“Not perfectly fair, Holmes,” Dr. Watson countered. “The Yard has actually begun performing autopsies.”
“At my insistence,” Sherlock objected. “Prior to my involvement, a murder investigation consisted of attempting to locate eye witness reports rather than investigating the clues at the murder scene.”
“Unless the murderer was stupid enough to perform the murder in front of witnesses, there would not be any eye witnesses,” Mirabella said.
“Precisely. Whereas clues are always present.” Sherlock looked at her with the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Very slight.
“And, in the absence of an eyewitness, the Yard’s second and final method of finding the killer was torturing suspects into a confession,” Dr. Watson added.
“Since there was no analysis of the murder scene, the probability of having the actual murderer in custody rather than some unfortunate passer-by was fairly low. At my direction, the police force now attempts to analyze the murder scene for clues.” Sherlock sighed heavily. “Astonishing. Perhaps someday we shall even, God forbid, utilize the fingerprints at the scene of the crime.”
“That would require that the Yard took fingerprints,” Dr. Watson said.
“They’re still measuring the skulls of all the suspects,” Mirabella observed.
“Yes, yes, the Bertillon method,” Sherlock muttered impatiently. “A grand waste of time.”
Mirabella cleared her throat. “And the body in your bedroom? How long will it remain there?” Mirabella shuddered. “On the table next to your bed?”
“Until I have concluded my experiment, naturally.”
“And when will that be?” Mirabella attempted to return the conversation to the pertinent points.
“If I knew that, I would not need to run the experiment, would I?”
“Please hazard a guess.” She knew very well that Sherlock’s guesses were more accurate than most people’s facts.
“Very well. Under ordinary circumstances, I would expect to see discoloration on the skin of the abdomen in two to three days, spreading to the veins in three to four days. On the fifth and sixth days, the abdomen will appear bloated, with internal gas pressure. In three weeks the tissues will have softened, organs and cavities bursting, and the nails falling out.”
“Three weeks?” Mirabella exclaimed. “You intend to have a cadaver in your bedroom for three weeks?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock objected. “That would be under normal circumstances. I would expect it to be longer with the ice.” A smile of anticipation and delight graced Sherlock’s expression. “To be in the center of scientific discovery is glorious, is it not? The first to know that which was previously unknown to the entire world.”
“Really, Holmes, I don’t think . . .” Watson protested, shaking his head. “I can’t really fathom having our after dinner sherry in this room with the odor . . .”
Sherlock’s disbelief was evident. “The odor will give us information. All of this is data that I will mentally catalogue and utilize to solve future crimes.”
Mirabella never thought of Sherlock as childlike. Rather, she imagined he had never been a baby. Surely he had come out of the womb spouting theories and refusing to cry, finding it to be unnecessary and serving no purpose. But at this moment Sherlock did not look to be his eight and twenty years but rather an exuberant boy in the throes of discovery.
The dinner that evening was more solemn than usual, followed by the sherry in the sitting room. After Mirabella had cleaned up the dishes, she sat quietly reading Sherlock’s scientific periodicals for some time before deciding to retire to her room below in Aunt Martha’s first floor flat.
She was having some difficulty with her conscience over the decaying body in the flat. Was her loyalty to her employer? Or to her Aunt Martha, who owned the building and who housed her?
Mirabella had been with Sherlock over a year, but if anyone interfered with his work, or did not bow down to the god which was Sherlock’s vocation, they were out on their ear. On this he was clear.
In the midst of her conflicting reflections, she heard a strange sound.
Oh, no! The corpse has come alive! It no doubt wished to leave. Even a zombie could not bear Sherlock’s bedroom.
Terror filled her being as a frantic knock on the door interrupted Mirabella’s disturbed thoughts and fueled her guilt.
“Miss Hudson, are you going to answer the door or shall I?” Sherlock asked, his eyes moving to the door.
Her heart did nothing to slow down as Mirabella realized the sound was coming from the entry to the flat.
At this late hour? Mirabella moved to open the door. Standing there before her was the more charming of the Holmes brothers, noticeably shaken. Did Mycroft know about the body in the bedroom as well?
“Miss Hudson,” Mycroft Holmes bowed in a distracted fashion. “Is Shirley at home?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Holmes?” She stood frozen in place studying him. This was the only time she had ever seen Mycroft looking less than polished.
There was nothing unattended to in his dress, but his complexion was almost ashen, in contrast to his ordinarily dashing, unaffected, and stylishly disinterested persona. Even with his being fully four inches taller than Sherlock, who was not lacking in height, and sharing the same mesmerizing grey eyes, Mycroft looked decidedly bedraggled.
Sherlock set his sherry down on the end table abruptly. “What is it Mycroft?”
“It’s Percy.” Mycroft was breathing heavily. “He’s been found dead in his home.”
“Lord Percival. Murdered?” Sherlock asked.
“It appears so,” Mycroft replied. “But it is quite a peculiar murder scene.”
“Oh, and how so?” Sherlock rose from his chair.
“There are marks on his neck. Teeth marks.”
Dr. Watson shuddered. “It is not entirely without precedent.”
“Perhaps not, but these are different. They look quite like . . . fangs.”
“Fangs,” Dr. Watson repeated, jumping up from his chair. “How on earth?”
“And . . .” Mycroft added, “the body has been drained of all blood.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Archway of Tears
Saint Pancras Workhouse
“We have very little bread, sir. It's an exceedingly small quantity of bread."
– Charles Dickens, firsthand account, Marylebone
“Please let me care for my baby. She’s only two, and you can see what she is sick.”
Evie had only that day entered the workhouse through a red brick archway, marking the distinct end of one life and the beginning of another. She could have turned around and not gone through the gateway, but she knew that there was no turning back. Much like hell, she supposed.
Living on the streets was a different kind of hell: no food, no shelter, and attempting to sleep under the bridges in the rain while the police moved one along every hour.
Her children cold, wet, and hungry.
She had thought the workhouse would be different. The masters might despise her—but who could be unkind to children? Rosie was only a baby, after all.
“The baby will be under the care of the nurse, along with the other children,” Woodhead, the workhouse overseer commanded. “Did you think we’d give you special attention?” He let her know she was to be despised for being poor.
Evie certainly felt the shame of being required to live off the charity of others, but she protested for her baby’s sake. “Rosie needs to be with her mother.”
“How dare you question me? You’ll learn who is boss here.” Woodhead barred his teeth, reminding Evie of a mad dog.
“Ouch!” Evie had persisted and the next thing she knew, she was stripped naked and beaten.
She endured for the sake of her children. She had heard the law allowed a child to accompany her mother, but now she knew it was up to the discretion of the guardians and the particular workhouse
.
I should have known not to believe anything good. Always those in power did as they wished.
“Only save my baby. Please.” And why did she not run? At least her five children had a roof over their heads and would not starve or freeze to death here. There would even be school.
The workhouse split up the men and the women upon entry, but she had thought her children might stay with her.
Life in St. Pancras was intended to be harsh, to deter the able-bodied poor, ensuring that only the truly destitute would apply. She understood that. Her husband had lost his arm in an accident on the docks and could no longer find work. So why did she feel guilty?
Crack! Evie bore the pain and humiliation that her children might live. She cried, thinking of her infant. Should she take the baby and run? And where would they stay? And how would she protect both herself and her baby?
***
Rosie died. But Evie’s four other children still lived, faring much better here than they had on the streets.
Still, she had never recovered from the grief of losing her baby. She had known in her heart it hadn’t needed to end that way, whatever the nurse might say.
Evie was hungry for actual food, having dined on pork water for lunch, the pudding made from the fat skimmed off the surface of the water used to boil the pork.
But the workhouse guardians’ luncheon following their monthly meetings was far different. Evie worked the meal for the guardians, so she knew the truth. For once, the truth was worse than the rumors.
Each meal started with bread, cheese, and beer. After the meeting, which lasted about an hour, there was fish, beef, roast mutton, various birds, puddings, and sweets. That was followed by a series of toasts with champagne and fine wines. Copious amounts of spirits were consumed as the men toasted everyone from the queen to the youngest member of the board.
“Here’s your wine, sir.” Gwyneth poured the wine. Gwyneth was young and pretty, so the guardians liked her.
Fully half of the residents in the workhouse were children; most of the rest were the sick, infirm, and elderly. That was why this position in the dining room had been open: Evie was able-bodied and hard-working—and not too hard on the eyes. The guardians would rather look upon the attractive ones and maybe sneak a slap on the ass. She didn’t complain: this position allowed her to get food to her children.
Evie was allowed to see her children when she minded her tongue, which was the reason she stayed. There was an hour’s visitation time every day. And today would be a fine visit, as she would sneak scraps from the feast to her children.
“The best slice of pork for you, sir. And would you like the gravy?”
There was a great shame attached to being here, but Evie didn’t care about that. She didn’t care about anything except her children.
And it was better than mopping the floors on her hands and knees, which Evie also did.
It is my best hope.
When she had first seen St. Pancras, the sight of the magnificent four-story building had filled her with hope. It had once been a gentleman’s mansion—with a lovely chapel, all surrounded by a six-foot high wall. Only when she entered did she experience the hunger, the exhaustion, the betrayal, and, above all, the broken heart.
Evie knew now why the brick archway of Saint Pancras was called “The Archway of Tears”. She had shed more than a few tears herself.
She felt the slices of bread and cheese in her pocket.
I might cry, but my children will live.
CHAPTER THREE
The Feast of Blood
Piccadilly, Mayfair
“Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old loves are the worst” – Voltaire
Despite the late hour, in the end Sherlock had allowed Belle to accompany them to Lord Percival’s mansion on Green Street in Mayfair. In spite of her illogical protests regarding the body in the flat at Baker Street, his female operative had a strong stomach. At least her curiosity generally trumped her distaste, which he had to admire.
And Miss Belle had proven to be useful.
She had excelled at everything he had taught her: shooting, fencing, boxing, knife-throwing, and even Jiu-jitsu. She was an admirable whipster. She was coming along with disguises.
In one area she needed work: Belle talked too much and gave too much away. She had to learn to blend in the background and to observe.
It could mean the difference between life and death.
Even so, if anyone else had shown Miss Hudson’s promise, he would have thrown her headfirst into every case that came his way—as he did with Watson. Sherlock would never think of leaving Watson behind, no matter the danger.
So why did he protect Mirabella Hudson as would only be the privilege of her father? Or her husband?
Sherlock immediately pushed the question to the back of his mind, even though he knew that wasn’t where the problem originated. He didn’t like dealing with anything outside of the exercise of his logic.
The Great Detective found it difficult to leave any question unanswered. But this is one answer I wish to avoid.
All four arrived at Lord Percival’s mansion, resplendent with blue velvet, gold, and coral. Ivory and crystal chandeliers, oriental rugs and white marble columns gave the mansion’s interior a decidedly exotic ambiance. The former possessions of the maharajas, sultans and emperors of India from the 1600’s onwards somehow complemented the romantic paintings lining the walls inspired by Shelley, Keats, and Lord Byron. One could almost hear the music of Strauss and Donizetti in the air, so romantic was the poetry of the décor.
Watson hurried past the priceless vases to examine the body without delay, almost knocking over a vibrant blue elephant statuette in the process. “Who found Percy?”
“I did.” The tall, slim man who had answered the door, initially assumed to be an off-duty policeman, moved forward. He wore a voluminous tie and a long, dark frock coat, pinched to the waist to form a skirt of sorts.
“And you are?” Mycroft asked.
“I am the gentleman’s butler.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows in both surprise and disapproval. “And your name?”
“Longstaff.”
“And your first name?”
Longstaff cleared his throat, as if not wishing to give his name, an odd bit of arrogance, even for the butler. “Mr. Nathan Longstaff, if you please.”
His appearance was abruptly remarkable in two ways: he was unusually handsome, and he was inappropriately dressed.
Sherlock knew immediately the reason for Mycroft’s disapproval: even though Longstaff’s suit was well made and fashionable, to say that he was not wearing the typical butler’s attire was an understatement of vast proportions. Mycroft was the most congenial of men, but on matters of deportment and manners he was uncompromising.
“I see.” But he didn’t. And he never would. “Mr. Longstaff.” Slowly Mycroft repeated the name of the head of staff and the highest ranking household employee. In general, the female staff outnumbered the male staff by twenty to one, and the butler sat at the head of the household, both male and female, below stairs.
Undisturbed by his debonair brother’s disapproval, Sherlock was in fact relieved to see the color return to Mycroft’s complexion, even if disdain was the vehicle to his recovery.
Joining Mycroft in his scrutiny of the house butler, Sherlock considered the matter. In the evening hours a butler might have been mistaken for a gentleman attending the opera: the accepted attire was an all-black tuxedo with tails, a low cut waistcoat, and a white tie.
The one exception to a butler’s accepted attire was that oft times a butler would wear something mismatched or slightly inferior in quality—a waistcoat of clashing colors, for example—so he was not mistaken for a gentleman. In other words, so it was clear to the guests he was a servant. Not one of them. In every other way—address and deportment—a butler might very well blend in with his distinguished guests.
Longstaff’s morning suit went well beyond t
he deviating accessory. Either it was the butler’s night off or this household was run in an extremely lax manner. And if it was Mr. Longstaff’s night off, then why had he returned to the home early?
Even so, more than his dress, Mycroft’s objection was as much to the butler’s manner, lacking the airs, confidence, and condescension one would generally attribute to a butler. True, his large, heavily lashed dark eyes seemed to find everyone distasteful, but in all the wrong ways, with airs of disdain and repulsion rather than insider smugness. Much like a drunken sailor would find his captain objectionable.
Finding one’s master dead was likely to disturb anyone however, Sherlock considered. He glanced sideways to see his brother’s frown lingering. Clearly Mycroft didn’t think there was any excuse for a lapse in style or polish.
Longstaff’s attire supplied information to Sherlock and was of great interest, without any of the judgment accompanying Mycroft’s assessment. Personally, Sherlock could have cared less except as his observations affected the capture of the murderer. Also of interest was a slight northern brogue.
“Is it your night off, Mr. Longstaff?” Mycroft asked pointedly.
“It is,” Mr. Longstaff said, his hands still shaking.
“And why did you return early?” Sherlock glanced at the clock, now at half past nine.
“See here, Mr. Holmes,” Athelney Jones protested entering the room from the stairwell. “This is my investigation. This is not for amateurs.”
“I am here at the foreign secretary’s request,” Sherlock replied simply.
Police Constable Jones turned to scrutinize Mycroft. “So we have the foreign secretary with us do we? This is nothing to do with foreign affairs. This is a domestic issue, and you have naught to say to it, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”
The steel returned to Mycroft’s eyes. “Perhaps not, but I presume that you still answer to the Queen, Constable.”
“So her royal highness takes an interest in this case, does she?” Constable Jones’ manner was both suspicious and flashy. This would have been the case even without his red hair and green eyes. He was slightly pudgy and jovial in appearance, though he was anything but jovial this evening.
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 2
