The Yard was in uproar – it seemed every available man had been drafted in to aid the search, and Holmes was distinctly unimpressed at the destruction of any available shred of evidence, and promptly threw everyone out of the office. Only himself, Watson and Gregson remained, the latter under sufferance on Holmes's part. Holmes quickly combed the office as Gregson and Watson stood and watched.
Watson, however, was making deductions of his own. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, and paused. Too many people had been through the room that morning, and there were an incredible number of smells indented on the place – dust, old papers, smoke and ash, sweat, the distinctive odours of many different people… Lestrade had definitely been here, So had she…
Opening his eyes, Watson met Holmes's gaze quickly, and gave an imperceptible nod, and slid his eyes over to look significantly at the fireplace. This non-verbal communication went completely unobserved by Gregson, who fidgeted impatiently as Holmes nonchalantly made his way over to the fireplace, and peered up it.
"How wide is this chimney?" Holmes asked, squinting into the darkness above.
"Not sure," Gregson shrugged, "Oh, come on Holmes – you can be serious. It's impossible to drag a man up a chimney! He wouldn't have climbed it willingly!"
"No, Inspector – it is impossible for a man to disappear into thin air, or walk out of a building in seconds without being seen by the dozen witnesses on the way, all of whom would mark his passing. As I usually say; when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is usually the truth. I suspect that this is an abduction that has been meticulously planned. I would surmise that this chimney feeds from a number of other fires, including the adjoining room and the upper floors, and as a result would be quite wide. You may find, if you examine the roof, that the chimney stacks have been removed and a part of the chimney demolished to make way for a man to squeeze through – not one of your stature, but a wiry figure like Lestrade, perhaps…"
"I doubt it, but I'll send a couple of lads for ladders and get them to have a look," Gregson replied, with a scowl, "I refuse to believe it, Holmes! How could you get a man up a chimney? I doubt he went willingly!"
"A very strong man could manage it with a rope," Holmes replied, still peering up the chimney, "or even with a pulley system at the top of the chimney."
"It's too far-fetched," Gregson shook his head, obstinately, "it couldn't be done."
"It has been planned and prepared in advance," Holmes announced, stepping back from the fire-place with a dramatic flourish, "See, Inspector – a scrap of grey cloth from Lestrade's suit, snagged on a brick as he was dragged up the chimney. Lestrade would have been taken completely unaware. His abductor would have been waiting for him to arrive, rendered him unconscious, and the rope was around him and he was in the chimney before your constables could break down the locked door. The resulting noise from the men in the room would have hidden any noise from the chimney. I am sure Lestrade is alive – no assailant would have gone to so much trouble otherwise, when they could simply have killed him and left – but I suspect the Inspector will be somewhat bruised and soot-covered when we find him."
Watson raised an eyebrow, as Gregson continued to shake his head. Holmes's eyes glittered as he leaned forwards.
"To the roof, gentlemen!"
Gregson was only too happy to keep his feet firmly on the ground, as Holmes and Watson scaled the long ladders up to the roof, and engaged in an ungainly scramble up the tiles to the top of the chimney. Holmes's suspicions had already been confirmed by the sight of bricks and a chimney spout lying on the cobbles of the yard below, but even so, the damage to the chimney was incredible – it looked like the top had been blown apart, and there was rubble and bricks scattered all over the roof.
"How did nobody hear this?" Watson marvelled.
"It never ceases to amaze that a man, on hearing his neighbour cry for help, will assume that others have heard and will assist," Holmes murmured, "incidences of violent rape and murder go unobserved because the mind of man is often to allow another to intercede. No doubt it was overheard, but nobody thought to report it."
Watson shook his head sadly. Holmes picked up a brick, and examined it thoughtfully.
"It is apparent that this was an explosion without fire," he commented, "observe, Watson – the brick is soot-stained, as one would expect from a chimney, but the stain is uniform – there is none of the streaking one would expect to see from a localised blast of gunpowder. Many of the bricks are also intact – the chimney exploded outwards, as if there were a great pressure pushing from the inside."
"The Countess, in her rather interesting guise…?"
"I believe so. I shall inform Gregson that there is evidence that a rope and pulley was used, so that my rather less insane theory shall be believed. However, it seems to me that poor Lestrade has been carried up and away by little more than a cloud of smoke."
"Why him?"
"I believe that he encountered the Countess, and saw something that led her to suspect that he realised her true nature. She was not to know that the poor man knows nothing of the reality of vampires – by his association with us, she assumes his knowledge to be greater than it is."
Watson sighed; "Poor Lestrade – he should never have been mixed up in this in the first place."
"We should not concern ourselves with pointless regret, Watson, it is not constructive. Is there a trail that you can follow? I suspect that the Countess cannot travel far in such an insubstantial form as smoke… she would have rested here, with her captive subdued, knowing that she was unlikely to be observed on the rooftop immediately… it is possible that she had a vehicle waiting nearby; in daylight it would be impossible to go even across the rooftops carrying an unconscious man. Observe, Watson, the chimney sweeps at work…"
"Indeed," Watson nodded, as a young boy on a neighbouring roof gave the two gentlemen a curious look, before disappearing down the chimney stack, "I cannot change here, Holmes, but I can track her easily enough as I am…"
"We must be cautious, Watson – perhaps she seeks to draw us out."
Slithering quickly down the roof and back to ground level, Holmes recounted an amended version of his findings to Gregson, who dubiously agreed that it 'might be possible' for a 'skinny bugger like Lestrade' to fit through the gap widened as it had been by a very clever application of a chisel to what was clearly some very old, crumbling mortar around the bricks.
As Holmes spoke, slowly convincing the dubious Inspector, Watson paced the yard. There was the slight smell of perfume, the scent of Lestrade where he had been brushed against a wall, and that cold, indescribable smell of a corpse that couldn't properly die and yet wasn't fully alive. He nodded to Holmes, who met his gaze over Gregson's shoulder.
"I shall attempt to track the abductor, Inspector!" Holmes declared, "you should remain here, and conduct your own enquiries…"
"No way," Gregson folded his arms obstinately, "I'm coming with you. I'm not staying here to chase myself around in circles. So far, you've come up with our only lead, so get tracking, Holmes. My mind is made up."
Holmes scowled; he did not want the Inspector tagging along, and getting in the way at the best of times – it was worse to know that he was going to be using a werewolf to track a vampire, and having Gregson around was a risk to himself, Lestrade, and especially to Watson's supernatural secret. However, he saw Watson give a slow wink, and wondered if the other man had a plan to get rid of the Inspector.
"Very well," Holmes conceded, "this way, I believe…"
Holmes walked slightly ahead, observing everything, even as Watson muttered directions to him in a low voice, Gregson walking a few paces behind. Holmes was usually able to deduce for himself the direction; a footprint here, a brush of soot against a wall there, the drag of a skirt through the dust of a cobbled street rarely trodden at night… however, he would quickly have lost the train if not for Watson's unerring sense of smell.
Suddenly, Watson halted by the mouth of an alley, his eyes wide; "Good God, Holmes, did you see that?"
"See wh-?" Holmes began to say, but Watson's elbow in his ribs made him pause, "Yes, Watson – movement, in that alley!"
"A dog, a huge beast, I would swear to it!" Watson exclaimed, pointing earnestly, "did you not see it, Holmes? It passed right by the other end of that alley!"
"You jest," Gregson scoffed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.
"I saw but a movement from the corner of my eye," Holmes added, quickly, with just the right note of concern and doubt, "are you certain, Watson?"
"I was looking right at it, Holmes – a great hound, as big as that of the Baskervilles!"
"Someone is breeding the bastard mutts," Gregson groaned, "Good Lord, I suppose I'd better go after it…"
He looked pale at the thought, and Watson patted his arm reassuringly; "Inspector, you could not go after that monster yourself – go back to the yard and fetch some of the constables. I am sure I saw it heading in the other direction. If you hurry, you might catch it! Don't worry about Lestrade – Holmes and I will take care of him."
Torn, Gregson hesitated, and then nodded quickly. Without a word, he turned, and ran back the way they had come. Holmes and Watson exchanged a look of satisfaction.
"Excellent work, Watson!"
"Thank you, Holmes. Now, quickly – this way!"
Holmes followed in Watson's footsteps, their paces perfectly matched, as Watson led the way through the twisting side-streets and back alleys. Holmes noted how the Countess had avoided all of the main roads, choosing a long, circuitous route. They paused at the mouth of an alley, where Watson reported that a carriage had waited for some time. Holmes had already observed for himself the deep ruts left by the wheels in the mud at the road-side, but the trail quickly disappeared down the street despite his keen observational skills – the morning traffic had eroded any evidence that he eyes could see.
However, it could not fool Watson's nose; "The horses were terrified, Holmes – the air still stinks of it. It was obviously a four-wheeled hansom led by two shire horses – and it went this way."
Watson made as if to run, but Holmes held him back; "Steady, Watson – we may be observed, and there are pedestrians here. Slow your pace to a brisk stroll, we do not wish to draw attention to ourselves."
Watson hesitated, but nodded. They set off at a quick walk, drawing no more than passing glances and polite nods from their fellow pedestrians.
"We are lucky the scent lingers," Watson murmured, as they walked, "the trail is no more than an hour or two old, and there are few horses around, none so terrified as this poor pair."
"Having a vampire at your back is as liable to do that to a beast of burden, as we have discovered with your own unfortunate effect on the poor animals," Holmes observed, "I have read that it is often remarked that animals have a greater depth of perception that we humans, but I have never credited it until now."
"Oh, you have no idea, my dear Holmes," Watson chuckled, dryly, "even as a human I can detect emotions on a person that are completely belied by any facial expression."
"We shall have to test your statement empirically, Watson, for it is my own observation that every emotion or state of mind can be told from the subtlest hints in the way a person moves, speaks, stands, or even in the most casual of gestures – I have long intended to write a monograph upon the subject…"
Their conversation trailed off as they moved into an industrial area of the city, characterised by red-brick factories and large storage warehouses. Watson slowed his pace, slightly confused by the myriad of smells, but it was Holmes who observed horse droppings at the mouth of a narrow gap between two outhouses.
"One would not normally expect to see a horse-drawn carriage in this area," Holmes murmured, "this way, I think…"
They slipped down the alley, Watson very deliberately leading the way, effectively placing himself in line for any attack. Despite the precaution, none came, and they emerged at the back of the buildings between two high-walled yards. Ahead of them was a red-painted gate, peeling and rotten, obviously well used. Watson pushed it open, and sniffed the air. They were at a back-alley cross-roads, strewn with litter, reeking of an open sewer. Watson flinched visibly at the overpowering smell.
"Good grief," he muttered, covering his nose quickly, "Vampires clearly have no sense of smell… urgh! We must be close to a main sewer…"
"I think she is deliberately trying to prevent you from following her, my dear fellow," Holmes remarked, "However, she places all to much faith in your abilities and none in mine – observe, Watson, the drag marks in the dirt left by a long skirt, and the deep tread of a woman's footprint, much deeper than her weight would imply, as if she were weighed down by a heavy burden one of her stature should not physically be able to carry…"
"That of an unconscious man, perhaps," Watson nodded, realisation dawning, "which way, Holmes?"
"There," Holmes pointed to a brick-arched alley, "She must not have gone far – these are busy factories, and a woman carrying a man over her shoulder as easily as she would carry a baby would draw far too much attention… we should proceed with caution."
The alley led to an open space, surrounded by disused stables. An old cart was slowly rotting in one corner, a victim of the progression of steam engines and trains for the haulage of heavy goods. Holmes crept forwards slowly, listening carefully, as Watson turned his back, effectively covering Holmes, so that they could observe in all directions at once. Holmes reached for the special revolver in his pocket, as Watson gripped his wooden cane, for all the good it would do.
A low laugh split the air, and a clear voice rang out with contempt; "How small your minds are, that you can only think in two dimensions!"
Holmes jerked his head up, as the Countess leapt down from the rooftop and landed heavily on the cobble-stones. She remained crouching down and bared her fangs at him with a hiss, raising her right hand, her fingernails resembling claws as she glared at them malevolently.
"Do not move!" Holmes commanded, keeping the revolver pointed at her, as Watson stepped to the side and turned to face the threat, "Where is Inspector Lestrade?"
"He saw me in my true form. His life is forfeit to me. He will tell me what he knows of the vampires and wolves in this city, and then he will die."
"He knows nothing. He saw nothing. He thinks nothing of you," Holmes replied, coldly, "release him, for his ignorant of these matters."
"I will hear that from his lips – if I believe it, he will die quickly. If I do not, he dies slowly."
Holmes sighed inwardly – there was no reasoning with the woman! He had rehearsed this moment mentally a thousand times since he had first deduced the Countess's vampirism, but that did not prevent a moment of hesitation before he pulled the trigger.
Watson jumped slightly at the sudden gunshot, reflexes screaming to react. He almost dropped to the floor, but Holmes's shout of surprise distracted him in time to see that the Countess had moved – with an incredible blur of speed she slapped the gun from Holmes's hand, sending it skittering across the cobbles, out of reach.
With another blur, she was behind Holmes, one arm across his chest, the other around his waist, effectively pinning his arms to his side. Holmes found himself completely unable to move – the vampire's strength was incredible! Her breath was extremely cold on the back of his neck, as he felt her lips brush against the skin just above his collar.
"You are mine, Holmes," she breathed.
Holmes felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as her tongue gently licked the nape of his neck. Just as he felt her fangs brush his throat, there was a shout of anger, and the Countess's grip was torn free. Holmes fell to his knees, gasping for breath, wiping quickly at his throat – bringing his hand away, he was comforted to see that there was no blood, and he heaved a deep sigh of relief.
On the ground, Watson and the Countess wrestled, neither seeming able to gain the upper hand. Then, the Countess rendered Watson a powerful punch that sent him sprawling, and Holmes saw why; on each hand, the Countess wore a number of silver rings. Holmes reached to pick up the gun from the floor, but with another lightning-fast movement, the Countess had seized his wrist in a vice-like grip.
"Fool!" she snapped, "I will have you for that…"
She grabbed Holmes by the throat, lifting him clean off the pavement. Holmes choked, clawing at her hand as she held him easily with one outstretched arm. Watson lunged at her again, but a blow from her free hand sent him sprawling to the floor once more. He swore as he landed heavily, near to where his wooden cane had landed – he had dropped it immediately the first time he had launched himself at the Countess. His eyes fell upon it, and inspiration hit him almost as hard as the vampires' punch.
Snatching up the stick, he rolled and leapt to his feet. Grasping it firmly, he brought it down with a loud crack over his raised knee. The sturdy wood was no match for a werewolf's strength and resilience – the cane splintered and broke in half. Watson raised the more pointed part in his right hand, and flung it with all his considerable strength. Like a javelin, the wooden spike sailed through the air, piercing the Countess between her shoulder blades.
To Watson's mind, three things happened at once.
The Countess screamed and fell, rapidly dissolving into dust, clawing wildly at the air as she collapsed in on herself, disintegrating, and disappearing completely.
Holmes dropped heavily, landing in an ungainly sprawl, gasping for air, rubbing his throat, gazing at Watson in obvious relief and gratitude.
And, from the rooftop nearby, a tall, pale woman dressed all in white screamed a single word…
"Mother!"