Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “What do you mean, Miss Belle?”

  “Could it have been part of a ritual? As revolting as the thought is.”

  “Indeed, an interesting possibility,” Sherlock considered.

  “This is a police investigation.” Athelney shook his head. “You people are wasting my time with your philosophy and foolish speculating.”

  “To the contrary.” Mycroft’s height towered over Athelney as he rose, standing close to him. “If a vampire did not do this—which any thinking person must assume—and if the body was drained of blood, it is quite obvious someone wanted the blood. To not know ‘why’ at this point does not change the facts.”

  “And how was it done with no other marks to the body?” Athelney cleared this throat.

  “Outside of the animal attack, you mean,” Watson interjected.

  “I don’t believe that is what killed Percy,” Sherlock said.

  “Certainly not. What man would die from a wolf attack to the neck?” Athelney posed with an admirable degree of sarcasm.

  “As we discussed earlier, I believe the teeth marks and the gruesome nature of the murder are meant to be a diversion,” Sherlock said.

  “A diversion from what?” Athelney demanded.

  “It is the small circular mark which is the most revealing,” Sherlock said.

  Police Constable Jones cleared his throat. “We’ll look into that. But the idea of poison is still harebrained.”

  Mycroft motioned to his underling. “Do see if you can procure a sherry for me as well.”

  “Only consider,” Sherlock said. “As Dr. Watson described, there are large puncture marks on the left side the neck, appearing indeed to be the incisors of a wolf. Within the fang marks, there is also circular bruising, possibly created by a human mouth. But the truly interesting component is a small mark within the circle, almost like the entry of a dart.”

  “How can that be of any importance when we’ve got the teeth of a monster as well as the draining of the blood?” Jones demanded.

  “It does pale by comparison, does it not?” Mycroft asked. “Perhaps that was the thinking.”

  “Ha! ha!” Athelney appeared to be momentarily enjoying himself. “You keep forgettin’ what we’ve got here: A dead body without blood and the marks of a wolf on his neck.” He motioned to Longstaff seated in a powder blue Louie XIV chair in a comatose state. “And an eyewitness what saw a vampire. Two actually, counting the neighbor what called in. I’m not one to ignore the facts as you are used to do. And I’m not sayin’ it was—o’course it wasn’t—but how do you account for the absence of the blood if it wasn’t a vampire?” Athelney added under his breath, “I’ll tell you how. I didn’t want to say with ladies present.”

  “By all means, you must treat Miss Hudson as indifferently and with as much disregard as you do Watson and myself, Jones.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Athelney protested.

  “It does present a challenge, but you must try, Police Constable.”

  “Very well.” Athelney nodded distractedly. “Lord Percival. Don’t you recall that young man . . . the rumors was . . .”

  “A failed love affair with Percy?” Mycroft completed Athelney’s sentence, while taking a sip from his newly acquired sherry, looking most comfortable on a beige silk settee situated in front of a white marble fireplace.

  Jones nodded, grimacing.

  “Indeed,” Sherlock said. “He committed suicide. A Mr. Bristow, I believe.”

  “Mr. Overton Bristow.” Athelney Jones frowned. “A pharmacist.”

  “And the point you are making, Constable?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sayin’ that Lord Percival was a man . . . well, you know . . .” Athelney cleared his throat and added in a whisper, “. . . Who had sexual relations with men.”

  “Very likely, but we are most interested in knowing if Percy had intimate relations on this particular evening only—on the night of his murder—and with whom. As we would with any murder victim. That will have to be determined in the autopsy,” Sherlock said with a certain detachment. “That is not for us to theorize utilizing idle gossip.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is now, is it? I don’t think our young lord was that idle,” Athelney Jones motioned in the direction of the body.

  “We are only interested in the facts. The results of the autopsy will give us more information about the murderer and his purpose for being here.” Sherlock turned to Athelney. “One thing I am certain of, Constable, is that this is not the scene of a love affair gone wrong, or a lovers’ spat, as you seem to suggest, but an act of pre-meditated murder.”

  Mr. Longstaff gasped, as if it were the first time it had occurred to him.

  Jones shook his head, his eyes fixated on the body. “It’s a rotten business.”

  Dr. Watson leaned close to Sherlock and muttered in his ear, “But you have an idea what has happened here, don’t you Holmes?”

  “I do,” Sherlock said in low tones. “But we must illustrate method and order at this point. I might hypothesize and hit the mark, but I fear that is very unlikely in the case of the Yard. We must not encourage speculation on their part.”

  “Indeed. Give them a fighting chance to solve this murder before you do.”

  Sherlock had his own strong reasons for not wishing to be the one to solve this case, not least of which was anonymity.

  He glanced at Mycroft. Much depended upon it. Certainly the case must be solved, but he hoped it did not require that he step in and resolve it.

  “Let us be clear on one point, Constable. If there is a deranged person here, it was the murderer and not the murdered man.” Mycroft lowered his glass, looking at Jones with a hard stare which had faced the British Prime Minister—and even the Queen—head on.

  “That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Holmes. In my way of thinking, it is both.” Characteristically confident to the point of haughtiness, Jones raised his chin.

  Sherlock shook his head. “This is going to be a difficult case, Watson.”

  ***

  It seemed to Mirabella the police constable wasn’t the only one who was discomposed. Sherlock and Mycroft might look self-assured to the rest of the party—but she knew they were unsettled—a rare occurrence for the Great Detective. Nothing unnerved Sherlock.

  They know something they aren’t telling the police.

  It is unthinkable.

  She had never witnessed Sherlock Holmes wishing to conceal evidence. He had an utter and complete devotion to truth and justice, and anyone who got in the way be damned.

  Sherlock’s expression was characteristically unrevealing. Emotionless. His silver grey eyes were harsh, as if to foreshadow a thunderstorm. His raven black hair was combed away from his face, revealing long sideburns accenting strong facial features. The Great Detective’s velvet waistcoat and black trousers were form fitted, revealing the muscles of a middleweight boxer.

  He moved with confidence and his manner was unrelenting. It was far from obvious he was hiding something.

  Mirabella glanced at Watson. He knows as well. She had no idea if John shared the secret, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know one was being kept.

  She turned her attention to Mycroft, whom she had never seen distressed before this evening. Mycroft Holmes was the most composed, worldly wise person she knew; he never had his feathers ruffled.

  True, this was the gruesome murder of one of his acquaintances, perhaps a friend, but she thought there was something more to it. Mycroft Holmes practically ran the government without the slightest degree of distress. What could be more shocking than the government? He could have faced a foreign invasion with more composure.

  For the first time in their acquaintance Mirabella realized that Mycroft Holmes had his own secrets.

  For all his faults, Mirabella preferred Sherlock’s crisp, direct manner: there was never any wondering what Sherlock thought, so straight forward was he.

  Except tonight.

  Mir
abella very carefully maintained an expression of professionalism. She didn’t want to be left behind at the flat with the corpse. Better here with the corpse than there with the corpse.

  “Lord Percival was a member of the Diogenes Club, was he not?” Constable Jones continued, his eyes narrowing. He wore a blue uniform with gold buttons consisting of a belted long wool jacket and an oil-skin cape. A red baton hung from the wide belt. On his Helmet was “B-538”, “B” for Chelsea, one of the seventeen divisions of London, and “538” his number of identification.

  Constable Jones was quite the colorful figure with his red hair and green eyes, in his navy blue uniform. It seemed to Mirabella the constable enjoyed his life—and his station in life. Beyond a doubt he was confident.

  “He was,” Mycroft answered with unveiled disapproval. “Do you believe that has any bearing on the case, Constable?”

  “Lord Percival didn’t seem like the studious type.”

  “And what is the studious type?” Mycroft asked politely, taking a sip of his sherry.

  “Not the type what has male prostitutes come to their house dressed as vampires.”

  “In the first place, we have only Mr. Longstaff’s word for that.” Mycroft glanced in the direction of the butler, who was gazing straight ahead. “Do give that poor man something for his nerves. In the second place, if it’s true, it is no less interesting than female prostitutes dressed as vampires, I should think.”

  Sherlock frowned at his brother in a disquieting manner.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Shirley. I’m simply attempting to discern the direction of the police constable’s remarks, which sound more like accusations than revelations of fact. Sexuality does not exclude intellectualism. Nor would you assume that a man with a reputation with the ladies is not an intellectual.”

  “Certainly one does not preclude the other,” Sherlock agreed.

  “Consequently, I’m not sure how Percy’s membership in the Diogenes is relevant. It is my club, and I have the right to be concerned with the reputation of a respectable and revered academic club,” Mycroft continued. “Undoubtedly, it must be pertinent that Percy had sex with men instead of with women, but not in the manner Jones infers: in reference to finding the murderer only.” Mycroft motioned to the body on the floor. “Percy was murdered in a particularly brutal fashion, which, to my way of thinking, is the most relevant fact here.”

  “Pardon me, but I’m not sure why we are assuming the vampire was a prostitute—or even that he was a man, we can’t be sure at this point,” Mirabella posed. “It appears to be an assumption based on Lord Percival’s love affair with Bristow.”

  Sherlock turned to stare at her, a slow smile forming on his lips, accenting his strong facial features. “An excellent point, Miss Hudson.” He turned to the butler. “What was your impression, Mr. Longstaff?”

  “What?”

  “The gender of the vampire?”

  “Oh . . . yes.” Longstaff appeared shaken at this line of questioning. “I couldn’t say. I suppose I assumed the creature was male. Tall and thin.”

  “The vampire wore a cape, covering much of the body?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The vampire was your height, Mr. Longstaff, was he not?” Sherlock asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t see—” Longstaff replied indignantly.

  “—And he wore a size nine shoe. Which is the same size as yours.”

  Athelney’s head turned like a spinning top to face Sherlock. “How do you know those weren’t Longstaff’s footprints then? And why do you assume them to be the vampire’s?”

  “We can’t be certain. But, in the first place, Longstaff, as a servant, would have gone in the back door, where I likewise found his footprints. In the second place, Longstaff’s shoes are not dirty or muddy. He said he went to the theatre.”

  “Maybe he cleaned them.”

  “He was caught by surprise when he returned home from his night out and was met by the police straight away by his own admission,” Sherlock objected. “Either the prints in the front of the house are Longstaff’s—why did he enter through the front door?—or they are the vampire’s or . . . the vampire and Longstaff are one and the same.”

  “No! no! It wasn’t me!” Longstaff objected.

  “I don’t believe Mr. Longstaff has the nerve to have pulled off this crime,” Mycroft said.

  Police Constable Jones tapped his chin. “I have at least one witness who saw both the vampire and Longstaff at the door.”

  “A reliable witness?” Sherlock asked.

  “I should think so. In this upper class neighborhood.”

  “Indeed the rich would never lie,” Mycroft murmured.

  “A Mrs. Gage stepped forward—most respectable and quite hysterical. I assure you, Mr. Holmes, no one in this neighborhood wants a vampire running about,” Athelney interjected.

  “I should think they would be used to it. There are a number of bankers living on this street.” Sherlock maintained his gaze on Longstaff. “The visitor was approximately five foot ten inches?”

  “Yes.” It took Longstaff some minutes to answer, as if he were either distracted or didn’t wish to answer. Or perhaps he was in shock.

  “If the visitor wore a cape, how do you know if the vampire was male or female?” Sherlock asked.

  “I don’t . . . it’s only that . . . well, you see, most of Lord Percival’s visitors were male.”

  “I see. An assumption.” Sherlock remarked. “Perhaps a correct one from the size and shape of the footprints outside, but nonetheless an assumption. There are ways about that type of thing, as well I know.”

  Mirabella knew Sherlock alluded to his expertise in disguises. Thankfully he was only slightly above medium height, allowing the Great Detective to disguise himself as a man or a woman, with the assistance of a contorted posture. Had he been as tall as Mycroft, it would be impossible for Sherlock not to stand out as he would be immediately identifiable. Mycroft, on the other hand, was delighted to draw attention to himself. Sherlock counted his height as a blessing in the pursuit of his work.

  Sherlock tapped his chin. “There are also two sets of women’s prints outside, presumably the cook’s assistants or the maid’s.”

  “Where are they?” Mycroft asked.

  “One in the front and one in the back.” Sherlock was deep in thought before turning to Longstaff again. “Why are there women’s prints in the front?”

  “Sometimes it was necessary for a servant to enter in the front door. Lord Percival ran an unusual household.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Athelney muttered.

  “Percy was far too trusting,” Mycroft said under his breath.

  “That doesn’t address the matter of whether or not our vampire was a prostitute,” Constable Jones said.

  “I think it highly unlikely,” Mycroft said.

  “Oh, and why is that?” asked Jones.

  “It cuts down on repeat business to kill one’s clients.” Mycroft took a sip of sherry. “Indeed, because someone is selling his or her body does not make him a murderer.”

  “Perhaps our vampire needed food to eat,” Athelney said. “Or blood.”

  Mirabella looked away. Goodness, these people all had vulgar and dirty minds. Being the daughter of a curate, she had never quite gotten used to the idea of always assuming the worst about people.

  Sherlock invariably concluded her conservatism was close-minded, but sometimes she gave leeway where he did not. Wasn’t being inflexible in one’s interpretation of persons and events the definition of being close-minded? Sherlock tended to see aberrance as a matter of course where there might be nothing but terror.

  “And was Percy in the habit of having male prostitutes as his visitors?” Sherlock asked.

  “As I said, I couldn’t say,” Mr. Longstaff was clearly embarrassed to be speaking of such things.

  “I command you to say,” Athelney roared.

  “In my opinion . . . yes.”
/>   “Percy didn’t have to resort to such things,” Mycroft objected. “He was handsome, charming—and he had money.”

  And yet he retained Longstaff as his butler. Or so it would seem.

  “I wouldn’t say it was out of the question however. Prostitutes, that is.” Mr. Longstaff cleared his throat. “He was extremely private about his goings-on.”

  “Indeed.” Mycroft contained his condescension with some difficulty. “These are not isolated events in London.”

  “Some will say he had it coming,” Athelney muttered. “Perhaps the demons came for him. It would seem so.”

  “We will be seeing that rendering in the newspaper, I have no doubt, the Sunday Bull or Punch,” Mycroft muttered. “One of the gossip-mongers who would destroy the life of another simply to put a groat in their own pockets.”

  Mirabella had to agree; she detested idle gossip. And right now she was disgusted with the police, who seemed more interested in judging the victim than in finding the murderer. Honestly, she didn’t approve of a man having relations with another man—how could she, given her upbringing? But it was not really the point here, and it was not her place to judge.

  And if God loved all sinners, who were they to place themselves above God?

  Sherlock would say that consensual relations between men was not sin. But Sherlock was too close to sin to know much about it. He socialized with prostitutes and ex-convicts, he gambled, he drank, he boxed in the ring, he used cocaine—heavens, he had even spent the night with Fantine Moriarty.

  Which irked Mirabella to no end, she wasn’t sure why, ordinarily she didn’t concern herself too much with the souls of others. It wasn’t for her to judge another’s soul.

  Because Fantine doesn’t deserve Sherlock, of course. Fantine is a criminal, an evil, manipulative, scheming witch.

  It infuriated her to think of Sherlock with that . . . that woman. And that was putting it nicely.

  Sherlock didn’t fit any mold: he worked tirelessly to uphold the law, and yet he had a disregard for the moral law. He had no sense of sin except anything that imposed on the personal freedom of another.