"Being in Whitechapel, following Count Dracula into that courtyard
…" Stoker frowned and pulled at his pointed red beard absently. "And then it is all a blank!”
"As it is with me," said Conan Doyle. "The only possible explanation is that a drug was somehow administered to us and we were brought here senseless. As we neither drank nor consumed anything since we left the pub, I can only surmise that the drug must have been introduced through our lungs, perhaps through an airborne agent of some sort, such as a gas or powder we might have inhaled. Or through our skin, most probably from a distance, possibly by a dart fired from an African blowgun or some similar instrument. I would think the latter method, since the breeze would have rendered the former uncertain."
He reached out and took Stoker's chin in his hand, turning his face to one side. "As I suspected," he said. "There is a tiny wound upon your neck, slightly inflamed, little more than a pinprick. I would venture to say that I have a similar wound upon my own neck.”
"Yes, I see it," Stoker said. "Egad, Arthur. how do you know these things?"
"It is elementary my dear Stoker," Conan Doyle said. "Observation, logic and a great deal of reading. I also perceive that we are not in England anymore."
"What!" Stoker exclaimed. "Impossible!"
"I assure you that it is so." said Conan Doyle. "You have but to take stock of our immediate surroundings to convince yourself that I am right. Observe this room, the obvious age of these stone walls, the dimensions of the blocks used in the construction. Where in Whitechapel could we find such an edifice? We are in a sort of keep, Stoker, or a castle-"
"That we are not in Whitechapel, that I can accept," said Stoker, "but we must still be in England, on the Cornish coast perhaps-"
"On the contrary, Stoker. The architecture is of a style such as that employed by the knights of the Holy Roman Empire. This is not an English castle. Besides, if you will take a moment to smell the breeze coming in through that open window, you will notice that there is no smell of the sea, so we can eliminate the Cornish coast. No, Stoker, what I smell is pure. clean, fresh mountain air. Air which is not laden with the damp of English breezes. Observe, moreover, the tapestries hanging on these walls. They are Turkish, unless I am mistaken, and quite old, dating back to medieval days."
He walked over to the window, somewhat unsteadily, still feeling the aftereffects of the drug. Stoker sat up slowly, rubbing his head, and followed.
"Just as I thought." said Conan Doyle.
"Good God!" said Stoker.
They looked out upon a mountain view, with snowcapped peaks in the distance, covered by clouds. Below them was a sheer drop into an abyss. They were in a castle perched upon a cliff, overlooking a mountain pass.
"I must be dreaming!" Stoker said. "Where in heaven is this place?"
"Not in heaven, Stoker,” said Conan Doyle, "but somewhere in the Alpine range, most likely one of the Balkan nations."
"But… how is that possible? How did we get here? Who could have done this? — Stoker said.
"As to how we came here, that remains a mystery," said Conan Doyle. "But as to the identity of our abductor, there can be little doubt."
They heard a key turn in the lock and the door slowly creaked open. Dracula entered, carrying a candelabrum.
"Count Dracula," said Conan Doyle.
"I see you gentlemen are awake," said Dracula. "How are you feeling? I trust there were no ill effects?"
"Beyond a slight dizziness and a lingering headache, no," said Doyle. "We are apparently little the worse for wear."
"See here, Dracula!" said Stoker. "What is the meaning of this? What gives you the right to have us abducted in such a manner? What do you intend to do with us? I demand an explanation!"
"Calm yourself, Mr. Stoker," the vampire said. "You are in my home. Here, I am the master. I will insist that you address me in a civil tone. As to what gives me the right to bring you here, allow me to remind you that it was you who followed me, skulking in the night like a pair of common cutthroats."
"Whereas you. Count Dracula, are a singularly uncommon one," said Conan Doyle. "It was you, was it not, who was responsible for the vicious murders in Whitechapell"
"In part, yes."
'`Then my suspicions were correct," said Doyle. "There was more than just one killer. You had an accomplice."
"In a manner of speaking. yes."
"Then you admit it!" said Stoker.
"Certainly." said Dracula.