The Adventure of the Solitary Grave - Pt. 1

by John D. Watson, M.D., edited by Christian Klaver) 

            Some few attentive readers may recall when I last wrote of the final case I would ever chronicle involving my closest friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes.  Would that this one could be followed with a revelatory episode such as the Adventure of the Empty House, but I fear that there is no such possibility this time and that Sherlock Holmes is gone from this world forever with only a solitary grave in Sussex Downs to mark his passing.  I know that both this humble chronicler and the world at large are the poorer for his absence.  It is under his direction that I undertake to narrate this particular case, his last. < xml="true" ns="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" prefix="o" namespace="">

            I have by no means a complete chronicle of all the adventures that Holmes deemed fit only for the ‘black box’, but I do have several at my disposal, including Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, as well as the separate matters involving Mr. James Phillimore, Mrs. Cecil Forrester and the cutter Alicia, none of them having yet been published since their grotesque and outré nature would have stretched the reader’s sensibilities beyond any normal boundaries and possibly horrified many.  They are, in a word, unbelievable, and I have held these cases in abeyance at Holmes’ request to protect both his reputation, and my own small credibility as narrator.  But the time has come to reveal them, per Holmes’ instructions, beginning with this one.  I follow these instructions faithfully and humbly, and let my readers judge if we have done wrong to withhold them as long as we did.

            It was late in 1903 when I found myself a resident once more in my quarters at Baker Street.  My wife was out in the country visiting her relatives for some time, and this gave me the opportunity to renew my acquaintance to such a degree that I almost felt I had come back to bachelorhood on a permanent basis.  A tempestuous London storm howled at the windows of our drawing room, making it a comfort for us to be indoors. 

            But if the conditions appealed to me, they did not bring solace to Holmes.  He had no active case at present and was quite beside himself with a hectic lassitude that had him twitching restlessly in his chair.  Several times he cast a reckless glance at the small case on the dresser next to him, the one that held the syringe and solution of cocaine that was his sole escape when he fell into this darkest of moods.  He had already availed himself of its calming effect once, and I was starting to wonder, without comment, if this vice of his had gone to even further extremes than it had before my marriage.

            “It is not so bad as all that,” he said with a laugh, and I knew he had deduced my thoughts in that uncanny way of his.  “It is only this dreaded inactivity, Watson.  It exhausts me as work never does.  It is doubly vexing when I know that trouble is brewing on the horizon, but cannot get my hands on any of the threads of it, so that I have nothing with which to occupy my waiting hours.”

            “Trouble?” I said.  I had been in Baker Street for nearly three days, and had the feeling that Holmes had been waiting for something all this time, but he had refused to be drawn out enough to speak to any of the details up until now.   

            “You are unfamiliar with my cases of the past few months, Watson, so I cannot expect you to know.  Of late, I have been involved in several cases that seem unrelated, but all stem from a single source.  I have been seeking them out, and turning all unrelated cases away.  The missing crews on the Matilda Briggs and the Demeter, certain tangential persons involved in the death of Cadogan West, and the flowers mysteriously delivered to Miss Violet Bell are all the work of one mastermind, Watson.  It is all connected, and I am carefully drawing all the threads round me, feeling for the spider at the centre.  If I did not know better, I should say that Moriarty himself was back and up to his old tricks.”

            “Moriarty, that villain!” I cried.  “Is it possible that he lived?”

            Holmes reached past the cocaine and picked up his pipe.  Evidently, our conversation had sufficiently engaged him so as to make the distraction of the more potent drug no longer necessary.  He scraped his pipe bowl clean and made ready for a fresh batch of tobacco by the expedient of rapping the bowl against the table leg, heedless of the shag bits on the carpet.  He fired his pipe to the desired pitch before answering. 

            “I would find that highly unlikely,” he said finally, “and I would only consider such a possibility once I had eliminated all other possibilities, for I saw his body fall the into the perilous depths of the Falls myself.  Also, consider this: were Moriarty to survive, I am quite confident that his next move would be to take action against me.  He would first seek to complete his plans for removing me, and only after that would he take up his old machinations in directing London’s underworld, for that is how I found him the first time, and Moriarty was no dullard.  I do not think he would make the same mistake twice.”

            “Is it possible that someone else has carried on his work?” I asked.

            “This thought occurred to me, as well,” Holmes said.  “It seems a highly unlikely possibility that someone of Moriarty’s caliber and intent has stepped into the void I inadvertently created by removing him, but we are at a loss to provide a better explanation.  And this one, for all its flaws, certainly seems more plausible than Moriarty’s return from the grave.  Ah, it is no good.  What we need is more data, Watson.  It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has enough data.”

            My next statement was interrupted by voices from below.

            “At last,” Holmes said, with no small amount of relief.  “A case.  A welcome diversion.  I can only hope that Lestrade is bringing us something worthy of our attention.  If his urgency is any indicator, we will be well served.”

            I could not help but feel a great sense of relief, and I knew that Holmes had noted my grateful exhalation.  He gave me a laconic smile and put the cocaine back into the dresser like the trainer of some loathsome serpent tucking his deadly charge into a basket, away, but not forgotten.

            When Lestrade burst in on our sitting room, the short, little detective wore the most solemn expression.  In his hand he bore a small veneered case, such as a well-to-do gentleman might use to carry cards or cigarettes. 

            “Murder then,” Holmes said, “and in the Harrington district, I should say.  Perhaps done this very day?”  

            Lestrade started.  “I’m familiar with your cunning ways, Mr. Holmes, but how you could know all that without yet hearing or seeing any of the clues is quite beyond me.”  

            “You brought the clues in with you, Lestrade,” Holmes said with a wave of his hand.  “It is no secret that they’ve torn up the sidewalk in order to begin construction in Harrington, and in doing so thrown up a great deal of the red clay that I see about your shoes.  The fact that it is still wet and that you were in too much of a hurry to do more than a casual scraping on our doormat increases the impression of great urgency.  And your face has a peculiar expression, despite your many years with Scotland Yard, which further adds to give a very sobering impression.”

            “Well, I suppose my face does tell the tale plainly, at that,” Lestrade admitted.  “I expect you remember the forger in Norwood that you turned us on to?”

            “Yes, quite,” said Holmes.  “Did you find him at the address I gave to you?”

            Lestrade nodded.  “We did, and in the process of apprehending him we came upon something quite murkier than a simple forgery.  When asked about it, the rascal went quite silent.  Not only silent, but a man that I would have sworn would send either of us to the bottom of the Thames without the slightest hesitation actually broke down in tears when we questioned him on the macabre item we found there.  We have been able to get nothing from him.  In fact, we are starting to think him quite beyond reason.”

            “And this is the item here?” Holmes asked.  He gestured at the cigarette case.

            “Yes,” Lestrade said.  “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing it with me.”

            “Let us see then, what we can make of it,” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together as he warmed to the case.

            The usually loquacious Inspector handed over the case without further comment.              “Lacquered teak,” Holmes said.  “Expensive, but not otherwise extraordinary.  It has seen some use, certainly by a man once wealthy and then fallen on hard times.  The clear markings of an amateurish repair applied to the hinge tells us that.  Now then, let us look inside.”  He fell abruptly silent when he opened the box.

            I shifted in my seat to get a closer look and gasped as the significance of what I saw struck home to me.  “Good Lord, Holmes!” I said, for rarely had I seen a more shocking example of brutality and horror.

            Inside, nestled neatly in red velvet like a rare jewel, lay a freshly severed human finger.

            Holmes leaned closer, deeply affected, not with shock or disgust, but with eager interest.  He pulled his lens from a drawer and examined it all together first, then carefully removed the finger.  He looked further into the box and made a satisfied noise.  “This was originally used for cigarettes, as one might expect,” he murmured.  “Traces of them are still here.”  He carefully pulled a scrap of tobacco out and snuffed at it like a bloodhound.  “An unusual, but inexpensive brand.  A brand made in India and not much seen in England.  It has a very acrid taste that would not be popular.”  

            Then he began a minute study of the finger itself.  It was clearly a woman’s finger, and showed no sign of decay that I could see.  The hand it was taken from must once have been long and white, a beautiful sight before this horrible disfigurement had taken place.  Holmes measured the length and width of the finger and even scraped underneath the fingernail, which was long and unpainted.

            “What could anyone want with such a grisly trophy?” I asked.  “Was it some kind of  proof of kidnapping?”

            Lestrade shook his head.  “There’s been no such missing person that we know of, and no ransom note was found.  Nor do we have any idea who might receive one until we identify the victim.”

            Holmes shot an acute glance at Lestrade.  “When did you get this?”

            “Oh, well, it came to me early this afternoon.  The constable that found it at Brixton Lane carried it with him for several hours before he got it to me.  He found it this morning, when the arrest was made.”

            Holmes frowned, clearly displeased with this information.  He sprang up and went over to the table in the corner that held his equipment for chemical experimentation, taking the box and finger with him.  He rummaged among the retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps before extracting three empty tubes.  He added a small amount of water to each, then carefully added a sample of blood taken from the finger to the first, and a sample from the box to the second.  For the third, he jabbed a bodkin into his own finger to supply a few drops.  He absently covered the self-inflicted scratch with a piece of sticking plaster, a habit I knew he performed in order to prevent accidentally poisoning himself while handling toxins.  Then he measure a small amount of white crystals into the threw into the waiting vessels.  He followed this with a few drops of a transparent fluid from an angular green bottle.

            He jerked upright as the test-tubes all turned a dull mahogany color.  “I really must thank you, Lestrade,” he said without lifting his eyes from the experiment on the table.  “Already this case is showing an extraordinary degree of interesting features, some I’ve never seen before.  Some very interesting features indeed.  Perhaps a case unique in the annals of crime detection.”

            “Indeed,” I said fervently.  The image of some poor woman maimed in such a fashion shook me to the core.  “I can hardly imagine a more cold-blooded act.  What kind of monster could carry around such a thing the way another man carries cigarettes is barely imaginable.”

            Holmes waved a hand dismissively.  “Oh, that is hardly exceptional.  Recall, Watson, when the 50-year-old spinster, Miss Susan Cushing, received a parcel in the post which turned out to contain two severed human ears packed in coarse salt and I think you will have to concede my point.  No, it is the nature of the victim that interests me.”

            “We must help her, Holmes,” I urged. 

            “I’m afraid,” Holmes said, not unkindly, “that it is all too likely that this particular woman is beyond our reach to help, but possibly we can be of some assistance in punishing the criminals involved in so macabre an act.”

            “Begging your pardon, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, “but I would hardly call that wound fatal.”

            “No,” Holmes said.  “You wouldn’t, but I consider it the highest probability.”  He held up a hand to fend off further protests.  “You have your methods, Lestrade, and I have mine.  Be assured that I will wire you with any advice or information that I have as soon as I am sure of my facts.”  With that, he bent back over the gruesome piece of evidence, fishing out more test tubes for further tests.  Lestrade and I were clearly forgotten and dismissed from his thoughts.

            Seeing it was no use to protest further, and that Holmes would not have any information coaxed out of him until he was ready, Lestrade gave a displeased grunt, crammed his hat forcefully back onto his head and left. 

            Holmes spent the rest of the evening at work, completely ignoring the arrival of dinner.  The parlor filled with an ever increasing cloud of noxious smoke as he applied test upon test to his specimen.  The cloud was augmented even further as he took more and more frequent breaks to sit and ponder, puffing away at his clay pipe until the haze became intolerable.  It had gone past a three-pipe problem and well into a seventh when I finally gave up trying to read through the smoke and went to bed late.

            When I awoke in the morning, Holmes’ chemical experiments were still underway, and the darkened room was dotted in that corner with the little blue flames of multiple Bunsen burners going at once.  Holmes was not at the table, but wandered about the quarters with an air of extreme agitation.

            “Aha, Watson,” he said at once.  “Take a look at our unique evidence and give me your thoughts on it.”

            Hardly knowing what to expect, I went to the table and bent over to look at the Petri dish with the finger laid upon it.  The blood still glistened brightly at the severed joint without any sign of coagulation or clotting. 

            “Why, it looks as if it was freshly severed this morning!” I exclaimed.       

            “Exactly,” he said.  “The blood has not dried or congealed, as we might expect.”

            “A hemophiliac?” I asked.

            “My thoughts precisely, though this kind of bleeding is exceptional even for such a patient and female hemophiliacs are nearly unheard of, as I’m sure you know.  Also the blood has several irregularities.  You yourself saw that it passed the Holmes blood test I perfected the day we first met, just before we became involved with the affair of Major Sholto, of Upper Norwood.”

            “I remember it well.”  How could I not, having also met my wife during those events?

            “But the blood from this finger does not seem to correspond to many other characteristics of human blood, nor does the flesh of the finger itself.  For the flesh of the person to be so affected indicates that the disease is long-term, rather than something recently contracted.  It is also curious that, though there is still some evidence of blood flow, the rest of the finger is quite desiccated, and more resilient and lighter than I should expect.  There are indications that this may also be true in life, and that the disease dramatically alters the circulatory system as it progresses.  This agrees with the differing characteristics of the blood.”

            “What kind of characteristics do you mean?” I asked.

            “Well,” he said with a sly smile.  “There are several.  But this demonstration is the most striking.”  He took a small specimen knife and cut a small portion of skin off the finger, adding this to a test tube.  He then sprinkled a small amount of a light grey powder into the solution and immediately a violent bubbling eruption occurred.  In but a few moment’s time, the reaction had ceased and I was able to see into the clear liquid that remained.  The skin sample was gone, quite dissolved into the solution.

            “What did you put in?” I asked.  “Some destructive acid compound?”

            Holmes went back to his pipe and got it going again before he answered.              “Powdered silver,” he finally answered.

            “Silver…”  Nothing in my long medical history, nor in my unusual dealings alongside Sherlock Holmes, had prepared me for so grotesque a statement.

            “Yes, I quite understand your reaction.” Holmes said.  “All this leads us to infer the existence of a sufferer of an as-of-yet unknown blood disease that leaves the victim so robust that a young woman is still capable of an active climb that would strain even an accomplished athlete.”

            “Climbing?  But how on Earth could you know that?”
            “There are abrasions on the skin and traces of stone fragments both within the abrasions and underneath the fingernail.  Not all of these are new, which suggests more than one such climb in the recent past.  But otherwise, this finger shows no signs of the usual calluses that usually accompany the physical activity I would associate with a working woman.  This indicates either a woman of the higher class or an invalid excused from menial labor.  Either answer seems at odds with our climbing theory, does it not?  Or at the very least an unusual combination.”

            “Most blood diseases are debilitating to the victim,” I said, incredulous.  “I can hardly imagine such a person making a strenuous climb.”

            “Nor can I,” Holmes said.  “Yet I can find no other explanation which meets the facts that are presented to us.  Clearly this case has far greater depths to it than we could possibly have foreseen.” 

            “Good Lord,” I said, remembering the prominence of hemophilia in the royal family.  “You don’t suppose that this woman…”

            “I consider it highly unlikely,” Holmes said, divining my thoughts as quickly as if I had spoken them aloud.  “Whoever this woman was, this finger, at least, bears no sign of having ever worn jewelry.  It is the ring finger of the left hand, a place usually reserved for the wedding ring, so we can also safely assume she was not married.”

            “What does this all mean?”

            “We do not have enough data for a complete determination,” Holmes said.  “But I have several lines of inquiry.  I believe that my next step is to visit West Sussex, where I know a man who deals exclusively in Indian cigarettes.  One of the few places in England that carries this distinct tobacco.”

            “Then I shall come with you.” I offered.

            “That is by no means necessary.  I think you would find this preliminary investigation very tedious, and there is not likely to be any danger at this stage.  Also, I will send out several telegrams to other tobacconists, and I will need someone reliable to await their reply.  But keep your revolver ready!  With such a clue as this first one, I have no doubt that I shall have need of it, as well as your firm resolve, before this case is concluded.”

            I spent the rest of the day without further news, and the only break in the monotony of an agitated day filled with listless reading was when a small package came for Holmes from the Ingerson Rifle Company.  Having been given directions to intercept all of Holmes’ mail for him, I opened the package with trembling hands, lest another severed body part should await me.  Instead, I found a card from the company with a short note: “Per Your Instructions - Ralph Ingerson” and two small boxes.  My astonishment knew no ends when I opened these and found that they were laden with gun cartridges.  But no ordinary cartridges.  While the casing looked normal enough, the bullets themselves gleamed and shone, even in the moderately lit study.  Silver.  Of course, I made the connection between these and the unusual reaction to silver in Holmes’ test, but I couldn’t for the life of me imagine how that could make this kind of weaponry necessary.  A bullet of lead would serve just as well, I should think, and besides I could hardly imagine an instance where we might need to shoot the victim of the case.  Deciding that this portion of the matter was quite beyond me, I set the package aside and continued to wait.

            No sign of Holmes came, and Baker Street received no further correspondence that night, but a telegram was waiting for me when I woke the next morning.  It read thusly:  “Come down to hotel in Carfax at once.  Come armed.  Bring Ingerson package. - SH”

            I had Mrs. Hudson send for a cab immediately.  My old army habits stood me in good stead, and I was able to get my things together quickly enough to be ready for the driver when he pulled up to our curb.

            It was only a few hours later when I stepped out of the train and onto the platform at Carfax.  I hefted my luggage and hailed a waiting cab.  The driver, a large fleshy man, grunted when I requested the Carfax Hotel and departed off immediately.  In just a few short minutes, I saw the sign for my hotel, but was amazed when we rattled directly past it without any pause or sign of slowing.  I hammered my cane on the roof of the hansom.  The driver ignored me utterly.  I was quite beside myself, particularly since we seemed to be entering a seedier and more disreputable part of the sleepy Oxford town.  The hansom finally came to a halt underneath a huge yew tree.  I burst out of the hansom and shook my stick at the driver.

            “See here, man!” I said.  “What is the meaning of this?”

            The driver was hunched over with his face in his hands, and I saw him pull something wet from inside his mouth.  When he turned, I was astonished to see Sherlock Holmes smiling down at me.

            “Forgive me, Watson,” he said with a chuckle, “but I did think you would rather come to the heart of the investigation at once.”

            “Good Lord!” I said, quite astonished.

            Holmes discarded the shabby outer garment he’d used as part of his driver’s disguise and stepped down from the cab just far enough to reach out and pull me back into the cab with him.  His face had a deadly earnestness to it.  

“I should warn you, Watson, that this case is possibly the murkiest, most sinister case in which we have ever been involved.  My plan is for you to wait here and provide a rear guard while I investigate inside.”

            “Couldn’t I be of far more assistance inside?”

            “Perhaps,” he admitted, “but this is one time that I fear the risks are far too great, and I haven’t the time to explain them.  It is already past noon, and we shall need every minute of the day.”

            “If there is danger,” I said stoutly, “then that is all the more reason for me to come with you.  I quite insist!”

            He gripped my arm in camaraderie.  “I can always count on you, Watson.  Very well.  Did you bring the package from Ingerson?”

            I wordlessly handed over the package of bizarre ammunition, quite at a loss as to why such elaborate precautions were necessary, but knowing that my friend would not order such a curiosity without good reason.  Holmes pulled his own revolver from his jacket pocket and ejected the regular cartridges onto the cab seat and began replacing them with the silver bullet cartridges from the package.  He gestured for me to do the same.  

            “Let me fill in the new details of this case,” he said.  “Tracing the recent sale of the tobacco I found has led me to several unremarkable places, and to here.  I have found a number of subtle and disturbing characteristics of this place.  This property belongs to the Lady Carfax, an elderly widow who has been gone for some months visiting in Europe.  She is unharmed and whole with all her fingers as of yesterday, according to the French officials that I telegraphed.  Denied her inheritance because of her sex, she still has some wealth, but owns very little property in England.  This is her sole estate, and she only has this because it was awarded back to her, after being sold to a foreign dignitary, due to a legal technicality and the lack of said dignitary having any presence or legal representation.  Neither she nor anyone in her employ has been here in many years.  According to the officials, it has been abandoned ever since, but the marks on the grounds and gates show us that this account can hardly be accurate.  We need to find out more about whatever clandestine activity is happening here.  Numerous signs indicate that this might well be one of the most foul expeditions we have ever ventured on together.  I urge you to the highest level of caution, Waston.”

            “Then whose finger…” I asked.

            “That has yet to be determined,” Holmes said quickly.  I knew my friend well enough to know that he suspected a great deal more than he told me, but also knew that he always had good reasons for revealing his deductions in the proper place and time.  I had never gone wrong following him before and was far too old a campaigner to change my habits now.  I finished loading the gun and indicated I was ready.

            Not since the affair with Milverton have I felt so much that our roles in society had been twisted out of shape.  Now I felt like the criminal instead of an upholder of the law.  The gate may have been rusted, but we found the lock secure with signs of recent use.  I had seen Holmes pick locks with the competence of a seasoned burglar, but after examining the gate he turned aside and walked the four-wheeler around to the back part of the stone wall and used the simple expedient of pulling the carriage close to the wall and climbing over.  Should a constable’s patrol have come by during this time we might have found ourselves in the novel and entirely unenviable position of being arrested. 

            But such was not the case and, after Holmes had lowered me down with a steely grip on my arm, he dropped down beside me with ease.  It never ceased to amaze me, this change from a tweedy scholar in Baker Street to an active bloodhound.

            “Going in this way,” he whispered into my ear, “we avoid the dogs, as well as those who might be watching the gate, since their activities are all concentrated there.”  And so it was.  We made our way across the unkempt grounds so overgrown with bracken and gorse and so filled with dead foliage that it might not have been tended to for decades.  We approached so that the abbey itself was on the far side, and made our way in through broken-paned French doors to the interior of the house itself.

            The inside of the house was in even worse repair than the outside garden.  There was some furniture, torn and decrepit, but it looked as if much of what might have once been there had been carried off a long time ago.  Old paint of a universally drab grey colour flaked off the walls and a smell of dust, mould and decay permeated every corner.  Not a noise came to our ears except the whispering of the wind outside, and our every footstep sent echoes through the apparently empty and abandoned structure.

            We made our way through part of the house and found only more empty rooms until Holmes stopped me as we came upon the entrance to an old-fashioned courtyard.  The doors were flung open and broken, one hanging only on a single hinge and swaying in the slight breeze.  He pointed down at several sets of fresh tracks etched into the dust on the floorboards in front of us.

            “Careful where you step, Watson,” he said as he crouched to a nearly prostrate position to examine the tracks.  “Two different sets of workman’s boots, one large, one even more so, both hobnailed.   And an entirely different set of well-to-do gentleman’s boots.  Curious…” 

            “Holmes, look here,” I said.  From my removed position, close to the end of the hallway, I had nearly placed my hand on a crack in the wall without noticing the bullet lodged there.

            “Excellent, Watson!” Holmes cried as he came back to look at my find.  “Score one for you!”  He pulled a penknife out and delicately pried the bullet free.  “There is blood here.”  He wrapped the evidence with his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket as he went back to his work on the floor.  “And more blood by your foot, here.”  The spot he indicated was minute, but he used his knife to scrape up a sample of this, too. 

            His path carried him closer to the entrance of the courtyard as he examined the area in minute detail.  When he looked up from the doorway itself, a shadow passed over his face, followed by a look of grim determination.

            “Whatever has gone on here,” he said, “it seems that we are too late to prevent it.  But perhaps not too late to deal with the villains responsible.”

            Inside the doorway lay the bodies of two men, so horribly battered and bent into unnatural angles that there could be no doubt about the nature of their death or the futility of my medical services.  Their faces were twisted into a shocked rictus of horror.  These were men who had seen their violent deaths coming.  A six-shot revolver lay just inside the courtyard on one of the flagstones forming the garden path.  Holmes picked it up, sniffed at it then opened the cylinder.  All the bullets were still in place.  He tucked it into his jacket pocket.

            Then I caught sight of the third body, though it was nearly unrecognizable as such, being so badly charred.  In an act of further barbarism, a stake had been driven completely through the body, pinning the hapless victim to a long plank that lay on the ground.  Though I have seen many horrors in my career between Afghanistan and the innumerable cases in which I’ve assisted Sherlock Holmes, none of them lingers in my mind the way this scorched cadaver does.

            The gruesome sight did not deter Holmes and he was as thorough as possible in his minute inspection of the charred body as well as the other two.  He poked, looked at every detail and even sniffed at the burnt corpse.  He took longer going over this ghastly scene than I ever remembered him taking over similar scenes, muttering to himself as he went, though I could catch nothing of what he said and was quite in the dark as to what he might have found out.  He took minute measurements.  He also took several more blood samples with his penknife, placing the contents in several small tubes apparently brought for the purpose and labeling them as he went.  He went over every flagstone and overgrown flower bed in the courtyard and even climbed several feet up the courtyard wall to peer at the bricks at a height. 

            “Holmes!” I said in a choked voice as I noticed something that increased my horror of the charred cadaver tenfold.  “Look at the hands!”

            “Yes, Watson,” he said without looking up, and still with his back to me.  “I was wondering if you would pick out that detail.” 

            “But Holmes, this is a woman’s body, and the left hand is missing the very same ring finger!”  My stomach and mind churned with the fearsome image of any woman being burned to death in this manner.

            “Yes, Watson,” Holmes said.  “But our time is short, Doctor, and I have a great deal to do here.”

            Thus admonished, there was nothing I could do but wait.  I was forced to pull in a half-broken chair and settle nervously into it while I kept guard over Holmes’ activities, since it was several hours and well into the latter half of the afternoon before he was complete.

            “Well,” he said, finally.  “I believe that we can do no further good here, Watson, and it is well past time that we should be on our way.  I wish to be back to Baker Street while the sun is still in the sky.”

            “Have we learned nothing?” I asked.  “Is there no clue to lead us to the villains that have done this monstrous thing?”

            “Oh, I should say we’ve learned a great deal,” he said, “but the conclusions are so fantastic that I do not dare entertain them until I have eliminated all other possibilities.” 

            “You must clarify it for me, then,” I said, “for it is all a muddle in my head.”

            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 no longer watched during the day.”  

            He raised his hand to forestall any further questions, and we left directly out the same way we had come in without meeting any further incident.  I mounted the driver’s box of the four-wheeler and he wordlessly handed me the reins.  I could see that the day’s investigations had troubled him deeply, as they certainly had me.  But I had no doubt that Holmes’ keen mind had penetrated far deeper into the mystery than my own.  But far from being a comfort, I could tell my friend grew 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.  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, shuffled his feet and otherwise displayed every sign of inward agitation.

            When we finally arrived at our quarters, it was nearly four 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.  Finally, all indecision left his face and he turned to me.

            “Watson, what do you know about vampires?”

            “Vampires?” I repeated, astounded.  “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.”
            “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 hemophiliac, 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.”

            With a swift motion, he placed the small case on the corner of his chemical table, near the window, where a pale square of grayish late-afternoon light showed the wan and bloodless finger to its most grisly advantage.

            “What in the world?” I said, sitting bolt upright as a small curl of smoke puffed from the finger, then a low flame, until the entire thing went up in a burst of acrid smoke like a Chinese firework gone horribly awry!  Smoke plumed up from the table, and we were both coughing uncontrollably before Holmes managed to cover it with a metal serving lid in order to smother the flame.  Even so, we had to stumble around opening windows and waving sheaves of paper to drive out the smoke, and it took a great many minutes to clear our parlor.

            “Well, Watson,” he said with a wry smile as we fell back into our chairs.  “It seems my flair for a dramatic demonstration has somewhat backfired on me.  Yet, clearly you will have to concede that there must be more to this vampire business than we at first believed.”

            “I don’t know what to think,” I said.  “I cannot fathom how this could possibly be.  If it were true, why has there been no outcry other than a collection of old fairy tales and lunatic stories.”

            “I’m inclined to think that this condition is rare, and the numbers of the afflicted must be very small,” Holmes said.

            “I can hardly disbelieve,” I said, “but I still cannot bring myself to fully comprehend …mist…bats…I simply cannot imagine how this could be, and yet I must.”

            “I should think that we are not quite forced to accept all of the information that comes to us without some examination as to its merit.  It occurs to me that some portions of the stories are more rife with superstition than logic.  The power of the cross to hold such a fiend, for example.  Why should this be?  But when you consider that many such crucifixes are made with silver, and that this material might well give such an assailant pause, this I can credit.  But I am ahead of myself, Watson, and it is a mistake to theorize too heavily without all the data.”

            “But how did you know?  How could you possibly come to such a startling conclusion?”

            “How indeed?” said a strangely cultured voice.

            I sat bolt upright at this sudden intrusion, so startling was it.  Holmes was even more galvanized, and leapt to his feet.

            The man standing in our doorway was tall, taller even than Holmes, and equally gaunt.  His features were sharp and strong as well, but there the similarities diverged.  Instead of Holmes’ lean ascetic features, this man’s bushy eyebrows, long black mustache and great mane of black hair combined to create an impression of barbaric grandeur.  Like a Mongol king he was, noble and proud without a trace of shame.

            “Be wary, Watson,” Holmes said levelly.  “We are in grave danger here.  Consider the noise on the steps.”

            “But I heard nothing!” I said, quite taken aback at this unreal series of events.

            “Precisely.”

            “You are an interesting man, Mr. Holmes,” the intruder said.  “With a shocking clarity of perception.”  His English was excellent, but the intonation marked him clearly as foreign.  He paced idly towards the window, as if unaware of his actions, and Holmes took several corresponding steps towards his desk.  I was keenly reminded of two predators, the bloodhound and the wolf, stalking each other with deadly intent and malice.

            “This is not necessary,” the man said in conciliatory tone.  “Please sit, I mean you no harm.”

            Holmes moved behind his desk and picked up the revolver there.  I made to follow suit.  I still had the gun in my jacket pocket that I wore, and it would have been a moment’s action to stand and draw it.  When I tried, however, I found I could do nothing of the sort.  I could not even take my eyes off the man’s own, which seemed to burn like coals in the low flickering light of the small hearth fire we had burning.  When night had fallen, I wasn’t certain, but our comfortable parlor in Baker Street felt transformed, and now it suddenly seemed a dark and menacing place.    

            “That is quite enough,” Holmes said, proving his own mobility by raising and cocking the gun in his hand. 

            “Guns mean little to one such as…” the man started, but his voice trailed off as Holmes calmly held a bullet up between thumb and forefinger.  Even in the flickering and dim light, the gleam of silver was apparent. 

            “Most exceptional…” the man said.  “A keen and disciplined mind, not to be distracted or diverted from its purpose.”  He smiled, and some tension in his eyes seemed to relax its grip.  I found that I could move again.  I sprang to my feet and yanked out my own revolver.  Holmes held up a restraining hand, though, so I took no further action.

            “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 an out of town 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 traveled here without carriage or hansom, but did not go by foot, either.  You’ve had some recent distress, but that is not entirely what brings you here.  Also, you are not entirely human.” 

            “Ah…not so well informed as I thought,” the man said.  “I was sure that Von Helsing or Holmwood would have told you that much, at least.”

            “At this time two 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 things as the claims you make possible until today.  I am familiar with your name, of course.  It has cropped up 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 seemed to come to some decision.  “Very well, you do not know my name,” he said.  “I am Dracula.  Count Dracula.  And I…forgive me, we are proud, we Wallachians, 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.  To my even greater surprise, Holmes did not reject the proposition outright.

            “I am not in the habit of assisting homicidal criminals,” he said with icy tones.  “However 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.  You see, the matter that threatens me and my loved ones is perhaps an even greater threat to the city of London.”  If he was nervous at the dangerous firearm, he showed no sign. 

            “Holmes!” I cried, “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, “pray continue your most interesting statement.”

                  (continued next issue, click here)