“First, that you gather and pass along any information currently available on any unusual activity you can discover, taking place in the Russian immigrant community in London.”
“A large order.” Mycroft sighed faintly, a sound of relaxation indicating, I thought, that the fact of his brother’s current safety was sinking in, and that he was looking forward to being able to resume his own regular activities, which consisted almost entirely of the gathering and ordering of information.
After a moment’s thought, Mycroft continued: “Just now we have in London the unity conference of the Social Democratic Party, which includes in its membership Russians as well as many other nationalities. The gathering has just moved here from brussels, with the encouragement, not to say prodding, of the belgian police. There are several prize rascals to be found among the delegates, along with a number of sincere reformers. Actually, I was studying the dossier of one of the men only this afternoon, trying to decide in which category he belongs.”
“Not,” I asked, “that of a man named Gregory Efimovich?”
“Who is that?”
I did my best to explain. There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. “No, John,” Mycroft answered presently. “The information on my desk concerns one Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, age thirty-three. A writer of revolutionary propaganda, under the pen name’ Lenin.’ I don’t see how this Ulyanov, or Lenin, can be your Gregory Efimovich.”
Nor did I. Mycroft, provided with such details as I could offer, promised to do his best to ascertain whether anyone prominent in the revolutionary intrigues, on either side, bore that particular Christian name and patronymic. Currently the appellation was as unfamiliar to him as it had been to any of us.
Sherlock had given me several additional requests to pass along to Mycroft: first, pursuing the idea of a mysterious treasure, my friend wished to learn the origins of the Altamont fortune–not a difficult task for one who, like Mycroft in his position of power behind the scenes, had the whole resources of the british government at his fingertips when he felt it necessary to call upon them.
Second, Sherlock had also inquired whether there were any Russians or other Eastern Europeans known to be living or visiting in the vicinity of Amberley.
Our ’phone conversation was soon concluded, without either of us mentioning directly the once totally forbidden subject of vampires. Still, I felt justified in concluding that Mycroft had successfully adjusted to the facts of the situation and was bearing up better than his brother would ever have predicted.
Perhaps I had better explain to my readers that Mycroft Holmes, though he received very little publicity or recognition, at times almost
This supposition proved correct. Within two hours Mycroft had ’phoned back to me at the Saracen’s Head, to pass along the information that several months ago a Russian gentleman named Alexander Ilyich Kulakov had taken a country house within a few miles of the Altamonts’ estate.
While I was engaged in this second call, Prince Dracula had once more entered the public bar and resumed his role of entertainer. Still, I refrained from saying openly on the telephone that we were facing the definite possibility that this Kulakov and our mysterious vampire were one and the same.
“Is there anything more you can tell me about him–Mycroft? It may be vitally important.”
“Yes, John, actually there is a fair amount of information.” And Mycroft relayed to me the suspicions then current in british intelligence circles, that the Russian count was quite likely mixed up in the conflict between terrorist revolutionaries and the Okhrana, or Tsarist secret police. Each of these parties was known to have agents in England. Some people, men and women, were double agents, trying to play both sides.
“And his personal description, Mycroft–his appearance?”
“I have never laid eyes on the man myself. but he is described as tall and well built, about forty years of age. Has red hair and beard and greenish, peculiar eyes. He seems to be heir to some remote but extensive Siberian estates that were his father’s and grandfather’s before him. Another–”
“Red hair,” I repeated. “And beard. Tall and powerful. Even green eyes.”
“That is the description I have been given.”
Mycroft had more information at his fingertips. The Russian count had apparently come to England unaccompanied save for a faithful servant or two. Our own intelligence service supposed him, and doubtless his servants as well, to be involved, in some way hard to determine, in the ongoing duel of secret agents between the monarchy and the revolutionaries.
There was still more. Mycroft had discovered a dossier on one man bearing the given name and patronymic of Gregory Efimovich, who had attained a fair degree of prominence in the intrigues among Russian exiles, and Mycroft had already set in motion an investigation to determine his current whereabouts.
“Can we establish any connection,” I asked, “between this man and Kulakov?”
“So far I cannot. but sooner or later we will discover the link if it exists.”
Presently I rang off the telephone, looked in at the public bar to let my colleague know the latest call had been completed, and preceded him back to our rooms to report to Holmes.
On my arrival upstairs I found my friend in conversation with Martin Armstrong and Rebecca Altamont, both of them much restored in appearance from the last time I had seen them.
Armstrong and Rebecca Altamont had each awakened in baker Street shortly after noon that day, Thursday, and had been promptly handed my messages by Mrs. Hudson. After our landlady had provided them with a hasty meal, the young people had come rushing back to Amberley on the first train available. The two appeared at the Saracen’s Head at seven o’clock on Thursday evening, after having stopped first at Norberton House to bathe and change.
They came to our inn partly with the intention of seeing Inspector Merivale, who also occupied a room. Furthermore, Holmes had said he wanted to see Armstrong, and I had sent a message to Norberton House–where any request from me was rather coldly received–asking the young American to call on me.
On the arrival of Armstrong and Miss Altamont, Holmes had ordered tea to be served in our rooms, and I found him entertaining our visitors there.
Prince Dracula, now once more relieved from his duties in the bar downstairs, looked in, and I had introductions to perform. “This is Mr. Prince,” I said, using an alias we had agreed on earlier, “who has come down from London with me. He is another associate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Prince Dracula had been looking forward to a well-earned sleep, in his own room, during the day’s remaining daylight hours. but he was also eager to meet these people who were so deeply involved in our mystery. “How do you do?”
I thought that Rebecca Altamont colored slightly when Dracula bowed and greeted her with continental politeness–an assured manner which clearly indicated his noble origins.
Later, I heard from both Martin Armstrong and Miss Altamont, that they on seeing Dracula for the first time, had taken note, as I had myself, of the strong resemblance between the cousins. Though neither of the young people said anything at the time of their introduction, both, as they told me later, were ready to believe there was some family connection. Still, I thought the present likeness not as great as it had been six years earlier; my friend, I realized, had aged perceptibly in that interval–the change was more noticeable in the hours immediately following his confinement–while Holmes’s distant relative impressed me as looking even younger in 1903 than he had in 1897.
Both Miss Altamont and Armstrong, of course, were delighted to learn that Holmes had managed to avoid serious injury while in captivity. Soon the young man eagerly demanded of my friend what news he might have of Louisa.
Holmes shook his head. “There is no news directly; I did not see her, or hear her name mentioned.”
The American’s face fell. “but you know now who her captors are? They must be the same men who held you.”
“Very likely. but as yet I can tell you nothing on that score.”
Rebecca broke in: “At least you can tell us whether my sister is still alive? You now have evidence of that?”
Holmes looked very grave. “I am afraid I cannot promise you an answer on that point either.”
Armstrong leaped to his feet. “What do you mean? God! Don’t tell me the scum have killed her after all? Or that they have... have...”
“I said that I can promise you nothing. but perhaps I can show you something that has a bearing on Louisa’s
