years.
Abruptly the young American, seemingly unable to contain his excitement, and evidently despairing for the moment of making us see the glorious truth, announced that he was driving back to Norberton House at once, and asked if the inspector wanted to return with him.
Merivale shook his head. “No, sir, thank you; I’m going to try to get an hour or two of sleep here at my inn. I’m fair beat, and I’ve already arranged for a room arranged at the Saracen’s Head.” The distinctive signboard of that establishment could be seen clearly, swinging slightly in the morning breeze, not a hundred yards from where we were standing, down the main street of the village.
Armstrong did not delay, but left us with an impatient wave; in a few moments he had cranked his motor into roaring life again, and was gone, leaving a faint cloud of dust hanging in the village air.
In the ensuing silence, the inspector and I were left alone, at least for a few moments, on the platform at Amberley Station. There were indications that this time alone would be brief, for already the whistle of the oncoming train could be heard and the smoke of its engine was visible above some distant trees.
Merivale began by informing me frankly that he did not know what to make of the claim that Louisa Altamont might be still alive.
“See here, Dr. Watson, I’ll put my trust in you as a steady, reasonable observer of last night’s events. And as a student of the whole affair up to this point. No doubt Mr. Holmes, before he went away, shared with you all his thoughts on the subject?”
With that the inspector fell silent, assuming an expectant look I found quite irritating. I said: “I am afraid that Mr. Holmes does not always share his thoughts with me. As for last night’s apparition, I never approached it quite as closely as did either Armstrong or the Altamonts–or Sherlock Holmes. And of course I was never acquainted with the girl in life.”
“I see.” Merivale, hands behind his back, leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. Again, delicately stroking his mustache, he frowned as if he still thought I might be holding something back. “First, in the interest of thoroughness, let me be absolutely clear on one point.
I did my best, in my exhausted state, to consider my reply carefully. I was constrained by the fact that, at some future point, it might become necessary, regardless of the risk to my reputation, to reveal all to the police. “I cannot say that he had ruled out the possibility,” I responded finally.
Merivale’s jaw dropped, and he stared at me in astonishment. “by all that’s holy! You mean the young chap might be right? Then who
Already I regretted my first reply. “Inspector... I will say this much: I believe you would be wise to delay any inquiries along that line, until... until you are able to consult with Holmes himself upon the subject.”
Merivale scratched his head, then smoothed his mustache. “Well, I suppose that’s not much to ask; Lord knows, there are plenty of trails to follow that look more promising. Those two mediums, to begin with.”
We briefly discussed other aspects of the case, including the mysterious jewel robbery, before my train pulled into the station.
Merivale’s parting advice, as I climbed aboard, was to get some rest. “As I told the young man, Dr. Watson, that’s what I intend to do myself. I had a full day yesterday and I’m about at my own limit. A couple of hours’ sleep, then back to work. by noon I’ll have twenty men on the job here, and I promise you we’ll find Mr. Holmes if he’s still in the area–and willing to be found.”
I muttered something in response, and repressed an urge to underline for the inspector the fact that neither Holmes nor I had yet turned fifty. Though Merivale had actually said nothing about my age, it seemed to me that in his urging me to rest there was a certain almost-patronizing tone, that of a grown son or daughter looking after an aged parent. A strong implication that neither Holmes nor I were as young as we once were, and that in dealing with the twentieth century and its affairs, we must expect to find ourselves occasionally too exhausted to keep up.
In fact I dozed on the train, caring not what the other passengers in my carriage might think.
It was a little before noon when I disembarked from a cab in baker Street, and saw the first newspaper headlines proclaiming that Sherlock Holmes had disappeared. Other sensational aspects of the previous night’s events were also featured in large print.
MYSTERIOUS SEANCE IN BUCKS
SHERLOCK HOLMES MISSING
FAMOUS DETECTIVE ABDUCTED TO OTHER WORLD?
‘DEAD’ HEIRESS STILL ALIVE?
It occurred to me that one or more of the servants at Norberton House had very likely been talking to reporters–and only then did I belatedly recall that Armstrong himself was a journalist, probably not loath to report on private matters to his London colleagues if by doing so he thought he could facilitate the search for Louisa.
I ignored the inspector’s well-meant advice to get some rest. (And did my best to put out of my mind his insinuations, however well-founded, on the subject of age.) Instead I nerved myself for my next task, that of summoning a vampire. I fully expected that the experience would not be pleasant, though its exact nature still remained to be discovered.
On entering our old lodgings in baker Street, I found two messages awaiting me. both were notes in the handwriting of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. The first one I happened to pick up was her record of a telephone message, received an hour before my arrival: Count Kulakov– Mrs. Hudson had spelled the name out carefully, in block letters– had telephoned to offer me his sympathy, and would’phone back at another time. After puzzling briefly over the question of who Count Kulakov might be, I could only conclude that he was an acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes who had already seen the early morning newspapers.
The second message I considered of vastly greater moment. It recorded another telephone call, this one from Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes’s elder brother. Immediately this intelligence drove all thoughts of the unknown Count Kulakov from my mind.
And in my memory rang certain words Sherlock had said to me at the time of our adventure six years earlier, in the only discussion in which my friend had ever drawn back for me the curtain which concealed from the world the mysterious and terrible events of his own childhood.
On that occasion Holmes had said: “Watson, you must pledge me this instant, upon your honor, that you will never mention the subject of vampires to my brother Mycroft; it is the one thing that would undo him utterly... Mycroft’s childhood must have been worse than mine, for he is seven years my senior, and must have seen more, and understood more at the time... the mere mention of vampires could destroy him.”
Once more I scanned the message from Mycroft. It begged me to telephone him as soon as possible–and of course I moved to comply with this request at once, using the instrument in our sitting room.
The telephone rang even as I was reaching for it.
The voice on the line, though distorted somewhat by its passage over the wires, was undeniably that of Mycroft, and called up in my mind’s eye a vivid image of the man himself: considerably taller and stouter than his brother, yet bearing a strong family resemblance.
Mycroft had seen the morning papers with the news of Sherlock’s disappearance, and from his agitated manner it was soon evident that certain elements in the story had strongly suggested to his clever brain the horrible truth–that vampires were involved.
“Watson, tell me the truth–what is happening?”
“Mr. Holmes–” I began.
“Watson, I beg of you, put an end to this damned formality between us! How long have we known each other?”
“I–”
“I’ll tell you. Almost fifteen years have passed since my brother introduced us. That was at the time of the Affair, as you called it, of the Greek Interpreter.”
