So you see, it is only now, with my friend passed on and myself nearing the end of my years, that I am committing this to paper. Even now, I doubt very much whether it shall see the light of day. Instead it will probably be dismissed, I fancy, as a work of fiction less credible even than those by Mr. Stoker or Mr. Verne. The final ramblings of an aged adventurer.
But I know the truth.
Holmes once spoke about his greatest foe without realizing it, long before he ever encountered the thing, during a case a long time ago. The Adventure of the Six Napoleons I believe it was, though my memory is waning, I must confess. He was in the mortuary then, not the graveyard, but he mused: “I am just contemplating the one mystery I cannot solve. Death itself.” How prophetic those words would turn out to be.
Because although he may have prevented more innocents from going the way of Judith Hatten and the others, spared future ‘murderers’ from the blame and guilt of something they had not done, Holmes had far from solved the mystery of exactly what Death was — nor what happens when we take our final breath.
The spectre had been right, of course. It had seen Holmes again, and to my everlasting regret I had not been able to save him. But that is a story for another time…
* * * * *
PAUL KANE is the award-winning author of the novels The Gemini Factor and Of Darkness and Light, plus the post-apocalyptic Robin Hood trilogy Arrowhead, Broken Arrow and Arrowland. His non-fiction books are The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy and Voices in the Dark, and he is the co-editor of anthologies like Hellbound Hearts and Terror Tales. His work has been optioned for film and in 2008 his story ‘Dead Time’ was turned into an episode of the NBC/LionsGate TV series Fear Itself, adapted by Steve (30 Days of Night) Niles, directed by Darren (SAW II-IV) Lynn Bousman. Paul also scripted a film version of his story ‘The Opportunity’, which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival.
The House of Blood
by Tony Richards
He knew the man was real, but Lieutenant Vince Capaldi could scarcely believe it. That famous narrow face, framed against the background of a hotel window, with its hooked nose and very watchful eyes.
“My God,” he breathed. “You can’t have aged a day since Victorian times.”
Holmes nodded.
“So you really are immortal?”
“I found it out after the Reichenbach Falls, when I suddenly returned to life with no sensible explanation. A definite case in point, Lieutenant—” and the great detective favoured him with a quirky half-smile— “of the last remaining solution to a puzzle, however improbable, being the correct one. I never thought that I would turn out to be the most striking example of that adage.”
“And now,” he went on quickly, “what is this murder you have come to me about?”
Capaldi’s eyes widened. “I never said anything about any…”
“You have been wearing tight latex gloves recently,” Holmes pointed out. “I doubt that you would do that for a mugging. There is a smear of luminol on the edge of your left shoe, a substance for detecting blood. And the gravity of your expression speaks of no lesser a crime than murder most foul.”
“In fact,” he continued before the policeman could break in, “I would hazard you have come to me about a fourth in the series of killings that began last week. I’ve, naturally, been following them on the TV news and in the press. And let me hazard at something else. Something you have contrived to keep from the newshounds and the general public. All the victims so far have been completely drained of their vital essence.”
The color disappeared from the lieutenant’s features, his mouth falling open.
“Luminol, my good fellow, is used to find mere trace elements of blood. So why would you use it around a freshly murdered human corpse except to discern if there was any blood at all?”
When he saw that he had rendered the man speechless, Holmes allowed himself another little smile.
“You’re as bad as Lestrade,” he commented. “You mean well, but you do not really think.”
Then he encouraged his visitor to bring him up to date on the whole situation.
Stammering, Capaldi tried to get his thoughts together. He went over what had happened to the first victim. A certain Harriet Ellison, of Boise, Idaho, who was still fresh in his memory. She had won a massive jackpot from a slot machine ten days ago, been photographed with her reward, and then become surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on with whom she had been partying. Halfway through the evening, she had headed off to the restrooms, only to mysteriously vanish. Her corpse, clad merely in its underwear, had been found in the desert on the edge of town next morning.
Lawrence Mark of Trenton, New Jersey, had been the next one. His case followed the same pattern. After a huge run of luck, at the craps tables, he had disappeared, only for it to be proved that he had suffered the same fate.
Daniel Besset of Oxford, Maryland, had been the third. He had recently won sixty thousand dollars, by means of his skill at Texas Hold’em.
This much, Sherlock Holmes already knew.
“And the last?” he prompted.
“Just this morning. Hasn’t even made the papers yet. Kyle Monoghan from Boston, Mass.”
“And he had won at?”
“Blackjack. According to the witnesses, it was a pretty amazing run of luck.”
“Do you have a picture of the fellow?” Holmes enquired calmly.
Capaldi was aware of the detective’s reputation, and had come prepared. He took a glossy photo from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it over, then watched with quiet awe as Holmes studied the thing. It had been taken at the crime scene, Monoghan sprawled out in the desert dirt.
One of Holmes’ narrow eyebrows lifted just a touch, but that was all.
“Let me make sure that I have got this straight. Nothing whatsoever connects the victims, not in terms of gender, age, hometown, occupation, or ethnicity. They were not even kidnapped from the same casino. The single thing that does connect them is that Lady Luck smiled on them beneficently shortly before they met their fate.”
“That’s right.”
“And were their winnings taken?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Every time.”
“Which would mark these cases as a simple string of murder-robberies. Except that…”
Each of the victims had been stripped practically naked and drained completely of their blood, by means of punctures at the throat and wrists. They’d already established that.
“My guys are calling them ‘The Vampire Killings,’” Capaldi let slip.
“There are no such creatures,” Holmes assured him. “Reports that have tried to pit me against Mr. Stoker’s Transylvanian Count are much exaggerated.”