“Well, someone was bleeding from somewhere,” Holmes surmised. “Any mythos surrounding the woundless extraction of blood, Wells?”
“None I’m familiar with,” I replied. “Save for Nachzerer, the German equivalent of the Romanian vampire. But there would be exit wounds, bite marks of some sort, as the legend goes.”
“Right,” Holmes agreed. He addressed the queen again. “You say you examined your daughter quite thoroughly and found no such wounds?”
“None, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”
“Forgive me a delicate question, Your Majesty. Has your daughter begun menstrueren?”
“Nee, Mr. Holmes. Nacht neet.”
Holmes made a keening noise under his breath, then said, “We must assume that the bloodprint here and that which was found upon the princess resulted from wounds unknown, prior to the attack. May I request now, Your Majesty, an interview with your daughter?”
“Certainly, I shall take you to her,” she replied.
We then trailed down the corridor, preceded by guards, to the princess’s rooms. The queen entered alone, leaving us to wait outside as the guards took up their posts. I seized the moment to ask Holmes, “Do you suspect Captain Gent of some treachery? He was certainly willing to strike down that girl with the tulips.”
“True,” Holmes replied, “but he stayed his hand.”
“Perhaps due to our presence?”
“An interesting line of thought, Wells, and he was handily present on both occasions; however, I do find him lacking in motivation. If he meant the princess even the slightest harm, this keen mother would sense it. No, my observation of him reveals he is simply a man of action, fiercely loyal though a bit hot-tempered. An honest man.”
I nodded my compliance.
“Look to draw the princess out on any details you feel appropriate, won’t you, Wells? Proceed as if trying to prove that this is a true haunting.”
“Done,” I replied. “I shall play the believer.”
Her Majesty’s voice from within bade us enter.
The princess’s bedchamber was every child’s dream, fitted out with every plaything imaginable, each in its prescribed cubbyhole. The princess herself was propped up on no fewer than half a dozen pillows on a four-poster bed, draped with sheer linen, enjoying her supper on a silver tray. The child positively beamed as we were introduced, kicking her covers away and alighting at the foot of her bed to greet us.
“My daughter, Wilhelmina,” the proud mother presented.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Wells,” Mina offered in a voice that should have belonged to a girl twice her age. “Oh, this is a joyous day. I do proclaim, Mother, that I am cured this very moment!”
“Now, Mina,” the queen said. “The doctors have demanded you keep to your bed for at least three more days.”
“Yes, Mother,” the princess acquiesced. Then she turned and dug through a pile of books beneath her sheets and raised a familiar volume. “Look, Mr. Wells, I have The Chronic Argonaut right here with me.”
“I am honored, Your Highness,” I replied.
“We must hear of the danger that befell you,” said Holmes, bringing us back to our mission at hand. “Of the girl who tried to hurt you.”
Mina offered no resistance, or trace of fear, in recounting the attack, her story identical to her mother’s, a result, no doubt, of the fact that the queen had related it with a meticulous accuracy.
“Did you notice any blood on the hands of the girl?” I asked when she concluded.
“No,” she replied.
“Any peculiar smells in the air?”
She considered the question a moment, then answered. “Yes, I believe I did smell something strange—it made me look up from my book. She smelled like pine trees. Like the forest.”
“How unusual,” I replied. “And what was it about her that first made you realize that you were in danger?”
Again she carefully considered before revealing, “It was how she whispered my name. It was not a regular-sounding voice.”
“How so?”
“It was angry, and not at all hers,” Mina answered.
“And pray tell me, what had you been reading before she appeared?”
The child hesitated, almost imperceptibly. “It was a book of fairy tales,” she replied in a softer voice, “by Hans Christian Andersen.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. We’ll leave you to your supper now,” Holmes said, concluding our interview.
“But wait, I have something for you both, a gift,” she said. “Mother, will you please bring me my jewelry box?”
The queen went to a bureau and did as requested, placing the box upon Mina’s tray. The child rummaged through the box, producing a small pouch from which she removed two sparkling prizes. “Here they are!” she announced.
Upon seeing the twin silver rings, the queen chastised her daughter in Dutch: “Mina, dat zijn ringen van je grootmoeders erfgoed!” (“The rings were gifts from her grandmother,” Holmes translated in my ear.)
“Can I not do with them as I please, Mother?”
The queen deferred to the princess, whether from pride in our presence or inability to deny her child, we shall not venture to guess. Holmes would have spoken up to refuse the gifts had I not grasped his shirt cuff at that precise moment.
“We’d be honored,” I said, extending my hand to receive both rings and passing one to Holmes. I slid the beautiful gem on my right ring finger and admired its radiance. Holmes slid his on with mock gratitude.
“They were blessed by His Holiness, Pope Gregory, in Rome, weren’t they, Mother?”
The queen nodded, and Mina raised her tiny frame up on her knees and whispered in my ear.
“I shall treasure it always,” I pronounced before the room, my hand on my heart, as we left the young princess to her books.
In the hallway, the queen offered, “As you can see, the child has a flair for the dramatic, which she has inherited from her father.”
Missing no opportunity, Holmes responded, “Might I inquire, Your Majesty, as to the whereabouts of King Willem?”
“The king is on the grounds at present, Mr. Holmes. If you like, I shall petition him to grant you an audience. Though I warn you, he shares not my dire concern for these events, dismissing any talk of the supernatural entirely.”
“Would you describe your husband’s current relationship with your daughter?” Holmes asked.
“Adoration from a distance,” the queen answered after careful consideration. She called for a lady-in-waiting and gave her instructions in Dutch, then turned back to Holmes. “I’ve sent word to my husband of your request, though it may be some time before we receive his reply.”
Holmes wasted no time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. May we now speak with the other members of the household who have observed the apparition?”
One by one, guardsmen, handmaids, valets, and kitchen staff were summoned before us and we conducted our interviews in her presence—only to find that the queen recollected events far better than those who’d experienced them firsthand, that she remembered details that they had forgotten with astoundingly vivid accuracy—who had seen what and when, every creaking floor plank and flickering light. It was evidence of a diligence that only a mother truly in fear for her child’s safety could produce.
We dined with the queen in splendor, the details of which I shall not render, though suffice to say it was one of the best meals of my life. Afterward, we were granted an audience with the king in his private office.
King Willem III, a gentleman in his early seventies, was tall, like the majority of his subjects, balding slightly, with a white tuft of beard, an aquiline nose, and ruddy cheeks. His eyes possessed a disarming quality and his manner bespoke an impatience with nonsense. It was difficult to match him with the young queen—although it has been my observation that these things tend to work differently with royalty. He complimented Holmes on his high reputation amongst the European law enforcement communities, for which praise Holmes thanked him.