The Holmes-Dracula File Fred Saberhagen (feel good fiction books txt) 📖

occurred to you, Watson, that our two most recent cases have something in common?”

   “The warehouse from which John Scott’s things were removed is no great distance from the dock where the body of the unfortunate woman was found.”

   “True. But I had in mind a feature odder than mere geographical proximity.”

   “An involvement with out-of-the-ordinary medical materials.” Holmes nodded. “Precisely.”

   “Something of the sort did cross my mind,” I admitted, then located a paper in my coat pocket, and brought it out. “Here is the copy you gave me of Peter Moore’s inventory of the material taken from the warehouse. I have looked into it, and find no specific mention of any shirt like the one on the pier.”

   “Quite true.” Gazing abstractedly past me. Holmes drew from his violin a thin, wild note. “But then Peter Moore did not have time to catalogue all the equipment before it was removed. Watson—”

   “Yes?”

   “Would a peculiar shirt of that type be likely to be of any use to a scientist studying plague?”

   “In some cases, the victim may be driven to the maddest violence by delirium and excruciating pain.”

   “The human victim.”

   “Yes, of course.”

   Holmes put down his violin as abruptly as he had taken it up. “I find, Watson, that the time for concentrated mental effort has not yet arrived. Or perhaps I am simply not capable of it at the moment.”

   “My dear chap!”

   “No, no, I am not ill. But this business of the killing on the docks...” Once more Holmes let his words trail off.

   “I can see it has affected you. Is it possible that you recognized the victim?”

    “I did not.”

   “Do you think Lestrade will find the escaped madman he is looking for?”

   “I trust he will.” Never before had I heard such genuine fervor in Sherlock Holmes’ voice when he was wishing his professional rivals success. “If he fails to do so... then I shall have to take a hand, in earnest. And I tell you, Watson, that I would rather not.”

   Holmes turned to face me directly as he spoke these last words, and in his speech and manner there was such an unusual depth of feeling that I stepped forward and laid a hand upon his arm. “I think it will be better, Holmes, for you to take a holiday. London in summer is not the most—”

   “Bah!” He shook me off impatiently. “Do not talk to me now of holidays. Perhaps after this affair on the docks is settled.” As if to himself he added: “Oh, but it is an offense to sanity.”

   “You mean the killer is insane? But that is surely not uncommon in a murderer.”

   “I do not mean the killer’s motive; or not that alone.” Holmes paused, looking at me as if with a kind of silent pleading.

   At last I prompted: “I must say that the case of John Scott does not appear to me any plainer.”

   He smiled lightly. “Nor to me, as yet. But that is because that puzzle is incomplete. When I have more of the pieces in hand, I feel sure that they will fall together. But in the puzzle of the killing on the docks, I fear, Watson, that one of the pieces may be of the wrong shape. And what shall we make of that, hey?”

   Holmes’ manner was now grown positively feverish. Emotions I could not identify had him in their grip.

   “And if the two cases should be connected, Watson, where does the connection stop? What if the whole world is destined to be the wrong shape, after all?”

   I was now genuinely alarmed. “Holmes, you must abandon this case at once. As your doctor, I insist that you must put it aside and rest.”

   “No, Watson.” What effort of will it may have cost him I shall never know, but in a few seconds my friend managed to appear fully in control of himself and as formidable as ever. “With regard to other work, I shall take your advice. But it is absolutely impossible that I should abandon either of these two cases until they are solved, or until I am convinced at least that it is safe and proper for me to do so.”

   As I stood in silence, not knowing what to think or do. Holmes, now looking perfectly normal, reached for his hat. “I am going out,” he said, “to send a telegram or two to Plymouth, to try to learn if John Scott or his imitator has in fact taken ship from that port recently.” He paused, looking at me with concern. “All will be well, old fellow, I assure you.”

   I shook my head. “I wish I were as convinced of that as you seem to be at the moment.”

   “Depend upon it.” Holmes had never been more masterful.

   I sighed. “Then, if there is anything that I can do—”

   “There on my desk, Watson, are the letters Scott sent to Miss Tarlton from Sumatra. I should be pleased to have your opinion of them. And there is one thing more.”

   “You have but to name it.”

   “I fear I stand in need of protection—no, not from my enemies this time, Watson, but from my friends—or, at any rate, my clients. In Miss Tarlton I sense the type, fortunately rare, who is only too anxious to assist the hired investigator, and Mr. Moore’s note suggests that he shares this tendency. Such excessive zeal may be basically a result of American energy, but it is undoubtedly intensified by the fact that the young lady, at least, has no routine business to occupy her in London. So when they return here, separately or together, I ask you to consider them as your patients, suffering perhaps from anxiety, and to provide them with such attentions and reassurances as may keep them from taking any investigative action on their own, while I am at work upon the case.”

   “I see what