“Yes, sir!”
“You may now listen to my directions and cease to say ‘yes, sir’ after every sentence.”
“Yes, sir!”
Sherlock sighed heavily. “I am looking for a vampire.”
There was a collective gasp. Wiggins asked, “Like Varney the vampire?”
“Yes,” Sherlock explained. “He is a person dressed as a vampire—but every bit as evil as if he were a creature of the night. He would kill you all given the chance. Or worse.”
“How will we know him, guv’nor?” Wiggins’ asked shakily, his voice noticeably softened.
“How many vampires have you seen, Wiggins?” Sherlock inquired with interest.
“Well . . . none.” Wiggins looked at the other boys, who nodded their agreement.
“So, if you see a vampire, that is in all probability him, do you not agree?” Sherlock posed.
Wiggins shook his head, swallowing hard.
Sherlock lit his pipe. “I am also looking for a woman, about thirty years of age, with dark hair and dark eyes. Slightly above average height, not a feather.”
“There be many women who fit that description,” Wiggins said, puzzled.
“Indeed there are. But if you see such a woman in the company of the vampire, she would be of great interest to me.”
“So we can approach the woman but not the vampire?” Wiggins inquired, always one to insure that he understood his directions, one of many reasons he was so valuable.
“Neither at this time. You report back to me. Do not—I repeat—do not approach either. If, at no peril to yourselves, you can find out where the vampire is going, that would be invaluable to me. You must travel in pairs. You are not to go out alone. And do not get too close, it may be a trap. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“It’s your usual pay rate of one schilling, and a guinea to the boy or boys who finds the vampire.” There was a sudden outburst of chatter, as if they had been offered a palace in Monte Cristo rather than a guinea.
“Quiet. Now line up,” Sherlock commanded. They all lined up and he handed them each a shilling as they passed to the door, checking their pockets as they went and retrieving a figurine, a silver spoon, and a lemon drop, the last of which Sherlock returned to its most recent owner.
“Miss Belle, take a note, please,” Sherlock instructed when the boys had all exited through the front door.
She procured her notepad and fountain pen.
“Eight, Seven, nine, six, twelve,” Sherlock began, reciting quickly as he tapped his pipe on the table, his eyes scanning the ceiling. He paused, as if recollecting. “Seven, five, eight, nine, five, eleven, six.”
He held his hand out that he might review the scribblings. “Yes, it is correct. Please take it to James Taylor & Company without further delay.”
Sherlock returned to smoking his pipe as if she were no longer in the room. “Miss Belle, why haven’t you left?”
“What am I supposed to do with this list of numbers?” She was utterly mystified.
He looked at her as if he had thought better of her, his eyebrows raised. “As I said, take it to James Taylor & Company.”
“And what will they do with it?” she asked, still no closer to understanding his directions.
“Who is James Taylor, Miss Hudson?”
“He is your cobbler.”
“What would I have you do at the cobbler’s? Buy bread? Send a telegraph? Purchase ice?”
“Make shoes, I suppose.”
“Precisely. You are to instruct Mr. Taylor to make twelve pairs of boys shoes, of course. Those are the sizes. An early Christmas present, if you will. They should be working boots, comfortable but serviceable. You may then take the measurements and purchase twenty-four pairs of socks. London’s damp and cold can be quite a health hazard.” He sniffed disdainfully. “And when you have returned, I beg that you will clean the floor. It smells like a stable in here.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Resurrection Men. And Women.
“That’ll do, guv’nor.” The Highgate Cemetery guardian pocketed the coin and allowed the intruder to start digging.
Rather than shedding light on Highgate, the full moon increased the sense of darkness. Highgate was a fearsome place in the daytime, but more so at night: the thirty-seven acres of wild and un-manicured woodlands incorporating winding paths, trees, ivy, and moss draped over every manner of mausoleum, statue and stone tribute to the dead. The lack of uniformity—even tombs and vaults dug into the hillsides—made the sculptures come alive.
And these were not small statues but massive structures: the Egyptian Avenue entryway bordered by fifty-foot monuments was a majestic semi-circle composed of sixteen vaults on each side of the arch. From there one entered the Circle of Lebanon, thirty-six vaults in a circle around an ancient Cedar of Lebanon tree. The effect was an imposing and ominous greeting to the west cemetery.
John Watson could never come into a cemetery without being reminded of how close he came to finding a permanent home amidst the moss and decay.
How did I let Holmes talk me into this venture? John sighed. Just as he allowed Holmes to talk him into everything: with the greatest of ease.
These past fifteen months had been nonstop stimulation and thrills—precisely what John needed. He had been emaciated and lethargic when he met Holmes. His flat mate had taken his mind off his troubles and switched John’s focus to medicine, chemistry, and bringing criminals to justice. And staying alive, but that was nothing new.
In the shadows angels’ wings were seen emerging from the cemetery, aimed towards the sky. The elevated cemetery had a view of London, rising as it did 375 feet above sea level. If and when the ghosts were to rise from Highgate, there would be a lively meeting of personalities. Karl Marx was buried in Highgate. George Eliot—Mary Anne Evans—a radical woman in a repressive age, could be found. Here was bare-knuckle fighter Tom Sayers’ marble tomb over which a life-size sculpture of Sayers’ loyal and beloved dog Lion kept guard.
Mirabella shuddered. “There are some places a lady should never go.”
John smiled to himself, one could always count on Miss Mirabella to say what everyone was thinking. She was a delight to be sure, as well as an insightful and capable young lady.
He had thought at one time they would be an item . . . but being lonely did not a match make.
If any woman is a match for me. He with his ghosts and demons, as well as his injured leg. I am half a man. Holmes helped to keep John’s mind off his memories and on staying alive. There was some strange advantage to continuously being in mortal danger.
“Where is me cut for the clergyman?” the watchman pressed, greed apparent in his eyes. He knew how much these grave robbers were making. Why shouldn’t he get his fair share?
“A clergyman didn’t send me.” Holmes dropped another coin into the guardian’s hand anyway.
“Thanks, guv’nor.”
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Riley.”
Riley tipped his hat. “And you as well, Mr. Holmes.”
“Highgate is a surprisingly busy place,” John murmured.
“Even without all the statues and shadows coming alive in one’s imagination,” Mirabella said. There, she voiced his thoughts again. John smiled to himself.
“Dead bodies are necessary to understanding the workings of the human body,” Sherlock said, adding, “We stand on the precipice of medicine my friends.”
“And if a body has gone to its final resting place and thereafter is removed from the coffin, who is going to be the wiser?” John proposed with no small degree of sarcasm. Being a medical man, he was interested. Being a human being, he was repulsed by the ease with which Holmes crossed the line.
Sherlock shrugged. “Dealing in corpses is a lucrative business. The teeth in particular are a true goldmine, beginning with the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 when fifty thousand men died on the battlefield.”
“The devil take them all,�
� John cursed under his breath. “The earth was still shaking from the cannons fired and the air still ringing when the grave robbers flooded the battlefield to pull out the teeth of the dead and dying. A fine thanks to those soldiers willing to die for the freedom of all.” If there was a hell, those grave robbers pulling the teeth of a soldier not yet dead were worthy candidates.
“As a result of the sacrifices made at Waterloo, the middle class can now afford teeth,” Mirabella said.
“And a few grave robbers were made into rich men.” Being a military man, the idea sickened him. He was one who was always short of the blunt, but money was not worth one’s soul.
“Ah, but a beautiful smile completes the outfit.” Sherlock continued digging through his commentary. “Surely a man of fashion knows this.”
“I could not be induced to wear a dead soldier’s teeth, no matter how straight and white.” John muttered as he continued digging. “Speaking of which, we could have acquired a body through normal channels. Why are we doing this, Holmes?”
John was outraged at the disrespect and abuse shown to dying soldiers at Waterloo, but he would be a fool not to realize that he lived in fascinating times. No one actually understood how the human body worked. All those alive today were living on the brink of discovery, and he was part of it.
All because of a chance meeting with his old friend Stamford at the Criterion Bar—who subsequently took him to Barts hospital where he met Holmes.
His life changed at that moment. It was a strange truth that Holmes, a detective, had advanced John in his career of medicine.
In addition to bringing him back to life.
“Normal channels? Ah, yes, the workhouses, when no one comes to claim the bodies,” Sherlock said. “I am a regular customer at Saint Pancras.”
Mirabella shuddered, though she continued digging. “Are you any closer to finding the crime ring that murdered Lord Percival, Mr. Holmes? It seemed to me that you and Mycroft knew more than you disclosed.”
John thought so too, but he had no expectation of Holmes explaining himself. There was something uniquely different about Holmes when it came to this case: an increased secrecy John hadn’t previously seen.
But then, Mycroft had a great deal to be secret about.
***
“Did it seem so, Miss Belle?” Sherlock glanced her way and she could see the glimmer of a smile even in the darkness. The upturn of his lips almost never became a smile where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, but any foray into amusement was a decided departure from his usual serious existence.
Sometimes it saddened her that such a gifted and remarkable person did not enjoy his life more. She watched Sherlock tirelessly digging. Driven, yes. Enjoyment? She wasn’t sure.
“Perhaps I shall allow you to solve this one since you have a greater understanding of the case, Miss Belle.”
Oh, so we’re going to play that game, are we? Very well.
“You said Mrs. Kitchens administered the poison that killed Percival—though I don’t know how she could have accomplished that since both men ate the mushrooms. It seems fraught with uncertainty to me.” She stopped to lean on her shovel momentarily.
Am I mistaken? Or did the Lion statue move?
“That which appears to be an inconceivable notion, a great mystery and an impossibility always presents itself as the only possible path once it is understood how the deed was done.”
“The vampire must be the guiltier party as Mrs. Kitchens actually never touched the body.”
“By that definition Moriarty is never to blame because he never performs the crime himself. When, in fact, he is the mastermind behind it all without whom none of those vile acts would occur. Therefore, Moriarty is the most guilty of all concerned—and the most dangerous man in London.” A certain razor sharp quality tinged his voice.
Mirabella grew silent, having a guilty conscience as it were.
“Do you not agree, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked pointedly.
“Not entirely.” She returned to her digging.
“You don’t agree that Moriarty is dangerous?” he persisted.
“I’d have to be a fool to think that,” she murmured.
“Precisely.”
Oh for goodness sake. She sometimes felt even her private thoughts belonged to Sherlock Holmes. She had to fight to insure that she maintained her own being as distinctly her own.
“It is possible the vampire is a much more despicable—and dangerous—person who gave the orders,” Sherlock considered. “It is also possible there is yet another person behind it all.”
“Behind both Mrs. Kitchens and the vampire?” Mirabella asked.
“Yes. In fact, I think it highly likely.”
“Why is that, Holmes?’ Dr. Watson asked.
“Because of the complexity of the case. And how well orchestrated it was, every detail being considered. This was not a spur of the moment crime, there was a great deal of showmanship to it.”
“Yes,” Dr. Watson considered. “Almost as if it were theatre.”
“Precisely, Watson. And add to that the disappearing blood and teeth. There are layers of motivations here.”
“So you’re saying it is not a crime of passion?” Mirabella asked.
“I didn’t say that, Miss Belle.”
“So we must find this third person then?”
“Naturally.”
“But what was the motive? I still have no idea why he did it. Or how to find him.”
“That is the issue, is it not?”
“It’s a very strange case,” Dr. Watson paused to lean on his shovel.
“Beyond a doubt.”
Mirabella glanced at the moon. “What if the man dressed as a vampire really is a vampire?”
“I’m sure he is,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “For some members of the human race, there is a thin line between the human and the monster. And definitely it was a monster who drained Lord Percival’s blood.”
CHAPTER NINE
Autopsy Results
“I may not agree with you, but I will defend to the death your right to make an ass of yourself.”- Oscar Wilde
“We haven’t been able to confirm that Longstaff was at the theatre,” Athelney said, frowning. “We can’t find anyone who saw him.”
“So Longstaff could have been the vampire.” Dr. Watson joined them, having only finished seeing a patient. He seated himself on the eggplant-colored velour couch next to the constable as Mycroft had already taken Watson’s usual chair in front of the fireplace across from Sherlock.
“There’s something else,” Athelney added smugly, speaking in as soft a voice as he was capable of. Which wasn’t very quiet. Constable Jones was not a soft-spoken man, try as he might.
Mirabella moved closer, her back to them but her ears open as she poured the sherry for the two new arrivals. The more invisible she was, the more freely they spoke in her vicinity. She had always thought Sherlock unkind to “shush” her or to complain about her talking, but now she wondered if the Great Detective hadn’t cautioned her for her own benefit.
“What is it, Constable?” Sherlock took a sip of sherry, his expression less than eager.
“I can see you are gloating about something you perceive to be of significance, Constable.” As usual Mycroft was impeccably dressed. It seemed to Mirabella, though, that the color had drained from Mycroft’s complexion on the day of Percival’s murder and never quite returned. His skin tone now matched his grey eyes.
“Even you will find it of interest, I am sure. We have the autopsy.”
Sherlock raised one eyebrow, and it did seem to Mirabella her employer was curious, in spite of his nonchalance. A woman could wear a neglige in a burlesque show and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash, but offer up scientific data and his expression would radiate with a sudden glow.
Underneath the papers he retrieved a Persian slipper, filled with his favorite tobacco, which he proceeded to place into his pipe. He lit the pipe and languidly indulged
in a long puff before indicating with a tilt of the chin that he wished the constable to continue.
“There, that’s the way of it. I know how you like them little details, ’Olmes.” Athelney lowered his voice. “We learned from the autopsy that Lord Percival did not have relations with another man—or with anyone, for that matter—on the night in question.”
“This gives you pause to question your theory, Police Constable, does it not?” Mycroft asked politely. His world had come crashing down around him over the past few days and terror gripped his heart, but that was apparently no reason to forego good manners.
“And what theory is that?” Athelney took a sherry from Miss Hudson.
“Oh where do we begin?” Mycroft murmured. “That Percy was depraved and corrupt. That the vampire was both a sodomite and a prostitute. That the real purpose of the dinner was to have an orgy. That Percy’s evil ways are what did him in.”
“In short, that Percy was the guilty party and in some way responsible for his own gruesome murder.” Sherlock tapped the fingers of his free hand on the mahogany arm of his wingback chair.
“Hmph! But it was obvious from the autopsy that Lord Percival had . . . er . . . relations with men in the past. Even those people can’t be engaged in sexual acts all the time.”
“Ah, yes.” Mycroft finished his sherry in one swallow. “So, you were wrong, Jones, but that has somehow made you feel justified in your false assumptions and—dare I say?—even more offensive in your bigotry.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” Sherlock muttered, swirling his glass of sherry. “Indeed shouldn’t being in error have the opposite effect from causing one to stick to one’s initial theory?”
“It never does for you, ’Olmes.” Athelney turned towards Sherlock. “There ain’t nothin’ to reduce your arrogance when you’re wrong about something.”
“How would we know?” Sherlock took a puff on his pipe.
Mirabella smiled to herself as she straightened Sherlock’s stacks of papers on his desk next to his chemistry lab on the opposite wall. She couldn’t help liking Athelney in spite of his arrogance. She was steeped in arrogance after all, spending most of her waking hours at 221B Baker Street. At least Athelney was jovial. He certainly enjoyed his station in life. There was even a certain lightheartedness to his insults.
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