The Holmes-Dracula File

had in fact spent a summer in Switzerland about the middle of the 19th century! I tried to think… yes, that had been in 1853. But I saw no reason to announce my recollection just at present. It meant I was Holmes' uncle, or half-uncle. Perhaps no language has a precise word for the relationship.

If his eyes had probed sharply at me before, they now pressed like twin stakes fine-pointed for bilateral impalement. 'Some distant relationship, you think.'

'I regret I cannot lay claim to more than that. If I remember correctly, a branch of the Draculas were drawn into the Wars of the Roses, and I am not the first of my line to set foot in England.'

'Drawn in?'

'Yes. They would have come from France, I believe, in 1460, with one of the Yorkist lords—perhaps Warwick. I was myself still breathing, then. Whether any historical record still survives, I do not know. It is, as I say, a disappointment that we are not more closely tied.'

'A disappointment?' He laughed, and I knew that he believed me now—because, above all else, he wanted to believe. 'You will pardon my expression of relief, Count, on learning that you are not only not my twin, but cannot possibly be the man responsible for his existence.'

I nodded, looking gravely sympathetic.

Holmes pressed on, pouring out words that he had probably spoken to no other living being, and would probably never speak again. 'I have not seen my twin since we were children. I intend never again to speak his name, and it would not pain me to learn that he is dead—certainly and finally dead. It is because of him that my father went early to his grave—because of him and because of my mother, who went to her grave even sooner— went to it, but not to stay. There followed years of hell, ending only when my father and my older brother, with their own hands… do you understand me? Hell ended for us only when her death had become final and absolute. Well, I hate her no longer.' Holmes spoke these last words as if surprised by them himself. He paused, he shook his head, and I saw that in a moment he had forced from his mind the horrors—as he saw them —of his early life. It is, although I did not say so to him, a family trait that one is able to control one's own thoughts so ruthlessly and so well.

'But all of this,' Holmes went on urgently, 'even this, is at the moment of very little importance. Count Dracula, your life and mine are small things compared to what is now at stake.'

I looked at him closely. But no, he was still in too solemn a mood to perpetrate a pun consciously. 'I do not understand,' I said. 'I refer to the fate of London itself. In a moment I shall explain.' His weapon's aim was perfectly steady again. 'If, Count Dracula—if, I say—I were to permit you to walk from this room a free man, what would your next move be?'

'I have some business in London still unfinished. When that is done I shall be peaceably on my way.'

'And the nature of this business?'

'Personal.' I smiled yet again, liking the way this man—my nephew, or whatever he might be—met my eye. The more we talked, the more I knew him as a true Dracula. 'But then, I suppose it is public, too. Your great city will be a better place when it is done.'

'Jem Matthews was of course a part of the same business. As was the lady on the dock.'

'Two parts now concluded. But there are at least two more to be finished before honor will allow me to return to private life and cease to trouble your police. And now, my dear Mr. Holmes, I think that I must bid you adieu.'

'Ah?'

'Your friend Watson has gone for the redoubtable Lestrade, or Gregson, who are strangers to me, but whose profession I can readily enough guess. A van-load of police are surely on their way here by now. I will allow another minute or two in which to finish this very interesting talk; but then I mean to take my trunk, which you have so kindly found for me, and go on my way. Are you prepared to try to shoot me as I do?'

Chapter Twenty

Though my vigil at the head of the stair seemed endless, actually no more than a few minutes could have passed before there came a rush of metal-rimmed wheels against the curb below, and the sound of several pairs of feet alighting on the pavement. I went down as quickly and quietly as possible, and met a police constable and two burly men in civilian clothing, just ready to ring. Getting out of the carriage behind these men was Jack Seward, who gripped my arm.

'Where is he?' Seward demanded.

'Upstairs. Thank God you have come so soon.'

'Fortunately I was already in the city, and happened to communicate by telephone with the asylum, where they had just received your message.' Seward folded his spectacles and slipped them into a pocket, readying himself for action. 'From the tone of your message, Watson, there is not a moment to lose. Lead the way, quickly!'

We had no more than set foot upon the stairs when a shot rang out. I ran on up, and without ceremony flung open the sitting-room door, which had not been locked. Holmes sat slumped in a chair in the middle of the room, one hand holding his revolver hanging almost limply at his side, the other hand raised to his face. He was quite alone. There was some disorder evident, in the way of rugs and furniture being disarranged, and even in that first glance I noted that the great trunk was gone. Beyond the motionless figure in the chair, the door to Holmes' bedroom stood open, and through the doorway I glimpsed a window raised, with curtains blowing in the morning breeze.

As we burst in, Holmes raised his eyes, to scowl at the rush of men.

'Where is the prisoner?' I exclaimed.

'Escaped,' he answered shortly. Before he could say more, one of the burly civilian attendants had him by each arm, and the revolver had been wrenched roughly from his hand. Seward, springing past me, took only an instant to force up the sleeve of Holmes' dressing-gown, and to plunge the needle of a hypodermic into his arm. My friend, who had begun to struggle, in another moment sank back limp and helpless.

My anger blazed up. 'You have no justification for such treatment!' I protested, and moved forward to clutch Seward by the arm. To my utter amazement, I immediately felt my own arms pinioned from behind. Looking over my shoulder, I saw it was the uniformed man who had grabbed me. I opened my mouth for another protest, and tried to pull free; but the two men who had been holding Holmes now released his inert form and came to lay their hands on me as well. Their leader still brandished his hypodermic, and as one of his confederates pushed up the sleeve of my right arm, he pressed it home. The last thing I saw before lapsing into unconsciousness was a smile of evil triumph disfiguring Jack Seward's handsome face.

My return to awareness was a slow and painful process, marred again and again by irresistible relapses into drugged sleep, a sleep shot through with strange dreams or visions. At one point it seemed to me that I was manacled helplessly to a peculiar cart or bed. Again, the comely face of a young woman in a high-collared gown, a complete stranger to me, was hovering near; and I thought she exchanged words with some unseen personage just outside my range of vision. As she gazed at me the young woman seemed concerned about my plight, though she was evidently unwilling or unable to take any helpful action.

When at last I fully recovered my senses, there was no woman to be seen. To my dismay, however, the metal cart and the shackles holding me to it proved to be only too horribly real. I was held down on my back, unable to do much more than turn my head, in a small room that was more like a cell than a bedchamber. It was sparsely furnished, and the paint on the walls was old and worn. Through shutters and bars, a sectioned shaft of wan, orange-yellow sunlight entered the sole window almost horizontally, suggesting that the day was nearly spent. The effects of the drug had evidently lasted many hours.

On turning my head I was shocked to discover a still figure similarly bound to another cart, not five feet from my own. I leave it to the reader to imagine my sensations on recognizing in the dim light the face of Sherlock Holmes, pale and motionless as death.

I whispered his name repeatedly, each time louder than the last, but he made not the least response; and I