It never ceased to amaze me the way that you could walk into a room and tell me dozens of details that my own observations could never have gleaned – the scents of all those people in the room, the presence of a flower that had shed no petals, the brand of perfume too faded for me to detect – these and more! You could detect at a sniff whether a man was lying or truthful, or the time of death of a corpse under varying conditions… I wonder now if the admiration I felt for your skills is anything akin to the reactions of those clients of mine who remark with admiration on my own simplistic deductions upon our first meetings!
But it was always Lestrade – poor Lestrade – who bore the brunt of our investigative prowess…
Inspector Lestrade always experienced a vague feeling of dread whenever he had to visit Baker Street. It was not so much because he feared Sherlock Holmes; they had been working together far too long for the Inspector to be all that intimidated by the great detective any more.
It was more because he never knew what kind of a reception he was going to get. Either Holmes would be delighted to see him; not on a personal level, but because he was desperate for a case, or else the man was dismissive. This would be because Holmes already had a busy case load, or there was a client present, or the mystery that had driven Lestrade to the lodgings at 221b was too trivial or – most annoyingly to the Inspector – Holmes had already solved it simply by reading the newspapers.
Lestrade knew that the detective had a number of cases on, including something to do with a dog attack that Gregson was investigating, but he had no reason to suspect that the great Holmes would turn down this particular case. Nonetheless, out of sheer habit and slight apprehension, Lestrade hesitated accordingly on the doorstep. However, the missing person he had been presented with was too important and he was under too much pressure already to find the man. It was also fairly chilly, the March mid-morning having a distinctly cold snap to it.
Swallowing his hesitation and mentally marshalling the facts of the case ready for presentation, Lestrade therefore knocked on the door. The familiar, diminutive figure of Mrs Hudson opened the door. Lestrade removed his hat and wiped his shoes before he entered, and she nodded approvingly.
"Good morning, Inspector," she said, "I've just taken a tray of coffee up; I think Mr Holmes is expecting you, though he's not long been back from the Yard…"
"Really? Oh, yes… he'll have read the paper this morning," Lestrade nodded, absently handing her his coat as he unconsciously straightened his jacket and smoothed down his hair, "thank you, Mrs Hudson."
"I'll announce you, Inspector," she told him, already climbing the stairs.
Lestrade followed her, waited to be announced, and stepped into the cluttered sitting room on cue. Holmes was sitting at the dining table, reading the morning newspaper. Dr Watson was sitting on the settee, reading a leather-bound journal with apparent deep interest. As Lestrade entered, Holmes tossed the paper aside haphazardly, and got to his feet. Watson slammed the book shut and similarly leapt up, as if embarrassed to have been caught reading it.
"Gentlemen," Lestrade greeted them, wearily, and went straight to the point, "Holmes, I have a case for you… that is, if you're interested?"
"I had suspected as much," Holmes replied, dryly, "I doubted that you had attended my lodgings for any other reason than to admit to further failings in the ranks of Scotland Yard. If it is with regards to the theft of Lady Erstinger's diamond necklace, it was taken by the children's former governess."
"It has nothing to do with that, but thank you for the tip," Lestrade replied, not bothering to ask how Holmes had solved the matter without even leaving his rooms, "I have a missing person of great importance…"
"Sir Isaiah Bryce," Holmes noted, "yes, I read of his disappearance this morning. The newspapers say he has been missing for at least two weeks."
"That is true," Lestrade said, "he was reported missing by his butler. A search of his house revealed nothing; none of his clothing or luggage was missing, save for what he had been wearing the day he disappeared. There has been no sign of a struggle, no body, no ransom demands, nothing."
"On that same night, two prostitutes in the neighbourhood also disappeared," Holmes told him, with a dry smile, "one of them turned up yesterday with her throat slit, the other has yet to be found. I have long suspected Sir Bryce of having been involved in the previous disappearances of such women. This time, he was probably observed; he has fled the country, Inspector. You will not find him."
"Holmes," Lestrade scowled, "you cannot possibly have reckoned all of that from simply reading the newspaper. Besides, Sir Isaiah is very well respected…"
"Inspector," a dangerous, warning edge crept into Holmes's tone; "I have told you before that despite the paucity of evidence and the embellishments some of our local journalists see fit to add haphazardly to their reporting, it is easy to draw inferences as much from what is not said as it is from what is actually written. You must also observe articles that are printed on the same day, and learn to see the connections between them."
"I fail to see how you conclude that Sir Bryce has fled the country after murdering a couple of whores."
Holmes sniffed disdainfully, and sighed, even as he sat in his chair and crossed his legs, a gleam of amusement in his grey eyes.
"Very well," he said, "I shall spell it out for you. Sir Bryce is a very rich man, but very reclusive. When he is seen in public, it is commented upon. He is something of a celebrity, a famous game-hunter, and as such is well noted in the social scene when he deigns to make an appearance. When he attends a restaurant, for example, the fact is advertised, and the restaurant's patronage increases as a result. It is therefore easy to track the man's movements, and to determine which evenings he was out of his home."
"I'm with you so far," Lestrade noted, giving Holmes a sideways glance, "but I'm not convinced..."
Holmes held up his finger, signalling that he would get to the point soon enough; "On no less than six occasions, sightings or comments on the activities of Sir Bryce corresponded with the disappearance of one or two prostitutes. Only very rarely did a body show up afterwards, the throat usually slit and dumped in the river."
"Coincidence," Lestrade scoffed, but signalled for Holmes to continue.
"I was unable to obtain firm evidence of his involvement due to his semi-reclusive ways," Holmes admitted, "However, approximately two weeks ago, there was a full moon. Sir Bryce dined out that night, boasting to several friends and a reporter that he was planning to go on a big game hunt. That night, he disappeared, a young woman turned up dead and another is missing. She will, in all likelihood, never be found. Sir Bryce's big hunt was to pray on human life; no doubt this time, because of the light of the full moon, he was seen by someone who might identify him, either in the act of the killing or in the act of dumping the body. He could not risk a quick response, so he fled the country. He had no way of knowing that whoever saw him did not report the matter."
Lestrade was silent for a long moment, and then said; "We have no evidence to support anything you've just said."
"You have no evidence at all either way, Inspector," Holmes replied, "Sir Bryce was clever enough to cover up his crimes. However, when you look at the facts of the circumstances, you will see that my conclusions are the logical inference."
"Then you are refusing to investigate further," Lestrade realised, with a sinking feeling.
"Why would I need to investigate further?" Holmes quirked one eyebrow, "the crime scene is unknown and the evidence two weeks old; I need no further investigation to know that I am correct. Sir Bryce is gone and will not return. I suggest that you report to Whitehall accordingly."
Lestrade sighed, and resisted the urge to wring his hands in despair. His superiors were not going to like Holmes's conclusions, but Lestrade knew from long experience that the detective was, in all likelihood, correct. Lestrade was now faced with the tedious task of proving it; unlike Holmes, his superiors preferred evidence a little more concrete than the coincidences thrown up by a few newspaper clippings.
"Yes," he said, at length, suddenly aware of the silence and the fact that it was his turn to speak, "well… thank you for your time. Good day, Holmes… doctor…"
He tipped his hat, and left the sitting room. Trekking down the stairs, he bade farewell to Mrs Hudson, and went to face his superiors.
Holmes waited for a long moment, heard the front door slam, and allowed a rare, broad smile to cross his face.
"I think I convinced him," he commented, sounding pleased.
"You did," Watson confirmed, with a nod, "poor Lestrade. He believed every word you said."
"And so he should – the vast majority of it was true."
"Except for the part about Bryce having fled the country," Watson agreed, "he's dead… and he wasn't just hunting prostitutes, he was hunting us. Lestrade would have a fit if he knew the true circumstances."
"He would have a harder time believing the truth than he did the fiction I just wove for him," Holmes said, with a slight hint of amusement, "the poor fool."
"A month or so ago, I wouldn't have believed it myself," Watson replied, in defence of the Inspector, "Werewolves and vampires in London – I ask you!"
The two of them shared a chuckle, as Holmes went to retrieve his newspaper. Watson took his place in his own customary armchair. He was reading the journal kept by Stapleton, the evil werewolf behind the hound of the Baskervilles charade, and indirect cause of Watson's own transformation. He found himself shuddering involuntarily at the violence and blood-lust Stapleton wrote of, claiming them to be his wolf-nature – Watson had no such inclinations himself, and was content to believe that this was merely a reflection of personality, not a result of the werewolf's curse. He heard Holmes sigh and set aside the paper; his friend's mood smelt melancholy (he had never appreciated before how the unique blend of hormones, sweat and other odours could lend emotions their own distinct aromas). Clearly, there was nothing in the columns to interest that great mind.
"Holmes?" he said, questioningly, not looking up from the journal, "I can smell your boredom. Dare I assume that you have no cases to occupy you?"
"Lestrade's missing person and Gregson's dog attack victim are the only two interesting cases to come my way recently," Holmes growled, "In the first, I am the culprit, and in the second, the murderer is a man who can turn into a wolf. I have solved both of these cases and can reveal the solution to neither."
"I am sorry, my dear fellow," Watson quietly got up, and replaced the journal on the highest shelf of his bookcase, "I quite understand – and I am sorry to have put you in this position."
"Hardly your fault, Watson," Holmes replied, distantly and dismissively, "No, I shall just have to see what else comes my way – something of a less supernatural nature, one would hope…"
Watson quirked a smile; "In that case, shall we dine out for lunch? New werewolf in the city or not, it is a marvellous day, and I quite feel like going for a walk."
"Shall I fetch your leash?"
"Holmes!"
Ah, yes – Sir Isaiah Bryce. A vampire! I would hardly have credited it – had a client come to me with such a story, I would have scoffed at such a fanciful notion and ushered him quickly from our chambers to deal with something far more down-to-earth. My mind is so much more open now than it ever was, even in my fanciful youth. Ah, yes, Watson! Even I was a child once!
Bryce, I seem to recall, was a relatively young vampire, with limited power. I thought him to be the only one in London. Subsequent cases would prove me wrong, unfortunately – I have always said that one should not draw conclusions without first gathering data and analysing the facts. I did not have the time for the study of quantitative data, and such materials as were available were laced with inaccuracies and scare-mongering fiction. Suffice to say, having discovered that vampires are a far more sociable species than the lycanthropes (forgive me, Watson; I simply abhor the word 'werewolf'!) and are more tolerant to visitors in their territories.
Territory was an interesting concept to us both… I quickly came to realise that despite claiming no territory, you fought to protect London as much as I had ever done in my own way. I understand now that you were protecting territory… our territory.
And God help any who dared to trespass upon our soil.
The rest of their day was pleasant, yet unremarkable. They strolled around the city, ran a few errands, and dined well at a local eatery. Holmes made deductions about those people unfortunate enough to be sitting nearby. Watson made several confirmations or corrections based on overheard snatches of conversation, or scents he could distinguish with his marvellously heightened senses.
"Oh, for your gifts, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, at one such revelation, "I could observe a hundred times more details…"
It was late afternoon by the time they returned to their Baker Street lodgings, only to be met by an anxious Mrs Hudson.
"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed, emerging from the kitchen as soon as they stepped into the hall, "Oh, Mr Holmes – I'm glad you've come back. There's a gentleman upstairs to see you, sir – he insisted on being let in and waiting for you. I'm afraid there was nothing I could do…he pushed right past me, so he did, sir!"
"Do not concern yourself, Mrs Hudson," Holmes replied, breezily, shrugging out of his coat, "I will see him, of course."
"He dresses like a gentlemen, but he certainly isn't one," Mrs Hudson grumbled, as she busied herself taking their coats and hats, "no manners at all…"
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Watson smiled at her, as they headed up the stairs to their rooms.
"I'll bring some tea up," Mrs Hudson said, bustling back into the kitchen, "after your visitor has gone!"
Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs, Holmes reached out to open the sitting room door, when Watson suddenly grabbed his wrist. Holmes raised his eyebrow questioningly, as Watson leaned forwards and sniffed, carefully.
"What is it, Watson?" Holmes whispered.
"I don't know," Watson replied, in a murmur, "I thought there was an unusual scent – but all I can smell now is aftershave, and it is incredibly pungent!"
Holmes gave him a curious look, grasped the handle, and pushed open the door.
The fog of strong aftershave and even stronger tobacco assailed them as soon as he did so, and Holmes stepped forwards even as Watson recoiled slightly. Recovering himself and making an effort to breathe through his mouth only, Watson came through the door and closed it behind him. Their guest turned to face them, coolly removing his cigar from his lips and giving them a broad, yellow-toothed smile.
"Ah," he growled, in a rough voice, "you must be Holmes and Watson. Had a good afternoon, did we?"
Holmes arched his eyebrow at the man's rudeness, even as he took in his appearance. Their visitor was tall, easily matching Holmes's height. He was a broad-shouldered man with a muscular build and upright bearing. His countenance was tough, with a strong, clean-shaven jaw and a steely, brown-eyed gaze. He had thick, light-brown hair, and he wore expensively tailored clothes. A gold pocket watch chain hung across the front of his well-cut waistcoat, but his rough, calloused hands belied a harder way of life than his clothes implied. He was clearly wealthy, but he spent a lot of time outdoors – probably hunting and fishing, if the calloused, rough skin were anything to go by.
"Quite pleasant, thank you," Watson was replying to the man's sarcastic comment, even as Holmes made his deductions, "I am Dr Watson; this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am afraid that you have the advantage, Mr…?"
"I am the Count Jeremiah Joseph de Silva," the man announced, fixing a glare on Holmes, ignoring Watson's proffered hand, "I demand your assistance, Holmes. My life is in immediate danger…"
The Count broke off, sniffed disdainfully, and narrowed his eyes at Holmes.
"Do you keep a dog around here, Holmes?" he asked, glancing around suspiciously.
Holmes raised one eyebrow, and swept his coat-tails aside with one hand as he perched himself in a chair, leaning forward to give the Count an appraising look; "Our estimable landlady keeps a small terrier as a defence against rats," he replied, even as he settled himself, "do not concern yourself, sir; the dog usually stays in the kitchen downstairs. Watson, would you mind perhaps taking some notes?"
The Count sniffed again and gave him another glare, as Watson crossed to his desk, trying to ignore the pungent smells pervading the room. Surreptitiously, he opened the window, before retrieving his pencil and journal. Instead of sitting down at his desk, Watson took a standing position beside Holmes's chair. There was something about the Count that he did not trust. The strong smell of cologne and cigars was having a devastating effect on his sensitive sense of smell, blinding him to any nuances of emotion or intent on the part of their imposing visitor.
"I am allergic to dogs," the Count said, imperiously, as if by way of explanation.
"Indeed," Holmes sounded interested at this triviality, so Watson made a note of it, "tell me, Count," Holmes continued, "why you should see fit to invade my rooms and harass my landlady? Do you truly believe yourself to be in such immediate danger?"
"My wife is the Countess Teresa de Silva," the Count replied, "she… she seeks to kill me. Holmes, my wife is a twisted soul, a vile little witch with her eye on my family fortune. There are no other heirs. In the event of my death, she will inherit our lands, our title and our fortune. Dissatisfied with the allowance I pay her – and a generous one, I might add – she seeks my downfall. She has already failed twice in her attempts, but she grows ever bolder..."
"Does she act through agents?" Holmes asked, "I see no wounds upon your person, nor any traces of previous injury; pray, disclose how these attacks took place."
"She acts directly upon my person – I am attacked by my own beloved," the Count replied, grimly, pacing the sitting room restlessly, "she needs no agents to act, she is strong enough in her own mind and body to deal me a fatal blow."
Holmes suddenly threw back his head and let out a bark of a laugh; "Sir! I have yet to meet a woman who could hope to match you in size and strength. What makes you fear you wife so?"
"Even the most petite woman can wield a pistol or a poison bottle, Holmes," the Count snapped, "I have already been derided by the police and did not come here to be mocked by you!"
"Then why have you come here, sir?"
"To reclaim my errant wife," de Silva replied, making a visible effort to reign in his temper, "she is mentally deranged, Mr Holmes – she ought to be in an asylum, but I prefer to pay for private nursing for her at home. Despite it all, I do still feel something for her..."
Holmes's lip twitched in barely disguised disdain at the sentiment. The Count seemed to realise that the detective would not be swayed by emotion, as he threw back his head and laughed; a deep, throaty sound that made Watson grit his teeth.
"Very well, Mr Holmes, you are not convinced! Then I shall pitch my offer; help me to find my poor wife in this sprawling city, and you shall be very well rewarded. I am a stranger here, and I stand little chance of finding her in this large population, but I am incredibly rich."
Count de Silva smiled his foul, yellow-toothed smile once more, though there was no warmth behind the expression. Holmes pressed his forefingers to his lips, giving the man an appraising look. Finally, he inclined his head.
"Very well," he said, as Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise, "we will do what we can. Where can I find you, should I need to?"
"You will find me at the Queen's Hotel," de Silva replied, standing and ramming his top hat down onto his unruly hair, "do please find her quickly; she will be in need of her medication, lest her delusions become more… vivid. I have followed her to London but she no doubt knows that I am here. She is clever enough to turn the tables on me and may be following me even now… I doubt that she would hesitate to shoot me on sight."
Holmes inclined his head slowly, and then asked a question that took Watson by surprise; "And who is the female companion who travels with you?"
At the Count's quirked eyebrow, Holmes elaborated; "You have a woman's lace handkerchief in your trouser pocket; I can see the edge of lace. Not the sort of thing a gentleman would carry unless he had asked to use it and then placed it in his pocket rather than hand it back sullied. The flower in your button hole was clearly placed there by a fairer hand than your own; it is clearly not an affectation that you are comfortable with, as you have adjusted it four times since stepping into the room. She is clearly, therefore, not a maid or servant, nor is she your wife. She is therefore either a mistress or a relative; I should be grateful if you would advise me as to which."
The Count hesitated, and growled low in his throat before he replied; "She is my daughter. My wife may also wish her harm, and she travels with me for her own protection. Find my wife, Holmes!"
With that, de Silva turned, and left without a word of goodbye. Holmes raised his eyebrows, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers together, thoughtfully, listening as the front door slammed shut. Watson immediately flung open the window as wide as it would go, and took a deep, grateful breath or fresh air.
"What do you make of him, Holmes?" the doctor asked, as he rubbed the bridge of his nose as if trying to dispel a headache.
"Unusually for a man of his stature, he genuinely fears his own spouse. Is there anything that you can tell me about him, Watson, which my own deductions could not?"
"That he has an inordinate love of bathing in perfumes," Watson groaned, leaning out of the window slightly, "he wore no less than four that I could distinguish, as well as smoking incredibly strong cigars. I couldn't smell anything else on him!"
As Watson leaned out of the window, he saw de Silva approaching a carriage. The door was opened for him from inside, and Watson caught a glimpse of a white-gloved hand pulling quickly back into the carriage before the Count stepped aboard. The cab took off at some speed, as Watson sighed and turned back into the room; "I am sorry, Holmes – there's nothing else I can tell you."
"Don't be, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, distantly, "your sense of smell is an excellent tool, but you must remember to use your eyes as well. What else did you observe?"
"Well," Watson hesitated for a moment, consulting his notes and gathering his thoughts, "he was correct when he says that he is wealthy – his clothing was of an excellent cut. His cigars, while noxiously strong, were a top brand. He is physically very strong, and spends a lot of time outdoors…"
He trailed off, and Holmes nodded; "Good, but not quite the whole story. He is somewhat longsighted, I should say, from the way he squinted slightly. He is right-handed, and, despite his obvious wealth, he has travelled cheaply and is staying in fairly low-rent accommodation. He is not attended by servants as there is dust upon his jacket, though as I remarked, he has a female companion. I believe him when he says that she is his daughter. He travels frequently on foot rather than by horse or carriage, as his shoes and trouser hems bear the mud and dirt of numerous streets and districts – he had indeed been searching hard for his wife… and then there is his mention of an allergy to dogs… hmm… He is also a careless eater, for I noticed the stains of food upon his shirt collar and cuffs."
"What do you make of it, Holmes?" Watson asked, quietly, as the detective stared sightlessly as the far wall, leaning forwards intently as his mind analysed the facts presented to him.
"There is something deeply serious going on beneath the surface here, Watson," Holmes told him, "I already have good reason to believe that there is a crime about to be committed – and might already have been committed – by our mysterious Count, or perhaps even by his equally enigmatic wife. The woman in the carriage remains an unknown element… for now. It may relate to… no, never mind that now. I do need to find the Countess to be sure that my suspicions are correct. We should, perhaps, wait until nightfall…?"
"Agreed," Watson nodded, leaning out of the window slightly further, "though we will struggle to track her without clue or scent…and what about the woman in the carriage?"
"I subscribe no importance to her until we have further facts at our disposal. The Countess must be our first priority, and in that respect I have clues a-plenty, Watson, which is scent enough for a nose such as mine. We must find the Countess de Silva … I am sure that there is murder plotted here, and I intend to both discover its motive and prevent its act."
You know better than any, dear Watson, that I do not place much faith in the vagaries of emotion. Yet that day I knew, somehow, that we were in great danger. It is the basest of man's instincts to fear what he does not know; to cower in the darkness rather than reach out to strike a light lest he see what he fears to be there.
I have never feared to strike a light in the darkest of places, Watson. With you at my side, I have walked imperiously though the darkest of streets and gazed in the souls of the most depraved creatures on Earth without trepidation or second thought…
Yet, that day, employed to prevent a murder, I was as in the dark as the next man. I did not see what was coming.
It would come out of the darkness.
A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews so far - apologies for the long chapter, there should be some proper action in the next one! Please do let me know what you think so far - it might make my muse concentrate more on finishing this story and less on painting tattoo designs on the living room wall... (don't ask).