“Sir,” I protested, “it was neither Holmes nor I who struck down the young man lying on your terrace!”
Energetically he waved off my protests. “No, of course not. Not with your own hands. but it was the interference, you see, which caused the trouble–it must have been.”
I would have protested, but fiercely he waved me to silence. “There are dark powers as well as light. I was warned about such things, but I would not listen. I did not believe, because I had not seen.” Then Altamont paused, seeming to reconsider. “Not that it is entirely–perhaps not even chiefly–your fault. I must share fully in the blame, Dr. Watson. I must curse the day when I brought you two here to interfere.”
Our client–now evidently our former client–went on to express great concern over the fate of Abraham Kirkaldy, which he at last seemed to realize, and to issue me a stern warning that all further harassment–by which he evidently meant all investigation–of the mediums must cease. Obviously the spirits were angry at our hostile intrusion, and with some justification.
Yes, Altamont was saying in effect, it was certainly too bad if something terrible had happened to Holmes, and if something even worse had happened to the poor young man–yes, he, Louisa’s father, blamed himself for bringing in the detectives.
He fixed me with the eye of a fanatic, even as he attempted to comfort his wife. “Can you understand now, Doctor, that we are dealing here with powers that must not be mocked? I tell you sir, my worst fear now is that tonight’s interference might have driven our little girl away from us for good!” And Madeline Altamont screamed again.
Meanwhile Martin Armstrong and I had begun to insist that the police must be called in–some unknown person had committed an act of violence which was almost certain to prove fatal. And–a servant discovered the fact while we were arguing–a robbery had taken place as well. A safe in Ambrose Altamont’s study was found open, and some items of jewelry it had contained, all fairly common things of no enormous value, had been taken.
Fortunately, Norberton House was equipped with a telephone.
The local constabulary were on the scene within twenty minutes following my call. A quarter of an hour after their arrival, they were in agreement with me that the help of Scotland Yard would, in this case, be very desirable if not absolutely essential. Holmes was still missing. No trace could be found of the weapon which had struck down Abraham Kirkaldy, while it was obvious that his injury must be due to something more than an accident.
Four more hours passed, and full daylight had broken over the scene before Scotland Yard’s help arrived, in the person of Inspector Merivale, whom I was heartily glad to see.
Merivale was a tallish man with keen blue eyes, dark hair, and a small mustache of which he was rather vain, frequently stroking or smoothing it with a finger. He was, I knew, regarded by Holmes as one of the best of the younger detectives at Scotland Yard. On his arrival he justified this opinion, as I thought, by temporarily setting aside the clamor of other witnesses wanting to be heard, to listen very seriously to my testimony regarding the disappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. To my disappointment, it soon became apparent to me that the representative of the Yard more than half-believed that Holmes had vanished of his own volition, and would reappear in the same way when he was ready.
Needless to say, I made no mention to anyone, including Merivale, of Holmes’s earlier suspicions regarding vampires, and how they had been confirmed. Whatever help my old friend might need from me, I would be unable to provide it while confined in an asylum.
An energetic search of the immediate vicinity revealed no trace of any skulking strangers–or of Holmes. At the direction of Scotland Yard, plans were made to bring in a dog to follow the trail. Within an hour of Merivale’s arrival, the animal and its handler were on the scene, and I provided them with some items of clothing Holmes had brought with him from London and which were now in his room. but after following what seemed to be the right trail through the garden for twenty yards or so, the brute came to a sudden stop, howled pitifully, and absolutely refused to go on.
Despite what had happened to young Kirkaldy, Merivale professed himself doubtful that Holmes faced any immediate peril; fraudulent mediums were not, as a rule, violent. Then he added: “You know, Dr. Watson, better than anyone else, what he’s like. The tricks he’s played on all of us down through the years.”
I shook my head wearily. “Nothing that happened last night was a trick, inspector. Not on our part, at any rate.”
All the police were willing to do whatever they could for Sherlock Holmes; but after the most thorough search possible of the house and grounds, they had no trail to follow.
I thought, but carefully did not say, that a powerful vampire, even when put to the inconvenience of carrying a breathing victim, was unlikely to leave any discernable trail, particularly after dark.
It was at that point that I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in one of the dark old mirrors still hanging on the library wall. Taking note of my own eyes red-rimmed and sleepless, my torn sleeve, the blood of Abraham Kirkaldy which had dried upon my hands and clothes, I was forced to admit to myself that I could do nothing more. And that there was only one person in the world to whom it was now possible for me to turn for effective help.
Being forced to the admission made it no easier to accept.
Seven
Ascending briefly to my room, I
