TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (6 page)

"Ian, is it even remotely possible that I might get a straight answer from you this morning?" Grayson said, exasperated.

"I don't
know
how she managed to lose such a great deal of blood," said Holcombe. "There. are you satisfied? I've proven my ineptitude. Perhaps she was a hemophile. Perhaps young Neilson did it, he was obviously out all night, stalking unwary actresses. Open your mouth. Neilson, let's see your teeth."

"Sir?" said Neilson. frowning.

"We seem to be infested with wolves and vampires this week," said Holcombe. "Do try to keep up, Neilson. Inspector Grayson has promised us a surprise later in the afternoon. He's going to bring us someone who's been turned to stone by one of the Gorgon sisters. Oh, and while you're at it. after you've finished cleaning up, see if you can find me a large mallet and a wooden stake. It wouldn't do to have this young lady stumbling about the lab and knocking things over after we have closed up for the night."

There was a knock at the laboratory door. Neilson opened it to admit Conan Doyle. "I was told that I could find Inspector Grayson here," said Doyle.

"Ah, there you are, Watson!" said Holcombe. "Come in, come in, the game's afoot! Professor Moriarty has bitten an actress in the neck and we're all terribly concerned! Do let me know how it all comes out. I'm off to down a few pints myself. at the pub across the street. I'm obviously only in the way here!"

He stormed past an astonished Conan Doyle and slammed the door on his way out.

"Has that man gone mad?” said Doyle.

Grayson sighed. "Please accept my apologies. Dr. Doyle. I'm afraid that Holcombe's not himself today. Apparently, his professional pride's been stung a bit over—"

"Say no more, I quite understand." said Conan Doyle. "In point of fact, I am something of an interloper here. I think I can understand his irritation."

"Ian Holcombe's a good man," said Grayson. "I suspect his irritation is directed more at himself than at you. It seems I've brought him another body to confound him.•'

"What'? Not another one?" said Doyle, coming closer.

"No, not a werewolf this time," Grayson said, smiling wryly. "This time, we apparently have the victim of a vampire."

"A
what
?"

"
See for yourself." said Grayson. "Miss Angeline Crewe, an actress with Mr. Irving's company at the Lyceum. She collapsed on stage during a rehearsal and apparently died within moments of her collapse. Notice the marks upon her throat."

"Hmmm. yes. I see." said Conan Doyle. "Definitely teeth marks. And cause of death was a significant loss of blood?"

"Yes, that is what Holcombe said. An insult to the system, as he put it. Surely you're not suggesting that she
was
killed by a vampire?"

"Rubbish, Grayson." said Conan Doyle. "That's utter nonsense. What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their graves by stakes driven through their hearts? It's pure lunacy. However, the vampire of legend was not necessarily a dead man. A living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth. We must seek our answers among the natural, rather than the supernatural phenomena."

"What do you mean?" said Grayson.

"There are any number of contributing factors that could combine to sustain the legend of an undead vampire." Conan Doyle said. "For example, did you know that teeth appear longer in an exhumed corpse because the tissue of the gums shrinks after death?"

"I didn't know that," Grayson said.

Conan Doyle nodded as he examined the body. "It's quite true. In the past, there were few, if any, truly reliable tests for death, you see, and this gave rise to an uncommon number of premature burials. You will, no doubt, be familiar with the practice once followed by many of the coffin makers, who had devised various sorts of belfries to stand atop the graves, with ropes leading down through tubes into the coffins so that someone buried prematurely could pull upon the rope and ring the bell as a signal for rescue. It never proved to be a very practical solution. Exhumed corpses found with blood upon their mouths were sometimes thought by the more imaginatively inclined to have left their graves and fed upon the flesh of the living. The actual explanation was a great deal less dramatic, though no less tragic. They were not really dead at the time of their burial and when they awoke in their coffins. they often bit themselves in their frenzy to escape. Also, for a long time, there was ignorance of the tact that hair and nails continue to grow for some time after death. This also contributed to the erroneous belief that the corpse was still 'living.' Unusual soil conditions in various parts of the world, particularly in volcanic regions, can result in an antiseptic environment that delays decomposition, which would account for reports of unusual preservation of dead bodies. Again, people often seized upon the more melodramatic explanations rather than the actual truth. Incomplete observation is worse than no observation at all, Grayson, and under properly observed conditions, all such things can be logically explained. Someone happens to see a so-called body leave a mausoleum and we have a report of walking dead, when a more careful investigation would undoubtedly have unearthed —you will excuse the pun—the explanation that a derelict had broken into a tomb to find shelter from the cold."

"But you spoke of living persons having the habit of vampirism," said Grayson.

"Quite so." said Conan Doyle. "There was, for example, the famous case of the notorious Gilles de Rais of France, tried in the year 1440 for the murder of over two hundred children. He stabbed them in their jugular veins and allowed their blood to spurt upon him so that he could drink it while he abused himself. At approximately the same period, there was also a Wallachian prince named Vlad Dracula, who built the citadel of Bucharest in 1456 and was so fond of impaling people upon spikes that he became known as Vlad Tepes, from the
word repo
in his native language, meaning 'spike.' He impaled over twenty thousand Turkish prisoners after one battle alone. From there, perhaps, stems your folklore concerning impaling vampires with wooden stakes. And then there was the case of the Hungarian countess, Elizabeth Bathory, brought to justice in the year 1611 for the killing of over six hundred young girls. She tortured them in her dungeons, bled them and then bathed in their blood, supposedly to benefit her complexion."

"Good God," said Grayson.

"Yes, shocking examples of human brutality at its worst," said Conan Doyle, "hut nevertheless, brutality practiced by living humans, not dead ones. This sort of vampirism, Grayson. is a grotesque aberration, an insanity which I suspect may have its roots in a twisted sexual depravity. However, it is a disease of the living. not the dead. As for this poor girl, there is no question but that she was bitten in the neck by another human. A human with sharp teeth, however, quite possibly filed, in the manner of the cannibal tribesmen of New Guinea. As to the massive loss of blood, there could be any number of explanations. Possibly, she was a bleeder. a hemophiliac, or perhaps she was profoundly anemic. She may have lost a great deal of blood in some other manner upon which I would not care to speculate given so little evidence, but I would venture to suggest, if I may, a careful investigation of
her
co-workers and associates. There is a strong possibility that practices of perversion may have been involved here. In such a case, it will be difficult to ferret out the truth, as such secrets are darkly kept. But in any case I would not recommend that you trade in your truncheon for a string of garlic bulbs."

You have missed your calling, Dr. Doyle," said Grayson. You would have made a brilliant detective.”

"Nonsense," said Doyle. I am merely well informed on a wide variety of peculiar subjects, of little use to the average man, but of some value to one who writes romances. Besides, I have not the temperament for police work.

"Well, the literary world's gain is Scotland Yard's loss," said Grayson.

"And I will conduct a thorough investigation of Miss Crewe's fellow actors and her friends, as well. I am most grateful for your assistance. Speaking of which—"

"Ah. yes, of course." said Conan Doyle, "The hair samples." He frowned.

"Most unusual. They are extremely like a wolf's, but then again, they do not quite compare. You may be seeking a man with unusually coarse hair of a steel gray or silver color. In such a case I would expect this coarseness to extend to his features, as well. He would be very hirsute. a primitive looking sort of individual, possibly of Mediterranean blood."

"You can tell all this from some samples of his hair?" said Grayson, amazed.

"Simple inference and deduction, Grayson, based upon what we know of physical types. In any case, you would be looking for an unusually powerful man. It would have taken one to bring down a strong man such as Constable Jones. Some savage derelict perhaps, but undoubtedly a madman. As for the nature of the wounds, I have a theory about the weapon which might have been used, but I would like to consider it some more." He looked down at the body of Angeline Crewe and frowned. "It may even be possible that this poor girl's death is connected with the murder of Constable Jones. Savagery is the common factor, Grayson. Savagery and bloodlust."

The Cafe Royal, at 68 Regent Street, was not the sort of place Inspector William Grayson frequented. It was a hit too rich for his blood and he had never cared much for French food. He preferred a public house and the congenial company of the working classes. The Cafe Royal was more a gathering place for writers and artists, not really his sort at all, in spite of what Ian Holcombe might think. On the ground floor of the Royal was a cafe, a grill room and a luncheon bar. The basement held a wine cellar and a billiard room and the upper floors were private rooms.

The manager conducted Grayson to the Domino Room. The decor was fashionably elegant. Grayson thought it was a hit much. The seats were all upholstered in red velvet and the tables topped with marble. The corners of Grayson's mouth turned down slightly as he saw the people at the table they were heading for. They were all poufs. Their postures and affected gestures were unmistakable. But then, he had expected this. He had, after all, come to the court of the so-called "Apostle of the Utterly Utter."

Oscar Wilde was at the height of his success. The leader of the Aesthete movement, Wilde's belief was that art had no real use and existed only for its own sake. As such, claimed Wilde. art knew no morality. "A book," he said, "is either written well or badly, it is not mural or immoral." Grayson did not consider himself particularly competent to judge whether or not Wilde's books
and
plays were written well or not, he was content to leave that to the reviewers, but he had read Wilde's controversial novel,
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
and while he did not quite agree with the reports in the press that called it "filthy." it certainly addressed the question of morality. The character portrayed in it was completely immoral.

Grayson had no difficulty recognizing Oscar Wilde in the group. The man had been caricatured extensively in the press. He was the oldest one among the young men at the table. Grayson guessed his age at about forty. The author, poet, dramatist and lecturer was a large man, on the plump side, though Grayson thought he was a good deal slimmer than the newspapers portrayed him. He was not a bad-looking man, though his manner and the softness of his features were decidedly effeminate. Grayson knew he had a wife and two children. but his preferences seemed to lie in a less family- oriented direction. His manner of dress was elegant.

He wore
a
dark, well-tailored coat and striped trousers, his silk cravat
was
tied perfectly, his hair was neatly combed and parted in the middle and he wore a fresh buttonhole. He looked every inch the gentleman, albeit an elaborately flamboyant one.

"Mr. Wilde." Grayson said.

Wilde held up Grayson's card, which the manager of the cafe had given him, and glanced at it insouciantly. "Inspector Grayson," he said in an appealing, almost musical voice. "It is not often that I receive a calling card from Scotland Yard. So tell me. Inspector, am I to be inspected?"

The young man at his side tittered, setting off a small chorus of birdlike noises from the others. Grayson recognized Lord Alfred Douglas, the twenty-four year old son of the Marques of Queensberry. The son was not much like his sporting father. He was a pretty, spoiled-looking boy; in fact, he could easily have been Dorian Gray himself.

"I would like to ask you a few questions. Mr. Wilde, if I may." said Grayson.

"Goodness, a police interrogation." Wilde said.
"
I trust that I am not about to be arrested'?"

"Why. Mr. Wilde,” Grayson said, affecting an innocent tone, "have you done anything to be arrested for?"

The playwright smiled. "I suppose that would depend upon what one considers criminal," he said. "I can think of any number of reviewers who believe that I should be arrested for my work and others who feel that I should be arrested for my manner. Tell me. Inspector, in which class would you fall?"

"The working class. Mr. Wilde." said Grayson.

"Oh, well done, Inspector!" Wilde said. "I hardly expected to find wit in Scotland Yard."

"It takes wit to do what we do, Mr. Wilde.” Grayson said. "Perhaps not your sort of wit, but wit nonetheless.”

"I see. I take it you do not approve of me, Inspector Grayson," Wilde said.

“I do not know enough about you personally to approve or disapprove.” said Grayson. "I could conjecture, but then the law does not deal with conjecture. The law is concerned with proof, which may be very fortunate for you. On the other hand. if you were speaking of my disapproval as concerns your work. I am afraid that I must disappoint you. I quite enjoyed your play.
Lady Windermere's Fan,
and 1 found
Dorian Gray
quite interesting."