Seance for a Vampire

Ten

Before going to Victoria Station I thought it best to stop in baker Street to pack some personal things–or, perhaps more accurately, to rearrange them–for my journey. The fact was that I had not yet unpacked from my previous trip to Amberley. Also I wished to leave word with Mrs. Hudson regarding my current plans and situation, and to examine any messages that might have arrived while I was gone.

Dracula, who continued in his role of driver, declined my invitation to enter the house. As we parted in the street outside, he assured me that I would find him there when I came down, and also cautioned me–rather unnecessarily, I thought–that I might well find it unsafe just now to go about in public without a bodyguard.

Entering the house, I ascended straight to my room to pack, without stopping to look into the sitting room; but on my way upstairs I encountered both Mrs. Hudson and billy–each of whom had been anxiously awaiting my return–and heard from them that the exhausted young couple were still asleep in their respective rooms. I hastily scribbled short notes of encouragement, one to be given to Armstrong and one to Miss Altamont as soon as they awakened, including the information that I was on my way back to Amberley.

My preparations for the trip were soon complete, being confined to essentials. In addition to the routine items which a traveler might be expected to carry on any journey, I brought along a well-stocked medical bag, and my old service revolver. In the circumstances I thought it wise to load the weapon with a few of the cartridges, fitted with wooden bullets, which had been especially made at Holmes’s order in 1897. The gunsmith was the blind German Von Herder, the same artisan once so well known for his skill at building deadly air guns. The wood, a waxy greenish-brown, was lignum vitae, very hard and too heavy to float in water. Against vampires these bullets were vastly more effective than any metal projectiles. For six years I had retained this ammunition as a curiosity, never thinking that we might again require it for a serious purpose.

When I came down to the street, Dracula, still in his character of driver, was waiting as he had promised. I noticed that the prince now wore a different hat, of dyed and woven straw, the sort of broadbrimmed head-covering which any person of his race would find useful if not essential against prolonged exposure to even the tempered English sun. In my absence the carriage had been moved to a different position at the curb, and on entering it again I discovered a carpetbag which had not been in the vehicle before. Evidently this was my new associate’s baggage for our journey, and he had obtained it somewhere, along with his new hat, during the few minutes I had been absent. Surely, I thought, he could not have gone far to get these things. It occurred to me for the first time to wonder whether Prince Dracula might have as many lairs or refuges in different parts of London as did Sherlock Holmes himself.

It was near midnight when we had arrived outside Victoria Station. As I was handing my companion’s carpetbag out to him, I both heard and felt a slight crunching of its contents, and the thought flashed across my mind that they must consist at least partially of dry earth. Dracula, I realized, must be carrying with him, as part of his regular baggage, a supply of his native soil. This substance was not, of course, to be consumed, but served as a necessary adjunct for vampirish sleep; to a man or woman of his race–or tribe, or species, if either of those classifications is more accurate–the soil of one’s homeland is every bit as much a necessity as food or water is to us.

There seemed nothing better to do with our captured vehicle than abandon it just outside the station. An hour later, my new associate and I boarded the next available train to buckinghamshire. It carried us out of London in the very early morning, more than twenty-four hours after Holmes’s disappearance.

Fortunately, at this early hour, we had a carriage to ourselves, illuminated by a dim electric light. Long before the great metropolis had fallen behind us, I had begun to relate to Prince Dracula in detail the facts of that last and dreadful séance in Norberton House, and its violent aftermath.

Dracula, seated opposite me, his body swaying in what seemed to me a faintly reptilian fashion with the motion of the train, was paying close attention. The prince studied me intently over a pyramid formed by his pale, long-nailed fingers–a gesture which emphasized his resemblance to his missing cousin–and interrupted once to express his contempt for séances in general.

“I have no patience with such spirit gropings, whether the perpetrators know they are employing trickery, or have convinced themselves that the effects they produce are genuine.”

“No?” Perhaps illogically, I was surprised.

“No.” He shook his head decisively. “In my experience, Doctor, men and women who have died the true death are thenceforward permanently and effectively separated from all the things and people of this world. It is my opinion that no amount of concentrated mental effort by one’s fellow humans, sitting in a darkened room, is going to change that fact. Now, I shall be obliged if you can begin at the beginning–or wherever you think best–and state your reasons for believing that at this moment, Cousin Sherlock is personally in great peril, and has not merely immersed himself in one of his eccentric modes of investigation.”

I began with the story which had been told us by our client Ambrose Altamont, and added the results of our subsequent investigation, giving as much detail as I could immediately recall. My auditor listened attentively, and almost without further interruption, only nodding soberly from time to time. At the conclusion of my tale I yawned uncontrollably, feeling a certain relief in having unburdened myself of my fears, and having done my duty, as I thought, to the best of my ability.

The prince seemed to concur. “I believe you have done well to call upon me. Regrettably, I cannot be sanguine about our chances of getting Cousin Sherlock back alive–but at the very least, Doctor, we will take a thorough vengeance upon his enemy.” My companion smiled, in a way that he evidently meant to be reassuring. “Now you should get some more sleep.”

Dracula’s voice as he uttered the last phrase seemed to reach me from a considerable distance. He had already drawn the blinds over the windows to shut out as much as possible, the rays of the newly risen sun, and in the dimness of the compartment, nothing but his eyes seemed clearly visible. The rocking motion of the train, the steady tumult of the engine, and the muffled chatter of wheels on rails were irresistibly lulling. I seem to recall beginning some formal protest; and then the next thing I remember is that pale and powerful hand upon my shoulder, that oddly reassuring voice informing me that we were pulling into Amberley.

I found myself notably refreshed by the brief slumber. There had been some delays en route, and the time of our arrival was midmorning, only a few hours earlier than on my previous trip with Holmes.

While on the train, the prince and I had decided to postpone, or omit altogether, any social call at Norberton House. The omission would put off the whole question of whether I was to introduce my new companion to the Altamont family, and if so, under what name? In any case I had not been invited to return as a guest of the Altamonts, and could expect no better than a cool reception on their doorstep.

Instead, Prince Dracula and I proceeded at once to secure lodgings at one of the local inns, with which the village and its surrounding neighborhood were fortunately well provided. A number of journalists and high police officials were already staying in the neighborhood because of the continuing investigation, and the promised inquest into the death of Abraham Kirkaldy. We heard that the latter function was currently being delayed at the request of the police, because at least one important witness–the reference was to Sherlock Holmes, no doubt– could not be found.

At any rate, when my companion exerted all of his considerable charm upon the landlady, we were able to get rooms at the Saracen’s Head, where Inspector Merivale was also staying–I thought that for some reason the name of the establishment particularly appealed to the prince. At the time of our arrival the landlord informed us that the Scotland Yard man was out in the countryside, continuing to lead the search for Holmes and for Louisa Altamont.

We assumed that Armstrong would soon return from London, and would again be staying at Norberton House.

The question of an exhumation had been raised earlier by Armstrong, but I thought there was no possibility of his convincing either Louisa’s parents or the police that such a procedure should be undertaken.

Shortly after our midmorning arrival, we were exposed to rumors current among the villagers, to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Altamont were eager–the husband now even more so than the wife–to arrangeyet another séance. The couple was determined this time to have no disruptive skeptics in attendance.

We learned also that rather than being under any kind of house arrest, Sarah Kirkaldy was still the cherished houseguest of the Altamonts. One version of the story among the villagers was that Sarah’s grief at her brother’s death had become so intense that there were fears for her reason; another account had her suffering an attack of brain fever.

By now, of course, the police had questioned the young spiritualist exhaustively. but by all reports, the Altamonts were offering her their protection and gave every indication of being ready to use their wealth and position to the utmost, if necessary, to defend Sarah, who had, as they thought, restored them to communication and even to direct contact with their departed daughter.

The fact that her brother had been fatally attacked during the last séance certainly tended to indicate that the Kirkaldys had been innocent in whatever crimes might have been committed.

To both Dracula and myself, the present attitude of Sarah Kirkaldy was unclear. It seemed very likely that the bereaved family would want to hold the new sitting in secret, as free as possible from police surveillance.

It seemed to us also that the elder Altamonts, anxious to convince the young people that their elders’ view of the situation was correct, would want Martin Armstrong as well as their younger daughter to attend the next séance; and young Armstrong might very well prefer to be there rather than to go poking into the mausoleum where, as he now believed, some stranger had been laid to rest.

But we had not come to Amberley to engage in speculation. I even resented Prince Dracula’s suggestion that I might want to stop for food before commencing our search for Holmes. However, we took some sandwiches and a flask of coffee along, as well as my usual medicinal supplies of water and brandy, and my revolver and my medical bag.

At a stable near the station we hired a horse and trap. When we climbed into our rented conveyance, Dracula took the reins and asked me for directions; he wanted to begin at the mausoleum in which Louisa had been laid to rest.

“There is no reason to suppose we will find Cousin Sherlock there, but I think it a likely spot at which to pick up a trail, of one kind or another.”

“Then let us begin there, and quickly.”

Dracula was obviously somewhat uncomfortable in the late-morning sunshine. Once or twice I could see him grimace as if in pain when a shaft of brilliance came stabbing through between the longer intervals of cloudiness. but, demonstrating the attitude of an old campaigner, he pulled down his wide-brimmed hat, put on some gloves, and dismissed any reference to his discomfort as he led the search for Holmes.

As we rode I explained to my new colleague that I saw several reasons to act on the assumption that Holmes had been kidnapped by a vampire–not necessarily Louisa.

“I shall rejoice to hear them.”

“Very well. First, Sherlock Holmes is, as a rule, quite capable of defending himself; no ordinary opponent would be likely to carry him off so quickly, almost without an outcry.”

“Assuming he has indeed been carried off, and did not choose to vanish–it would not be the first time he did that, as you are well aware. What else?”

“A second reason is that people of the...” I paused to clear my throat; a certain word still tended to stick there. “That vampires were, and are, certainly involved.”

“You are certain of this?”

“I am certain.” And I gave my reasons.

If I had expected a defensive reaction I was wrong; my companion only nodded. “It is most likely that you are correct. but proceed, Dr. Watson.”

“In the first place I am certain that the girl in white, appearing at the séance, was indeed a vampire, whether or not she was truly Louisa Altamont. And where there is one vampire–”

“–there is likely at least one more. Very good, Doctor. If we assume that you are correct, and that Miss Altamont acquired her nosferatu status rather abruptly about three weeks ago, then it is very likely that another of my kind–her lover, or her attacker–is still currently near at hand.”

As yet I had not actually visited the Altamonts’ family burial ground, but I had heard enough from Armstrong to be reasonably sure of its location. The cemetery lay on the bank of the Shade, somewhat less than half a mile in straight-line distance from the bend in the stream where Louisa’s drowning had taken place.

We reached our goal after a drive of less than half an hour from the inn. The ancient churchyard was enclosed by an iron fence which, along much of its extent, was almost hidden in luxuriant shrubbery. The graveyard had its own entrance from the road, and the area inside the iron fence was rankly overgrown, with a look of not having been properly maintained for years. In certain places the lush grass and wild flowers had recently been trodden down by human feet and heavily crushed by wheels and horses’ hooves; there was plenty of evidence that over the last few weeks the place had been repeatedly visited.

A small, ruined church or chapel, apparently older by several centuries than any of the visible graves, looked down from a small hill upon the cemetery and the wooded banks of the Shade, and lent something of a romantic aspect to the scene. Not much was left of this ecclesiastical structure but a few crumbling walls and arches, spotted with lichen and entwined with ivy, sweet honeysuckle, and woodbine.

But our first goal was near the middle of the cemetery. There stood the Altamont family mausoleum, a moss-grown structure as big as a small house, round which the indications of recent visitors were heaviest. This mausoleum was readily identifiable by the family name carved in the stone, and it, like the ruined chapel, was partially covered by the tall climbing vines.

Dismounting from our rented trap, Dracula soothed the restive horse with a few murmured words and a stroking of the animal’s neck. He then silently approached the sepulcher on its most shadowed side. The prince leaned against the stone wall, first with both hands and then, after removing his hat, with his pale forehead. After remaining in this position for a moment or two he turned away to inform me calmly that he had detected definite evidence of vampire activity within. He added that he perceived no trace of Holmes still living, in either the breathing or undead state.

I shuddered inwardly to think of my old companion become a vampire, or imprisoned in a tomb.

The prince, frowning, put on his hat again and backed away a step from the Altamont mausoleum, looking about him keenly.

“We must expand our search a bit, I think,” he remarked, and started to walk slowly away. Then he turned back to me as if in afterthought. “You were certainly right about one thing, Doctor. There is a young girl who even now is sleeping–quite breathless, but not truly dead–inside these walls.” And he stretched out a long arm to touch the old stone once more with a white hand.

I could not entirely repress a shudder. “Louisa Altamont?”

Dracula shrugged. “Very likely. I cannot tell her name. Later perhaps we will awaken her and ask. but that will best be done after sunset; and first we must find Cousin Sherlock, while we have grounds for hope that he is breathing still.”

Several other charnel houses stood scattered about the half acre which, a century ago, must have been an active country churchyard, small but yet well-tended. None of these other mausoleums were quite as large as the Altamonts’. Some were older and some newer, but in general, none showed any sign of having been disturbed for years, or even decades. A variety of smaller stone monuments and headstones shared the area and the same condition of general neglect.

Prince Dracula made the round of graves and tombs, evidently testing each, through some procedure that was invisible to me. His search was without result, though he paused several times, once for a full minute, to stare down at a tangle of vines, long undisturbed, beneath his feet.

During this part of his search, he bent swiftly and, with a grunt of speculation, straightened up, holding an object that glinted a bright yellow in his hand. It was a golden pin, set with some greenish stones which I took to be not emeralds, but perhaps jade, aquamarine, or garnet.

“That,” I announced, “may well be one of the pieces of jewelry taken from the house on Wednesday night, while the sitting was in progress or shortly afterward. All were moderately valuable. but why is it here?”

Dracula only shrugged, handed the golden thing to me, and once more concentrated upon his search.

I inspected the pin briefly before dropping it into my pocket for eventual delivery to the police. It was a family heirloom sort of thing, and no ordinary burglar would have thrown it away; on the other hand it certainly did not represent the kind of treasure whose loss might be expected to provoke a thirst for vengeance lasting for more than a century.

I considered this find a possibly helpful development. but of course it could not be allowed to distract us from our main goal.

Dracula seemed already to have forgotten it. “None of the others who lie here are restless,” the prince murmured at last. Then he raised his head, fixing his gaze in steady contemplation of the ruined chapel standing on its little hill nearby.

Moments later, we had climbed the wooded hillock together and Dracula was leading the way into the now-roofless structure. Scarcely had he taken three steps across that old pavement, which still bore in places broken fragments of mosaic decoration, before he paused in an attitude of listening, one hand upraised in my direction, commanding silence.

The pause was only momentary. Quickly my companion darted ahead, and as quickly stopped. “Here, Doctor Watson. Under the floor!” He stamped his foot lightly on a stone slab that must have weighed at least a quarter of a ton. “Sounds of breathing. And a heartbeat, slow but still strong.”

If there was indeed a cavity beneath that ancient floor, the mass of stone was too great to resound hollowly from the impact of a boot. I hesitated. “Then we must get tools–”

“You need bring only the tools of your profession, from the trap. be quick!” And already the prince was crouching, digging and probing with nervous, bony fingers at the edges of the slab. Stone flaked and crumbled under those long nails which seemed able to bite and penetrate with the force of steel tools.

Hesitating no longer, I ran, stumbling through weeds and over gravestones, back to the trap, and as quickly returned with my bag to the chapel. In those few moments Dracula had made astonishing headway in loosening the stone, which did not appear to be mortared in place, but fitted almost exactly the space in which it lay. barehanded he had chipped away an opening beside it, and was now lying at full length on the old pavement, reaching with one thin arm underneath the slab, which as yet he had not attempted to remove.

He chuckled–a thoroughly delighted and unpleasant sound. When he spoke, his voice sounded much more pleased than outraged. “As I thought... very pretty... a snare for the unwary. Any incautious effort to lift the stone would cause it to slip and fall straight down upon the victim in the cavity beneath.”

I shuddered. “How did you know there was such a snare?”

His head turned slightly and a dark eye glittered at me, while the visible portion of his body, excluding the arm beneath the stone, remained utterly immobile. Again I was struck by something distinctly reptilian in the man’s aspect.

At the same time his voice remained very human, and indeed gentlemanly. “because, Doctor... it is just the sort of thing I should have arranged myself... in our opponent’s place. Ah, there we are!”

As soon as the mechanism of the snare, whatever its exact nature, had been disabled, the prince gave a little cry of triumph, then withdrew his arm from beneath the stone and crouched beside it in the position of one about to lift a heavy object. before I could offer to help, there came a moment of apparently effortless exertion, and the immense stone slab rose on one side–a feat that, I was sure, would have tested the strength of three or four ordinary men.

Revealed was a little crypt or cavity, not much bigger than an ordinary coffin, and nearly filled by the form of a man who lay upon his back, eyes closed, his limbs tightly bound with rope.

“Holmes!”

Scrambling down into the pit beside my friend, I seized a thin white wrist. A moment later, to my immense relief, I could detect a pulse. “Holmes! Holmes, speak to me!”

To my indescribable joy, those pale eyelids fluttered open; the dry lips stirred. In a moment I had uncorked my flask of brandy and water and was lifting the victim’s head. My friend drank avidly, and coughed, and then could speak.

His voice was so weak as to be almost inaudible. “Watson. A timely arrival. I... was confident that... that you...”

“Of course, of course. You must not exert yourself just yet. breathe deeply.”

“The blessed light of day,” Holmes murmured feebly. “There for a while, Watson, I feared that I might never see the light of day again.”