Despite our desire for secrecy, we had felt it our duty, before there was any question of a general announcement, to notify Inspector Merivale at least that Holmes was safe. We did so promptly, and Merivale then quietly called off the official search.
Merivale, having absented himself for a while on other business, returned at dusk to our rooms in the Saracen’s Head; this was rather awkward, as at the time Holmes and I were only awaiting for Dracula and Martin Armstrong to come back from Norberton House before we launched our clandestine operation to open the tomb of Louisa Altamont.
This time it was obvious from the inspector’s expression, even before we heard his report, that the official investigation was not going well. No convincing motive for the murder of Abraham Kirkaldy could be attributed to any of the people known to have been at the seance. No suitable weapon could be located; whatever object had been used (something much harder, sharper, and heavier than a human hand) must have acquired bloodstains. The reports of witnesses, including my own, were confused and contradictory regarding the presence, at the time of the murder, of another outsider besides the mysterious girl or woman in white. Some who had attended the seance had seen nothing of the kind, while others, including myself, were absolutely certain that at least one additional intruder had been present on the terrace.
In this state of general uncertainty, Merivale had succeeded in getting the official inquest postponed for a few more days.
My own version of events, as I now repeated it once more for the inspector, was simple, even though possibly hard to believe. It was also substantially, if not totally, truthful. I gave it as my impression that one or more unknown trespassers had invaded the seance and that they were responsible for the violence; but I had seen only vague shapes and could give no description of them. To make amends, in a sense, for this unsatisfactory evidence, I was able to hand the inspector the missing jewels which Mr. Prince in my presence had recovered from the cemetery.
Holmes was now able to offer the police some corroboration of my evidence. He stated that he was able to give no real description of his abductors–he allowed the implication to stand that there had been more than one. As far as he was concerned, they remained shadowy figures, impossible to identify.
My friend then told the inspector a convincing tale–similar to my own evidence in being true in its essentials, though incomplete–of being questioned in the dark woods and then imprisoned in the hidden crypt under the abandoned chapel.
Merivale marveled at all this, as well he might, but could not very well dispute any of it. He naturally expressed a wish to see the abandoned chapel, and announced his plan of visiting it when daylight came.
“Must be a gang, by the look of it,” said the Scotland Yard man, reluctantly, still marveling at Holmes’s story even before he had a chance to see the slab. “And the girl, Mr. Holmes? What about Louisa Altamont? Is she still alive or isn’t she?” The question had the sound of a fervent plea for help.
Holmes slowly shook his head. “In my opinion, Inspector, there is nothing to be gained by searching for a living Louisa. It is a tragic business, but I fear that sooner or later, the family will have to reconcile themselves to the facts.”
Merivale sighed. “As I thought, then. That’s too bad. Would you have a word with young Armstrong, Mr. Holmes? I’ve tried, and Dr. Watson has tried, to convince him that his young lady’s not coming back. Maybe if you...”
“I shall do what I can. I have already had a talk with Mr. Martin Armstrong.”
“Excellent.”
We had earlier received by telephone from Mycroft enough evidence to at least cast strong suspicion upon Count Kulakov. Holmes now suggested that the police begin to take an interest in the visiting Russian. At the same time, Holmes warned Merivale that the gentleman should be kept ignorant of the fact that the official police were interested in him.
“I strongly advise against making an arrest, or even bringing the man in for questioning. I doubt very much that you would find it possible to subject him to the penalties of the law.”
“He enjoys diplomatic immunity, you mean?”
“Something of the sort.”
Merivale seemed doubtful, but acquiesced and outlined a plan for assigning one or two good men to keep a watch round Norberton House at night.
“There’s another matter to be considered,” the inspector offered next. “We have to consider who played the part of the spook at both seances. The Altamonts continue to swear it was actually their daughter, materialized out of the world of spirits; and young Armstrong, too, believes it was really his fiancee, though he keeps the business on an earthly plane. If we must consider that impossible, can we rule out Sarah Kirkaldy herself as the mysterious ghost in white?”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “It seems to me we can. There I believe we are on somewhat firmer ground. My associate, Mr. Prince, has already spoken with her.”
Shortly after dark, Mr. Prince returned to the inn, having accomplished his assigned task of interviewing Sarah Kirkaldy. Dracula, looking younger and more energetic now that the sun was gone, appeared behind Inspector Merivale’s back to signal me through one of the windows of our upstairs sitting room. I made some excuse and joined the prince in the adjoining room.
Dracula wanted to inform me, out of Merivale’s hearing, that on his way back to the Saracen’s Head he had detoured to the private cemetery. There he had managed to pick up another piece or two of the recently stolen jewelry, and had also found evidence that our chief enemy–Count Kulakov, if our suspicions were correct–had revisited the old chapel in our absence. This evidence took the form of rampant, raging vandalism–headstones and a decorative stone bench had been smashed and the pieces scattered about. In any case, we might as well give up all hope and pretense of keeping the secret of Holmes’s survival.
While the inspector was still in our sitting room at the Saracen’s Head, I was called downstairs to take another telephone communication from Mycroft in London. The chief news Mycroft offered was that no connection whatsoever could be traced between the Russian exile named Gregory Efimovich, and Count Kulakov, or to anyone else in buckinghamshire– “though perhaps there is one to that fellow Ulyanov I mentioned.”
Even more dashing to our hopes for a solution, Mycroft’s Gregory Efimovich had been in jail in Liverpool for the past several months.
I had been introduced to Merivale, as I had been presented to Armstrong, to Rebecca Altamont, and to others, as Mr. Prince, one of the members of the small organization that the great detective had begun to put together in recent years–particularly since Watson had moved out of the baker Street lodgings.
Merivale, as he talked to me now, appeared a little dubious about Mr. Prince–or would have been dubious had not Sherlock Holmes solemnly vouched for me.
On hearing that I had just come from Norberton House, the inspector naturally wanted to know whether I had spoken to Sarah Kirkaldy there, and, if so, what I found out from her.
“Yes, I was privileged to talk to the bereaved girl–she is a sweet soul.” Out of the corner of my eye I beheld Watson, who had just entered the room, staring at me. What had possessed me to make Mr. Prince such a cloying individual in the eyes of Scotland Yard, I really do not know. “Her brother’s funeral is Saturday.”
“Right, and I plan to be there. How about you, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes, who had now come in as well, shook his head. “My plans are as yet uncertain.”
