Sherlock turned to the constable. “I am finished with this man for now. I strongly suggest you keep him in your custody. He is your only witness to Mrs. Kitchens. Even Longstaff did not appear to be acquainted, not knowing her name.”
“Understandably. It is such a difficult name to recall for the kitchen help,” Mycroft muttered, tapping his fingers on the arm of the settee.
Athelney laughed, his amusement soon turning to an objection, his modus operendi. “But she weren’t even at the scene of the murder.”
“So far as you believe,” Mycroft said.
“I think Denzil would have noticed if his scullery maid had gone missing,” Athelney countered.
“Speaking of missing, as for whether or not Percival wore dentures, I suggest that you speak to his dentist, Police Constable, to verify our observations.” Dr. Watson returned to the earlier discussion as Mr. Denzil was escorted out of the room. “I believe you shall find that there is no record of dentures.”
“The case gets more and more perplexing,” Mycroft’s usually confident demeanor was noticeably diminished.
“It’s as if someone was going to make dentures with Lord Percival’s teeth—” Mirabella peered over Dr. Watson’s shoulder.
“Aha! You may have it, miss. Teeth are extremely valuable.” Athelney Jones was a working man who knew the value of things. “It doesn’t surprise me someone took Percival’s teeth now as I consider the matter.”
“Naturally teeth are valuable,” Dr. Watson said. “It’s not unheard of for a girl of eighteen dying of consumption or one of the other diseases common to poverty to sell her teeth and hair for a meager sum in order to care for a family member, even a child.” He added softly, “And done without any form of pain deadeners, which would only add to the cost, reducing her proceeds.”
“Why not wait for the extractions until she passed on that she might not feel any pain?” Mirabella asked.
“She would wish to have the procedure performed while she was still alive to insure her earnings went to the intended.”
Mirabella shuddered. It was indeed a harsh—but ultimately unselfish—ending to one’s life.
“Your speculation is all very well, but it has nothing to do with this murder,” the constable suggested. “I know your habits, Sherlock Holmes, but this is a matter where some common sense and true detective work is needed.”
“I have been patiently awaiting its appearance.” Sherlock shook his head. “And yet, it all speaks to motive. I wouldn’t say that the removal of all of our victim’s teeth is speculation, but rather a fact in evidence. What do you make of that fact, Constable?”
“Well, I . . .” he sputtered. I’d say we have a monster on our hands. A greedy bastard. And a pervert.” He motioned to the body. “They’re both perverts if you ask me.”
“I’m gratified to know that we’re only dealing with the facts,” Sherlock murmured.
“The evidence does not support your theory, Constable,” Mycroft said. “The removal of the teeth for a little extra blunt—as you yourself acknowledged—is not consistent with the scene before us.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Secretary?” Athelney asked. One could say what he would, but the constable did wish to solve the case, as annoyed as he was.
Mycroft had been deep in thought most of the evening, but he was never mentally idle. Physically, yes, mentally, no. “You have presumed we have a male lover who killed Percy. Why? Was it part of an erotic interplay? And our murderer thought to make a few extra dollars after killing his lordship in a fit of passion. ‘Mustn’t forget the teeth,’ he thought to himself.”
“Along with draining all the blood from the body,” Sherlock added.
“Most romantic.” Mycroft shook his head. “And if it were for money, why are all these valuable paintings left lining the walls?”
“Hmmm . . . ” Jones studied the walls. “I’d have to be convinced those paintings are valuable. Dreadful. Disgustingly risqué.”
“That is unquestionably an Alma-Tadema over the fireplace,” Mycroft said. “A particular favorite of mine: The Roses of Heliogabalus.”
It would be, for a hedonist such as yourself. Sherlock thought to himself without any intention of insult as he glanced at the ridiculously romanticized painting. “I acknowledge the painter’s talent in technique and execution, but the subject matter is idealized poppycock.”
“I have to agree with Mr. ’Olmes.” The constable added under his breath, “Looks like an orgy to me.”
“I think it’s quite beautiful,” Mirabella murmured so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Sherlock glanced at Miss Belle. Her curious golden brown eyes were glistening with excitement, which had likewise cast roses into her cheeks. If there was a young lady who could make one believe in romance . . .
Bloody Hell! He cursed himself. The only thing that mattered was justice—and the resolution of the case. Anything else was a waste of time.
And, worse, an illusion.
Mycroft raised his chin with a sudden idea, clearly unaffected by the slights to his taste in art. “Perhaps our murderer was paid by someone else to perform the murder.”
“A possibility,” Sherlock’s eyes locked with his brother’s. “Which would infer a much grander plot.”
“And that there will be more murders,” Mycroft said with a soft foreboding.
“Do have a care, brother dear.”
Sherlock motioned for his coat. “Now that we have solved the murder, Constable, we must be off. There is much yet to do.”
“Solved the murder? What in the blazes are you talking about, Mr. ’Olmes?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mycroft muttered as he rose from the settee. “Mrs. Kitchens poisoned Percy.”
“Are you mad too?” Athelney exclaimed. “It must run in the family.”
“My esteemed brother is quite right,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “In a manner of speaking. Mrs. Kitchens—that, of course, is not her real name—at the very least made Lord Percival’s murder possible. Maybe she didn’t realize what she was doing, but she cast the deciding vote. The fact that she bolted certainly points the finger in her direction. You will have to run all the tests and verify our conclusions, of course. Forensics is no place for guesswork. But I don’t have to remind you of that, Constable, as I know unfounded speculation is anathema to you.”
“Most certainly,” Athelney agreed. “But . . . the vampire? The draining of the blood? The missing teeth? Surely it was the vampire?”
“Certainly the vampire had a role. But we need to start with the missing cook.”
“Even if you’re right and it was poisoning what killed him—and I don’t say you are—you don’t think it was Mr. Denzil what did it?” Athelney asked hopefully.
“No.” Mycroft shook his head. “Mr. Denzil is not exactly what one would call employable with his attitude; he had no reason to kill his employer. If he is involved in this murder, it was not his planning, he answers to someone. For one thing, he doesn’t have the brains, the temperament, or the finesse to orchestrate it. But his demeanor is not one of guilt; believe me, I’ve learned to recognize guilt, I work in the government. And if he is telling the truth, Mrs. Kitchens made the selection of the mushrooms, the deciding factor. Denzil didn’t handle the wine. Mrs. Kitchens did. And she ran.”
“Generally a sign of culpability, wouldn’t you say, Jones?” Sherlock asked.
“I sees.” Police Constable Jones tapped his plump forefinger to his chin. But it was quite clear that he didn’t see. “And how did she do it?”
“The mushrooms introduced the poison into the body,” Mycroft said.
“But there are still some significant points to tie up. As well as who was in cahoots with Mrs. Kitchens.” Sherlock turned to Constable Jones. “Please, if you will obtain Longstaff’s red spats for me. I should like to test for blood.”
“And there’s something else,” Mycroft added. “Did you notice that Longstaff had a slight limp?”
“It must be quite slight. What of it?” Athelney asked
“Despite his youth, he’s recovering from an injury,” Sherlock said. “And you noted that he is tanned?”
“I’m not in the habit of ogling young men, as you seem to be.”
“Nathan Longstaff has not been a butler of very long duration. He’s recently come here from the workhouse. There’s no crime in that, but you need to check it out.”
“How would you know that?”
“Though he took great effort to manicure and soften his hands—there was scent on him from lotion—his hands displayed rope burns. No doubt used to pick Oakum.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Workhouse
Saint Pancras Workhouse
A few weeks earlier
“A sullen or lethargic indifference to what was asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but warmth and food, a moody absence of complaint as being of no use, a dogged silence and resentful desire to be left alone again . .”
– Charles Dickens, firsthand account, Marylebone workhouse
“She will do,” said Mr. Fairclough, owner of The Madame’s Apothecary, so named due to its proximity to Madame Tussaud’s. Before him a row of young women lined up, most with hollow expressions devoid of hope. His eyes alit on one: there remained a light in her eyes, not yet extinguished. She lived for something—or someone.
“Evie works hard,” the overseer, Woodhead, muttered, seeing where Fairclough’s eyes went.
“She is strong.” Franklin Fairclough studied the brunette. “Not a slip of a girl.”
“But she steals.”
“Food for her children I expect. Does she have children?”
“Five.” Woodhead spit on the floor. “No four.”
“As I suspected.”
“And does she have a husband in the workhouse?”
“Yeah. Fit to be tied. But we manage. He ain’t that hard to overpower; he’s missing one arm.”
Fairclough grew impatient. “Mrs. Travers. Does she have a temper?”
“It shows some times, but I ‘ave ‘bout beat it out of her.”
“Bring her here,” Franklin commanded. “I’d like to speak to her.”
Woodhead shook his head. “Why do you always want the ones what has too much spirit?”
“I believe you’ve answered your own question, Mr. Woodhead.”
“I guarantees, she’ll steal drugs from your store. Don’t say I didn’t warns youse.” Woodhead motioned to the woman to approach them. “Evie! Get over ‘ere.”
“Mrs. Travers,” Franklin maintained a polite distance. “Would you like to come and work at my pharmacy? You’d have to do the cleaning to begin with until I see how you perform.”
“No, no sir,” Evie shook her head adamantly. She looked fearful, pleading with the overseer. “Please, please, don’t make me go. I want to be near me children. And me husband. I get to see him on Sunday.” She lowered her head. “Thank you for your kindness, but at least here we has a roof over our heads and food.”
“They may all come with you,” Franklin said. “I have a commune of sorts on my land. You would have a small cottage and food for your children, as well as medical care.”
“A home? Just for cleaning?” She looked astonished, as if the idea of having a home for her family was something that never entered her mind.
Franklin was well aware that even one room for the six of them in a tenement slum would be a mansion to Evie. They would be together, and no one telling them what to do and when they could see each other. A wood stove to cook on and to keep them warm—when they had wood and food—was a bit of heaven.
The cottage was his trump card.
He knew what Evie’s life had been before entering the workhouse: one room for the entire family, dirty rags stuffing the broken spots in the windows, every day having to come up with the rent or be kicked out—many days leaving nothing for food—but it was a roof over their heads.
She teared up. “Four walls we don’ share wif’ others an not to ‘ave to be on the streets—but our own room?”
Franklin chuckled to himself. “A bit more than one room. A cottage. It’s small, mind you, but there would be two bedrooms and a kitchen living area.”
“Three rooms?” Suddenly she began shaking, a wave of fear washing over her expression. “We couldn’t afford to heat it.”
“I will provide the fuel.”
She glanced at Woodhouse. Clearly she didn’t believe the pharmacist and thought he was up to something. “A cottage. Just for me family?”
“And food. In exchange, you’d have to work hard and to do things that are new to you.”
She wiped her eyes. “I’m no stranger to work.”
“There, there, I’m not here to hurt you, Mrs. Travers. I own the Willow Cottages on Willow Road in Hampstead bordering the Hampstead Heath. There are twelve little cottages on the property. Nothing fancy, mind you, but quite scenic. Before I bought it they used to be the homes for the workers who harvested the watercress from the ponds on Hampstead Heath. So you see, the park being so nearby is a lovely playground for your children.”
“Me children get an education here as it were,” she said in a whisper. Franklin knew she didn’t believe him, but she was fearful of losing this chance in the unlikely event he was telling the truth.
“Naturally I have a teacher for the children of my little community.” He liked to keep his workers close-knit and isolated from outsiders. It was safer that way.
Fairclough neglected to inform Evie that there was a local parish school and a ragged school within walking distance of the cottages. Since 1880, some two years prior, it was the law that all children go to primary school, both boys and girls, and all communities were required to provide a school.
If she thought education an advantage of the workhouse, she was mistaken. Clearly Mrs. Travers had learned not to trust to anyone. She had also not learned to read or she would know there were already schools available to her children.
She looked as if she might cry, such an idyllic image he was creating in her mind’s eye. Distrust was the only obstacle to overcome with these people.
And as long as they had spirit, they fulfilled his needs.
“What would I ‘ave to do?”
He could already tell she would do just about anything for her family.
Perfect.
“I myself live above the apothecary in Westminster with my daughter, Florence, who works alongside me in the pharmacy. She’s a very bright girl, as smart as any man.” He liked to bring up Florence as it tended to calm his female recruits, giving the appearance of a chaperone.
Franklin paused for a moment as he wrestled with his emotions. Florence had never been the same since her engagement to Overton Bristow and subsequent disgrace. Bristow had ruined her in more ways than one. She was now distant, quiet, reserved. She never wanted to socialize; and no wonder, from all the stares and whisperings.
He was furious that this had happened to his intelligent daughter. He would have gladly carried all the humiliation for her.
Franklin knew he had not been an attentive husband to his wife—he had worked all the time attempting to make a life for his family—and now he attempted to make up for it with Florence. His deceased wife had not been close to Florence, who had not been a particularly pretty child, which was no fault of Florence’s. When she met Overton, Florence thought her life had taken a turn for the better.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Franklin cursed the day he hired Bristow.
Franklin regained his composure. “You would have to take the train from the Hampstead Station every morning and evening to work at the Apothecary, Mrs. Travers. It’s a twelve-minute train ride. I would insist upon punctuality as a condition of employment.”
“O’course.”
“And you must never steal from me.” His expression grew stern.
“Oh, no sir. All the poor ever want is fair work. Most of us, we don’t want
hand-outs, whatever anyone may say.”
“Very good, Mrs. Travers.”
“And my husband? What would he do? He has lost an arm.” She looked as if she knew this would be the deal breaker. As it always was.
“We’ll find something I am sure.” He added softly, “Everyone has their skills.”
He liked to employ the desperate who had reached the bottom of the barrel. They appreciated their situation and were willing to do anything. Much like the loyalty of a stray dog.
Evie eyed him with disbelief. “But why? Why would you do this for me?”
“I’ve been informed you are a hard worker, Mrs. Travers. You have spunk. I like that. There are those who, through no fault of their own, have been dealt a hard blow in life.”
Her eyes opened wide, as if unaccustomed to feeling understood.
“I carry my own pain. I understand the love of one’s children and the sacrifices one would make for them.” He cleared his throat. “If you can work with discipline and purpose, I will take care of you and give you a new beginning.” He murmured, “God has blessed me with certain gifts and given me a purpose in life. This is what I was meant to do.”
She looked down, attempting to not show too much emotion in the event it would be off-putting. “Oh, thank you sir, thank you. I will work hard for you. You will see. Please let me be with my children.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Vampire Army
“You see, but you do not observe.”
- Sherlock Holmes in “A Scandal in Bohemia” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“Miss Belle, I’m glad you’re here. You and I need to hail a cab,” Sherlock was still breakfasting when she entered the flat the next morning.
“But Dr. Watson? He’s not even awake yet.”
“Watson is still recuperating from the events of last evening.” Sherlock took his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth.
“I thought you said the case was solved.” She set down the scientific periodicals she had borrowed.
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