by David Marcum
“You have the same skill as your friend Sherlock Holmes, Doctor,” he replied. “What you said is entirely true. I have been overextending myself. Yet that is a habitual state of mine and I have never had such an experience befall me as what occurred in my office three hours ago.”
I settled him into one of the two chairs I keep before my desk and sat beside him on the other. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I had been writing, as you surmised.”
“What were you writing?”
“In part, letters for Mr. Henry Irving to sign - he is the principal owner of the Lyceum, and his leading role in our current production of Ravenswood has attracted a great deal of critical attention. I was composing the last of these letters when I heard a rustling of fabric, perhaps silk or taffeta, at the far reaches of my office. I should mention that my desk is at one side of a large room, and at the centre of that room are two other desks, those of Mr. Irving and our stage manager, Mr. Loveday. We find it congenial to be able to speak to one another while working, for most of the business matters we share between us are well known to all three. We are partners, though Mr. Irving’s share is by far the greater. But I fear I am straying from my subject.”
He broke off and took a long swallow from the water glass. “As I said, I heard the rustling. So I took my lamp and walked over to the edge of the room. But I could see nothing amiss and the sounds stopped. I returned to my desk and finished the last letter. I took a sip of coffee.”
“You had coffee at your desk.”
“I keep a pot warm for Mr. Irving and Mr. Loveday. After the performance we sometimes like to discuss matters and plan the next day’s activities, resolving any matter that needs a consensus among us. The coffee had gone cold, of course, by the time of which I speak.”
“Did the coffee taste at all strange to you?”
“No, it did not. The flavour was no longer what it had been but I was drinking it primarily for its powers as a stimulant. I wanted to keep awake, you see. I set the letters aside, and took out my notebook and the pages of the manuscript upon which I am working.”
“What manuscript?”
“I write fictional tales. I greatly admire your true accounts of Mr. Holmes’s adventures, however, and I have my hopes that someday I shall make a name for myself that is equally well known to the public. But be that as it may. I had turned to the pages of my manuscript and picked up my pen to continue from where I had left off the previous night. Then I sensed a strong or strange or sharp odour. I do not know whether it came from the manuscript, or from somewhere nearby, but I was aware of it. And almost at the same time, I felt a strange, otherworldly dizziness.”
“Similar to what you just experienced here in this room when you fell?”
“Quite possibly. I cannot recall the details with exactitude. Still, feeling dizzy as I said, I believed I had better lie down. My first thought was to stretch out on the floor, but there is a little cot that I keep for a nap when the need arises at a late hour and so I headed there. I lay down and closed my eyes. The room seemed to swirl around me.
“Then I heard the rustling again. I determined to get up to investigate, but I was still feeling dizzy, and allowed my eyes to remain shut for just a moment more, resolving to get up as soon as the wave of dizziness passed.
“Then, to my horror, I felt something brush my cheek. You know, Doctor, I am normally not a fearful man, and my size and strength are such that physical attacks on my person have been non-existent since I attained adulthood. You can imagine how startled I was. When I opened my eyes I was feeling terror, yet I resolved to confront whatever it might be.”
He broke off and shook his head.
“The recollection is no doubt painful,” I said. “But perhaps your telling it would be of benefit to you.”
He swallowed another generous draught of water. “Very well. What I saw two inches from my own face, breathing upon my cheek, was a woman, or a beast, or a man. I cannot be certain. The creature had a human-like face and scarlet lips, like a woman’s. But the teeth were those of an animal and the voice had a deep and disturbing resonance.”
“What did the creature say?”
“It spoke no words, Doctor. It gave a horrible, deep grunt, as though it was well satisfied with what it saw, and as if it was preparing to eat me.”
He gave a convulsive shudder. “I felt its intention, as strongly as I felt your kindness a few moments ago when you supported me and administered the brandy that brought me round. The intention of this thing - whatever it was, overmastered me. I feel terribly ashamed to say it, but that is the truth. I, who the moment before had been resolved to get up and confront whatever lay hidden within the shadows, now, when faced with the thing itself, experienced the shame of defeat. In short, I fainted.
“When I awoke the creature was gone. I was on the cot, a bit dazed, for I had just sat up bolt upright, in a terror, as one does after a distressing dream.”
“So this could very well have been a nightmare, brought on by the effects of overwork.”
He gave an odd smile. “So I thought as well. Then I went to the washstand that we have in the office and looked at my reflection in the mirror to splash cold water on my face. I had done the same thing in childhood when a nightmare had come and gone. I noticed that my tie and collar were unbuttoned. Then I looked at my neck, and what I saw put me into what I can only describe as a state of blind panic. I ran, Dr. Watson. God help me, I ran out of my office and down the steps and out of the theatre as fast as my legs would take me. I thank God that I had the presence of mind to stop and lock the outside door. Now, let me show you what I saw that put me into that horrible state of mind.”
He removed his tie, loosened his collar and leaned forward, baring the florid skin on the left side of the neck.
A cold thrill ran through me. About two inches below the line of his beard, the skin had been broken by two puncture marks.
“I agree with you, Mr. Stoker,” I said. “This was not a dream.”
After my new patient and I had fortified ourselves with buttered scones and fresh coffee, we made the short journey by cab to Baker Street.
Mary had given me a smiling shake of her head on hearing my reason for leaving the house so abruptly. “A case of demonic possession? Really, John, if you are so very eager to take part in another of Mr. Holmes’s investigations, you could just say so. I have told you before that I don’t mind.”
Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes was available to see us upon our arrival at number 221b.
I had not consciously looked for an excuse to visit Holmes. But I had to admit that it was pleasant to see the old sitting room again, the scene of so many beginnings to so many singular adventures.
We settled into the familiar chairs around the fireplace. Holmes listened to Stoker’s tale with eyes shut and chin resting on steepled fingers. Then Mr. Stoker once again loosened his tie and opened his shirt collar, displaying the puncture marks on his neck for Holmes to inspect.
I had been holding my breath in anticipation for what Holmes would say, weighing whether he was most likely to scoff at Mr. Stoker’s belief in the supernatural, or offer some entirely rational explanation for the story that had just been told.
Holmes, however, remained in his chair, motionless, for a few moments, holding up one finger to indicate that he was still thinking and did not wish to be disturbed. Then he clapped his hands together, sat up straight in his chair, and then sprang to his feet.
“We shall continue this interview in a cab,” he said. “We must reach the Lyceum without delay.”
We found a vacant growler, the ubiquitous London four-wheeler that offers little comfort but at least affords some shelter and privacy. Holmes seated himself across from Stoker and motioned that I should do the same. He asked a series of questions.
“Is your desk
drawer locked?”
“No, but the room is quite private. Security ushers keep the public out and the theatre itself is locked after hours. As I told Dr. Watson, I had the presence of mind to see to that myself when I ran away early this morning.”
“Why do you write at such a late hour?”
“I find my imagination flows more freely after the day’s work has been done, when I am no longer burdened by my business responsibilities.”
“Why in the theatre?”
“So as not to disturb my wife. I frequently stride up and down, acting the parts of my characters, so to speak, and this can be unsettling to her, particularly when she is trying to sleep.”
“Did anyone touch your coffee?”
“I cannot say. The pot was unattended when I walked with Mr. Irving and Mr. Loveday to the theatre exit and locked the door behind them.”
“What is the subject of the book you are writing?”
“An Irish tale. It concerns mainly the ancient battle of good and evil. There are vampires, representing evil, of course, and the church is the opposing force for good.”
Holmes thought for a moment. “You are familiar with the concept of stigmata. Watson, I take it that the injuries you observed were not stigmata, inflicted by Mr. Stoker’s mind.”
“The punctures that I observed were actual perforations in the skin. Definitely not stigmata.”
“Mr. Stoker, who knows the subject matter of your book?”
“In general, quite a few people know. But I haven’t shown the manuscript to anyone.”
“Very well. Would you please describe the events of the day on which you were attacked. Take care not to omit any detail, no matter how trivial it may seem.”
Stoker considered. “Very well. I arose just before noon. My wife gave me breakfast. On my way to the ferry, I stopped at Mrs. Jacoby’s home.”
“Who is Mrs. Jacoby?”
“She supervises the understudies at the Lyceum and instructs them. She was an actress of some repute when she was active. We pay her because the young ladies need to be ready to go before a paying audience on short notice, and they themselves have not any spare funds. Mr. Irving considers the payments a form of insurance.”
“What was your purpose on visiting Mrs. Jacoby?”
“I needed to see her to determine how much she was owed and to agree on it. Her group is performing at a large banquet to be held tonight. It will take place before many distinguished guests, members of the Beefsteak Club, in lieu of the theatrical performance. You may have heard of the Club. Its members are renowned in artistic and literary circles.”
Holmes ignored the digression. “Why would you discuss business away from the theatre?”
“I needed to ascertain that I would have sufficient funds on hand at the theatre to pay Mrs. Jacoby for her work when she arrived to teach her students yesterday afternoon. Mr. Irving pays all his obligations in gold sovereigns. It is an eccentricity of his, but he finds that people are more reliable and ultimately will take less if that form of payment is employed.”
“Did you have sufficient cash on hand?”
“I did not, but I was going to stop at the bank in any event, for I needed to have the funds available to pay for tonight’s banquet. The musicians, the wait staff, the cook, and the decorator and florist all will arrive this afternoon to set up, along with Mrs. Jacoby and her young ladies. All of them will want their payment in advance, as usual.”
“But you needed to pay Mrs. Jacoby yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, that was for her work as instructor of the understudies in yesterday’s class. I shall pay her for her group’s banquet performance later this evening.”
“What did you do between the time you left her home and the time you made the payment?”
Stoker thought for a moment. “I got on the ferry at the Oakley Street Pier as usual. I paid for my ticket. I arrived at Waterloo Bridge Pier and went directly to the bank. I withdrew the gold sovereigns, placed them into my satchel, and went to the theatre. The remainder of the afternoon was perfectly ordinary. I read some new plays at Mr. Irving’s request and wrote more letters for his signature to the playwrights or agents who had submitted them.”
The cab stopped before the stately columns of the Lyceum, where Holmes and I had begun our Agra Treasure adventure only two years earlier. We waited for the cabman to open the door.
Holmes asked Stoker, “Where did you place your satchel?”
“I took out the amount I would need to pay Mrs. Jacoby. Then I put the satchel with the rest of the cash in-” A careful look came over his bear-like features as he saw the cabman holding the door open for us. “-in a safe place. I will show you when we arrive.”
Not long afterward, we had climbed the twelve carpeted steps from the outside pavement up to the theatre lobby, where Stoker unlocked the entry door. He called out for theatre attendants, but none were present. A lack of staff was to be expected at that hour, he said. The box office did not open until one o’clock. We climbed twelve more steps to the upstairs office area. The door was unlocked. We went inside.
Before us was chaos. Drawers of the three desks were open. There were papers strewn everywhere. The chairs had been overturned. The carpet between the desks had been pulled up and thrown to one side of the room, where it lay in an untidy heap.
Stoker stood with open mouth, gasping at the disorderly mess. He stepped forward, as though he were intending to tidy up. “Oh, God,” he said, “what will Mr. Irving think?”
“Mr. Stoker, please,” said Holmes. “Touch nothing here. Take us to the safe place where you hid your satchel of gold sovereigns.”
With a groan, the hapless man complied. His shoulders slumped as he turned and led us downstairs. We opened a large door and found ourselves in a darkened space, nearly pitch black. Stoker switched on the electric lights and we saw that we were in a huge, cavernous space. The chandeliers hung at least thirty feet above us and there was an enormous banquet table at the centre of the room, with at least thirty chairs around it.
“The Beefsteak Room,” Stoker said. “It is here, tonight, where we are to have the banquet I spoke of earlier.”
He walked hurriedly past the table, and his steps quickened as he drew closer to a large door set into the panelling on the opposite side. He flung it open. In the shadows cast by the ceiling lights of the banquet hall, we could see that this was the back of the theatre stage.
“The gold is in one of the props in the wing, stage left,” Stoker said. “Nothing here seems disturbed. I pray that the hiding place has not been discovered.”
He turned to the dividing wall and raised his hand to another electric switch. The stage lights came on, revealing a jumbled collection of furniture and artificial plants, and, above the clutter, a tall, shadowy staircase going up some twenty feet.
“That staircase leads to Miss Terry’s dressing room,” said Stoker. “In some of the plays she uses it to great dramatic effect to make her entrances. But my hiding place is down here.”
He took a few steps more, and we saw, behind one of the sofas, a coffin. Its polished black surface glistened in the stage light.
“There is a funeral scene in the play we are performing now. The young heroine, played by Miss Terry, kills herself and the burial occurs in the last scene. The coffin has a false compartment built into the end, large enough to fit my satchel. It is behind a satin lining and no one would observe it unless one knew of its existence. I can only hope-”
He lifted the lid of the coffin.
The dreadful sight that confronted us haunts my memory.
Inside the coffin, a young lady lay face up, her blonde hair fanned out delicately atop the lavender satin lining. Her face glistened, her skin unnaturally shining and white. She wore a black cape and a white silk blouse. The sharp coppery smell
of blood and death made it clear that this was not a theatrical effigy, and that a real human body lay inside this coffin. Looking closely, I could see that it was white face cream on her forehead and cheeks that gave them their abnormal whiteness. Her lips had been painted a dark crimson. Her hands were folded demurely on her chest. Her right forefinger and hand were stained red, as though they had been dipped in blood. Red stains also disfigured the left side of her neck and the adjoining collar of her blouse. Looking more closely, I saw that the flesh of her neck had been ripped open.
“Dear Heaven,” said Stoker. “This is Miss Carol Rinehart, the young understudy for Miss Terry. The animal teeth are missing, but this is the face of the thing that accosted me in my office less than twelve hours ago.”
Written in blood across the white silk fabric of Miss Rinehart’s blouse were three letters:
STO
Stoker was staring at the letters, his eyes bulging wide in horror. “No,” he said, gasping for breath, his hand at his own throat. “It is not possible.”
Then, for the second time in my presence, he fainted.
Holmes took charge immediately, bidding me leave the theatre and fetch a constable, and to say nothing of what had transpired between Mr. Stoker and ourselves.
I obeyed without hesitation. The burly constable whom I flagged down on the Strand was at first reluctant, but I knew there was a telephone at the Savoy Hotel nearby and insisted on calling Scotland Yard. Fortunately, Inspector Lestrade was there to verify my identity. It was not long afterward that the inspector, the constable, the police photographer, and I were with Holmes and the unfortunate Mr. Stoker inside the theatre.
“No one has been here but ourselves,” said Holmes, “and I have removed nothing from the area.”
Lestrade nodded to the constable, who moved to stand close by the very despondent Stoker. Then he bent over the cold form of the young woman. Looking closely at the blood on her hand and the wound on her neck, he said, “Here, now. There’s a light trail of blood from the wound across her blouse to where she wrote those three letters. Looks like she died before she could finish writing out your name, Mr. Stoker. I’ve heard of you. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”