Not knowing what I was expected to say, I went on: “He is a madman, certainly, and in his paroxysms must be immensely ferocious and strong. But we have known that from the first.”
Holmes said evenly: “I think he is not a madman. It is my belief that this man is a vampire.”
For a time there was no sound in our cab but that of its creaking motion, and the steady beat of the horse’s hooves. A kind of mist had come before my eyes, and I could find no words with which to reply.
My friend’s voice now seemed to reach my ears from a great distance. “Watson, I know it is a hard thing when the mental habits of a lifetime must be discarded. Had I not—had I not some private sources of information, I might well be as reluctant as you are to face the truth. But I shall need your help when I stand face to face with this vampire, and nothing less than the truth will serve to prepare you for the confrontation.”
What was I to do? In my despair I realized that to suggest to Holmes that he was not himself, that overwork had at last taken its toll upon his mind, would be worse than useless. The least harmful result I could imagine was that he would no longer communicate his true thoughts to me at all—and that, I felt, would prevent my helping him in any way toward recovery.
Meanwhile Holmes’ voice pursued me, and in it I now heard the dreadful certainty of madness. “Think, Watson: the man survived not only infection with the plague, but drowning, and after that a gunshot through the body. Think of the horrible strength and ferocity that tore out the woman’s throat and took her blood, then pulled apart those iron locks and heavy timbers at the hostel. No doubt we shall see fresh evidence of the same powers at the end of this little ride.”
“I must think about it, Holmes. You must give me time to grasp it.”
“Of course.” I could hear a certain weary relief in my friend’s voice. He thought that I was almost ready, or at least on the way to being ready, to grant that he was right. I had deceived my friend. My heart sank further, if that were possible.
“And now,” he added, “here we are.”
It was a vile neighborhood in which our cab had stopped. Here, as at the docks, I glimpsed the little mob of curious onlookers kept at a distance by police; here again, there stood a uniformed officer on guard, this time at a dark doorway, into which he passed us with a nod.
Having groped our way down into the damp and dimness of a wretched cellar apartment, we found Tobias Gregson, his electric torch in hand, evidently making an inch-by-inch search of the floor for clues. At our arrival he scrambled to his feet and offered greetings, his face a study in mixed emotions.
Holmes now seemed almost buoyant. “Have you any word yet, Gregson, on the identity of your supposed maniac?”
“No sir, we have not. It’s my own thinking now that he’s not escaped from anyone’s custody, but has just freshly gone off his nut.”
“Well, this latest modification of the official theory has the attractive quality of some freshness, at any rate. Now let us inspect the evidence.”
A second electric torch was resting on a small, shaky table; Holmes picked it up and tried it. “Switched on, you see, Watson, but the batteries are dead. Gregson, if I might borrow yours for a moment? Thank you. And so, here is the killer’s latest victim.”
Against the far wall of the cellar lay the body of a man dressed in cheap clothing. Though he was young and powerfully built, in death his brutal features had acquired a curiously aged, exhausted look. In the middle of the forehead a great depressed fracture was plainly visible, beneath a discoloration of the skin.
Holmes ignored this for the moment and examined the throat particularly. “No sign of a wound here. Do you think, Watson, this man has been exsanguinated?”
“I think not.”
“Gregson, what did the medical examiner say?”
“Sir?”
“The question is, has this body been drained of blood?”
Gregson blinked. “No sir, nothing was said along that line.”
Beside the man’s body lay an evil-looking clasp-knife, open. This Holmes now picked up, and on the tip of its blade he declared a tiny bloodstain to be visible.
Gregson commented: “That’ll support the girl’s story, Mr. Holmes. I mean that this beauty here was threatening her.”
“I am very anxious to speak with her; but still I felt it necessary to look in here first. Right wrist broken, wouldn’t you say, Watson?” Holmes was offering me the dead man’s arm to feel, as impersonally as if it had been a chicken wing.
Taking the lifeless, heavily-muscled limb into my grasp, I found I could make the bone-ends grate against each other beneath the skin. “Yes. Also, there seems to be no doubt about the cause of death.” I pointed to the ruined forehead.
“And very little doubt, that it was done with this.” Holmes picked up a fist-sized stone also lying nearby. “A good match with those in the walls. And observe the bits of mortar still adhering to it.” He shone the torch about into the room’s dim corners. “The electric light may prove to be one of the most practical aids to the criminal investigator since the invention of the microscope... But where did this piece come from?”
Holmes had to go out into the stairwell with the light before his search was successful. “Here, at about shoulder level. And the stone was dug out very roughly; with the fingers,
