Sherlock Holmes - A Betrayal in Blood E-Book

Mark A. Latham

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sherlock Holmes
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 408

Beschreibung

It is 1894, and the news of a Transylvanian nobleman's death at the hands of a certain Professor Van Helsing is the talk of London. Unsatisfied at the acquittal of the professor, Mycroft Holmes asks Sherlock to investigate what truly led to the deaths of Lucy Westenra and the mysterious aristocrat. The newspapers are full of inconsistencies and wild supernatural theories, and as Holmes digs deeper, he suspects that those hailed as heroes are not what they seem.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Coming Soon from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Author’s Note: Dating Dracula

About the Author

Sherlock Holmes

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Sherlock Holmes: A Betrayal in BloodPrint edition ISBN: 9781783298662Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783298679

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan Books edition: March 20172 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Mark A. Latham. All Rights Reserved.Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

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For Steve Lymer, who’s always wanted to be in aSherlock Holmes book, and now he is.

“I want you to believe… to believe in things that you cannot.”

Abraham Van Helsing

CHAPTER ONE

A STRANGE TALE

“Good heavens, Holmes,” I said. “You’re not really reading those, are you?”

I was astonished, upon rising for breakfast, to find my friend Sherlock Holmes already busying himself with a large dossier, a plethora of newspapers, and numerous case-files. Holmes was not known for rising early, and certainly not for working at such an hour.

Holmes made some utterance and waved me away, and I looked about the room in despair. He had clearly been active for some time, given the abject disarray of the Baker Street rooms, which had been put back to order only days ago following the rather trying events following his return to London from his long exile. Since then, I had resolved to spend some time at Baker Street, to ensure no further attempts might be made on Holmes’s life.

The object of his latest obsession was queer indeed; that the sceptical and pragmatic Sherlock Holmes I had known for so long would pay any heed to the so-called “Dracula Papers” was a puzzle.

This collection of documents detailed the battles of a crew of “vampire hunters” against a fiend who took the form of a Transylvanian nobleman; the events had unfolded between May and November of the previous year, 1893, in London, Whitby and Transylvania itself. Composed by numerous hands, collected together the Dracula Papers exonerated the hunters themselves, whilst damning the late Count Dracula. Four young men had accompanied one Professor Van Helsing and Mrs Mina Harker, née Murray, on a mission to rid the world of Count Dracula, purportedly a blood-sucking vampire from Transylvania. This much I knew from the newspapers, which called the men “intrepid vampire hunters”, or the “Crew of Light”. Of these men, one had perished in the adventure—a Quincey P. Morris of Texas. The others still lived in England, and had become celebrated in the public eye: Jonathan Harker, a solicitor, and husband to Mina; Dr Jack Seward, who had the running of a lunatic asylum at Purfleet; and Arthur Holmwood himself, now Lord Godalming. This last was a tragic figure, for there was a deceased girl in the case, Lucy Westenra, who had been Lord Godalming’s betrothed, and he himself had cut the head from the poor girl’s corpse in order to stop her rising from the grave. The affair had taken a great toil on the young lord, who had not been seen in public since, though he had married surprisingly soon after Miss Westenra’s demise.

Only the most sensationalised versions of events had thus far made it to the public attention. The inquest into the facts of the case had dragged on for no small time; most people expected the Crew of Light—particularly its illustrious leader, Van Helsing, to be exonerated of any wrongdoing, and perhaps even to receive some honour for its role in Count Dracula’s defeat. I had heard a little more of the details from idle chatter at the club, but it was certainly not the kind of thing that Sherlock Holmes would normally concern himself with.

I sighed, and rang for Mrs Hudson.

“You will take breakfast, at least?” I asked.

“What? Oh, if you like.”

My friend, so generally enervated by his work, was tired, that much was plain to see. Dark rings had formed around his eyes, and his sharp features were more drawn than ever, his skin almost luminous in pallor. Holmes had been back at Baker Street not even a fortnight after his miraculous return from “death” and the capture of the dangerous villain Colonel Sebastian Moran. Yet it appeared that a case had already presented itself to Sherlock Holmes, and a strange one at that.

A soft rap came at the door, and I opened it for Mrs Hudson. She craned her neck to peer in at Holmes, and frowned when she saw him crouched on the floor in his dressing gown, marooned upon an island of crumpled papers. Then her frown swiftly changed to a smile of unexpected warmth.

“It’s good to have him back, Dr Watson,” she said softly. “For all he has driven me to distraction over the years, it was quite something else without him, don’t you agree?”

“I… yes, quite something indeed.”

“I still can’t believe he’s here, large as life. Back from the dead.”

Her words provoked memories within me—painful memories of one I had only recently lost; one who would not be returning. The sudden thought of Mary took me by surprise in its forcefulness. My expression must have betrayed my feelings, for the landlady looked momentarily distressed. “Forgive me, Doctor… Did you ring for breakfast? Will Mr Holmes eat?”

I appreciated the change of subject, even if her concern was more for Holmes than myself, and the moment of awkwardness passed.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, I think so. Breakfast would be excellent.”

“Mrs Hudson!” Holmes exclaimed, and in two large bounds he was at the door in all his dishevelled splendour, looking like the ghost of the great detective. “You may need to be quick about it if breakfast is to be had, for I am expecting a visitor this morning. Early, I should think. Dr Watson may have to wait for his toast.”

Mrs Hudson closed the door behind her, and I turned to Holmes, who had already begun to pick up his newspapers in great armfuls, throwing them over the back of the sofa in an apparent attempt at tidying up.

“Holmes, why are you reading this stuff about Count Dracula with such relish? And why on earth would you expect a visitor this morning in connection with it?”

He paused abruptly. “Watson, I believe I shall make a detective of you yet. You have deduced that the visitor and the curious case of Dracula are connected?”

“Your absorption in those papers could indicate no other reason, for you are always single-minded in the pursuit of a case. My questions stand, however—why the interest in this matter? It is, after all, already solved.”

“Is it?” Holmes’s mouth twisted into a little smile; his eyes fair sparkled from within the purplish-black sockets born of his months in Europe tracking down Moriarty’s circle of confederates. But there was strength there still—Sherlock Holmes may have been physically exhausted, but his brilliant mind worked as rigorously as ever.

I could see I was walking into a trap, but I was so intrigued that I did so willingly, for it was often the only means of extracting the juice of a tantalising case from him.

“As I’m sure you have seen from yesterday’s Times, Holmes, Sir Toby Fitzwilliam himself has exonerated Professor Van Helsing of any wrongdoing, and has spoken in the highest possible terms of the professor’s associates. The Count is dead, though a string of poor victims lie in his wake. The full contents of the Dracula Papers are set to be made public any time now—although I see you have found a copy already. What is there to be gained by looking over the facts again?”

“My dear Watson, there is always something to be gained by looking over facts, especially when they have been presented to me in such a strange fashion. Indeed, while there is nothing here that has not already been seen by the highest authorities in the land—I include Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, whose judgement I believe to be impeccable—the most intriguing fact is that they came to me at all. Just look where they came from, Watson.”

Holmes handed a card to me, upon which was printed neatly, “The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall”. On the back of the card was written, in royal blue ink, a single initial: “M”.

“Mycroft,” I muttered, my interest at once piqued. Sherlock’s brother requested aid but rarely, and when he did it usually heralded excitement, or danger. “Did he attach a note?”

“There was no need, Watson. It was clear from my brother’s very involvement that I was intended to read what he sent me and find something that the authorities had failed to notice. The Dracula Papers contain twenty-seven journal entries, letters, telegrams, articles and sundry reports. In addition, the version Mycroft has given me includes several police reports that will not be included with the papers to be made public. There is also some interesting marginalia, not all in Mycroft’s hand. I have read every word twice over, and several yards of column inches in the popular press besides, and I believe I have hit upon the crux of the matter.”

“Twice over… When were these delivered, Holmes?” I asked. I had dined out the previous night, but I had returned at a quarter to ten while Holmes was playing his violin—there had been no sign of any papers in the rooms then.

“Shortly before midnight,” he replied.

“Then… you must have been up all night. Really, Holmes, you must learn to look after yourself. As a doctor I—”

“Come now, Watson, there will be time enough for that later. Tell me quickly—what do you know of the case of Count Dracula?”

I disliked the way Holmes dismissed my concern for his well-being, but knew there was little to be done. “As much as anyone,” I said, sighing. “This Dutchman, Professor Van Helsing, and a small group of other men—”

“And a woman,” Holmes corrected.

“I was getting to that. Yes, and a woman, too, a Mrs Harker, I believe. They uncovered a plot by a… a… well, it is too terrific to describe.”

“A vampire,” Holmes interjected again.

“Yes, well, humph. A plot by a vampire, indeed, to gain a foothold for his reign of evil here in London. The professor put a stop to it, and has been lauded as a hero. Why, all of London is stirred up over the story.”

“Very true,” said Holmes. “But tell me, how much credence do you give to the tale?”

“Why, had it not been for the ruling of Sir Toby in the courts yesterday, I would have scoffed at the notion of a vampire, here or anywhere else for that matter. But you yourself said that Sir Toby Fitzwilliam’s judgement is impeccable. So…” I shrugged, not wanting to admit the existence of the Un-Dead to my sceptical friend. Sir Toby was one of the most respected judges in the land and, some said, a member of a secret intelligence agency. I wondered in which capacity Mycroft Holmes was acquainted with him.

“Indeed. Which is why there must be more to this story. For as we know, vampires do not exist.”

“The evidence suggests something to the contrary,” I said. “Unless you yourself are now the one twisting facts to suit theories.” I tried not to look smug. Holmes somehow managed to look smug enough for both of us.

“And you believe that is what we have? Facts?”

“Well… are you suggesting that Sir Toby has been hoodwinked?”

“I am asserting most confidently that he has allowed a popular version of events to become known to the public, because he lacks the evidence to disprove it.”

“A man in his position does not need evidence to renounce the word of a Dutch professor,” I scoffed.

“Ordinarily, no. But Abraham Van Helsing is no ordinary academic. I have heard his name several times in the past, most recently while I was on grave business in Austria. He is a clever man, Watson. A cunning man. There must be more to the story—there must be some reason for Sir Toby to lend his assent to this… poppycock, and for my brother to involve me. I believe I have the nub of it from the papers, what there is of them.”

Such strong terms from Holmes suggested he was ruffled. I abandoned any further questioning about Van Helsing for the time being.

“You do not have all of the papers?” I said instead.

“Oh, yes. I have all of the official material.”

“Then what, Holmes?”

“All in good time, Watson. First of all, be a good fellow and open the door for Mrs Hudson.”

A quiet knock came at that moment. There was no elementary trickery in this—Holmes’s hearing was sharper than a bat’s, and I knew he must have heard the tea tray rattling a good few seconds before I did. I opened the door, and bade the landlady come in.

No sooner had she set the tray down than the bell rang downstairs.

“Oh dear me,” said Mrs Hudson. “Now there’s someone at the door. Might I leave you with breakfast while I go and see who it is?”

“Indeed you may, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes, already exchanging his battered dressing gown for a jacket, “but I can save you the bother of an identification. It will be Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard.”

Mrs Hudson, to her credit, did not look surprised. She went downstairs, and a few minutes later, the bearded Inspector Bradstreet was ushered into the room. I shook his hand, and bade him sit, casting a rueful look at the toast-rack that would have to go ignored for now.

“Your landlady said you expected me, Mr Holmes,” Bradstreet said, “though I cannot guess how.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said I.

“A simple matter of timing, Inspector,” Holmes smirked. “I received the Dracula Papers late last night from a certain person in government. The dossier was marked with the stamp of Scotland Yard’s B Division, and given our previous working relationship it seemed obvious that you would be selected for this interview. As to the timing—the subject matter is of pressing import, otherwise the papers would not have found their way to me at such an unusual hour. Someone wished to give me a head start on the reading, it seems. As such, I knew you would head to Baker Street as soon as you reported for work today at, I suspect, eight o’clock. The traffic at this time is heavy, to say the least, and so I estimated forty minutes for the journey. You took thirty—I congratulate you.”

“Well I’ll be blowed. But as it happens, Mr Holmes, the journey took forty-five minutes, it’s just that I left a bit earlier than you thought. I’m an early riser, you see. Force of habit. I’m afraid you’ve made a second mistake, also,” the inspector said, drawing a raised eyebrow from my friend. I confess I rather enjoyed that moment, for I do not believe Holmes had accounted for a genuine error.

“Oh?” Holmes said, pleasantly enough despite his obvious—to me—chagrin.

“You said I would have been sent, on account of us working together on that blue carbuncle case, among others; but that was some time ago, Mr Holmes, and there are few at B Division now who’d remember it. No, when I got in this morning, Mr Holmes, there were some already talking about you because of this Dracula business, and I requested the assignment.”

“Might I ask why?”

“On account of a friend. A very old friend.”

“Cotford,” said Holmes.

At this name, which was new to me, Bradstreet’s mouth dropped open. Presently, he replied, “Why… yes. But how?”

“One Detective Inspector Cotford is mentioned very briefly in the dossier, scribbled faintly in pencil and clumsily erased. It was a small matter to me to discover that he was formerly with B Division before serving for some short time in the Purfleet constabulary, which would almost certainly have brought him, a senior policeman, into contact with Professor Van Helsing and his merry band. I could find no further reference to Cotford, nor any police report originating from Purfleet, which is one of several notable omissions in the narrative. I now hope you can illuminate these matters, Inspector—a hope that I did not entertain when first you arrived at my door.”

Bradstreet beamed as though Holmes had paid him a compliment, though I was fairly sure it had been a slight. I poured some tea and handed a cup to the grateful inspector as he relaxed and began his story.

“Frank Cotford is an old friend, as I said, Mr Holmes, and a colleague of some long standing. We worked together in Whitechapel, cut our teeth on the worst vice and murder to be seen in this or any other city, before we both made our way out of that pit—me to Chelsea, and him to Purfleet. Over time we drifted apart; duty and locale have a way of doing that. The last time I saw him, he was in a bad way. He’d taken to drink, and was speaking in riddles about some ‘Dutch devil’ who had set himself in opposition to the law.”

Holmes shot me a glance. “How long ago was this meeting?” he asked.

“It must have been November last. Frank said he’d had a run-in with some gents, including the Dutchman, and… well, to tell the truth I couldn’t get much sense out of him. All I know is something happened—something to do with this ‘Dracula’—and it was the ruin of Frank Cotford. Twenty years on the force gone up in smoke.”

“You must have seen him again, or else why seek my counsel?” Holmes said.

“I saw him in the distance two weeks ago, though he was gone before I could speak to him—I admit I was a little afraid to approach him, his expression was so severe. I made a few enquiries as to why he looked so down at heel. The regulars in his local pub said that he rants and raves about vampires and crooks and devils, and swears they’ll come for him before long. I think the loss of his position has taken its toll on Frank’s mind, Mr Holmes, but even so—if I ever called myself his friend, I would be remiss in not making a few discreet enquiries on his behalf.”

Holmes pressed his fingers together and stared straight ahead, thinking hard. Finally, he spoke. “Where is the former Inspector Cotford now?”

“Back where he started,” Bradstreet said ruefully. “Whitechapel.”

“Then that is where we shall begin. Drink your tea, Inspector.”

“We’re going now?” I asked, giving voice to the inspector’s expression.

“There is no time like the present, Watson. And on the way, I shall educate you in the discrepancies of the Dracula Papers. There is a mystery to be solved here, a very great mystery. More importantly, I believe I will soon have the opportunity to match with a truly worthy adversary. And so soon after the last one—such fortune should not favour a man twice in one lifetime.”

“You are on your second lifetime,” I said.

Holmes’s eyes lit up as he considered the jest approvingly, and at once his tiredness seemed to melt away. “How right you are, Watson,” he said. “How right you are.”

CHAPTER TWO

INSPECTOR COTFORD

Bradstreet insisted on accompanying us to the home of his former friend, not only to make the necessary introductions, but also to offer some protection. Cotford had apparently been forced into early retirement on the grounds of deteriorating health, and his meagre police pension afforded him a flat on Wentworth Street, just a stone’s throw from some of the worst doss-houses and black thoroughfares that the East End had to offer.

Even as our coach clattered along the cobbled roads, Holmes’s hawkish eyes darted about, taking in every detail of the locale. But it was not the squalling children in the gutters nor the gin-soaked sots sleeping upon heaps of rubbish that he was interested in.

“Up ahead there, is that not Chicksand Street?” Holmes asked the inspector.

“It is, sir. What of it?”

“Chicksand Street is noted in the Dracula Papers as one of the Count’s lairs, discovered by one Jonathan Harker of Van Helsing’s infamous group. Strange that Inspector Cotford would retire to a residence just a few minutes’ stroll from that place, is it not?”

“Curious, I’ll grant you,” said Bradstreet, as the police carriage came to a halt outside a squalid terrace, black from soot and filth. The smell of rotten vegetables, stale beer and things far worse drifted into the confines of the coach. “Cotford was always adamant that the whole Dracula affair had been his ruin, and seemed somewhat fearful of all involved; perhaps he dwells here out of necessity. It cannot be good for his state of mind, that being the case.”

Holmes was first to step out of the carriage, and bade the inspector make haste to the door. I was still unclear on the exact details of the papers my friend had read, and knew I would have to digest them soon if I were to keep up with Holmes. I could tell from the spring in his step and that familiar gleam in his eye that he had the scent of villainy, and would stop at nothing until the wrongdoer was brought to justice.

Bradstreet rapped hard on the front door of the downstairs flat, the sound almost masked by the infernal clattering and bumping of a dray passing close by.

We waited a moment on the doorstep before Bradstreet rapped again. This time, a growling expletive was fired from somewhere behind the door, instructing us in no uncertain terms to make ourselves scarce. Holmes raised an eyebrow and looked at Bradstreet. The inspector grimaced, before leaning into the peeling paintwork and shouting in his bullish fashion, “Frank? It’s Roger. I’m here on official business. Better open up.”

Seconds later, the door was yanked open with such force that it cracked upon the hallway wall. Before us stood a tall, grey-haired man, with narrow flinty eyes beneath dark brows, tanned-leather skin, and a bushy moustache. He looked more like a rangy cowboy from the cover of an American dime novel than a policeman of Whitechapel, former or otherwise.

“I’ve got no official business to answer, Roger Bradstreet,” the man growled. His fists were clenched, and he rocked unsteadily like he was on the deck of a ship. A waft of gin-breath emanated from him, though it was barely past nine in the morning.

From the look on Bradstreet’s face—and his uncharacteristic loss for words—I guessed he had not expected his old friend to look in quite such a state, nor to face him so belligerently. It was Sherlock Holmes, not Inspector Bradstreet, who spoke up.

“Detective Inspector Cotford, is it not? Sherlock Holmes at your service. I have never had the pleasure, though I have heard nothing but good about your police work.”

Cotford’s face crumpled into a frown. “Sherlock Holmes, is it? The great detective himself, risen from the grave and come to my door, perhaps to investigate the sorry affair of my missing fortunes. Take a good look, sir, and then take your leave, for there is naught you can do for me now.”

“On the contrary, Inspector,” said Holmes, continuing to use the defunct title. “Your good friend Bradstreet here has employed me to take up your case; to assist you where Scotland Yard cannot, or will not. I am no martinet, I am not bound by legal duty, by political machination, or by petty jurisdiction. If there is a case to answer, I am apt to discover the culprit. And there is at least one culprit who has thus far evaded your long arm, is there not? You know of whom I speak.”

“The Dutchman,” Cotford muttered, with venom.

Holmes nodded.

“You’d best come in, Mr Holmes.”

* * *

“So y’see, it has to be Van Helsing. That devil pursued the Count halfway across the world, and murdered him in cold blood.” Cotford offered around a tarnished hip flask for the third time, and we all politely declined again.

Cotford’s flat was something of a hovel, but for his bookshelves, which were filled with neatly ordered volumes, mostly journals. They looked singularly out of place; it was easy to forget that Cotford had once been a respectable man of the law.

“Why would he do such a thing?” Holmes asked. His eyes were closed, his fingers pressed together, his lips pursed as he concentrated on every word of Cotford’s slurred testimony.

“How should I know? But you only have to look at him to know his sort. A schemer.”

“So you have no evidence to support your suspicions?”

Cotford made a sound that was half belch, half snarl. “Confiscated, the lot of it. Van Helsing made a complaint to the powers that be. Someone bent the ear of the assistant commissioner; the assistant commissioner slapped me down. That’s how it works, Mr Holmes. Politics, as you said. They took all me files and handed them over to that little Dutch devil, and I bet he burned the lot. ’Cept…” he stopped abruptly.

“Except for what, Inspector Cotford?” Holmes said, opening his eyes and fixing the man with an expression of intense scrutiny.

“The journals,” Cotford replied, with some reluctance. He waved his flask at the bookshelf. “I write everything down, always have. I copied every letter, every note, plus my own observations, o’ course.”

“You mean to say that those journals contain copies of the entire Dracula Papers?” I interjected.

“All that I saw, or held in my own two hands, at least. And s’far as I know, some of the things I copied down, and some o’ the statements I took, never did make it before the courts.”

“Such as?” Holmes asked, a hard edge entering his tone.

“I’ll show you,” Cotford said with an air of defiance, and staggered to his shelves to fetch a slender volume. He flipped through the pages before handing the open book to Holmes. “Record of an exchange of letters between one Miss Wilhelmina Murray—later Mrs Harker—and Miss Kate Reed, a schoolmistress at the Blackall School for Girls, Exeter. The letters were written between 23 and 26 May last year, 1893, while Mr Jonathan Harker was in Transylvania. You’ll remember his own account in the Dracula Papers tells us he was being held prisoner by the Count at the time.”

“You are a credit to your profession, Inspector,” said Holmes. “The contents of the letters are not here noted. You have them?”

“I do not.”

“But you know their contents?”

“I do not.”

“Then what leads you to suspect anything is untoward?”

“I am a thorough man, Mr Holmes. I see something of that same thoroughness in you.” (I tried to hide my smirk almost as hard as Holmes tried to hide his annoyance at the comparison.) Cotford went on, “I spoke to Miss Reed, and though she would tell me nothing, there was something in her manner that put the bit between my teeth. She was hiding something, and it was to do with gossip regarding Miss Murray and Miss Lucy Westenra.”

Holmes’s interest visibly piqued again. “Miss Reed knew the late Miss Westenra, of Hillingham?”

“They were all three of them at school together. And there was something more—I would stake my claim on it that Miss Reed was afraid of Miss Murray.”

“This is your policeman’s intuition?”

“You could call it that.”

“But you have no evidence. Indeed, you never saw these letters at all.”

“No, but I did check with the local post office. It is a small enterprise and the postmaster’s wife there knows every coming and goin’. Said she’d known Miss Reed and Miss Murray since they was nippers. She confirmed that the letters were sent, and recalls that it was the last time the three girls exchanged letters at that post office, s’far as she knows, presumably on account of Miss Westenra’s untimely demise.”

“A garrulous soul is a true virtue in detective work, Inspector.”

“She confirmed that, beyond the letters to Miss Reed, Miss Murray had sent only one other letter that week of the 23 May—to Miss Lucy Westenra.” Cotford looked proud of himself.

“You already told us that,” I said, now thinking that the man was merely a delusional drunk, and that perhaps we should not be humouring him so.

“No, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes, excitedly. “The inspector has answered a question that I had not yet got around to asking.”

I exchanged a glance with Bradstreet, who shrugged.

“Why did Miss Mina Murray,” Cotford said, with some swagger, “not write a letter to her fiancé, all the way in Transylvania. We have seen the journal transcripts. We know she was worried about him. We know she wrote to Miss Lucy about him. But she never tried to reach him directly.”

“Perhaps she did not have the address of this remote Transylvanian castle,” I said with a frown.

“But Mr Harker’s firm surely had it, and they could have provided it,” Cotford retorted. “If she was so concerned, she certainly would have tried. Hardly seems like the actions of a doting sweetheart, now does it? S’why the postmaster’s wife remembered it so clear—said she asked Miss Murray about her gentleman, and received short shrift in reply.”

“And so what is your conclusion, Inspector Cotford, based on these findings?” Holmes asked.

“Not just based on these findings, Mr Holmes. Based on many more like ’em.” He gesticulated toward the shelves again. “And my conclusion is that we have a conspiracy, the product of which was several murders.”

“You believe Lucy Westenra was killed by someone other than Count Dracula?”

“I certainly do.”

“Mina Murray?”

“No, although I think she knows more than she’s telling. I think the Dutch professor did for the girl, and the Harker woman, her simple-minded husband, and that Arthur Holmwood covered up the mess.”

At that name, Inspector Bradstreet sucked air through his teeth. Holmes’s lip twitched upwards, on the cusp of a knowing smile. I could not see any good coming of throwing around such accusations.

Sherlock Holmes now addressed Cotford firmly. “You are bold to implicate Lord Godalming in this matter. I ask again for your evidence, or is this also intuition?”

“And again I say everything I have is in these books. If you have read the Dracula Papers, then you should surely be able to work it out, ‘detective’.”

Holmes scowled.

Cotford took no notice, and went on, “A fine matter indeed when a peer of the realm, within days of inheriting his father’s estate due to the sudden death of the old man, finds himself without his betrothed and his mother-in-law soon after. And a finer matter, too, when said peer of the realm inherits the Westenra estate, due to a most unusual and ill-advised clause in the elder Mrs Westenra’s will. I say Holmwood had motive and means, Mr Holmes. What say you?”

“You mentioned conspiracy, Mr Cotford,” said Holmes. “A serious charge in itself.”

“If you truly mean to take on this case, Mr Holmes, then you’ll know what I speak of soon enough. The famous vampire hunters are thick as thieves, and no mistake.”

“And what of their illustrious mentor, the good professor?”

Cotford spat. “There’s nothin’ good about him. Thinks himself the lord o’ Carfax now. Another rum deal, of which the law cannot make head nor tail. He has inherited the Count’s newly acquired property, where he lives like a king. So I’m told.”

“You have not been tempted to see for yourself?”

“I have not.” It was plain from Cotford’s demeanour, even to me, that he was lying. “I—”

“You cannot, can you, Frank?” interrupted Bradstreet. He turned to us to explain. “It was a condition of Frank’s honourable acquittal from his duties that he would leave Van Helsing well alone, on pain of arrest. No charges have ever been brought against the professor, and it seems, after the court ruling, that none ever shall.”

“And that’s final, is it, Roger?” Cotford grumbled.

Holmes stood quite abruptly and said, “Mr Cotford, may we borrow your journals, so that we might make a thorough comparison between them and the official papers?”

“You may not, sir.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know you. I will not entrust such a body of work to a stranger, even one so famous.”

“Then how about me, Frank?” Inspector Bradstreet asked.

“Nor you neither, Roger Bradstreet. ’Specially not you. It was the law that brought me low; the law that ignored my testimony and handed what evidence I had to that Dutch devil.”

“But what use are they to you now?”

“More than you could know, but that is my own business.”

I interjected, seeing an opportunity. “Mr Cotford, we have no desire to bring more police into what is now a private matter. But your cooperation would be appreciated. Otherwise, perhaps the police could be informed of your continuing investigation. You have visited the property on Chicksand Street, have you not?” It was speculation on my part, but from Cotford’s reaction I saw that I had guessed correctly. From the look on Holmes’s face I also saw that I had acted out of turn.

“You would dragoon me, sir, in my own home?” Cotford growled, drawing himself to his full height and balling his large fists. “All of you will kindly leave this instant. I withdraw my ’ospitality.”

“Frank, out of friendship—” Bradstreet started.

“Out!” shouted Cotford. “If you want friendship, you come for a drink down the Ten Bells—you don’t come ’ere with no detectives poking into my business and issuing threats. Out!”

* * *

“I’m sorry, Holmes,” I said, as the police carriage trundled away from those squalid environs and bumped along Whitechapel High Street. “I rather put my foot in it.”

“Yes, Watson, you did,” Holmes remarked. “But it is not to be helped. Besides, it was not a total loss.” He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket.

“You stole a journal!” said Bradstreet.

“Borrowed, Inspector, borrowed. This is the book that Mr Cotford selected as a prime example of discrepancies in the Dracula Papers. It stands to reason, as it was the first volume he searched for, that it is the most important. When his disposition towards us turned sour, I knew I could not leave without it. When we are done, I shall of course place this book in your hands, Inspector, and you may return it to your former colleague as you wish.”

Bradstreet did not look overly happy; possibly he disapproved of Holmes’s subterfuge, but more likely he did not relish returning the book to Cotford and explaining its removal.

“So where now, Holmes?” said I.

“To Baker Street. You have much reading to do, Watson, if you are to be of any use to me. Inspector Bradstreet, might I ask a favour of you?”

“Of course, Mr Holmes.”

“Poke your nose into the business of as many detectives as you dare, and find what notes you can—however scarce—that were made regarding the Dracula investigation. Raid the police files, also. Coroner’s reports, witness statements, charge sheets—whatever you can dredge up, no matter how tangential to the case. Bring them to Baker Street at your earliest convenience.” At mention of home, my stomach rumbled, and my thoughts turned to my abandoned rack of toast.

“And what will you do with them, Mr Holmes?” Bradstreet asked.

“It seems to me that, despite the best efforts of your division, the Dracula Papers are incomplete or, at best, edited deliberately to obfuscate the facts. I intend to reconstruct them as they were originally intended, with no omissions. I plan to stitch together the true story of Dracula.”

CHAPTER THREE

GLARING ERRORS

Much of the day and part of the evening was spent in study of the Dracula Papers. It was tiresome research, made tolerable only by Mrs Hudson’s frequent visits with a fresh tea tray. My concentration was sabotaged at every turn by Holmes, who would periodically rush over with a newly transcribed sheet that he had copied from Cotford’s book, or a newspaper article that he had clipped carefully from its page, and stuff these amidst the papers I held. More often than not, Holmes forced me to reorder the pages and go over the same ones time and again, bringing the new details to light.

“You must fix the sequence of events correctly in your mind, Watson,” Holmes repeated. “The devil—Dutch or otherwise—is in the details.”

Twice during the day, a police constable arrived with folios of notes from Bradstreet—first from B Division, then from H Division. Later, a courier came with pages of court transcripts, including the summarising speech of Sir Toby Fitzwilliam before the Lords, naming Professor Abraham Van Helsing an “honourable man” who had “taken his duty to his fellow man and his oath to heal the sick to their utmost extreme. Any wrongdoing in the eyes of the law whilst in pursuit of this noble cause must be overlooked by the courts of England on this occasion, or the bedrock of justice upon which this great nation is built will be eroded.” It was clear that Holmes believed not a word of it. He finished ahead of me, and sat at the window, silently smoking his pipe for some time, until I had caught up with my reading.

By the time I had completed the endeavour, our rooms were an eyesore, strewn with papers, discarded notes and drained teacups. When Mrs Hudson returned in the early evening with a platter of bread and cheese, she tutted and shook her head at the mess, before dutifully collecting what seemed like a week’s worth of tea-things and retreating downstairs.

“Finally, Watson!” Holmes jumped to his feet and stretched theatrically. “I never took you for a slow reader.”

“Really, Holmes,” I grumbled, “were it not for your constant interruptions…”

“As far as I can see, Watson, we have here the most complete copy of the Dracula Papers in the land. And yet you will have observed, I take it, references to events and personages, herein unnamed, that are still not present in the official papers. Mislaid narratives, do you think? Or suppressed ones?”

“Suppressed by whom?” I asked.

“Aha! What do you make of it all? Do you still believe what you read in the newspapers?”

“The testimonies as they are now arranged do shed a somewhat different light on the matter,” I conceded, “but still not enough to accuse anyone of conspiracy to murder.”

“What do you make of the inconsistencies?”

“Many of them can be put down to editorial error. The original notes were handwritten by the hunters or recorded on to wax cylinders via a phonograph machine, and then re-typed by Mrs Harker. Any number of innocent mistakes could have crept in.”

“True. The most damning is an exchange of letters between Mina Harker and Lucy Westenra, dated August last year, at a time when Mina was supposed to be in Buda-Pesth. As you say, perhaps it is all innocent enough. Of course, if Mina Harker wished to disguise her real movements, it would be the ideal way to achieve that goal. She was, after all, entrusted with all of the diaries and correspondence, of which few originals remain.”

“Cynical, Holmes. If we take even half the accounts of Mrs Harker at face value, she is a remarkable woman, as noble as Count Dracula is villainous.”

“And what of the Count? Are you a believer in vampires now, Watson? Tsk, tsk.”

“I am merely willing to give their account the benefit of the doubt, Holmes. Have you not always instructed me to do just that?” My friend had always advised me to keep an open mind; that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. His father’s adage, I believe. And yet, where the supernatural was concerned, Holmes’s mind was a castle door, locked and barred against possibility. I did have misgivings, though. “Admittedly, the Count’s terrible powers are somewhat inconsistently portrayed. Again perhaps this is due to the various perspectives of the witnesses.”

“An example, Watson.”

“Van Helsing and Harker speak independently of Dracula’s aversion to sunlight. And yet Mrs Harker very clearly states that she and her husband saw him in London, during the day, and she did not mention any severe weakness in his demeanour on that occasion. Quite the opposite, in fact. Likewise, Van Helsing claims that Dracula can transform himself into a wolf, or a bat, or even mist—and yet several times Dracula fails to do these things when they would be eminently useful to his cause.”

“Very good. It is almost as if Van Helsing’s endless postulation and critical fact do not quite tally. Anything else?”

“There were certainly some lapses of judgement on the part of these vampire hunters, and some… questionable methods, particularly from a medical standpoint.”

“Go on.”

“I speak of Lucy Westenra’s general health. There was an argument in court that she may have suffered dyspnoea, although I think anaemia is the most likely cause of her ills. A pity there is no chance to examine the subject. Mina Murray notes herself that Lucy had an anaemic look about her, and we see that she was prone to bouts of listlessness. I suspect she was anaemic before the visit of the Count, and any doctor should have been able to see it.”

“I dare say.”

“You will note that Seward analyses Miss Westenra’s blood, however, and finds her in rude health after the transfusion.”

I scoffed. “Seward is an alienist, although we are supposed to believe that he studied practical medicine. Any doctor could tell you that a ‘qualitative analysis’ of anaemic blood such as Dr Seward conducted, simply cannot confirm vigorous health or otherwise.”

“What would you have done, Watson, had you been confronted with a patient showing all of Miss Westenra’s symptoms?”

“I would have administered an ioduret of iron to begin with, and a simple glass of porter once a day before attempting anything more dramatic. I might add ammonia to that prescription later if required, but would hope not to.”

“And yet Seward and Van Helsing immediately jumped to the conclusion that a vampire was to blame, and administered a potentially dangerous treatment. Is that fair to say?”

“It is.”

“But what of the other symptoms, Watson—what about her sleepwalking, supposedly triggered by the hypnotic power of the Count?”

“Balderdash!”

“Really, Watson!” Holmes feigned a censorious tone.

“It seems to me,” I went on, encouraged by Holmes’s sudden interest in my professional opinion, “that at every turn, this Dr Seward allowed himself to be misled by outmoded, superstitious bunkum. He states his belief, in his own journal, that the poor Westenra girl’s sickness is one of the mind, and yet at Van Helsing’s behest he carries out several transfusions of blood—transfusions that simply cannot work in the way they are described here. When Lucy’s end came, she was discovered in a state of near torpor, freezing cold due to blood loss. The very first thing Van Helsing and Seward prescribed was a heated bath to warm her, before administering yet another transfusion. This is the worst possible treatment; in such a state, the heat would have encouraged the flow of blood away from Lucy’s brain. I am afraid that, had she survived much longer, her faculties may have been irreversibly diminished.”

“You are speaking of malpractice, Watson.”

I paused. “I suppose I am.”

“And to what do you attribute this shocking malpractice?” Holmes went on.

“As a young man of modern medical training, Dr Seward has little excuse, save one. His complete devotion to his former teacher, Van Helsing, appears absolute. A young man of limited worldly experience might defer to his beloved teacher’s wisdom, especially in times of great stress. He evidently loved the Westenra girl, and in his worry he was easily led.”

“But why would Van Helsing lead him so?”

“Because the old man is superstitious, and believed in a supernatural cause for Miss Westenra’s illness. He believed she had been repeatedly drained of blood by a vampire, and that the instant transfusion of blood—any blood—would suffice in restoring her to life. He was misguided.”

“Was he?” Holmes said quietly, lips curled into a thin, facetious smile, though the subject of his amusement was a touch too morbid for my tastes. “Because he believed in vampires?”

“Why… yes.”

“Of course, if he had motive to kill the girl…”

I frowned, and suddenly felt very sorry for the fair young lady who had been so nobly described in the journals I had read. “Then the professor’s actions would have been a sure way to commit murder, and shift the blame in the process,” I said solemnly. “But tell me, Holmes, other than the suspicions of Frank Cotford, what evidence here suggests any such motive?”

“Ah, Watson. You have read, but you have not understood. I will not, however, foist upon you a half-formed hypothesis. You know that is not my way. No, soon enough we will see if my suspicions can be proven as fact.”

“But that is the crux of it, then? We are investigating not just the death of Count Dracula, but also that of the Westenra girl?”

“And not just her! Watson, have you absorbed nothing today? Cotford was a drunk, yes, but a mind as thorough as his could not be so easily misled. Within these papers we have the deaths of Mr Peter Hawkins, the solicitor who sent Jonathan Harker to Transylvania; Mrs Westenra the elder; Miss Lucy Westenra; Lord Godalming the elder; the lunatic R. M. Renfield of Purfleet Asylum; the American Quincey P. Morris; and, of course, Count Dracula himself. That is supposing the mysterious deaths of the crew of the ship Demeter are either incidental or accidental. They add to the supernatural narrative, I grant you, but I have not yet made up my mind on the matter.”

“Of those,” I said, “Lord Godalming would seem to me to have died of age and infirmity. Renfield was obviously taken by the Count. The rest, I grant you, are questionable.”

“We will see about Renfield in good time!” exclaimed Holmes. “As for Lord Godalming, you know by now that I do not believe in coincidence when murder and motive are close by. As Cotford pointed out, albeit crudely, one man stood to profit by at least three of those deaths, perhaps more, if we can find the trick of it.”

“Arthur Holmwood,” I groaned, realising that Holmes would not be put off, and that we would almost certainly be harassing an important peer before too long. Given Cotford’s fall from grace after doing the same, I could only hope that Holmes’s immense reputation would save us a similar fate.

“Sharp as a tack, Watson, as ever. Our next port of call must be Ring, in Surrey, where the young Lord Godalming has become something of a recluse.”