Black Cat Weekly #42

By A.L. Sirois, Charles John Harper, Maurice Broaddus and 5 more

An exciting game is afoot, thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken! Yes—we are delighted to present an original Sherlock Holmes story by A.L. Sirois this issue. It’s one that only Sirois could write, as Holmes meets no less a person than Bram Stoker! Then the mysteries keep coming with “The Echoes,” by Charles John Harper [courtesy of acquiring editor Barb Goffman], plus a mystery novel by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding. And, of course, we have a solve-it-yourself mystery by Hal Charles.

On the fantastic side of things, editor Cynthia Ward has found a steampunk triumph in “Pimp My Airship,” by Maurice Broaddus. plus we have science fiction tales by Lester del Rey and George O. Smith, as well as fantasies by Weird Tales alums Manly Wade Wellman, Clifford Ball, and Dorothy Quick.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Lady Corwynne’s Legacy,” by A.L. Sirois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“A Present from the Past” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The Echoes” by Charles John Harper [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Who’s Afraid, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding [novel]

Science Fiction / Fantasy:
“Pimp My Airship,” by Maurice Broaddus [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“Rescue Team,” by Lester del Rey [short story]
“Vocation,” by George O. Smith [short story]
“The Liers in Wait,” by Manly Wade Wellman [short story]
“The Werewolf Howls,” by Clifford Ball [short story]
“The Lost Door,” by Dorothy Quick [short story]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781479479122

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

LADY CORWYNNE’S LEGACY, by A.L. SIROIS

A TOUCH OF MAGIC, by Hal Charles

THE ECHOES, by Charles John Harper

WHO’S AFRAID? by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

PIMP MY AIRSHIP, by Maurice Broaddus

RESCUE TEAM, by Lester del Rey

VOCATION, by George O. Smith

THE LIERS IN WAIT, by Manly Wade Wellman

THE WEREWOLF HOWLS, by Clifford Ball

THE LOST DOOR, by Dorothy Quick

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Lady Corwynne’s Legacy, is copyright © 2022 by A.L. Sirois. Published for the first time by permission of the author.

A Present from the Past is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Echoes is copyright © 2017 by Charles John Harper. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March/April 2017. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Who’s Afraid, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding, was originally published in 1940.

Pimp My Airship, is copyright © 2009 by Maurice Broaddus. Originally published in Apex Magazine, July 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Rescue Team, is copyright © 1969 by Lester del Rey. Originally published in Galaxy, August 1969. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Vocation, by George O. Smith, was originally published in Astounding Science-Fiction, April 1945.

The Liers in Wait, by Manly Wade Wellman, was originally published in Weird Tales, November-December 1941.

The Werewolf Howls, by Clifford Ball, was originally published in Weird Tales, November-December 1941.

The Lost Door, by Dorothy Quick, was originally published in Weird Tales, October 1936.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #42.

An exciting game is afoot, thanks to acquiring editor Michael Bracken! Yes—we are delighted to present an original Sherlock Holmes story by A.L. Sirois this issue. It’s one that only Sirois could write, as Holmes meets no less a person than Bram Stoker! Then the mysteries keep coming with The Echoes, by Charles John Harper [courtesy of acquiring editor Barb Goffman], plus a mystery novel by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding. And, of course, we have a solve-it-yourself mystery by Hal Charles.

On the fantastic side of things, editor Cynthia Ward has found a steampunk triumph in Pimp My Airship, by Maurice Broaddus. plus we have science fiction tales by Lester del Rey and George O. Smith, as well as fantasies by Weird Tales alums Manly Wade Wellman, Clifford Ball, and Dorothy Quick.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

Lady Corwynne’s Legacy, by A.L. Sirois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Present from the Past by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The Echoes by Charles John Harper [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Who’s Afraid, by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

Pimp My Airship, by Maurice Broaddus [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

Rescue Team, by Lester del Rey [short story]

Vocation, by George O. Smith [short story]

The Liers in Wait, by Manly Wade Wellman [short story]

The Werewolf Howls, by Clifford Ball [short story]

The Lost Door, by Dorothy Quick [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

LADY CORWYNNE’S LEGACY,

by A.L. SIROIS

I

Sherlock was bored. He paid little attention to the scenery outside the railway car, sighing every so often while kicking his legs back and forth, thumping his heels against the seat. To pass the time he’d made some notes in his journal, did some reading, and scanned a newspaper he’d picked up.

But as the train rumbled on, he’d grown restless. Twice he had walked back and forth through the swaying carriages, observing, and making casual deductions about the other passengers—where they had come from, where they were going, what they had had to eat recently, whether they’d had a haircut in the past day or so—but after an hour or so the game grew tiresome. He returned to his parents’ compartment, there to plop down on the horsehair cushion across from his mother and father and sulk. He couldn’t read because it made him sick to his stomach inside the moving carriage.

He glowered at the landscape as the train rumbled through it, knowing he was acting childishly for a fifteen-year-old but not caring.

His parents ignored him, which aggravated him even more.

"I am so looking forward to seeing dear Effie, Mrs. Holmes said to her husband. Plus, Harry and our niece and nephew."

As am I, Richard Holmes replied affably. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading and smiled at his wife. He reached into his pocket and took out his pipe. I can’t remember when we last visited your sister, can you? Can it really have been two years ago?

Two years, four months, and ten days, Sherlock muttered. He’d been left at home that time in the care of his paternal grandparents. But Gramma and Grampa Holmes had both passed away in the interim, requiring his attendance on this trip.

Thank you, petal, Jane Holmes said to her son. Then she sighed. It’s a pity Mycroft couldn’t accompany us this time.

The lucky sod, Sherlock thought, but said nothing. His elder brother had begun his first year in government service after graduating Oxford. Mycroft’s employment provided him with a perfect excuse to avoid the family trip. Sherlock had no such excuse. It was the summer recess, and he had no job aside from helping his father take care of the grounds and the horses. He had begged and pleaded to be left home, rightly asserting that he was fully capable of taking care of himself, up to and including preparing his own meals; albeit at a primitive level, little more than beans on toast.

And with me home, you needn’t pay for Clive’s services while you’re gone, he said, referring to their stable hand. I can care for the horses. Clive can use some time off.

Despite his flawless logic, his parents were united in insisting that he come along to visit a pack of relatives—his mother’s sister Effie O’Grady and her husband Harry, a niece and two nephews—with whom he had little in common and even less interest.

He shifted in the hard seat, his buttocks complaining. He’d always hated horsehair furnishings. Nothing about this endless train trip pleased him. They’d left the station in West Sussex around seven in the morning, an ungodly hour as far as Sherlock was concerned. From there they traveled west to the Welsh port city of Holyhead, some distance south of Liverpool. In Holyhead they would take a ferry for the three-hour crossing to Dublin, and then—

Sherlock scowled at his reflection in the window. Dublin. He’d never been to the city apart from one trip with his mother some ten years previously, which he barely remembered. Shortly after having learned that he was obliged to go along this time, he decided he should bone up on Ireland in general and Dublin in particular. He visited the local library to read some books and newspapers. When it came to history and geography, he was an indifferent student at best, to the intense annoyance of his instructors, who were aware of how incisive his thinking could be once the full force of his intellect was engaged.

He wouldn’t have said at first that it was engaged, but then he happened across an item in a month-old copy of the Dublin Evening Mail, and everything changed.

It detailed the discovery of a murdered prostitute’s body in an alleyway in the Liberties, a rough section of the city. That, though terrible and sad, wasn’t so very unusual. The condition of the body, however, certainly was, and this was what caught Holmes’s eye: it had been virtually drained of blood.

Sherlock immediately set about digging through earlier copies of the Mail, and the Dublin Daily Express for earlier mentions of such unique corpses. From his research he soon learned that there were other puzzling reports of people who had gone missing without warning, to the distress of their friends. Usually, the victims were prostitutes or the destitute—people who lived miserably or had been forced to resort to workhouses for shelter. Some of them slept in doorways. When and if the bodies of these poor souls turned up, they were discovered to be, as often as not, lacking most or all their blood.

Sherlock had a particular appreciation for this bizarre aspect of the crimes. His father had studied medicine for a term or two in university before switching his attention to the breeding of horses. Richard Holmes’s student medical texts were still in his library, and Sherlock had betimes read through them in search of arcane information about poisons, diseases, and the treatment of wounds. He had gleaned enough knowledge to be certain it wasn’t easy to remove a person’s blood.

Why would one even wish to attempt it? What would one even do with the blood once it had been taken from the body?

He knew from reading the books that over the past two hundred years attempts had been made to transfuse blood from one person to another, or even from animals to human beings. Unfortunately, these experiments had often been unsuccessful, for reasons still unknown. The procedure had been banned by the Royal Society and the French government in 1668. Two years later the Vatican had condemned the experiments.

After reading about the weird events in Dublin, Sherlock wondered if perhaps some rogue medical student or students had come up a new procedure for transfusions and was seeking unwilling subjects from among the city’s poorest classes.

Some people interviewed by the reporters insisted these horrors were the work of vampires. Sherlock dismissed such claims out of hand. He considered vampires no more than a folk myth. He did a bit of research into such legends of the general region. The more he read, the more disgusted he became with the foolish stuff that people believed.

There was, for example, the malign and succubus-like Baobhan sith from the Scottish Highlands and the Lhiannan Shee of the Isle of Man, Scotland, and Ireland, two fairy spirits with decidedly vampiric tendencies. The Dearg-due were female vampires that wandered around graveyards and used their beauty to seduce male victims.

Most ridiculous of all was the legend of Abhartach, a tyrant king who repeatedly left his grave to drink the blood of his subjects and could be killed only by with a sword of yew wood.

Absurd as all these legends were, however, it appeared to be an undeniable fact that people were disappearing, and—if the newspapers were to be believed—the corpses that had been discovered had been exsanguinated.

Which obviously hadn’t happened where the bodies were found, for there were no residual traces of gore nearby. The pitiful victims had been killed and drained elsewhere, and then their corpses dumped.

It was an interesting and challenging puzzle. The police were baffled, according to reports. Sherlock knew that the peelers often didn’t disclose all their clues and leads, but in this case, he suspected they really were stumped.

He had lately been reading about the French criminal-turned-detective Eugène François Vidocq; and after recent experiences of his own in the realm of mysteries needing to be solved, Sherlock had decided he wanted to become a consulting detective.

Here was a perfect opportunity for him to apply his methodology of rigorous observation and deduction to the unraveling of a mystery. He therefore lost much of his antipathy to the idea of leaving Sussex for Dublin and became almost cheery about it.

His father noted his switch in attitude with approval. I’m glad to see that you’ve changed your mind about our vacation, he said to his youngest son at dinner a few days before their departure.

Sherlock smiled but said nothing and cut another slice of beef.

But now, aboard the train with at least another hour of travel ahead of them, he grew increasingly out of sorts. He shifted his position again and again, sighing loudly.

At last, his father had enough. He snapped his paper closed and glared. Why don’t you take a nap?

I slept perfectly well last night, Sherlock growled.

Don’t take that tone with me, young man.

Sherlock knew better than to answer back, so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Rather to his surprise he woke up some time later with his father shaking his arm. Sherlock. Sherlock, we’ve arrived at Holyhead.

Oh, um? He rubbed his eyes. The train had stopped moving. I must’ve dropped off.

I should say you did, his mother said with a fond smile.

They debarked with the other passengers. Delighted to be out of the stuffy train car, Sherlock sniffed at the salty tang in the air while he and his mother collected their luggage. Richard Holmes saw to engaging a cab to take them to the harbor.

Sherlock remembered Holyhead no better than he remembered Dublin, so he looked about with interest at the bustling port as the porters gathered their belongings into a pile. Sailors shouted to one another, gulls called out creakily, and waves lapped against the wharf’s pilings. Before he could get a better sense of the quay, Mr. Holmes returned with the cabman and horse-drawn two-wheeler.

Presently they were trundling along to the ferry mooring. The horse’s hooves clopped hollowly on the boards as the cab rolled from the roadway onto the dock. Mr. Holmes paid the taxi driver. More porters unloaded the Holmes’s trunk and suitcases, transferring them to a cart that they then pushed across the ferry’s gangway onto the boat.

Sherlock knew it would take about two and a half hours to cross from Wales to Ireland. What he didn’t know, because he’d never spent much time on a boat, was that he was subject to seasickness. The water was choppy, and Sherlock soon lost his breakfast over the side. He staggered off the ferry at the Dublin dock, green and belching.

He was in no mood to be surrounded by boisterous relatives but that was precisely what happened because there to meet him and his parents were his Aunt Effie O’Grady and Uncle Harry. Sherlock barely remembered them. All three of his cousins were there. Sherlock remembered the older boy, though he could not recall his name. He was sure that the younger one hadn’t been born at the time of his previous visit.

Effie swept him into a hug and his uncle slapped him on the back. Sherlock, his stomach still unsettled, nearly vomited but managed a weak smile. His male cousins shuffled their feet and muttered half-hearted hellos, which Sherlock returned even less warmly.

His other O’Grady cousin was a red-haired, pale-skinned girl about his own age. He couldn’t remember her name. Amanda? She smiled at him. Hi, Sherlock, she said. Remember me? I’m Agatha.

What? said the younger boy, whose name was Michael. ‘Sherlock’? That’s a weird name.

"His brother is named Mycroft," said the older boy, a note of deprecation in his voice.

Sure, and you’re in no position to make fun of anyone’s name, Chauncey, Agatha snapped, rounding on him. To Sherlock she said, Ignore him. He thinks he’s a cut above because he—

Sherlock interrupted her, saying to Chauncey, Cousin, you have pencil smudges on your cuff and ink stains on your hands. I think you have spent much recent time at a writing desk. I believe I detect the singular odor of parchment about you, as well. Also, you are developing a squint, as one can see from the crow’s feet forming at the corners of your eyes, which are red and puffy, as from lack of sleep. You must have secured a position as a scrivener, which you find stressful, wherein you spend all day at your desk in insufficient light, drawing up wills, indentures, and bills of sale. Sometimes you have to erase the preliminary words before you set them in ink with your quill. He allowed himself a slight smile at Chauncey, who was opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

I… I have been working as a clerk, the young man said. For the past few months.

Just so, said Sherlock, feeling smug. He turned to Agatha, who was staring at him openmouthed.

That’s amazing! she said.

Sherlock scoffed. He couldn’t suppress a twinge of pleasure at her open admiration. I find most people to be rather unobservant, he said. I am training myself to be otherwise. I hope to go into investigative work.

The luggage having been loaded in the O’Grady’s phaeton, the party departed from the landing. Sherlock and the other young people sat in the back with the luggage while the adults squeezed into the single seat at the vehicle’s front. Harry drove the team. He and Richard discussed their mutual love, horses. Harry kept two in a small stable behind the house.

Agatha contrived to sit next to Sherlock, and kept up a stream of cheery chatter, to which he responded mostly in monosyllables. He knew he seemed stiff and aloof, but he had little experience talking to girls. Agatha was surely pretty but he simply had no idea what to say and wasn’t that interested in the first place. He would have talked with Chauncey, but the young clerk took no notice of him, pointedly (or so it seemed) staring at the scenery outside the carriage.

Sherlock wasn’t the least bit bothered by Chauncey’s rudeness. On the contrary, it amused him. Agatha, for her part, was not put off by Sherlock’s reticence. She kept trying to engage him in conversation as the carriage proceeded through the city into the more pleasant outskirts. Sherlock wanted to be polite to her and did his best to respond to her chatter, even though he considered it inane and pointless. He was relieved when the carriage pulled up in front of the O’Grady home, in the pleasant, semi-rural Southside section of the city, and he could clamber out to stretch his arms and legs.

* * * *

Luckily, Chauncey seemed to have gotten over his snit, and was cordial enough as he helped with the luggage.

Once inside, the guests were shown to their rooms. There was a guest room for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, but Sherlock, rather to his displeasure, was forced to share with Chauncey.

The older boy loitered in the doorway while Sherlock, uncomfortable under his gaze, transferred his clothes from his Gladstone to an empty drawer in Chauncey’s bureau.

Look here, Chauncey said suddenly. He chewed his upper lip. The thing is, Mam told me a bit about your adventures with that Oxford don, an’ all. I thought she was having me on. But then you could tell me what I been doin’ by just lookin’ at me, so I figure… He advanced into the room and stuck out his hand. And by Heaven, I never saw nothin’ like it. So, I want to apologize.

Surprised, Sherlock took the proffered hand and shook it. Accepted, he said.

I acted like a knob, Chauncey said, and sighed. Thing is, I been worried about a friend, and it’s made me cranky. You’re right, I haven’t been sleeping well, but it’s from worry, not my job.

Understandable, said Sherlock. Chauncey seemed about to say more, but at that moment Aunt Effie called from downstairs, Boys! Dinner is ready, come down now.

On our way, Ma, Chauncey called back. As he and Sherlock left the room, he said, After, can we talk? About my friend?

Of course, said Sherlock. But briefly, what about him?

He’s disappeared.

"Like the people in the Dublin Evening Mail?"

Chauncey paused and looked at him, eyebrows raised. So, you’ve heard of—?

I have. He was about to say more, but Aunt Effie called them again, her tone a bit more brittle.

Sherlock would have found dinner excruciating but for the fact that the evening promised some mental exercise. He’d had no idea that the current string of disappearances were so closely connected to his own family.

Agatha again contrived to sit beside Sherlock, and chatted to him throughout the meal, but he was so distracted by the thought of Chauncey’s missing friend that he was brusque with her. Finally, she gave up, and, pouting a little, said that she was would take one of the horses out for a ride.

Oh, isn’t it getting a little late? Effie said.

I’ll be back by half seven, mum, said Agatha, rising from the table. Eight at the latest.

Effie caught her sister’s eyes and sighed. After Agatha left the room, Effie said, She’s a force to be reckoned with, that one.

You let her go out riding on her own?

Oh, not even Harry’s as good with the horses as she is, said Effie. And she’s safe as houses around here.

Sherlock followed the conversation with little interest. Chauncey said, Mum told me you’re a chess fan. Would you care for a game? Sherlock brightened and followed Chauncey out of the dining room and up the stairs.

Now then, he said, with the door to Chauncey’s room closed behind them, tell me about your friend and how he is tied into the disappearances.

There is not much to tell, Chauncey said. He began pacing the room. My friend’s name is Jack, Jack Shaughnessy. I met him… He paused.

Go on, Sherlock urged after a moment.

I will, but it’s a tad embarrassing, Chauncey said. He sat on his bed and leaned back against the wall, not meeting Sherlock’s eye. It’s like this. Jackie is a milkman. He waved a hand. I met him gambling. I daren’t tell my ma or da about it… they don’t like me playing cards and the like. They think all that’s the work of the devil. You must promise me you’ll not tell them.

I assure you I will be discreet.

Thank you. I suppose you already know that the folk who’ve vanished are all, uh, ladies of the evening and the like. Poor people, they are, all down on their luck, forced to do what they must to survive.

Yes, I have deduced that from the newspaper reports. But your friend…well, as a milkman, of course he’d be likely to be out and about at a time of day when few others are, save those who must ply the flesh trade or work menial jobs.

Precisely so, Chauncey said. But my friend—Jackie—he’s no menial. As I say, he is gainfully employed. He has a wife and a wee bairn. He’s not one to be irresponsible.

Sherlock thought, Then what business has he gambling with money he should use to support his family? Aloud, he said only, Go on.

There is little more to tell. Two days ago he disappeared while on his route. There was notice of it in the papers… He trailed off, raising an interrogative eyebrow at Sherlock.

I have not seen a Dublin newspaper more recent than last week’s.

Chauncey’s shoulders slumped. Then you’ll not have heard.

No. Has his body been found?

Chauncey shook his head. Not yet anyway. It is my hope that he can be freed before he is… He shuddered. Before his blood is removed.

I’m not sure what I can do, that the Gardaí have not already set in motion. I’m sure they are diligently looking for the murderer.

Maybe, but so far they have had no luck. I fear it is because the culprit they are looking for is…not natural.

Hmmm. Do you think it is… Sherlock sighed. …a vampire?

Chauncey crossed himself. Why else would the bodies be drained of all their blood, cousin? What normal human killer would do that?

I do not believe in the supernatural, Sherlock said stiffly. Yet someone is doing these killings, and the reason has something to do with blood. This much I grant you. It is almost all we know right now.

Chauncey sighed. Do you think there is anything you can do to help find my friend?

I don’t know. I must think about it. But I promise you I will devote my closest attention to the problem.

* * * *

Over the next day, he did exactly that, though to an onlooker it would have seemed that he did little else than practice his violin, using the undeniable fact that he had an upcoming recital for which he needed to rehearse as an excuse.

This kept him away from most family matters and allowed him time to ponder his next moves. He had no interest in small talk or sport, and he wished to avoid Agatha despite her friendliness. He became tongue-tied around her, which annoyed him.

Music was in any event not only his refuge but also his muse, and he courted it assiduously. To Mycroft he had once described this process as thinking without thinking. By concentrating solely on notes, tempo, and chords, he was able to release his subconscious mind and allow it free rein to work on the puzzle. What had been conundrums prior to playing his violin had often solved themselves through the process of concentrating on the music. He had tried other instruments, but he had a facility for the violin unexpected by anyone, least of all himself. No one else in his family or among his relatives had any talent for music—though apparently a great-grandfather had, appropriately enough, played the fiddle.

Now, as he sweated through his chosen sonata, it became clear to him that if he wished to pursue the vampire mystery, to both solve the crimes and satisfy his curiosity—and to help put Chauncey’s mind at ease—he needed to go into the city.

To that end he sought out Chauncey and together they put together a scheme.

That evening at dinner, while helping himself to a slice of mutton, Sherlock casually said, I thought I might go to Dublin tomorrow. It’s such a beautiful, historical place… I’d like to get to know it better. A walking tour would be just the thing.

Jane Holmes glanced at her husband, who shrugged. Well, she said, as long as you don’t get lost.

Oh, small chance of that, Chauncey put in cheerfully. He produced a marked-up map. I’ve indicated the best routes he can take, as well as a few pubs where he can get refreshment along the way.

And I’ve brought my walking stick, Sherlock pointed out, so I’m all kitted out. It’ll be splendid.

Richard Holmes shot his son a suspicious look. What are you up to, lad?

What? Me? Nothing! Sherlock was the perfect picture of innocence. I simply want to get out of the house for some exercise and explore the city.

Hmmm. Very well.

You should plan to be back by dark, Sherlock, dear, said Aunt Effie. Parts of Dublin can be a little dicey at night.

Aye, Uncle Harry said, chewing. Stay away from the Liberties in any case, eh? Not a good place for a young lad.

Not to fear, said Chauncey. He proffered the map to his father. See? It’s indicated here.

Uncle Harry eyed the map. All right, then. But you have a care, nephew.

I will, be sure of that.

The only person who looked at all put out about his plan was Agatha, across whose pretty face a look of disappointment spread. Sherlock saw it, and, feeling a little ashamed, said to her, Don’t worry—I’ll be back in plenty of time for a good game of whist. You wanted to teach me, remember?

She brightened. Yes. I look forward to it.

As do I, he lied.

The next morning, he and Chauncey drove into Dublin. Drop me off near the Trinity College library, if you’d be so kind, he said to his cousin.

Certainly. What are you going to do there?

Well, the exsanguination angle of the deaths is unique, he said. "There’s got to be something to it. It ties all the killings together, for what reason we do not yet know. I intend to spend the morning doing some research into blood. And aberrant psychological behavior concerning it. There have been examples of people who drank blood, in the belief that they were vampires. Pure nonsense, of course, but the human mind is a fascinating thing."

Chauncey made a face. If you say so. He eyed Sherlock. Will you want picking up later?

I may do, if it’s convenient. Meet me near the college gates at six, if you will.

You’ll have missed tea.

Sherlock grinned. There are more important things in life than tea.

Chauncey let him off as directed. As the carriage clattered away, Sherlock took a couple of books from his rucksack and slung them under his arm. Being tall for his age, he hoped to be mistaken for a student, albeit a rather shabby one.

He marched up the steps of Trinity Library and through the doors. In front of him was a long room—which was, in fact commonly known as the Long Room. It was essentially a two-story gallery with a tall, vaulted roof, housing row after row of books. At the head of each row was a marble bust of a famous Trinity alumnus. He inhaled the familiar scent of old paper and dust, and relaxed. He loved libraries and considered them as something of a second home. This one, old and stuffed full of nearly two hundred thousand manuscripts, tomes, and texts, with long tables at which silent young men sat turning pages and scribbling notes, was new to him but he felt perfectly at home in it.

A librarian directed him to the medical reference section on the second floor. He set off at once, taking the stairs two at a time before remembering where he was and continuing at a more sedate pace.

As he climbed the steps he shivered with pleasure. Few things in his life brought him as much joy as being surrounded with books—unless it was solving mysteries. Linking the two together made him particularly happy.

Upstairs he followed the small directional signs and turned from the main aisle into the one in which were kept tomes concerning the circulatory system. One or two young men stood along the shelves of books, heads bent over volumes. No one paid him the least heed.

He scanned the ranked books, which seemed to be placed on the shelves almost at random, or by size. Someone ought to come up with a good system of classification, he thought. He crouched and stretched alternately, head tilted, reading titles.

Ahead of him down the aisle stood a youth even taller than he. As he drew nearer Sherlock realized that this student was standing exactly at his destination: books concerning blood.

The young man, a cadaverous presence, stood perusing a volume, taking no notice of Sherlock until he began looking at titles on the spines of the shelved books. A likely one was at the thin young man’s elbow, and Sherlock reached for it.

The student seemed to notice him for the first time. Excuse me—aren’t you a little young to be loitering around here? he said, a frown spilling across his face. His accent made it obvious that he was a Dubliner—or at the very least a native Irishman.

I beg your pardon, Sherlock mumbled, hastily selecting a book and turning his back on the fellow.

Seriously, my lad, the library is not open to the general public, only students of the College—which you look too young to be.

Sherlock sighed. He looked closely at his interrogator. I perceive that you have recently been in a theatrical production and were engaged in sketching or drawing not long ago.

The tall student’s eyes went wide, and then he scowled. You have been following me around. Why?

Indeed not. I see a small smear of white greasepaint under your left ear. I note the distinct odor of spirit gum, denatured alcohol, and resin, which leads me to conclude that you are in a stage performance of some sort. As to the drawing…smudges of graphite are clearly visible along the side of your right hand. Mostly likely you were sketching and not keeping your hand sufficiently distant from the paper.

The student’s eyes went wide, and his lower jaw sagged open. How in the world…? He shook himself. Right on all counts, he said, and grinned. Thrusting his hand at Holmes, he said, Bram Stoker. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Sherlock Holmes. So, I was right.

Aye. I am a member of the Drama Society, and we had a dress rehearsal for a play last night. I guess I forgot to wash up this morning.

And the drawing?

Oh yes, I like to draw the buildings here at the College, Stoker said. He glanced at the side of his hand. "Again, I should have washed my hands more thoroughly.