Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “Our esteemed butler has shed no light on the case.” Sherlock examined the instruments Mirabella had cleaned. “He said he never got a good look at the scullery maid, other than stating that she was above average height, sturdy, and a brunette.”

  “What about Florence Fairclough?” Mirabella asked, handing Sherlock the scalpel. “Has anyone questioned her?”

  “Of course,” Sherlock took the instrument.

  “I wouldn’t call Florence ‘sturdy’. Quite thin to my way of thinking.” Dr. Watson put on his gloves, not generally done by doctors but something Mirabella had suggested after reading Robert’s publication on germ theory.

  “The gentle sex is your department, Watson. I bow to your superior knowledge of female contours,” Sherlock said. “Both Florence and Fairclough are each other’s alibis, in a manner of speaking. Fairclough was in his study that evening, he said, while his daughter was in the laboratory behind the shop. She spends most of her time in the laboratory according to her father, who expressed a wish that she might socialize on occasion.”

  “So neither has an alibi,” Dr. Watson concluded. “Fairclough believes his daughter was in the laboratory, and Florence believes her father was in his study.”

  “Correct,” Sherlock agreed.

  “And yet they didn’t attempt to lie or to provide the other with an alibi,” Mirabella considered.

  “That is certainly noteworthy. And yet . . . ” Sherlock’s instrument paused in mid-air. “Perhaps it is one’s attempt to implicate the other.”

  “You never imagine anyone to be ethical or to have a pure motive,” Mirabella objected.

  “True.” Sherlock returned to his work.

  “There is a murderer on the loose. We must do something.” Mirabella protested their calm acceptance of the situation.

  “There are many murderers in London,” Sherlock examined the eyelids of the corpse.

  This is cold-hearted, even for Sherlock Holmes.

  He must have felt her disapproval, because he looked up momentarily, answering her thoughts as he was wont to do. “I have never cared so much about a case in my life.”

  His unexpected answer surprised her. “Why is that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Elementary. An unsuccessful resolution would destroy my career before it gets off the ground. My life’s work. My life. And, of greater significance, because it impacts my brother. His life.”

  “I see, Holmes. It’s personal.” John nodded without taking his eyes off the body.

  “Exactly what a case should never be.”

  Mirabella could see the truth in this. Sherlock was a young detective with few cases under his belt. He was extremely gifted, but no one at the Yard liked working with him—probably for that very reason. Sherlock had, let us say, difficulty in social situations. If Mycroft were eliminated, there would be no reason for anyone to put up with the foreign secretary’s younger brother.

  “Caring about something does not insure failure.” Mirabella lit several oil lamps that they might see better. “Do listen to yourself.”

  “I’m sure I never do anything else.”

  Mirabella placed the handkerchief over her mouth. “Honestly, Mr. Holmes. Your fear of emotional attachment is more likely to impede the resolution of the case.”

  Sherlock picked up the scissors. “I assure you that I fear nothing, my dear girl.”

  “Except the absence of work,” she added softly. And the entanglement of the heart.

  Dr. Watson chuckled. “Indeed, the absence of danger is far worse to you than the things most men fear, Holmes.”

  “To be sure.”

  Sherlock would rather be dead than to be bored.

  “As long as the violence is directed at me alone,” Sherlock added gravely.

  “The clock is ticking.” Mirabella shook her head, drying her hands. “Shouldn’t we be searching instead of performing scientific experiments here?” In this strange, dark, dingy room in Whitechapel.

  “Holmes is correct. It isn’t our job to hunt down the murderer, merely to point the police in the right direction. Holmes is a detective, not an officer of the law.”

  “It rarely seems to work out that way,” Sherlock said. He was new to detective work and still negotiating his relationship to the Yard, as evidenced by Sherlock’s frustration with the case. He was not in a position where he could call the shots, though everyone might benefit from it if he were.

  Sherlock handed Dr. Watson the razor who began cutting into the body. The young doctor was relatively new to his partnership with Sherlock as well, still learning the particulars of their alliance. John Watson had quickly concluded that his friend had a different perspective on, well, almost everything.

  Sherlock’s eyes followed Dr. Watson’s razor. “Wiggins is on the case. Unfortunately, we cannot rush the resolution, though we might wish it. I am, even now, collecting data.”

  Mirabella moved the lantern higher above the body so all might see better. “Why are we here, Mr. Holmes? And where is this place?”

  “I should think it would be evident why we are here, Miss Belle. I have rented this room in Whitechapel because you insisted I remove the cadaver from my rooms on Baker Street.”

  “Actually that was my Aunt Martha who insisted on the removal.”

  “Because you informed Mrs. Hudson the body was in my flat.”

  “No, the smell informed her. I had no need to say a word.”

  “Correct, there is never that need. And yet, you do, Miss Hudson.”

  “Holmes, I informed her myself,” Dr. Watson looked up momentarily from his cutting.

  “Oh, did you? And why is that, my friend?”

  “Why do you think, Holmes? Because I found the living conditions unacceptable.”

  “I didn’t know. I wish you might have said, Watson.”

  “I did.”

  Mirabella shivered while making every attempt to keep the lantern still. “Oh, this place is dreadful.”

  Right after torture and threats to her life, dissection and dealing with corpses was her least favorite part of the job. Although she believed in the afterlife, she could never get past the knowledge that someone had inhabited this body in the not too distant past.

  I must remind myself that everything we do is to enact justice.

  “There aren’t many respectable places that allow one to rent a room for the purposes of dissection. Be thankful we have this opportunity and are able to arise out of the dark ages. There is nothing without knowledge.”

  “Yes, sir. You are right, of course.” She glanced about to see the various tables, one with another body on it. “How many bodies do we need?”

  “That is yet to be seen. If you would do the honors, Miss Hudson?”

  Mirabella took the hand pump and began infusing the newly acquired body with alcohol, for the purposes of preservation, as Sherlock watched, coaching her.

  “I’ve got it!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly. Mirabella stopped abruptly to look at her employer, observing the light of revelation in his eyes. Mirabella sometimes thought Sherlock’s enthusiasm upon discovery could illuminate all of London. She wondered that they needed the lamps any longer.

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  Sherlock took the device from her hands, studying it. “There was some type of hand pump utilized to drain the blood from Lord Percy’s body. It’s the only explanation which fits the facts.”

  “But why?” Mirabella asked.

  “For the time being, let us address ‘how’.”

  “Very well, what about the fangs in the neck?” She shuddered.

  “That was a separate incident and had nothing to do with the draining of the blood,” Sherlock said. “Recall the round prick inside the bite marks looking as if a dart had penetrated the skin. It might have been initiated by a needle and tube.”

  “I see. That was the venue through which the poison was administered,” Dr. Watson considered. “And also through which the blood was drained. Ingenious.”


  “Indeed.” Sherlock moved about the dark and dank room to the other body, even as Mirabella followed him with the lighting.

  “Come here, Watson. What do you see?”

  Dr. Watson set the razor down, calmly attempting the monumental task of transitioning his attention to match Sherlock’s. John was remarkably patient, even as Sherlock’s mind flitted from one thing to another.

  John examined the neck of the second body. “Rope marks. It appears to be a hanging.”

  “Would you call it a suicide, Watson?”

  “On the surface, yes. But since we are here, I have to suppose . . . Hmm . . .” Dr. Watson shook his head. “There are bruising marks—signs of a struggle, though very slight.”

  “I noted that. But could these marks have been inflicted after the death?”

  “There are no marks or gashes on the head, only the slight bruising. Not the typical abuse to the body one would see in a murder.”

  “Perhaps the victim was poisoned first, as in the case of Lord Percy?”

  “We would need to see the autopsy file, naturally.”

  “Ah, but the autopsy can lie.”

  Dr. Watson examined the corpse’s fingernails. “Blood and skin underneath the nails, definitely a struggle. No, I would not deem this to be a suicide.”

  “There’s something else, Watson. Look at the neck.”

  Dr. Watson let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned.”

  Mirabella attempted to peer over their shoulders without blocking the light. “There’s another one of those small dart marks within the rope marks.”

  “Precisely,” Sherlock exclaimed.

  “It would certainly be easy to miss. Whose body is this?” Mirabella’s suspicions were growing. Please, dear God, don’t let me be a part of an unholy endeavor.

  “Overton Bristow.”

  Mirabella’s hopes were dashed as she almost dropped the lantern. “Oh my goodness. It wasn’t a suicide.”

  “Precisely.”

  “We shouldn’t be here.” She gasped.

  “It was your idea to investigate his death, you know.”

  “But I never meant that we should exhume his body . . .”

  “Don’t be absurd. We’ll put it back.”

  “How long has he been dead?” Mirabella took a step back.

  “Something over a month. As you can see the body has been embalmed,” Dr. Watson said.

  “Does the family know we have the body?”

  “Certainly not. They never would have agreed,” Sherlock said.

  “This is very wrong.” Mirabella felt her hands shaking. She hoped she didn’t set the room on fire.

  “Not at all. What is wrong is the murdering of innocent people,” Sherlock stated.

  “That is wrong also,” Mirabella murmured.

  “We shall find Bristow’s murderer, and when we do, the family shall be grateful,” Sherlock said.

  “That is yet to be seen.” Dr. Watson displayed a disturbing lack of confidence.

  “At any rate, it is no concern of mine.”

  “It will be your concern if they put you in jail, Holmes.”

  “My objective is solving the case and protecting the innocent.” Sherlock shrugged. “Besides, I would have you to keep me company, Watson.”

  “It does seem we have made a great deal of progress.” Mirabella attempted to reconcile the benefits of their actions with her immanent descent into Hell.

  “Without question, Miss Belle.”

  Mirabella added solemnly, “In addition to defaming the dead and disregarding the wishes of the grieving family.”

  “All progress has its cost.” Sherlock’s silver-grey eyes almost shone in the dark like moonlight.

  “Now that we know both of these men involved in a love affair were murdered, it was unquestionably someone associated with Lord Percy and Overton Bristow who is behind these murders,” Dr. Watson said.

  “Percy, Overton, the Diogenes—and both friends of Mycroft’s. All the connections strike me as strange,” Sherlock considered. “Could it be a government conspiracy of some type? Mycroft is a powerful player.”

  “It is possible, but I’ll be damned if I can come up with a motive.” John Watson sighed heavily.

  “And then there is the existence of Mrs. Kitchens. She holds the key to solving the puzzle. If it were an act of passion between two people, why do we have all these loose ends leading elsewhere?” Sherlock had a gleam in his eye which said he knew something he wasn’t saying and which never failed to alarm her.

  “Unless . . .” Mirabella considered. “Percival murdered Overton.”

  “It’s unlikely that Percival would be murdered with the same method he used to kill Overton.”

  “The tincture in the neck,” Dr. Watson murmured.

  “Correct. And there is no motive. I don’t buy the ‘our love affair is wrong’ angle. That would be someone else’s opinion, not Percy’s,” Sherlock said. “There’s another consideration.”

  “Oh, and what is that, Holmes?”

  “If this were truly only about Percy and Overton, the murderer would be finished, his revenge complete. And yet . . .”

  Mirabella clenched her fists. “He isn’t finished, is he?”

  “No.”

  Sherlock shook his head. “Once one has a taste for murder, it gets worse. The relief the criminal expected never occurs—and yet he chooses to seek out the same remedy that didn’t work the first time.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Madame’s Apothecary

  “After the first glass of absinthe you see things as you wish they were. After the second you see them as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world.” – Oscar Wilde

  “How strange. There is none here,” John Watson muttered, searching inside his doctor’s bag.

  “What are you looking for, Watson?”

  “Laudanum. I have a patient who requires some for her nerves.”

  “I might have taken it,” Sherlock said. “Laudanum is a helpful sleep aid.”

  “Dammit, Holmes! I only have on average twelve patients per week. Are you determined that I should lose them as well?” John knew that he owed Sherlock Holmes everything good in his life—as well as most of his aggravation.

  “Ideally. That allows you more time for the essential work.”

  “Your cases, do you mean?”

  “Precisely, Watson. You see? Your powers of deduction are already improving.”

  John slammed his bag shut. “It will be some comfort to me in my old age when I end my days alone and in poverty after you have been murdered by one of your many enemies.”

  “Do you truly expect to reach old age, Watson?” Holmes studied him with interest, never one to feign positivity.

  “You’re right. I can’t possibly hope to stay alive if I continue keeping your company.” To be sure, it was dangerous to be an associate of Sherlock Holmes, but that danger had taken John’s mind off the memories which had been destroying him.

  Better a quick death than a torturous existence.

  Sherlock Holmes brought me back to life and gave me a reason to live. John Watson knew that he was damaged goods. Between the nightmares, his limp, his low productivity, and his lack of ambition, he was half a man both mentally and physically when he came to Baker Street.

  And I still am. Sometimes he feared he had lost his mind. Holmes had taught him—by example, no less—that one might be unhinged and a bloody disaster but still enjoy the heck out of life, living it to the fullest. Holmes had illustrated the co-existence of bliss and despair, advancement and destructiveness, service and encumbrance, genius and insanity.

  His flat mate had no boundaries and less discipline.

  “I have impressed upon you, Holmes, the necessity of giving up cocaine. Your body will always crave it, but the more you indulge, the worse it will be for you until you are a complete slave to the drug, with no control over your own e
xistence.”

  “And I have given it up. I barely touch the stuff.”

  “So what are you taking? Laudanum. What do you think it’s made of? Opium.”

  “At any rate, I can’t agree with your assessment of my enemies, Watson. I can count my rivals on one hand.” Sherlock appeared to consider John’s words. “And I don’t intend for any of them to get the better of me. Murdered by my enemies, why should you say so?”

  “Or by your friends, as the case may be.” The good doctor stared intently at his twenty-eight year-old flat-mate, extraordinary in so many ways and yet incorrigible in as many more. “And stop changing the subject, Holmes.”

  “And as for poverty, I think not,” Sherlock added, in general continuing the conversation in a one-sided fashion, as he was inclined to do. “I have invested your money well.”

  “And for that I thank you. Which has nothing to do with your drug habit, Holmes,” John said stiffly. It was true. Certainly their weaknesses lay in entirely different areas. Holmes cared little for money and less for women or dalliance. He had a tender spot for Miss Mirabella, though the nature of that was difficult to discern. John had his suspicions.

  As for money, it was ironic that Holmes always had plenty of blunt as well as an instinct for how to make it and how to invest it.

  “And it may not be as bleak a picture as you paint,” Holmes said consolingly. “Perhaps you will die with me in a victorious fight to the death over London’s criminal element.”

  “Precisely the end I had hoped for, having survived Afghanistan.”

  Sherlock smiled in agreement. “An honorable end to a thrilling and meaningful life filled with excitement few can imagine.”

  “If we might put aside these rapturous imaginings for a moment.” Dr. Watson raised one eyebrow at him disapprovingly. “You are not to remove anything else from my bag again, Holmes. Not only is it outside the bounds of friendship, but it is against the law. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sherlock appeared surprised and somewhat affronted as his hands moved to straighten his cravat. “Certainly, if you wish, my dear fellow.”