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

years my senior, and must have seen more, and understood more at the time. I am referring to things one might think too horrible for any child to bear. Therefore the effects upon him were more severe than upon myself. I must warn you again, the mere mention of vampires could destroy him.”

   I waited, listening attentively, which is often the best thing a doctor can do for any patient.

   Holmes went on, in the same distracted tone: “My father was, as I think I have mentioned, a country squire. A kindly man, of considerable intelligence, though little fame. Also he was a man of great strength, for he survived... much.”

   I waited still.

   When Holmes resumed again, his voice had taken on the strain that of late had become all too frequent in it. “You know that Mycroft and I have both devoted our lives to intellectual pursuits. And neither of us has married...”

I had the strong impression that my friend was trembling upon the brink of some revelation or confession, which in prospect seemed to me likely to be terrible—the more terrible inasmuch as I could not for the life of me imagine what it might be, or whether, indeed, it would have any basis at all but the fancies engendered in a disordered brain.

   At this crucial moment we were interrupted by the bell. When I came back with telegram in hand, I saw with mixed feelings of relief and disappointment that in the brief interval my friend had pulled himself together, and the revelation was not to come.

   The telegram was from Superintendent Marlowe, addressed to Holmes, who promptly tore it open, and read it with an expression of satisfaction.

   “He has, as you may recall, Watson, a whole chain of warehouses under his direction; and this communication is in reply to one of my own, asking Mr. Marlowe in which building I should be likely to find a very large box or trunk, unloaded on or about the tenth of this month from some ship arriving at the East India docks from Mediterranean ports, and unclaimed by the owner. I shall be surprised now if we cannot put our hands on this piece of baggage in a matter of hours, and with luck we shall see its owner in a day or two.”

   “A trunk? I do not see—”

   “Are you ready to go out, Watson? Action is required. The game is afoot, and moves more quickly than I had anticipated.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

   As soon as I had recovered from the shock of being thus addressed by my true name, I turned to study more carefully the four people who confronted me. Only as I did so did I recognize, at the right hand of their leader and half a step behind him, the strongly built man who had so mysteriously and opportunely come to my aid at Barley’s. He had impressed me then as brave; now his brow was furrowed, though not, I thought, with any fear of me. He kept darting glances at the dominant figure of his chief, and bit his mustache as if in worry.

   The third man was quite young, and almost tremulous—I dismissed him, and my gaze moved on, to rest on the young woman. It would perhaps be an exaggeration to write that all idea of danger was at once swept from my mind. Let me say instead that her presence placed before me so strongly all of life’s joyous possibilities, that its cares and even its perils appeared much diminished in importance.

   “Your look mocks me, sir,” she said, with hardly any tremor in her voice, while her eyes boldly met mine.

   My admiration was increased. “Nay, I never mock beauty, and still less courage,” I replied. And now at last I locked my gaze against their leader’s. He reminded me of someone—I could not at first think who. “Fair warning,” I added. “Do not fire those guns at me.”

   “As I have said,” he answered, “they are for our own protection only. And now, Count, the truth, if you please, about Frau Grafenstein.”

   “Are you a policeman? Even so, I will not countenance your meddling in my affairs.”

   “I know that you killed that woman, and that you drank her blood.” It was a prosecutor’s voice.

   “I was extremely thirsty,” I responded, and saw the youngest and least steady of the men turn half away, shaking his head and muttering something to himself about the mother of his God.

   My violent demise, when it comes, will doubtless be attributable to my own overweening pride. With fine contempt I turned my back upon them all, and reached out again toward my trunk, thinking to pick it up and carry it away at once. The sound of the pistol behind me was quite loud within the four confining walls. Across my left forearm, extended to grip a handle of my box, a white-hot iron was laid, or rather smashed with numbing force. For a moment I believed that my arm had been utterly mangled, and I am afraid that I stared like a dunce at the sudden drip and flow of my own red blood along my wrist and fingers.

   But the arm, though punctured, was still essentially intact. Once more I turned, and looked into the unflinching eyes behind the smoking pistol-barrel. “My congratulations,” I offered, “on thinking of wooden bullets. I had begun to believe all Englishmen were fools.” Now that my eyes were opened, I could see that what I had taken for a crude club in the hands of the youngest man was in fact a finely-pointed wooden stake.

   My chief opponent—indeed, the only one of the four worthy of the name—bowed slightly, without relaxing either his aim or his alertness for an instant. “My apologies, Count,” he murmured, “but I considered it necessary to demonstrate at once the effectiveness of our weapons and the firmness of our purpose, lest you should force