Séance for a Vampire

by Fred Saberhagen

  Now I had a few moments in which to look about the library. Perhaps Louisa had dropped something, left some actual trace of her presence in the house? But in the general disarrangement and confusion I could discover nothing.

  It upset me at the time, but perhaps it is not really to be wondered at that in the circumstances, confronted by marvels and by violent injury, no one else seemed much concerned about the fact that Holmes was missing. I believe it was generally assumed that he had gone in pursuit of some intruder, despite my denials that that had been the case. Even though I was sure that my old friend had been in distress when I last saw him, I was still able to hope that he would soon return.

  Despite my attempts to give myself such reassurances my worry grew.

  Meanwhile, the various minor injuries suffered in the outbreak of violence kept me busy for a time in my professional capacity. At intervals I went outside again and looked and listened, but neither my borrowed electric torch nor my ears gave me the slightest encouragement regarding the success of any renewed search.

  The screams uttered by Louisa's mother had by this time declined into low, exhausted moans. Obviously the woman remained for the moment inconsolable. In a low voice she had begun lamenting, over and over, the fact that her beloved Louisa had been here, within reach, and then had been somehow driven away again.

  Mrs. Altamont, evidently in some forlorn hope of tempting her lost daughter back, asked that the electric lights be once more turned off. Of course the request had to be refused, and I invoked my medical authority firmly enough that the servants obeyed me. Meanwhile young Rebecca Altamont was trying, in a broken voice, to comfort her mother, even while struggling to suppress her own sobs.

  Louisa's father, obviously shaken to the depths of his being by the experience through which he had just passed, sympathized with his wife's grief, but the main focus of his attention remained elsewhere. The man kept wandering in and out of the house, from the terrace to the library and back again, looking about him hopefully at every step, as if he thought his daughter might appear again. At length he came inside, let himself down in one of the chairs turned sideways from the table, and sat there staring into space, his mouth open, his expression vacant, as if unaware that his hand was still bleeding from a piece of broken glass. A servant who came to help him was ordered absently away, so that the blood continued to drip, unnoticed by the victim, upon the carpet.

  On approaching him with my professional manner I had better success, and soon succeeded in getting his hand bandaged. Still Altamont, though yielding to my ministrations, seemed scarcely aware of his injury. Gradually I understood that the man had undergone something approximating a religious conversion, during the last few minutes of darkness following the appearance of his daughter—the image, the figure he had seen, had very probably touched, had been genuinely that of his little girl.

  As I tied the knot securing the bandage on his hand, he roused himself from this ecstatic trance to become aware of who I was and what I was doing. His manner turned grim. "I was wrong, Watson, I was terribly wrong. Oh, forgive me, Louisa—the blessed spirits will forgive me, I know they will!"

  "The blessed spirits?" I asked hollowly—my thoughts were still full of that shadowed horror which had hung near me in the darkness, and had struck twice at members of our group.

  Martin Armstrong, who had now collapsed into another chair nearby, was also overjoyed, but while listening to Louisa's father, kept shaking his head in obvious disagreement. "No," the young man interjected at one point. "No, sir, you don't understand. Oh, she came back, she did indeed! But the blessed spirits had nothing to do with it!"

  The father, however, ignored this comment, and springing up suddenly from his chair, began clutching at one person after another, weeping in his growing joy and his continuing amazement.

  Repeatedly he told us how Louisa, in the brief interval when she had been present, had spoken to her father of things no one else could possibly have known. Though stunned with astonishment, he was certain of her identity.

  "And then... and then... certain things happened. There was a dreadful interference . .. which drove her away again." Once more a stern expression came into his face, and he looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time since the lights had been restored. "Where," he demanded, "is Mr. Holmes?"

  Armstrong, in the background, was still in smiling disagreement, but made no further argument.

  Tersely I explained, as best I could, the situation with regard to Holmes.

  As he heard me out, Ambrose Altamont, his clothing disheveled, his hair standing on end, assumed a new expression. Presently he began to speak in a much harder voice. In a few moments I understood—he now blamed Holmes and me for his daughter's untimely flight and the accompanying violence.

  "Sir," I protested, "it was neither Holmes nor I who struck down the young man lying on your terrace!"

  Energetically he waved off my protests. "No, of course not. Not with your own hands. But it was the interference, you see, that caused the trouble—it must have been."

  I would have protested, but fiercely he waved me to silence. "There are dark powers as well as light. I was warned about such things, but I would not listen. I did not believe, because I had not seen." Then Altamont paused, seeming to reconsider. "Not that it is entirely—perhaps not even chiefly—your fault. I must share fully in the blame, Dr. Watson. I must curse the day when I brought you two here to interfere."

  Our client—now evidently our former client—went on to express great concern over the fate of Abraham Kirkaldy, which he at last seemed to realize, and to issue me a stern warning that all further harassment—by which he evidently meant all investigation—of the mediums must cease. Obviously the spirits were angry at our hostile intrusion, and with some justification.

  Yes, Altamont was saying in effect, it was certainly too bad if something terrible had happened to Holmes, and if something even worse had happened to the poor young man—yes, he, Louisa's father, blamed himself for bringing in the detectives.

  He fixed me with the eye of a fanatic, even as he attempted to comfort his wife. "Can you understand now, Doctor, that we are dealing here with powers that must not be mocked? I tell you sir, my worst fear now is that tonight's interference may have driven our little girl away from us for good!" And Madeline Altamont screamed again.

  Meanwhile Martin Armstrong and I had begun to insist that the police be called in—some unknown person had committed an act of violence which was almost certain to prove fatal. And—a servant discovered the fact while we were arguing—a robbery had taken place as well. A safe in Ambrose Altamont's study was found open, and some items of jewelry it had contained, all fairly ordinary things of no enormous value, had been taken.

  Fortunately, Norberton House was equipped with a telephone.

  The local constabulary were on the scene within twenty minutes following my call. A quarter of an hour after their arrival, they were in agreement with me that the help of Scotland Yard would, in this case, be very desirable if not absolutely essential. Holmes was still missing. No trace could be found of the weapon which had struck down Abraham Kirkaldy, while it was obvious that his injury must be due to something more than an accident.

  Four more hours passed, and full daylight had broken over the scene before Scotland Yard's help arrived, in the person of Inspector Merivale, whom I was heartily glad to see.

  Merivale was a tallish man with keen blue eyes, dark hair, and a small mustache of which he was rather vain, frequently stroking or smoothing it with a finger. He was, I knew, regarded by Holmes as one of the best of the younger detectives at Scotland Yard. On his arrival he justified this opinion, as I thought, by temporarily setting aside the clamor of other witnesses wanting to be heard, to listen very seriously to my testimony regarding the disappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. To my disappointment, it soon became apparent to me that the representative of the Yard more than half-believed that Holmes had vanished of his own voli
tion, and would reappear in the same way when he was ready.

  Needless to say, I made no mention to anyone, including Merivale, of Holmes's earlier suspicions regarding vampires, and how they had been confirmed. Whatever help my old friend might need from me, I would be unable to provide it while confined in an asylum.

  An energetic search of the immediate vicinity revealed no trace of any skulking strangers—or of Holmes. At the direction of Scotland Yard, plans were made to bring in a dog to follow the trail. Within an hour of Merivale's arrival, the animal and its handler were on the scene, and I provided them with some items of clothing Holmes had brought with him from London and which were now in his room. But after following what seemed to be the right trail through the garden for twenty yards or so, the brute came to a sudden stop, howled pitifully, and absolutely refused to go on.

  Despite what had happened to young Kirkaldy, Merivale professed himself doubtful that Holmes faced any immediate peril; fraudulent mediums were not, as a rule, violent. Then he added: "You know, Dr. Watson, better than anyone else, what he's like. The tricks he's played on all of us down through the years."

  I shook my head wearily. "Nothing that happened last night was a trick, Inspector. Not on our part, at any rate."

  All the police were willing to do whatever they could for Sherlock Holmes; but after the most thorough search possible of the house and grounds, they had no trail to follow.

  I thought, but carefully did not say, that a powerful vampire, even when put to the inconvenience of carrying a breathing victim, was unlikely to leave any discernible trail, particularly after dark.

  It was at that point that I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in one of the dark old mirrors still hanging on the library wall. Taking note of my eyes red-rimmed and sleepless, my torn sleeve, the blood of Abraham Kirkaldy which had dried upon my hands and clothes, I was forced to admit to myself that I could do nothing more. And that there was only one person in the world to whom it was now possible for me to turn for effective help.

  Being forced to the admission made it no easier to accept.

  7

  Ascending briefly to my room, I changed my clothing and washed my hands. Under the circumstances, sleeping in Norberton House for even an hour was of course out of the question, and I promptly came downstairs again. In the midst of the excitement already prevailing in the household, my announcement that I must return to London as soon as possible created no particular stir.

  On my orders, the unconscious form of Abraham Kirkaldy had already been carried into the house and placed on a sofa in the sitting room next to the library. A local physician well known to the Altamonts had been called in, and I was quickly relieved of any further responsibility for the patient. I am sure that the local police would have preferred that I remain in the house along with the other witnesses, but Merivale quietly overruled them. He had a carriage outside, he said, and offered to drive me to the station.

  Armstrong immediately spoke up and volunteered to convey me there more speedily, in his motorcar.

  I thought that the young American had some particular reason for wanting to speak to me in private, or at least without the inevitable interruptions to which our conversation would be subject in the house, and so I accepted his offer. But just as we were about to leave, Inspector Merivale suddenly announced his intention of accompanying us.

  It was perhaps six o'clock in the morning when the forty-horsepower engine of Armstrong's Mercedes allowed itself to be cranked to life and the three of us departed from the sleepless Altamont household. Few people in the other houses we passed appeared to be stirring, though the summer sun had risen hours earlier.

  Armstrong's motive for creating an opportunity of serious, uninterrupted conversation with me—I thought he rather welcomed a chance at the inspector also—was soon apparent. While driving, the young man strove earnestly to impress us both with the importance of an unremitting effort, made by all concerned, to find his living bride-to-be.

  Armstrong was unshaven and looked haggard, as I daresay we all did following our sleepless night. But the young man was also intensely animated, and his whole bearing and attitude testified to his high elation.

  Despite his weariness, the gaze he turned on me was luminous and triumphant. "She's alive, Dr. Watson—you saw her!"

  His enthusiasm aroused in me only a mixture of darker emotions. "Is she?" I replied. "I can swear only that I saw someone enter the library while we sat round the table. It was a woman, I believe. A vague shape moving in almost total darkness."

  My answer failed to dampen Armstrong's cheeriness. "But you didn't get as close to her as I did. And you had never met Louisa before last night. It was she, I have no doubt of that!"

  In fact, it seemed to me that during the confusion on the terrace, I might have, for a moment, approached the apparition almost as closely as had Armstrong. And I was only too certain of what I had seen, in the way of a mouth stained with human gore—and of what I had not seen in the reflecting glass. But there was nothing to be gained by arguing the point with Armstrong.

  The young man's state of exaltation persisted. He continued to murmur joyous variations on his central theme: that his beloved Louisa was still alive.

  But from time to time, his overpowering joy in the survival of his beloved alternated with fresh concern about the dangers which she might even now be facing.

  "There are the two mediums—inspector, you must have the truth out of them!"

  My medical experience told me that Abraham Kirkaldy was dying and would almost certainly never be fit to answer questions, even though the Altamonts were determined to provide him with the best care possible. But Sarah Kirkaldy was still on the scene and capable of speech, though presently in a state of shock; and Armstrong expressed his determination to have the full truth from her as soon as possible.

  Merivale, looking at the young man with curiosity, assured him grimly that Sarah had already been seriously questioned, that a police matron had been summoned to stay with her, and that further intensive interrogation was planned. Also the background of both Kirkaldys would be thoroughly checked out.

  I was firmly convinced that Armstrong's current views regarding his beloved were mistaken, and I was determined not to encourage them.

  "I think," I said, "that the investigation from now on must certainly follow a different course."

  "You bet it will!" And Armstrong had nothing more meaningful to say until we were inside the station waiting for the train.

  We had reached the station in ample time, there being no sign as yet of the early train. At that hour we had the platform to ourselves. For a minute or two we stood waiting, I with my bag beside me, when Armstrong suddenly burst out again, as if with the enthusiasm of some fresh discovery: "She's alive, Watson! Do you realize that?"

  Still I could not even pretend to share the young man's passion. In his innocence he meant, of course, that Louisa Altamont was still alive in the normal breathing sense—and I had seen convincing evidence that that could not be so. Again I muttered something noncommittal.

  Armstrong sobered, seeing my doubts; but he had misinterpreted them. He added: "Not that she is safe, of course. Yes, I quite see that. They—whoever they are—have kidnapped her. Yes, I think there can be no other explanation. So my darling is still in deadly danger, and therefore I say we must move quickly."

  "Kidnapped!"

  He blinked at me, and then at the inspector. "Yes. Surely you see it now? Behind it all must be an attempt to get at Louisa's parents, to extort money from them—that must be it. You heard the words she was compelled to say, about seeking the return of some stolen treasure?"

  "I daresay we all heard something of the kind." And I exchanged looks with Merivale, who had been listening to us intently and who, from his helpless expression, appeared to be drifting farther and farther out to sea.

  "Well, then!" Armstrong paced and gestured expansively. "Naturally the Kirkaldys must be involved in the plot. They
would know clever ways, conjurer's tricks, for bringing a person in and out of a locked and sealed room, like the library last night. But they're obviously not the chief villains. You've only to talk to Sarah, and look at what's happened to her brother, to understand that. Someone else must be the brains behind the whole affair. Someone else who was there in the dark last night, and struck down Abraham. Inspector, you agree with me, don't you? You see how things must stand?"

  Merivale heaved a sigh. "Can't say I feel confident just yet, sir, that we have any explanation that'll properly fit all the facts. But it looks like murder now, and you may rest assured that we'll do our best to get to the bottom of the business."

  I really believe young Armstrong did not hear this reply, that he was aware only of its soothing tone; for even as the words were spoken, he had gone momentarily rapt again, lost in the exaltation of knowing that his Louisa—as he thought—still breathed. But a few seconds later he had once more turned to me, wearing a puzzled look.

  "Watson, excuse me, but did I miss something? I fail to understand why you're so anxious to return to London before Louisa has been located—and while Mr. Holmes is still missing. It seems to me that if he's really been taken captive as you suggest, the same people must be holding both of them."

  I gave some excuse regarding my old war wound and murmured something to the effect that I should not be of much help in searching the countryside. In addition, I assured the young man, there were matters in London which demanded my immediate attention. Meanwhile, of course, I was privately sure in which direction lay my only real hope of helping Holmes.

  Inspector Merivale had so far made no comment regarding my eagerness to depart, and offered none now. But the Scotland Yard man smiled at me in a knowing and yet irritated way; his expression seemed to say that he was well aware some secret purpose must underlie my removal to London—that the disappearance of Holmes had very likely been a deliberate contrivance, part of some scheme carefully worked out in advance by the great detective, which I was privileged to share to some degree; and that he, the inspector, rather resented being left out of the intrigue.