The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(7)
“You must clarify it for me, then,” I said, “for it is all a muddle in my mind.”
Holmes shook his head. “I have one further test before I can be sure.” He grabbed my arm. “Come. It is vitally important that we spare no delay.”
“Should we not at least summon the police?” I asked as we made our way out.
“That would be the worst action we could possibly take,” he said without turning or breaking stride. “I believe the official force would be well out of their depths on this case, Watson. If what I suspect is true, then only harm can come from their involvement. Come, we may take a direct route, as the gate is clearly not watched as we feared.”
He raised his hand to forestall any more questions, and we left as he had suggested without any further incident. I mounted the driver’s box of the hansom and he wordlessly handed me the reins before sitting beside me. I could see that the day’s investigations had troubled him deeply, as they certainly had me. But I had no doubt that Holmes’s keen mind had penetrated far deeper into the mystery than my own and I could see my friend grow more and more agitated as he sifted the information around in his mind.
He fidgeted and frowned all the way back to the driver station near the train, where he wordlessly handed a number of sovereigns to a large black-bearded driver for use of his cab. The man tipped his hat low and murmured his thanks, which Holmes answered with a distracted air. Holmes let me handle the purchasing of tickets and luggage arrangements. All the way back to Baker Street I held my questions as he bit at his nails and lip, tapped his fingers, but would answer none of my questions.
When we finally arrived at our quarters, it was nearly six o’clock. Holmes rushed past Mrs Hudson’s questions about supper, up the stairs and over to his chemical table.
He snatched up the case with the specimen finger in it and held it thoughtfully for a few seconds.
“There is no doubt,” Holmes said, as if continuing a conversation from before, only I had not the foggiest notion of what he meant.
“No doubt about…” I prompted.
He gave a thin smile. “I’ve been far too timid with my deductions on this case, Watson. To begin with, while there have certainly been instances of variance from one finger to the next on the hand of any one individual, there is still no escaping the fact that when a great number of discrepancies mount up, there can be but one conclusion.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me entirely, Holmes.”
“This finger is not a match for the finger missing from the charred remains we found today.”
“Not a match?” I said, surprised beyond reckoning. “Could there be a mistake, caused by the corpse having been burned as it was?”
“Come now, Watson,” Holmes said, a little pained. “You cannot think me such a bumbler as to not account for that. But while the flame would, without a doubt, shrivel the skin and flesh and even, to a lesser extent, the bone, you cannot expect the process to lengthen the bones of the hand, can you? Our finger here is simply not a match.”
“Then there are two severed fingers in this case?”
“So it would seem.” He frowned. “And yet… yet, that is not the part of this case that perplexes me the most.” His expression, usually so masterful while on a case, was filled with indecision.
“What, then?” I said.
But he shook his head and set the cigarette case down. Then he stalked over to the table and snatched up his Stradivarius. Falling into his chair, he began to pluck at the strings in the most desultory and, frankly, irritating manner. He turned away from me as he did so, watching the fading light out the window. I knew better than to press him for answers, so I opened the paper and began to browse for something to occupy my attention while I waited for Holmes to come around.
No sooner had I flipped the paper to the second page than Holmes jumped to his feet, dropped the violin unceremoniously back onto the table, and turned to face me with a dramatic air. The indecision had entirely left his face.
“Watson, what do you know about vampires?”
“Vampires?” I repeated. I’d been prepared for something unusual, but this was a staggering proposition coming from the logician. “Nothing more than fanciful stories. But why ask me such a question? You yourself have called the very notion rubbish!”
“True,” he said, ruefully. “But now I am forced to revise my opinion in the light of overwhelming evidence. Consider the facts, Watson. You have already conceded the existence of a rare blood disease. We have samples, and have seen evidence of it.”
“Quite true, but, Holmes… vampires?”
“Bear with me, Doctor,” he said. “I have determined that the nature of this blood disease greatly affects the cell structure of its victims, replacing the chemical structure of the cell in such a way as to completely transfigure its makeup. You have already seen the violent reaction to silver.”
“I am hardly in a position to argue,” I said reluctantly.
“Agreed. Now… is it such a reach to suppose that such a victim might have entirely different dietary needs?”
“But, Holmes,” I cried. “Drinking blood? Bats? Mist? Wolves? Frightened of the holy cross? Bursting into flame in sunlight? Surely this is madness!”
“Clearly we can’t condone all these beliefs, Watson. Not in our orderly world. But let us take the last question first. I spent all night going over this sample of our haemophiliac, Watson. All night. I managed to discover the unusual reaction to silver, but there is one test I did not think of, and perhaps it may be the most conclusive.”