Chapter Three:
Mr & Mrs Swales
With the evidence soon disappearing from the windowpane, I forced myself to get on with preparing for work. My colleague, and our patients, were depending on me – and so, having somewhat regained my composure, I got to work on my usual business.
At lunchtime, I walked over to 221B. Finding Holmes to be absent, I left a hastily written message for him with Mrs Hudson. I felt rather foolish to mention anything of a dream – but I considered that if anyone could detect if my back wall had been climbed it would be my detective friend.
By around four o'clock, I had done what work I could at the practice for the day. As I left, I considered my next move. Feeling somewhat disturbed, I decided – on a whim – to see if it was possible to speak to Sir Reginald Musgrave myself. By sheer chance, I knew the head doctor of the sanitorium where Holmes' friend had been taken, via my contacts at the army social association. So, I hailed a cab, in order to take me to Maudsley Hospital.
During the journey, the sky was full of rainclouds and the late April showers were frequent. The lack of sunshine did not help my despondent spirits – which sank ever further when I got to see the wards of the sanitorium. The place frankly unnerved me, and whilst there, I was grateful for the fact that – unlike the patients – I would be leaving before long, to once again feel the fresh air.
To keep my account brief, despite my lack of any appointment, Doctor William Woodward was happy to see me during a break in his duties. When I had explained the sad chain of events, Woodward agreed that I could see Sir Reginald – who was in a solitary room, whilst the doctors decided on the best plan of treatment for the patient's broken state of mind.
"In fact," said Woodward as he accompanied me to the room himself. "You're the second party wanting to see Sir Reginald this afternoon."
"Oh? Has Sherlock Holmes returned to see his friend again already?" I asked.
"Holmes? Oh, no. Your detective fellow was last here on Friday. No, no. A couple by the name of Swales are seeing Musgrave. Claim to be here with the permission of the police."
"A couple?"
"Yes – an articulate fellow and a charming woman. They must still be with Musgrave now, in fact – as they haven't reported back to me."
I frowned, taken aback by this latest development. "And they had the necessary paperwork from the police with them?"
"Yes, of course…" Woodward stopped in the corridor. A shaft of dim daylight fell upon his craggy face through the nearest corridor window. "That's strange. I… I do not recall what the paperwork actually stated… But they conveyed to me most distinctively that they could help Sir Reginald in his situation…"
We had now arrived at Sir Reginald's new room, and the attendant nodded to us.
"Afternoon, sir. Mr and Mrs Swales are still in there with the patient. Continuing their chat, I expect. Sir Reg is giving 'em no trouble. Wish all of our patients were like 'im!"
"Thank you, Yelland. Now, Dr Watson here would like to see Sir Reginald, regarding a delicate matter. Since the patient hasn't made any trouble, I'm happy for you stay on guard here – whilst the doctor joins the Swales."
Yelland nodded and unlocked the door for me.
"Once you've done here, John, let Yelland know – and he'll call for someone to escort you out," Woodward told me, before heading off back to his office.
I duly stepped into the room, and the attendant shut the door to again.
I caught a glimpse of a crystal pendant being lowered from the eyes of a bespectacled man, before it was then placed in the pocket of a lady's travelling cloak.
There were indeed three people inside the room. Firstly, the man with the spectacles – above which was a mop of darkish hair, thinning in the middle, and a lined face. Although sat on the edge of his bed, I could see that he was a rather tall, thin individual around Holmes' age. This then, was Sir Reginald – who I had seen just once before, in a state of shock at the hospital, on the night I lost Mary. However, he looked better now. Calm, content. As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
A younger man was learning against a wall, wearing a dark-grey, two-piece suit of good quality – and smart black shoes. His Homburg hat was held in one gloved hand, whilst the other was wrapped around an ornate walking stick made of mahogany and topped with what looked like a polished white handle. His hair was a mixture of white and grey, which was at odds with his relatively youthful, pleasant features.
The seated lady was similarly-attired in dark grey – matching her companion, wearing petticoats and a travelling cloak that was topped by a hood. She was a brunette – though I did notice, by the dull sunlight coming into the room, that her roots were of a blonder shade. She turned and looked at me with brown eyes that gleamed with a keen intellect.
"My apologies. Was I…interrupting something?" I asked. "What was that crys-?"
"Doctor Watson, I presume." The younger man interrupted me. "You are the colleague and chronographer of Sherlock Holmes."
"That is correct," said I. "And you must be Mr and Mrs Swales?"
"Indeed. Karl and Charlotte Swales. Here to…deal with a delicate problem." The white-and-grey haired man stepped forward and shook my hand with a light grip. The smiling lady then allowed me to kiss her gloved hand.
"We have heard about the recent loss of your wife, Doctor Watson. Karl and I offer our deepest condolences to you," Mrs Swales declared.
"Thank you. You heard about it from…?"
"Initially? The local newspaper report on the street attack. We have since spoken to Inspector Lestrade – and he has pointed us in the right direction to track down Sir Reginald Musgrave. But we had hoped to speak to you, also, doctor," Mr Swales explained to me.
"Really? About what?"
"All in good time. We have finished our work here. You may speak to Sir Reginald. Do not mind us. We have much to discuss, when you have concluded your discussion with Sir Reginald, doctor."
It was then that I realised that Holmes' old friend had been entirely silent so far. I sat myself before him and addressed him. He seemed to come to.
"Oh, hullo there. Another visitor! Who are you?" he asked in a calm, pleasant manner.
"My name is Doctor John Watson, Sir Reginald. Have you heard of me before?"
"Why yes! Sherlock Holmes has told me about you, in some of his occasional letters to me over the years. Has Holmes sent you to see about getting me out of here? I rather imagine I've got work to do, back home. I'd rather prefer Holmes himself to be here, though. He is very good at getting people in authority to listen to him…"
I frowned. "Holmes told me he spoke to you last Friday. Do you not remember?"
"Last Friday? No, Doctor Watson. I don't recall seeing Holmes recently. Um…what date is it now?"
Feeling rather worried, I paused – but then told him that it was the sixteenth of April.
"Oh! What's happened to me? Why am I here? Did I bump my head and lose my memory? I don't recall anything since seeing my business associate… What's that you say, old bean? Do I recall seeing an attack on your wife nearly two weeks ago? No, I don't remember seeing anything of the sort! Is she all right? What? She died! Oh, I am sorry for your loss, old bean…"
My jaw must have dropped open. I turned my head to look at Mrs Charlotte Swales.
"You've…hypnotised him? Forced him to…forget the attack?" I gasped. "But you are interfering with a wit-!"
"A witness who should not be here, Doctor Watson. I've removed the traumatising memories from his mind, so that he doesn't suffer any longer from them," Mrs Swales declared, looking intently at me. "And we've taken a thorough record of Sir Reginald's account – so do not worry about that."
"When we leave here, we will recommend that the poor man be released and sent back home, when the authorities here are satisfied that it's safe for him to go," her husband added, smiling.
"But Doctor Woodward and the staff…" I started to protest again, rising. "They need…"
Mrs Swales swiftly stood up and held me in place as she lay her gloved hand on my shoulder. I was surprised at the strength evident behind her touch. As I looked at her, her eyes seemed to transfix me.
"There is no need to be alarmed, Doctor Watson… Leave with us, and we will talk at length," she intoned.
My mind turned foggy. Still conscious, but with my willpower muted, I said goodbye to Sir Reginald – telling him he would likely be released within the next few days. Then Mrs Swales interlocked her arm with mine, whilst her husband struck the door with his walking stick, so that the warden could let us out…
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
When I fully came to again, I was standing in front of a black cab. From the discussion between Mr Swales and the driver, I deduced that the latter was their personal employer – and so this was the private transport of my new companions.
"Is there anywhere you now wish to be, Doctor Watson?" Mr Swales asked.
I blinked, not fully understanding what had just happened.
"What…did you do to me?" I turned to his wife.
"A little mesmerism, doctor," said she. "Just to help us all leave that ghastly institution without any awkwardness. Please do not be alarmed. You are not in any danger from us."
The husband repeated his question as to my next preferred destination.
"I think… I had better go home," I muttered.
Once I had given the driver my address, we were soon seated instead the cab - with myself seated facing towards the rear, and the Swales were sat next to each other, opposite me. The wife on my left, and the husband on my right. The horse began moving at a steady pace, heading back north towards the centre of London.
"Who are you people? What is your business?" I bristled.
"We are…investigators…Doctor Watson. The newspaper account that we read alarmed us, because of the death of your wife," Karl Swales began. "We were already aware of you and Mr Holmes – thanks to your published accounts."
"But when we spoke to the police and found out about the bone dagger, and that the man who killed your wife disappeared, leaving his clothes behind, we could tell that this was no ordinary pair of thugs who targeted Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson," his wife continued. "Thanks to the press, we are also now aware that your wife's coffin has been desecrated."
"Yes…," I hung my head down – then, upon a sudden thought, I made eye-contact with them. "This cab… Was it the one that was outside the cemetery when Mary's body went missing!?"
Two pale faces regarded me with surprise. And renewed interest. They looked at each other for several moments – then they returned their levelled gaze to me.
"No, it would not have been. I assure you, Doctor Watson, that we are not responsible for that," Mr Swales announced calmly.
"We wish to track down the people who are responsible for your misfortunes," the lady told me.
"Are you connected to the police? Or the government?" I challenged them.
"No more so than your friend, Sherlock Holmes. Forgive us for not being fully frank – but it is for your own safety, doctor. We have an interest in tracking down those who attacked your wife. Finding them may well be the key to finding your wife's body," the man told me.
"Do you know who these people are? Do you know why they attacked Mrs Hudson and my wife? Why they might be the same people taunting me by breaking my wife's coffin and stealing her body?" I fumed.
Mrs Swales leaned forward and stared into my eyes. "Please tell us everything you know, doctor. It will help us to help you."
I looked out of the window for a moment, wondering if I could trust this strange couple. Finally, I sighed. I might get them to exchange information with me, if I told them the full, sad facts of this wretched set of events. Looking at the people on the streets, I could see that the rain had stopped, and there was a break in the clouds, allowing for a bright burst of sunlight.
I hoped that it would serve as an omen that my own darkness and despite would be lifted, with the aid of this intriguing couple.
The lady locked eyes with me again. "Tell us, Doctor Watson." This time, her tone was a little firmer.
So, I did. At first, I was tempted to leave out the strange dream I had of Mary – but there was something in the manner of the pretty Charlotte Swales, in her compelling gaze, gentle smiles, and…yes, her presence…that caused me to say more than I had initially intended. During my story, Mr Swales closed the curtains on the door next to him, a disturbed expression crossing his features.
When I had finished my account with my waking on top of the bed, rather than in it, the Swales stared at each other again. It was if almost they could talk to each other without words. They were curiously calm and still, also, I finally observed as my senses became fully alert once more. And yet their eyes looked troubled.
"We thank you for your honesty, Doctor Watson," Karl Swales spoke, after taking a deep breath. "Now we should share some information with you. I agree with the theory that you and Sherlock Holmes formulated as to why Mrs Hudson was targeted. The people attacking her must have been aware that Holmes was actually alive and present in London by then – even though you were in the dark. They may have been connected to your Professor Moriarty. Or they may be connected to someone else Holmes has made an enemy of, in his past."
I sighed. "I hope that he has an up-to-date list of anyone seeking revenge on him, given that he's recently returned to this country."
"Secondly, the man who caused your wife's death was a man we were trying to track down. His true name was Count Anton Dolingen," Charlotte Swales added.
"Was?" I noted.
"Sir Reginald Musgrave told the truth when he informed Mr Holmes of his bizarre account. He killed Count Dolingen with a lucky strike, and the man's disintegration shocked him to his core. Hence the clothes left behind, amidst the ashes. He was not…entirely human, doctor," the lady told me, her expression perfectly serious.
I gaped at her. "But… But that's…impossible!" I breathed.
"We realise that you are a man of science, who has lived with a man of logic. Scepticism of superstition would be natural to you both – as it would be to many people. However, Charlotte and I have experienced supernatural forces directly – and we assure you that, to quote Hamlet himself, 'There are more things in Heaven and Earth,Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy'."
I shook my head, trying to take this in. "Then…what was he?"
Mrs Swales gave me a grim smile.
"A vampire, Doctor Watson."
"I cannot believe it!"
"Then how do you account for the ashes and the clothes left behind? How do you explain the presence of Rachel Howells, recognised by Sir Reginald as looking much the same as when he last saw her, sixteen years ago? And what about the bite marks on both your wife and the unfortunate Mr Bray at the graveyard? What about there being less blood that you expected at the scene of Bray's death?" Karl Swales challenged me, his manner now more pressing and heated.
"I had assumed Sir Reginald…to have been mistaken about Miss Howells," I replied. "That her sudden disappearance from his employ was still praying on his mind. As for the other factors, I cannot explain them!"
The man opposite me nodded his acceptance of my words.
"Good. A healthy degree of scepticism is natural. But blind defiance of the facts is not," he stated. Then he continued, "It would be good if we could join forces – you and Sherlock Holmes, and us."
"Holmes will not entertain your theory of a vampire being involved," said I. "Nevertheless, I will speak to him at the next opportunity. How would we contact you?"
"You do not. We will contact you. It is safer that way," Charlotte Swales spoke up, her expression deadly serious. "Ah! I believe that we have arrived at your home, Doctor Watson? May we examine the back wall of your house?"
"You believe…that my dream was no dream," I breathed. "That is impossible. My wife is dead. I wanted to speak to her one more time – and so my mind projected an adequate conversion to ease my grief…"
"Then why the voice of a second woman?" Karl Swales put to me.
"I must have heard a woman passing by in the street, nearby. Talking to her companion. That would be the logical explanation, despite the late hour," I considered.
Mr Swales looked doubtful.
All three of us alighted. I walked the remaining yards to my house, hearing an umbrella being put up being me. I glanced over my shoulder to see that the husband was holding it over both his wife and himself.
As it was evidently close to raining again, I took out my front door key from the usual pocket of my waistcoat, before I opened up the door and headed along the corridor, intent on seeing for myself if the mortar of the back wall below my bedroom window had indeed been disturbed.
After a few paces, I stopped and looked around. The Swales were still standing outside.
"Well – hurry up!" I called out.
"Forgive us, doctor. We are very respectful of people's property. You have not invited us i-"
"Oh, of course! Do come in – both of you," I responded.
Mrs Swales folded in her umbrella and stepped inside – followed closely behind by her husband. Before long, all three of us were in the back garden, with the clouds gathering overhead again. My visitors looked at the old, cracked well that I had never got round to filling in. Then, Mr Swales helped me to fetch a ladder from out of my locked shed and set it up underneath the window that belonged to my bedroom. As he and I held the ladder steady, Charlotte Swales duly climbed up and examined the wall and windowsill. Then she climbed back down and opened her hand to present a string of pearls.
"This was wedged into a crack between two of your house bricks, Doctor Watson," she declared.
I drew in my breath. I looked at the path running alongside the back of my house, at the point below my bedroom window. Sure enough, there was a few pieces of scattered mortar on the path and nearby grass. Someone had clawed at the mortar, and succeeded in widening what must have been an existing gap.
I began to feel faint…
"Let's go inside," Karl Swales announced firmly, grabbing me by one arm. With his wife assisting me on the other side, they guided me to a chair in the dining room, where I recovered from my shock.
My fingers traced the retrieved item "This… This is the chaplet of pearls that Mary was wearing when we laid her to rest!"
"The token of the Agra treasure that was sent to her by Thaddeus Sholto?" Mrs Swales queried.
"Yes… I wanted Mary to keep them in death, so…so that her spirit would know that I truly wanted no part of the treasure myself. I only wanted Mary for who she was…," I began to sob. I raised my voice in anger. "Who is…toying with me!? And why?"
"May I examine them further, doctor?" asked the lady.
I nodded, and she sat down at the dining table. Taking off her gloves, she ran her pale fingers over the pearls, closing her eyes as she did so.
"What are you doing?" I muttered.
"It is called psychometry, Doctor Watson. Or, if you prefer, psychoscopy," Mr Swales explained, keeping his voice low. "My wife has…certain abilities. Now, let her concentrate."
The young man hurried off to fill a glass of water for me, and I rested at the table, watching Charlotte Swales at her unusual task.
"I am being remiss in my duties as your host," I said to them, recalling my manners. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
Karl Swales gave me a peculiar look as he stared at me. Then he seemed to come to, shaking his head. "Thank you, Doctor Watson. We will both be fine. We need to settle our business, and then be on our way."
A few minutes later, his wife turned to us and announced her findings.
"I gained certain impressions and brief images, Doctor Watson. The pearls have been in a house where there has been much activity at night – but not during the day."
I frowned. "An inn?"
Charlotte Swales twitched her lips in amusement. "No. This place struck me as frequented by men, yes. And drinking is certainly part of the background imagery. But I also detected the mingling of men and women, in fine clothing, talking under a chandelier. As well as laughter and pleasure. And private rooms."
Her husband twitched his nose with distaste. "I understand… A 'Gentleman's Club'.
The lady nodded. "A house of ill-repute."
"I see," said I. "And is there any clue as to where…this house of pleasure…would be?"
"I will see if I can stretch my senses further." The lady stood up and closed her eyes once more, still holding the string of six pearls in her hands. "I might be able to trace a connection to your deceased wife's whereabouts."
"Charlotte… Please be careful," her husband cautioned. "If you exhaust yourself, we will need to f-"
"We need to do this, Karl. We came to track them down, after all," she responded. She slowly turned round, holding the pearls before her as if they were a compass of sorts. Back and forth she turned, until she settled on one direction. Then she opened her eyes.
"Do you have a street map of London, doctor?" she asked me.
I did so, given that I needed to familiarise myself with the addresses of any patients who required me to visit their premises in person when they were too ill to get to the practice by their own means. So, with the map spread out on the dining table, the Swales looked for any large houses that lay in the direction that the lady had attuned herself to, which lay in a prosperous part of London.
Minutes later, all three of us were riding in the private cab once more, heading along the streets in the direction that Mrs Swales had gauged would lead us to my wife's body. Eventually, after a few wrong turns, and some backtracking, the lady called out to the cabby to stop. Once the horses had done so, Charlotte Swales turned to her husband and told him to wait there. Then she indicated to me to escort her, even she still held the chaplet of pearls in one hand.
Out on the street, the lady got me to put up her umbrella, before we entwined our arms, and we slowly walked into a park in an affluent area of outer London, where there were a few people sitting or walking about. Enjoying the early evening sunshine now that the showers had stopped.
"The clouds are parting, my lady," I muttered, there's no need for your umbr-"
"Keep it up!" she hissed, looking pained. Then she paused, before speaking again.
"I am sorry, Doctor Watson. The umbrella is our cover from unfriendly eyes, right now. I sense that we are close to where the pearls were, after your wife's body vanished. Let us walk around these bushes and pause at the exit before us."
We did so. On the opposite side of the street were various buildings. But, following the gaze of Mrs Swales, I saw that she was peering intently at a sandstone-coloured building set back from the road. There were several trees in the grounds between the pavement and the tall, large house.
"This is the place," Charlotte Swales whispered.
"We need to get closer…" I suddenly winced. My companion had tightened her grip on me, with a strength that I had not suspected from her.
"No further, doctor!" she breathed. "There may be people inside who will become aware of us, if we venture too close! And sunset is not far off."
"I see. Or rather, I think I understand you…," I muttered. We stepped back behind the bushes and peered at the building. "I cannot find a sign for the building. Then again, you believe it to be a house…for ladies of the night?"
"I do," my companion replied. "Do you see the bars on the windows?"
It took some effort with my eyes, but I fancied that I could. "On each window, it seems. The place is well-secured," I declared.
Mrs Swales suddenly stiffened – or so she felt with her hand around my arm. "We have been detected! We need to leave – now!"
I peered at the building – but saw no signs of activities at the window. Then, I was led away by my enigmatic companion back through the park and to the coach, with me holding up the black umbrella until I had helped the tired-looking lady inside.
Mr Swales looked concerned. His wife's only response to his unspoken question was a silent nod.
The ride back to my house was a grim one – as I was trying to make sense of our findings, whilst the Swales held their tongues. Eventually, we were back in my street, and I alighted, pausing with my feet on the ground, whilst the husband's gloved hand held the handle to the cab door.
"Thank you for your assistance, Doctor Watson," the lady spoke. She smiled softly, but I could see a sombre look in her eyes. "Please be careful. Make sure you are armed at all times, especially at night. Do not allow anyone into your house who you do not know!"
"Am I really in danger? What is it that you are holding back from me?" I huffed.
"We are sorry, Doctor Watson. Hopefully, you will not be troubled by our quarry – but if we told you the truth – regardless of whether you did believe us, or not – you will certainly be in danger then," Karl Swales declared. "Pass on what you have learned to Mr Holmes. In the meantime, we will take…certain actions. We hope to have something to report to you and your friend, after a week or so."
"A week or so!? Where is my wife's body? In that sandstone house? Why was her remains taken?" I bristled at the couple.
"You are not ready for the truth, doctor. I know this is hard – but please trust us. Take no further action, until we contact you and Mr Holmes," Charlotte Swales told me, with a warning look. She looked pained and turned to her husband. "We need to rest now…"
"Yes…," her husband agreed. Then he slammed the cab door shut and tapped the roof of the compartment with his walking stick.
As the cab turned round in the street, I watched the cabman steer the two horses. He was a rather short fellow, wearing a grey cap in addition to his workman's clothes. It suddenly occurred to me that there was something vaguely familiar about him…
"Stop! Wait…" I cried out.
But the cabby only paused to give me a startled look, before he urged the horses onward – and soon he, they, and the cab's occupants had vanished around the next street corner, leaving me behind as I stopped running after them.
With a sigh, I turned round and entered my home – feeling once more, as I did so, the emptiness left by Mary's departure…
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Due to the hour, I informed Kaitlyn of my return – so that she could cook for me. Later on, I needed to get out of the house again, in order to unwind. So, I visited my club and spent time playing billiards, drinking and smoking with Stanford and my other acquaintances.
The next day was spent at my practice. It was another ordinary mix of the usual illnesses, injuries, and ailments.
Whilst at work, a telegram came to me from Holmes. He wanted to meet me that evening at Baker Street, though he would not be ready to receive me until sometime between six and seven o'clock.
After my practice finished, I considered what to do in the interim. Thinking of the sandstone building and the street it was on, I decided to head to the central library and look up any records that existed in connection with the place.
When I left, it was with a spring in my step. I felt that I had made some progress with the case at hand – yet at the same time I was unnerved…
Before long I was back in the hallway at 221B, still having my key to the front door. Through the kitchen door, I could hear Mrs Hudson at work on domestic chores.
I was puzzled by the presence of garlic hung up in the hallway, close to the entrance to the building. I snorted to get the smell out of my nose, and then I hurriedly climbed the seventeen steps to the first floor.
Holmes was working on some chemical experiment – but as I came in, he turned off the Bunsen burner, and removed his goggles in order to sit down. In addition, I had the pleasant surprise of seeing that his government official brother, Mycroft, was sat in one of the chairs, reading a newspaper – which he put down as he sighted me.
"Ah, Doctor Watson. Do join us!" the walrus-like man declared amicably with the usual rumble in his throat. "I was just checking the local press, to see if there have been any further disappearances."
"What disappearances have there been? I have not had much time for the newspapers of late," I replied, as I settled into my usual seat.
"Not all of them have been reported. But there have been a few children stolen from around the districts close to the docklands. As well as some who have been found, including older children, floating in the rivers around London." Mycroft's chins wobbled as he shifted in his seat, now looking directly at me with a disturbed expression. "They all had bite marks around their necks or wrists, doctor."
"Dumping the bodies in the water removes some of the evidence of what is going on. But not all of it," Holmes added, leaning back in his chair as he wrapped his long legs. "Mycroft and I, in the last few days, have alerted the Scotland Yard inspectors to be more vigilant about such cases, so that we can gather more evidence and maybe even apprehend the attacker – or attackers – and prevent more deaths. Personally, I would not be surprised if some of the missing children had been bundled away in a private coach."
"Such as the one reported outside the graveyard where my wife was buried?" I suggested.
Holmes smiled.
"Excellent, Watson. Yes, my suspicions lay in that direction. I have tracked down and spoken to Vincent Jenkins. The coach he witnessed had no insignia or distinguishing marks. In fact, the transport was a plain black colour. However, he did also take note of the horses. Although they too were of a black colour, one of them had white marks around the ears – which he described to me."
"Not much of a clue, considering how many horses there are in this city," I remarked.
"Quite so. But it may help, if we can locate a plain black carriage close to such a horse. Now, I am interested to hear what has happened since your dream, Watson."
"How did you know that I had something of interest to say?" I put to him.
Holmes chuckled as he rubbed his fingers together. "It is in your expression, dear fellow. Now, pray continue."
So, I updated both Holmes and Mycroft on what I had experienced in the last day – telling them of my visit to Sir Reginald at Maudsley Hospital, meeting the inscrutable Swales, Charlotte Swales' discovery of Mary's pearl chaplet, and her mysterious 'reading' of the pearls to the sandstone building. I ended with my vague recognition of the cabman who was acting as the private driver to the couple.
Holmes tapped the ends of his index fingers against his nose, as he contemplated this new data. "Most interesting. Anything else?"
I smiled and told him and Mycroft about my findings at the central library. "Yes indeed! Through the library's street plans and records, I was able to identify the sandstone building. It is called Cherry Tree House – which is supported by the trees in the grounds, which I noticed were indeed cherry trees. Also, I was able to find that the building is marked as the property of one Sir Anthony Darlington, a minor noble. I have not been able to find much on him – apart from a press cutting from twenty-five years ago, when he was photographed at an evening social gathering with members of the government. Then I remembered the name that the Swales gave me as the man who killed Mary – Anton Dolingen."
"…who the Swales declared to be a vampire?" Holmes remarked, his keen eyes watching my reaction.
"Well, yes. Putting that nonsense aside, I got a curator to assist me in looking up records on Anton Dolingen. He turned out to be a Count of Graz, in Austria, who disappeared from his homeland around 1824. I saw a picture of his painting, made around the turn of the last century…"
"And…?"
I hesitated, before letting out my next words with my breath. "There was a remarkable similarity in the faces between the two men, Holmes – despite Dolingen having a thick beard, and Darlington being clean-shaven. They must be related!"
"Or… Just maybe they were one and the same man," Mycroft put to me.
"My dear fellow! You know that's impossible!" I blurted. "Are you trying to imply that he was indeed an ageless vampire? I did not think you would entertain such ideas."
"And in normal circumstances, I would not, Doctor Watson. But these are not normal circumstances," Holmes' elder brother retorted. "Consider the reports of the dead and missing children I have already mentioned. I have checked newspaper records and also accessed police files within London. There was a state of attacks upon children around one London cemetery, with anaemic and dazed children mumbling about a 'Bloofer Lady', back in 1890. Then, weeks later, it was discovered by the keeper of said cemetery that one of the interned – a Lucy Westernra – was found to be staked and beheaded in her tomb."
I took in a deep breath. "How awful!" said I. Sensing that I needed something to steady my nerves I pulled out a cigarette and reached for my box of matches.
"So it would seem, but it was determined that the attacks upon the waifs surrounding the cemetery stopped about the time that Miss Westernra's body was defiled," Mycroft continued. "Her head was found in the tomb. She had fangs, doctor."
The cigarette fell from my gaping mouth. Luckily, I had not yet lit it. Forgoing any further attempts in that direction, I instead reached for the drinks cabinet and poured myself a stiff scotch. I took a careful sip, before I was able to speak again.
"So, you are saying, Mycroft, that what is going on now is not just down to people acting like…vampires… But that there are actual bloodsucking fiends in this grand city of ours!? Holmes, what is your opinion on this?"
"I respect my brother's analytical skills and research, Watson," my friend replied. As I have already said to you before, once you eliminate the impossible – whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. But consider this case of your wife being attacked – and her body going missing on the first night after her burial, in addition to that tramp being killed, and there is a lack of sufficient blood at the scene of death. And add to that, the peculiar circumstances of your wife's killer vanishing, leaving behind his clothes…"
"…and Sir Reginald Musgrave identifying the female attacker as a woman who has failed to age since he last saw her, sixteen years ago," Mycroft piped up.
"Exactly," Holmes nodded. "We are dealing with facts that, on the face of it, should be impossible, Watson. Therefore, I cannot dismiss the notion of… Hark, we have a visitor! We have been talking so much, I have failed to listen to anything happening in the hallway!"
And indeed we soon had a man appear at the door to our sitting room, as Holmes opened it. He was a distinguished-looking man, aged in his forties, with a dark moustache and goatee beard, slightly on the tall side, and dressed in fine, dark clothes that marked him as a well-to-do gentleman.
But perhaps the most remarkable feature was that he had with him a black-furred bloodhound, which panted at his side. The large animal panted and turned its head from side to side, taking all of us in, sniffing at us – weighing us up, as dogs are wont to do with strangers.
I saw Mycroft lean forward in his chair, frowning. "And who might you be, sir?"
"Good evening, gentlemen," the man gave a little bow. "I am Gervais Bryce, a member of parliament and an aide to the Home Secretary. I have come tonight to speak to Sherlock Holmes about a delicate matter regarding the behaviour of some of my fellow London MPs. I would also like to speak with his brother Mycroft. I believe he has connections within the government – and so what I have to say will also interest him."
Neither Holmes nor Mycroft spoke at first. They were watching our visitor with interest. So I started to speak.
"Well, fortunately they are both…"
"Mrs Hudson could not show you the courtesy of escorting you upstairs, then, Mr Bryce…," Holmes remarked – cutting me off. "She must be busy." He gave me a pointed look, and – without moving his head – shifted his eyes repeatedly between me and Bryce.
For a moment I was puzzled. But then it dawned on me that, when she could, Mrs Hudson would always bring word to us whenever Holmes had a visitor. Yet, we had not heard her even come up the stairs.
And, having known her for years, I knew that she was adverse to dogs – having been bitten by one when she had been a young girl.
"Oh, your landlady let me in – but then had to return to her kitchen. She was quite happy for me to see myself up," Bryce explained with a smile. He rubbed the back of his dog's head. "And don't mind my pet, gentlemen. Recent events have shaken me – and I feel safer for having Ebony around."
I rose from my seat. "Ah. Excuse me… I need to use the…toilet."
Holmes nodded.
I took a deep breath and tried to move at a steady pace, thinking on my feet. Closing the door to – but not shut – I then tiptoed as fast I could down the stairs. When I reached the hallway, I stopped, my eyes widening in surprise.
The garlic was missing.
I could not understand the situation, but my army training from years ago was still present inside my mind. Something was wrong, even if nothing else was out of place in the hallway.
Moving swiftly to Mrs Hudson's door, I wanted to knock – but that would have made too much noise. So instead, I opened the door and found the esteemed landlady in the kitchen.
She was stood before the fire with a vacant expression on her face, the garlic burning there. Judging by the posture of her hands and body, she had just dropped it onto the logs.
"Mrs Hudson!" I snapped my fingers in front of her eyes.
She did not blink – so I quickly dashed over to the sink taps, half-filled up a mug with water and splashed the liquid into her face. That made her come to, and I helped her sit down.
"Wha-!? Oh, Doctor Watson! Why am I in the kitchen? I was in the hall, answering the front door…"
"I think you were hypnotised, Mrs Hudson," I breathed. "Why are you burning the garlic?"
The lady suddenly became aware of what she had been doing.
"Oh my! I answered the door – and there was a man and a woman. The man pushed his way in, and forced me to look into his companion's eyes, before I could yell… And s-she made me remove the garlic from the hallway, before inviting her in. Her v-voice was in my head! She told me to go into the kitchen. Ar-are they upstairs now?"
"What woman?" I pressed her.
Mrs Hudson looked up at me with horror in her eyes. "It was that same dreadful woman who attacked me in that street… The night when poor Mary was killed…"
And in that instant, we both heard Mycroft give out a loud cry. Then came the noises of fighting from the sitting room above us.
"Send for the police!" I instructed her, before rushing out of the kitchen and bounding up the stairs. As I did so, I paused briefly, regretting that I failed to arm myself with a knife first.
I forced myself on. No time to double back, now. Every second counted…
Charging into the sitting room, I was presented an incredible sight. The scene where Holmes and I had been presented with so many consultations, was now a battleground. To one side, Bryce was wielding a dagger against Mycroft Holmes, who was also on his feet, using first cushions and then books to defend himself against the MP's slashes. Our visitor now had a crazed, determined look on his face, as he gritted his teeth and tried to get past the makeshift shield – an encyclopaedia – that the rotund Mycroft was now wielding in both hands.
I was about to help him, when I sighted Holmes and his opponent around the desk that he was using for his latest scientific experiment.
He was locked in hand-to-hand combat with a woman, dressed in black garb, who I judged to be aged in her forties. She had long, dark-brown, wild-looking hair, and bore a formidable expression – the look of a woman who was nobody's fool, and who looked to be easily roused to passion or anger.
And right now, she was snarling at Holmes. To my shock, her bared canine teeth seemed to be long. Her expression was like some wild animal.
And as I thought of animals, I quickly looked around – but could see no trace of the dog that Bryce had brought in. And then another strange detail struck me. The dog did not have a collar on, when I saw it. There had been no lead in Bryce's hands…
"Watson!" Holmes called to me; his face etched with pain as he strained to hold the woman back. I had seen him handle himself in fights against other men, so it came as another surprise that his female opponent was gradually crushing his hands in her grip. "The flask on this table…"
"No. You all will die for your interference, Mr Holmes!" the intruder rasped, in an accent that I identified as Welsh.
"Rachel Howells!" I gasped, remembering Holmes telling me of Musgrave's account of his missing maid.
The look of astonishment in the intruder's dark grey eyes confirmed my suspicion.
Taking my cue from Mycroft's improvisations, I pressed my advantage against the momentarily frozen woman, and I raced over to the fireplace in order to snatch up the poker there. Then I ran to assist Holmes. I whacked the woman's arms with my weapon, urging her to let go of my friend, who was still stuck fast in her grip.
"Her face, Watson! Strike her face!" he cried out.
I hesitated at the thought of that – but then I assented, first hitting the crazed female on her head, then against one side of her face. To my amazement, she fought on, apparently only stunned by the blows of my improvised weapon. She roared with anger. Eventually, my blows weakened her hold on Holmes – and he broke free.
Then the woman was clawing her hands at both of us. She seemed to have long, sharp nails, and she was swift in her attacks and dodges.
The fight itself is still a blur in my memory – but we must have fought for several moments, with several of Holmes' scientific instruments ending up on the floor – including at least one jar which shattered on the carpet. Then, Holmes, with blood pouring from his face from where our enemy had scratched his check (just missing his eyes), managed to reach a sealed flask on the far side of the table, which I realised he had wanted me to fetch or use.
The woman evaded my latest swing of the poker, as she ducked down. Quick as a flash, she punched me in the chin, sending me staggering into the arm of the nearest chair, which then caused me to lose balance and fall down, dropping the poker in the process.
Groaning, I forced myself onto my elbows and knees. I was just in time to see the wretched, remarkably strong woman turn back to Holmes and bare her…fangs. Yes, fangs.
But as she dived towards him, Holmes splashed the contents of the opened flask into her face.
Immediately, she screamed. There was the awful smell of burning flesh – and as I got to my feet, I could see that there were parts of her face and hands that looked as if they had been in contact with acid. One of her eyes was actually smoking.
"Watson. The poker!" Holmes' sharp voice carried itself to me.
Still on my knees, I grabbed hold of the poker and threw it over the table to him. He expertly caught it.
"Bring her down, Watson!"
Getting up, I charged the furious, blinded intruder, and brought her down with a rugby tackle. I was concerned that the liquid would get onto me – but I was more worried that Rachel Howells really was going to kill us.
I held the screaming woman pinned against the floor, with her hands tearing at my coat arms whilst she glared back at me with her one remaining good eye.
At Holmes' command, I rolled aside. Then Holmes steeled himself – before he skewed Howells with the poker, piercing her heart, before she can evade him. She gasped, coughed blood, and then immediately turned rigid and silent upon our sitting room carpet.
Feeling sick, I pressed a hand against my mouth and fought to compose myself.
Seconds later, I heard Mycroft give a battle-cry. Turning, I saw him charge at Gervais Bryce, and pin him against the wall next to the entrance door, even as blood dripped down the elder Holmes' face from a gash to his cheek that the MP had caused with his knife. The said blade was now the tug-o-war knot that both men were fighting possession for with their grasping hands.
Holmes himself looked furious at the sight of his brother's life in grave danger. Trembling slightly, he armed himself with one of the dropped books on the carpet – then ran over to aid Mycroft as he bashed the head of the pinned member of parliament with the thick tomb, until Bryce grunted and went down like a sack of potatoes, as Mycroft staggered back and fell into the nearest chair.
"Bravo, brother of mine," Mycroft rasped. "Bryce was one…of the MPs who's strange behaviour…was uncovered by my enquiries. It makes sense… His constituency includes the street where this…Cherry Tree House is located!" He then shot a meaningful glance at Howells' body. "Don't let anyone outside of this household see that woman! Hide her. Get answers from her body, Sherlock!"
"Agreed. Now, hold still, Mycroft! Don't you dare leave us!" Holmes had by now reached Mycroft and he had whipped out his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood that was pouring from his elder brother's wounds.
"I need your help, doctor!" he called out to me, even as he himself collapsed upon his knees, somewhat the worse for wear himself.
So, forcing myself up, I raced over to the bathroom, and returned with several towels and the first-aid kit I had bought for Holmes, just three years ago – not long before we had to depart for Switzerland, when Moriarty and his men were on our trail.
"Mrs Hudson!" I cried out. "We need an ambulance…!"