Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Fantine, on the other hand, didn’t care who she hurt as long as it benefitted her. Sherlock might be corrupt, but he would never wish to hurt anyone. He had a benevolent soul underneath his formidable persona. And formidable he was: if she were in trouble, there was no one else she would rather have on her side.

  “Mr. Overton Bristow was a member of the Diogenes, too, was he not?” Athelney Jones pressed. “The lover who committed suicide?”

  “So we’re back to that again, are we?” Mycroft sighed heavily, motioning to his assistant for another sherry.

  “I’m surprised you would allow known sodomites in your club, being as it’s illegal.”

  “Mine is an academic club, with no other requirements. Although necessarily all of its members are educated. Many men avail themselves of our periodicals and books. I have a singularly astonishing collection. My collection of Russian literature is second to none.”

  “I’ll remember that in the event I’ve ever an evening to spare,” muttered Jones.

  “Let us return to the visitor dressed as a vampire.” Sherlock interjected. “Are any of your men out attempting to capture him? Capturing the prime suspect would seem to be of a greater usefulness than Lord Percival’s various affiliations for the time being.”

  “Granted if I were a murderer, it appears the best way to allude capture would be to choose as my victims those of whom the police have a low opinion,” Mycroft said.

  “We ain’t found him yet. But we will.” Constable Jones twirled his handlebar moustache in an unembarrassed fashion. “The vampire was cited both arriving—and leaving—by neighbors, but no one could give much description, outside of his unusual appearance. Even Mr. Longstaff, who was dismissed by Lord Percival after the vampire’s arrival, did not give a useable description beyond the fact that the visitor was tall and slim, with dark hair. He wore a cape and considerable stage make-up—as well as the fangs.”

  “And there was no other staff present, Mr. Longstaff?” Mycroft’s voice held disbelief, apparently unable to conceive that a household could function with less than a dozen attendants.

  “All the staff were sent out for the evening.”

  “Only the cook, it would seem,” Sherlock said, examining the remains of the dinner. “There must have been a scullery maid in attendance?”

  “Mr. Denzil is the cook. He had one assistant, the scullery maid, a Mrs. Kitchens, and they delivered all the food via a dumb waiter,” Athelney explained, seeming to appreciate being the one in the know. “Denzil and his assistant were threatened by pain of death to stay off the main floor.”

  “That’s right,” Longstaff said. “They always stay in the galley.”

  “Steak and mushrooms, along with an almost empty bottle of wine, and various accompaniments of potatoes, carrots, turnips, and aspic, it appears,” Sherlock said aloud as he studied the remains of the dinner. He took a particular interest in the wine glasses.

  “How long had the cook been with Percy?” asked Mycroft.

  “Funny you should ask. Only about three months,” Jones said. “But this wasn’t the first assignation according to the cook.”

  “We’d like to speak with the cook,” Mycroft said.

  “It could prove interesting,” Sherlock added.

  “I have a question, if I may?” Mirabella interjected.

  “Yes, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock nodded his approval.

  She turned to the butler. “Mr. Longstaff, I notice you have used your handkerchief several times over the course of the inquiry?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I had understood that you had forgotten your handkerchief and that was the reason you returned to the house. And that you were stopped by the murder scene before you had time to retrieve it.”

  “Blind me! I must have had it all along,” Longstaff said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Cook

  “Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.”

  - Oscar Wilde, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”

  “Ah, Mr. Denzil, I understand,” Mycroft acknowledged the addition to their group as Sherlock continued to examine the remains of the dinner. Longstaff had been escorted to the parlor room with the possibility that he might be called again.

  “There were two plates and very little food left on either plate.” Sherlock directed his remarks to the chef.

  “Not surprising. I’m as fine a cook as you’ll find, and so it is.” Mr. Denzil was a sour-faced man of inspiring girth who appeared to resent being summoned.

  “It is a fair assumption these plates have not been tampered with,” Sherlock posed.

  “Har! har!” Mr. Denzil laughed. “Right you are. We was not allowed upstairs and it’d be a cold day in Hell before Quality would lift a finger in this house. The plates were not returned to the dumb waiter because there was no staff upstairs.”

  “I don’t believe the vampire in question was Quality,” Mycroft considered.

  “Did you tamper with these dishes in any way?” Police Constable Jones growled. “Answer the question, Mr. Denzil.”

  “I jus’ did.”

  “I can sees why you were dismissed from your last job, Mr. Denzil.” Athelney tapped his baton on the wooden flooring several times. “Would you like me to look into that for me investigation? There’s a good number ‘o of high rollers interested in this report, bein’ that Lord Percival was a peer. Now as you’ll be lookin’ for work.”

  Denzil frowned, but it occurred to Sherlock that the cook was not much concerned with his income—or with anything, for that matter—which an unemployable man who had only just lost his position should care about. True, the man had no great instinct for self-preservation, but Sherlock would bet there was more to it.

  “I do have a question,” Mycroft considered. “If you didn’t anticipate that Lord Percy would put his own dishes in the dumbwaiter, why are you still here, Mr. Denzil?”

  Denzil turned to stare at Mycroft in disbelief. “There was still a sore sight to clean up. A fine meal such as this ain’t delivered by the fairies.”

  Sherlock felt a twinge of amusement, sympathizing with the cook’s frustration. Mycroft had never done a moment’s physical labor in his life.

  “Did you serve up mushrooms on both plates, Mr. Denzil?” Sherlock asked.

  “I did.”

  “So both men ate the mushrooms?”

  “As you see.”

  “One plate shows a small amount of mushrooms left, and the other is clean,” Dr. Watson noted.

  “Precisely,” Sherlock said. “Since one of the plates is clean, we can’t be certain there was ever mushrooms on it.”

  “I tell you they was. I put ‘em on both plates,” Mr. Denzil objected. “An’ both ate the ’shrooms from the looks o’ this.”

  “Even if both plates contained mushrooms,” Mycroft considered, “perhaps Mr. Denzil signaled to the vampire which plate was his by way of a pre-arrangement, perhaps with the addition of a sprig of parsley.”

  “I did no such thing,” Mr. Denzil protested.

  “No one has been up here but the police, so the plates have not been touched,” Athelney objected.

  “The police and the murderer obviously,” Dr. Watson considered. “Maybe the murderer cleaned one of the plates off.”

  “The good doctor has a point, Shirley.”

  “Then where are the mushrooms?” asked Denzil, looking about.

  “Why are you so damn concerned about the mushrooms?” Athelney shook his head in frustration. “What do they have to say to anything?”

  “Both men appeared to have eaten the mushrooms, which I believe were the carrier of poison. We must do an autopsy to confirm, of course.”

  “Nah, it can’t have been the mushrooms!” Denzil objected. “I didn’t poison nuthin’. And why would I poison him what pays me?”

  “What better way to conceal the murder weapon than something consumed by both parties,” Sherlock murmured.

>   “Or appeared to have been consumed by both parties,” Mycroft added.

  “If both men ate the mushrooms,” Dr. Watson considered, “and one left in fine fettle, then the mushrooms couldn’t be poisoned.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Denzil chimed in.

  Athelney suddenly appeared cheerful, if not insightful. “Are you sayin’ the cook is the murderer? Did he poison Lord Percival? I’d love to take ‘im in. The only thing I hate worse than a posy is a wanker.”

  “I find your sudden confidence in my brother’s conclusions refreshing, Constable.” Mycroft lowered his head in a gentlemanly fashion.

  “Did you hear anything unusual during the dinner, Mr. Denzil?” Sherlock asked.

  The cook loosened his collar, beginning to become uncomfortable with the questioning. He might not be worried about his continued employment, which he didn’t seem must distressed or surprised about any more than the demise of his employer, but he certainly didn’t wish to go to prison—or, worse yet, hang. “If you mean by unusual, out of the ordinary for this household, no.”

  “What did you hear, Mr. Denzil?” Athelney Jones demanded.

  “A few loud noises, as if a body were hitting the floor,” Mr. Denzil replied, now tapping his foot.

  “And you didn’t come to investigate?” Police Constable Jones pressed.

  “As I already said, it was not unusual for this household.” He cleared his throat. “I had been threatened with dismissal if I were to set foot on this floor.” He raised his nose toward the constable. “Lord Percival paid well—and he stayed outta’ my hair, which I liked about ‘im. He mighta’ been a sodomite, he mighta’ danced on moonbeams, it weren’t none ‘o my business long’s he paid me.” Mr. Denzil shrugged.

  Sherlock would have thought Denzil would be growing on Mycroft, but he glanced at his elder brother’s calculating expression to see that it was nothing of the sort.

  For an unemployable man such as Denzil, Percy would have been a godsend. Percy certainly had a soft heart when it came to his employees.

  And how did you repay him, I wonder? Was Mr. Denzil the type to do anything for money? Or was he a relatively decent man in desperate circumstances?

  Sherlock thought it was probably the former.

  “Ah. And where was your home before you came to London, Mr. Denzil?” From the skeptical look on Mycroft’s face, he shared the same opinion.

  “I was born and raised in Birmingham.”

  “A Brummie, eh?”

  “I hope we have convinced you of the need to analyze the remains of the food, Constable?” Sherlock turned to Athelney. “Both below stairs and above?”

  “I’ve landed in the mad house, and that’s a fact. It’s a fool’s errand to test for poison—of all things—when we have this ghastly murder here. I never saw a murder what looked less like a poisoning.”

  “Precisely what the murderer wants you to overlook.” Sherlock sighed heavily. “You’re like putty in the criminal’s hands, Jones. It’s imperative we collect the data in order to confirm or deny our hypotheses.”

  “First we must test for poison to match the contents of the food to the contents of the bodies when the autopsies are performed,” Dr. Watson agreed. “If there is poison in the food, we must confirm if it was actually ingested.”

  “Ah, yes. Well these are all new procedures to me. I’ve always been able to get me man with the old-fashioned methods,” Athelney grumbled.

  “In the absence of both suspects and eye witnesses, it would seem advisable to test the evidence left at the scene of the murder,” Sherlock said.

  “To the contrary, I’ve got two eye witnesses what saw this vampire—possibly more, as we make our rounds.”

  At least one of whom is a suspect.

  “I beg to differ, Constable. The vampire was in disguise.” Mycroft displayed his usual politeness. “A fairly effective disguise, it seems. Unless the vampire chooses to turn himself in, you have no idea who he was, do you Police Constable?”

  Sherlock moved to look at the wine glasses, sniffing both. He took samples to consider under his microscope at a later time. “It appears only one glass had wine in it. This one would appear to be water.”

  “I weren’t above stair. I couldn’t say, sir,” said Mr. Denzil. His unusual display of courtesy indicated that he liked the detective better than the others. On a rare occasion, Sherlock’s lack of emotion had that effect.

  Or perhaps the cook feared him more. That would indicate a greater degree of intelligence than Sherlock had previously assigned to Denzil.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Enough with the meal already. I can’t see how who drank wine would matter.” Athelney rolled his eyes. “One man didn’t drink wine, so what?”

  “I assure you the entire murder revolves around this one point,” Sherlock said.

  “Which man drank the wine though?” Dr. Watson considered.

  “It weren’t Lord Percival who abstained, I can tell you that. Har! har!” Mr. Denzil exclaimed.

  “Indeed, Percy liked his wine,” Mycroft agreed.

  “How much did his lordship ordinarily drink with dinner?” Sherlock pressed.

  “About one bottle,” Mr. Denzil said.

  Mycroft coughed. “I should say more.”

  “And was this the only bottle you sent up in the dumb waiter?” Sherlock asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Denzil said.

  “The contents of the wine bottle will need to be analyzed,” Sherlock turned to Athelney. “Shall I do the honors?”

  “Be my guest, Mr. ’Olmes.”

  “Something else, Mr. Denzil,” Sherlock said. “How many scullery maids do you have in the kitchen?”

  “Only the one. I don’t like anyone gettin’ in me way.”

  “A Mrs. Kitchens, I believe,” Mycroft said. “We shall need to speak to her.”

  “I should too. She came late and left early,” Mr. Denzil growled. “She returned to her room before the work was done.”

  Athelney motioned to his partner to go to her quarters and fetch her.

  Dr. Watson, now crouched over the body, seemed to suddenly go pale. “Holmes, there’s something you should see here.”

  “Yes, Watson, what is it?”

  “Oh, my,” Mirabella murmured as her eyes followed Dr. Watson’s gaze.

  Watson moved his finger along the victim’s mouth, parting the lips. “All of Lord Percival’s teeth are missing.”

  At this moment, Constable Cockburn returned. “Jones, Mrs. Kitchens is gone. Her bags is packed and there is no one in her room.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What Else Shall Go Missing?

  “No blood, no teeth, and now no scullery maid,” Mycroft fanned himself. “What else shall go missing? I hope we may all leave this house with our limbs.”

  “So what if Percival wore dentures?” Athelney asked. “This attention to insignificant details is what separates the professionals from the amateurs. It is a common enough practice among the rich to have all of their teeth removed and opt for a finer set of pearly whites.”

  “To be sure, more than one groom has given the present to his young bride of having all her teeth removed as a wedding present,” Dr. Watson agreed. “It is the practice of those who can afford to do so—and a status symbol.”

  “Dentists have been known to convince their patients the misery experienced with one toothache will soon spread to their entire mouths,” Mycroft lowered his fan. “The dentist will insist that it is better to simply remove all the teeth now and spare oneself the discomfort at a later date.”

  “There’s some justification for it. There are cases of a person dying from an abscessed tooth,” Dr. Watson argued. “However, the question is irrelevant. Lord Percival’s teeth have been pulled recently. This is not a question of dentures; it is a question of a mouth without teeth.”

  “As I said,” Athelney sputtered. “Lord Percival has no teeth. Common among the wealthy.”

  “No, Jones,” Sherlock said cal
mly. “Percy had teeth before the murder. Now he has no teeth. There are no dentures in his mouth.”

  “Maybe the murderer took the dentures. He seems to have taken everything else.”

  “You can see for yourself, Constable. His mouth still contains blood.” Dr. Watson added somberly, “It appears to be the only blood remaining in his body. These teeth were recently removed.”

  “And do we have a description of the missing Mrs. Kitchens?” Sherlock addressed Denzil.

  “She was about thirty years of age, with dark hair and dark eyes. She was above average height—seemed rather muscular for a woman. Not fat mind you, but not frail either.”

  “Similar to Miss Hudson?” Sherlock offered.

  Mr. Denzil considered Mirabella who stood firm under his gaze, which Sherlock appreciated. “Heavier. Older. About the same height. Darker. Less shapely but more ladylike if you knows what I mean.”

  Mirabella opened her eyes wide but said nothing.

  “No, we don’t,” Mycroft said. “Miss Hudson certainly fits our definition of elegance.”

  “I don’t need no hoighty-toity in the kitchen, but that weren’t it. Mrs. Kitchen sort of cowered, no confidence. It were just a kitchen, for God’s sake. She was nervous, like she’d never been in a kitchen ’afore. But that weren’t it, she was good enough. But flighty. She took off before all the work was done.” Denzil shook his head. “I can’t abide one what doesn’t finish the job.”

  “Did you like her, Mr. Denzil?”

  Denzil shook his head. “’Course not. I don’t need no fainting princesses in the kitchen what couldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. I’d rather have this ‘ere debutante, elegance and all.” He motioned to Mirabella with his head.

  Sherlock cleared his throat. “What was Mrs. Kitchens’ job?”

  “She washed and cut all the vegetables and potatoes.”

  “Did she prepare the mushrooms?”

  “Nah. Gave them to me to cook. But she washed, selected, and sliced ‘em.”

  “Did she send the wine up the dumb waiter?” Mycroft asked.

  “She did.”