor. A bit shorter than I, age I should judge about forty. As he extended his hand to me, I felt an extraordinary sense of deja vu. I had seen his likeness before. An athletic man, square jaw, moustache, and the dark eyes that mark the English gentleman. I noticed that he keeps his stethoscope in his top hat. Ingenious!
“May I present Dr. John Watson,” said Eustace Keswick. “Dr. Watson, this is Dr. John Seward. Lord Godalming seems to think he has expertise.”
“Arthur flatters me,” I said.
Arthur muttered a dark comment under his breath.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor,” said Watson. “I know of your reputation.”
“Are you the hotel physician?”
Keswick shook his head. “He is the most famous physician in London, the companion of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ah.” And no doubt charging a fat fee to share the privilege, I thought. I wonder if Keswick knows that Mr. Holmes is dead?
“I have made my examination,” Watson said. “I should be eager to hear your impression.”
“Wouldn’t anyone like to hear my impression?” asked the patient.
Amanda Keswick was sitting up in bed, pouting prettily and probably reconsidering her engagement. “I think this hotel has rats. I had some sleepwalking episodes when I was a little girl, and I think this long trip from home has stirred me up!”
“Seems healthy enough,” I said to Arthur.
“Just take a look at her neck, will you?”
I did, and involuntarily gasped. Two sharp, deep puncture wounds, spaced about as far as normal human canines would be, and of the type I have seen on only two other victims - Lucy Westenra and Mina Harker.
“Arthur is right. This is serious,” I said.
“I may be in agreement with you,” said Watson. “Could we confer in private?”
We stepped into the vast sitting room. Keswick closed the door, and indicated the decanter on the elaborately carved mahogany sideboard with a protruding black eyebrow. Watson immediately poured two brandies and offered me a cigar. I took the brandy, but declined the cigar.
“I have seen such wounds before,” he said. “Clearly, so have you. Lord Godalming has discussed his experiences with vampirism with me already, and on one occasion before. I should like to hear what you have to say.”
As briefly as I could, I told poor Lucy’s story, and then asked him, “Where have you encountered this phenomenon?”
“In Transylvania, at Castle Dracula.”
I felt my jaw drop, and took some brandy to steady my nerves. Watson then told me his own extraordinary tale: the search for Jonathan Harker, the discovery of a dead, bloodless child, the attack the three vampire sisters made upon Sherlock Holmes. He explained Holmes’ theory that the women were wearing false teeth filled with belladonna extract. Comforting thought, but he did not see Lucy Westenra vanish into mist and glide through a keyhole at her tomb.
“I think we are the victims of fraud here,” Watson said. “That girl has lost no blood.”
“But she will, mark my words,” I replied. “It took Lucy weeks to succumb, and that was due only to our intervention. How did Miss Keswick come by her wounds?”
“She spent last night dining with Lord Godalming,” Watson said. “Afterward, he put her in a hansom with directions to this hotel. A very agitated man hailed the cab and offered double fare to get to the Langham as quickly as possible. Miss Keswick saw no harm in it, and let him in. That is the last thing she remembers before arriving here.”
“And the man?”
“Nowhere to be seen.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall, thin, black hair, piercing gaze, cloth cap, dressed in black - the very description of the Farringdon Street Ghoul, as he is called by the newspapers. It is at times like this that we need Sherlock Holmes. Instead, we must settle for Lestrade.”
“I take it, Doctor, that you still believe in the fake teeth?”
“He pierced her neck, yet apparently did not drink her blood, or very little of it,” said Watson. “No one, not the doorman, nor the bellman, nor her parents noticed any blood on Miss Keswick. The wounds weren’t discovered until her mother found her wandering in the hallway, apparently sleepwalking. Though her eyes were open, Miss Keswick seemed to be in a dreamy state. Mr. Keswick said that her pupils were constricted. Something that argues, incidentally, for some kind of drug.”
“She was also somewhat nauseous, according to Arthur, and to me that argues for a vampire attack,” I replied. “What did Arthur say?”
“Lord Godalming and I are not the warmest of friends. He frustrated an investigation Sherlock Holmes was keen on finishing, and I was witness to a most unpleasant altercation between the two.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He never told me.”
“The question is, what to do now?”
“Keep her bedridden and seal the room with garlic,” I said without hesitation. “Otherwise, she will surely die.”
To my surprise, Watson nodded.
“I think it will bring peace of mind to your friend,” he said, “and it will give the wounds a chance to heal. Shall we come back in, say, two days?”
“That should be sufficient to gauge her progress.”
“Very well, then.” We shook hands, and gave our joint opinion to the family.
“I will not!” cried Amanda Keswick. “I feel perfectly fine.”
“It’s only to ensure that the wounds don’t fester and develop an infection,” said Watson soothingly. “These wounds are unusual. If you go out and about, we don’t know what might get into them.”
“I concur,” I said. “Stay within the confines of the hotel until Saturday, and then we’ll see. Of course, if something does
happen, then contact one of us right away. And don’t forget to put garlic on the windows and doors.”
“Thank you, John,” Arthur said, tossing a hard, quizzical glance at Dr. Watson. Turning to his betrothed, he add
ed, “Trust me, this is for the best. I won’t put you through poor Lucy’s hell if I can stop it.”
Amanda bit her lip and turned away from him. I am ashamed to say I felt some relief at this; I still don’t think Arthur should be married right now.
So now we must watch, and wait.
***
Note, Amanda Keswick to Her Parents
July 6, 1891
Please don’t be angry with me when you find this. I am not ill, and Arthur’s concerns notwithstanding, I resent being treated like a prisoner in a satin cell. All this vigilance is stifling me, and it is not pleasant to hear Arthur bellowing at Dr. Watson. I need to clear my head.
A few moments ago, as I lay reading in my room, I heard the sweetest strains of music coming through my window. It was a melody that was familiar, and yet which I could not place, until it struck me: it was a softer, slower version of that impromptu dance the other night, when Arthur and I seemed to be floating on clouds. The violinist is in this hotel, and his playing calls to me. I want him at the wedding. (Though if I am held prisoner in my bedroom much longer, I grow less certain that I want one.)
I must know who that man is, and I am going out to meet him. I expect to be back before you find this note, not more than an hour at the most.
Your affectionate daughter,
Amanda
Chapter Fifteen: A Vampire is Dispatched
Dr. Watson’s Journal
July 7, 1891
The darkest secret of all is now in my hands, and I don’t know what to do.
I had just finished examining Amanda Keswick, who is in the pink of health. Her neck wounds had almost healed, contrary to the expectations of Dr. Seward, and I told her parents there was no reason to keep her locked up during this fine summer weather.
Godalming disagreed completely, of course, and after a rather loud row ordered me never to visit the girl again, an injunction I have no intention of obeying.
Deciding it would not be best to go home in a foul mood, I stopped at the Langham bar for a stiff whiskey, and was delighted to see old Sergeant Adams, whose wounds I treated at Maiwand. We drank and reminisced for about an hour or so, and made plans to meet again when we could take more time.
As I rose to go, the sight of Amanda Keswick dashing through the lobby caught my eye. She burst onto the street and hailed a hansom. As it pulled away, Godalming came onto the street and hailed the next one. Curious, and just drunk enough to be bold, I did the same.
“Try to get ahead of the cab in front of us and follow the one it’s after,” I told the cabbie. “Get rid of the other if you can.”
“Cost you.”
I handed him a fiver.
“Right you are.”
I could have saved my money. The streets grew more familiar as I realized Miss Keswick’s destination had so often been my own, and my heart pounded in wonder as her cab pulled to a halt in Baker Street in front of that familiar building and source of wonder and adventure to which I still had my key: 221B.
Up the seventeen well-worn steps she climbed as I lurked across the street in the shadows. The cabs left, a few minutes passed, and then the soft glow of a lamp appeared in the sitting-room window. In it, behind translucent curtains, appeared two silhouettes, that of the girl - and of Sherlock Holmes!
My heart stopped. I did not comprehend how this could be possible: I had examined Holmes’ body closely and personally pronounced him dead. I readied his body for transport back to England. There could be no doubt. Some impostor, or perhaps even a twin brother Holmes had never told me about, could be the only explanation, for, as he so often told me, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
They stood close together, talking, and I saw the girl offer her neck to him. An impostor then; Holmes was never capable of that sort of intimacy. I dashed across the street, hoping to surprise them.
As stealthily as I could, I tip-toed up the steps, skipping the step that creaked and always told Holmes I was on my way. As I climbed, soft violin music sounded in my ears, and the style was unmistakable: Holmes had somehow come back.
Now my pulse pounded and my throat contracted as a thousand questions formed in my mind. I heard Amanda’s voice softly in the dark.
I gently opened the door and stepped inside.
The music stopped abruptly, and Holmes gazed at me and then snapped his head away.
“Leave, you fool!” he snarled. “You’ll ruin everything!”
“My dear Holmes!” I cried. “You’re alive! It isn’t possible!”
“You’re right, Watson. It isn’t possible, and I’m not alive.”
With that, he turned his face fully toward me, and my Lord, it was a hideous sight: Holmes, and yet not Holmes. His face was paler than I would have thought possible, even for him, and his vampire canines had come back, sharpened to hideous, glistening points. His eyes blazed red in the dark, recalling our encounter with Count Dracula. Even from the doorway, I could tell his breath was foul.
I felt my heart sink with horror and sorrow, my feelings reflected in Holmes’ sad countenance.
“Leave us, my dear,” Holmes said. “You have your instructions.”
“Yes, sir,” the girl said meekly, and retired up the stairs to what had been my bedroom on the next floor.
“For God’s sake, Holmes, will you tell me what is going on?”
“Not that you need more whiskey, but pour yourself one anyway and sit with me one last time, old friend. You’ve been working too hard of late, my dear Watson; I fear you’ve been spreading yourself too thin.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been all over London to-day. You visited Lestrade at Scotland Yard, saw your usual patients in Kensington, and you just came from the Langham, where you have been carousing with an acquaintance you encountered unexpectedly.”
“Holmes! You astonish me!”
“I thought you needed reassurance as to my identity. How did I do?”
“You are right in every particular.”
“The mud and dust on your boots gave me most of it. You usually have one or two whiskies before retiring, but tonight the aroma is powerful, which means you have already had more. Since you are not given to drunkenness, I infer that you saw someone you knew in a bar, and your prompt arrival after Miss Keswick tells me it was the Langham.”
“Astounding.”
“Elementary. I was hoping not to bring you into this, Watson. I did not want you to bear the shame and the revulsion of what I have become.”
“A vampire.” Even uttering the word, I still found the idea incredible.
“Yes. And also the Farringdon Street Ghoul, as Fleet Street has chosen to call me.”
My throat tightening, I said, “Tell me what happened, Holmes. Didn’t you die with Moriarty at the Reichenbach?”
“Yes, that’s the last thing I remember from life, my hands throttling that scoundrel’s neck as we fell. I think I cracked my head on a boulder. I don’t remember hitting the water.
“But next I remember waking up in darkness. May you never go through this, Watson. To be entombed, alone, in the dark, with no hope of rescue ... I thought I had been buried alive. In panic, I coughed and screamed and thrashed about, and broke the coffin’s lock in my fury. This happened on the train, you see, and we were not yet back in London. I stepped out of the coffin, disoriented and incoherent. My senses eventually cleared. When I could see where I was, I was aware of something else: a hideous craving that could only be satisfied by the consumption of blood.
“Instinct had taken over. The sensation is not unlike hunger; if you’ve gone without a meal for a week, you’ll have an idea what it’s like. A rat scuttled over my feet. I snatched it like a starved beggar, broke its neck, and opened its ve
ins. And that is when I realized what had happened to me and I came to my senses. When the train stopped to take on new passengers, I sent a wire to Mycroft asking him to make arrangements to collect the coffin, in which I hid, on its arrival in London. He is accustomed to secrets and surprises, though I daresay this set him aback.”
“So Seward and Godalming were right all along?”
“Not about everything. My body has been reanimated and changed in ways I don’t fully understand.”
“How do you ... sustain yourself?”
“I have yet to take a human life, if that’s what worries you. Even in this condition, that is something I will not do. Self-denial, as well you know, is second nature to me. Did I not starve myself once for three days in order to fool you? I may be a monster, but I am not a murderer. Animal blood does not suffice, however; it is the thinnest broth when a hearty stew is needed. And so I have been forced to the shameful deeds so well chronicled in the papers. I lurk wherever blood is likely to be flowing, and partake of what I can. Fortunately, I can often go as long as five days between feedings, but the craving never goes away.”
“There must be a solution.”
“Oh, I have one. Miss Keswick is at the center of it.”
“You haven’t-”
“No, no my dear fellow, but that is what I want Godalming to think. This can’t continue.”
I forced myself into a professional demeanour.
“I don’t know what you have planned, but at the very least I must examine you, Holmes. The more we know, the better able we will be to handle others of your kind.”
“Sound thinking, Watson. But first, let’s send Miss Keswick home, shall we?”
I called her name up the stair, and the young woman drifted slowly down. Gone was the verve and fire she showed when I visited her this morning. Now, the wounds had been freshly opened and trickles of blood were drying. She barely seemed to recognize me; her mind was distant and unconcerned with her situation.