The Classified Dossier: Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula(9)
“You know my name, of course,” the man said, still quite at ease.
“I do not know anything other than the fact that you are a foreign noble whose tastes run to extravagant means, but who has not been exposed to London society for some time. You are quite old, much older than you appear, and you are used to being obeyed implicitly. You have few servants, but the ones you have are fiercely dedicated. You travelled here without carriage or hansom, and have spent much time walking the London streets. You’ve had some recent distress, but that is not entirely what brings you here. I know that your disease has made you something both more and less than human.”
“Ah… not so well informed as I thought,” the man said. “I was sure that Van Helsing or Holmwood would have told you that much, at least.”
“At this time three days ago I knew nothing of the matter,” Holmes said. “And those names mean nothing to me. I have drawn my own conclusions as to your nature based on the evidence.”
The man’s face broke for just an instant, and a wild and feral look came over him. His mouth opened in the beginnings of a snarl, and the shocking white teeth sent gooseflesh down my back. But just as quickly, the man stopped, and his face resumed its look of caged civility again. There was a long moment’s pause in which he seemed to have a great internal struggle.
“Forgive me,” he said at last. “I thought you mocked me, and I am too old and proud to tolerate such a thing. But now I see that I was in error. I would have not thought such claims you make possible until today. I am familiar with your name, of course. It has appeared several times in my studies of the British Empire. Still, I assumed a certain amount of literary bravado to be present.”
“I have often shared that opinion,” Holmes said wryly. “Still, I do not make any false claims.”
The man nodded slowly. “Very well, you do not know my name,” he said. “I am Dracula. Count Dracula. And I… Forgive me – we are proud, we Székelys, and not often used to asking such things. The truth is… I have come for your help, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
My astonishment at this unforeseeable turn of events was enormous. If someone had barged into our sitting room and claimed to be Shakespeare’s Puck or Don Quixote, I should not have been more surprised. To my even greater surprise, Holmes did not reject the proposition outright.
“I am selective when taking my cases,” he said with icy tones. “Still, there are a great many details which I should like cleared up. I should warn you, however, that if you attempt another use of your powers I shall be forced to use this revolver. Surely you can see that this would be pointless and quite dangerous for you.”
Dracula waved his hand dismissively. “I bear you no ill will. I have come to lay my matter before you, knowing full well that once you know the facts you will be unable to act except in a manner which will be beneficial to us both.” If he was nervous at the firearm, he showed no sign. “You see, the matter that threatens me and my loved ones is perhaps an even greater threat to the city of London.”
“Holmes!” I cried. “If this man is truly guilty of murder, surely you can’t mean to allow this monster…”
My words trailed off as Holmes raised his hand in my direction. He leaned against the desk to make himself comfortable, still retaining his pistol. “Pray, Count,” he said, “please continue your most interesting statement.”
Chapter 03
VAMPIRES
The fire flickered low in the grate, throwing sombre tones over us all. The storm raged and dashed the windowsill with wet and errant flashes of light in an effect both haunting and hypnotic. Wind whipped through the open window.
“Very well,” the Count said. “I will tell you everything.” He sat with Old World dignity in the chair across from me. Holmes came from around the desk and sat in his customary chair, the pistol still in his hand. I took a moment to lower the window slightly in order to minimize the noise of the storm, but a pall of smoke and unpleasant stench lingered from the sliver of burning finger, so I was compelled to leave the window open a few inches, at least.
The Count was a man who spoke with careful consideration of his words, but whether this was an attempt to be circumspect or reflected some effort required to speak English I could not tell. I was also struck with how supernaturally still the Count sat, not reclining, not shifting in even the smallest, most human of ways and yet without evincing the slightest sign of discomfort. Even stranger, I could not detect any rising or falling of the chest, try as I might. I found the possibility of a walking man who did not breathe even more dramatic an idea than Holmes’s shocking observations about vampires a few moments before. But I checked this line of thinking, as Holmes had impressed upon me the notion that there couldn’t possibly be anything about the vampire that science could not explain, if a careful study were made. I vowed to devote my own humble powers to this endeavour once this fearsome investigation and campaign allowed it.
“You say you are unfamiliar with my name and do not know, perhaps, anything of my first trip to London,” the Count said with a small and secret smile. “It may have a bearing on today’s events, so I shall have to tell you something of it. You are perhaps familiar with Stoker’s account of me?”
“You don’t expect us to believe that nonsense!” I snapped. Though I hadn’t read the novel, I knew enough from others to know it was filled with nothing but the fantastic and sensational.