Mycroft was—in a word—exquisite. He was always superbly groomed and dressed to dazzle. He had Sherlock’s steel-grey eyes and piercing stare, hawk-like nose, and strong cheekbones. Whereas Sherlock’s hair waved, Mycroft’s was straight. His forehead was generally graced with a stray lock of dark hair. Somehow when you put it all together, it was a recipe for perfection.
“Because the vampire killed someone who was a member of your club.” Possibly two. She felt a surge of anxiety. “Maybe there is a connection.”
His mood grew suddenly somber, and yet he did not appear to be discouraged. “My dear girl, you’re sounding like Constable Jones now. It is much safer to be amongst crowds than to be alone, to be sure. Believe me, I wouldn’t meet privately with anyone I didn’t know.”
“What if the vampire is someone you know?” she asked softly.
“The attack wasn’t against me personally,” Mycroft countered, though his tone was unconvincing.
“That’s a matter of opinion. I expect it was exceedingly personal,” Sherlock muttered from his seat next to the fire. His resonating baritone voice made it almost impossible to miss anything he said.
Unfortunately. Sherlock has been particularly vexatious today, as he generally is until the case is resolved.
After which he is worse.
“And what will you be seeing at the opera, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked, her eyes still on Mycroft.
He looked down at her through long dark eyelashes.
“The Elixir of Love,” he said in that warm, open manner which was a bit disconcerting.
Oh my.
I am not man crazy, truly I am not. But neither am I blind. She knew very well there was not a woman in the world whose head would not be turned by Mycroft Holmes. Tall, handsome, sophisticated, kind.
Mirabella was also quite aware the debonair Mycroft Holmes meant to take no particular notice of her. It was mere amiability. Mycroft was congenial to everyone.
But no individual treated her with as much reverent politeness as did Mycroft Holmes. For a servant girl to be treated with chivalry and regard by a gentleman who associated with the Queen of England and the prime minister would make any girl’s heart go a flutter. His charm was definitely not lost on her.
And she was nineteen years of age with no beaus in sight. It is only natural for a girl to grasp at straws when she is doomed to the life of a spinster.
There were worse fates—she would be a spinster scientist—but she was not without a young girl’s dreams of romantic love, after all. She was not blind of without a pulse.
“An elixir?” She found she was somewhat breathless. “An elixir is medicine. How would anyone write an entire opera around that?”
“An elixir of love is a love potion, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson interjected, winking and smiling at her in his endearing way.
She looked at John for reassurance. He was the best of friends, someone she could count on to take up for her.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” She blushed. No need for a love potion here.
Though perhaps a glass of ice water to the face is in order. She hated herself for not being more professional. She was such an ambitious and work-oriented person. Some handsome fellows show up and she was acting like a ninny-hammer.
“Miss Belle,” Sherlock began, “I’m merely curious. Are you going to stand about gaping or do you have any intention of attending to your duties?”
“Holmes!” Dr. Watson protested. “Miss Mirabella works hard and does an excellent job around here. She deserves to be treated with some degree of courtesy and regard.”
“And I deserve to see my paid employee working,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
She glanced at her employer. Her eyes then moved to the knife in the wall holding his letters.
I wouldn’t hurt him, honestly I wouldn’t.
I merely wish to scare him into civility.
Why bother? There isn’t enough fright in the world to that purpose.
How she wished Sherlock might treat her as his brother did. As if he noticed all that she did, as if he appreciated it. Naturally her efforts were not merely for Sherlock—she liked her work and she wished to excel at whatever she did—but for some unknown reason she wished he might take notice of her.
Mirabella turned and headed towards the brandy decanter. “Yes, my liege,” she murmured.
Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up but he said nothing. At least that was something: six months ago she would have been showered with a tirade of reprimand.
She looked into his eyes and held his gaze, inviting him to pick up the torch. She, too, knew how to use the English language to her advantage, though she was confident he understood her meaning without the use of words.
For a moment, she thought he might. He shared his brother’s grey eyes but Sherlock’s were darker, like a thunderstorm. He was more muscular, less soft. His raven black curls were brushed away from his unshaven face. He looked particularly wild this evening, in contrast to Mycroft’s pristine appearance.
“I believe you are jealous of the attention your older brother is receiving, Holmes,” Dr. Watson suggested.
“What an absurd notion,” Sherlock said.
There, he said it for her. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes is simply happiest when he is cross.” He could never feel that way about her.
“I assure you, Miss Hudson, that I am not happy now.” He stared pointedly at her.
“That is no reason to insure no one is.”
Mirabella wrinkled her brows as she handed Mycroft a brandy, thereafter moving towards the kitchen.
“Miss Hudson?” Mycroft called to her.
Oh my goodness, it is simply delightful being whipped about like the dirty laundry. How strange that there was always a reproachful word for her—and yet no one could get along without her.
On the other hand, Mycroft Holmes was saving her from an unpleasant exchange, whether he knew it or not.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” she curtseyed with feigned deference as she took care to keep her attention directed at the older Holmes brother. She was perfectly delighted to snub Sherlock after his earlier set down of her.
“Do you have anything to nibble on? Something light?” Mycroft continued.
“We do have some lovely grapes and apples,” she replied, finding her voice. Sprinkled with love potion, of course. “I was to serve them with our dinner—”
“Perfect,” proclaimed Mycroft, smiling. She began to move towards the small galley kitchen off the parlor when she heard his voice again. “I’m thinking . . . do you have any cakes to go with that? Nothing substantial. Merely to complement the fruit, to be sure.”
“There is an assortment of lemon teacakes in the larder which I was going to save for our lunch tomorrow—”
“Oh, that would be divine.” She resumed her course for the kitchen.
“Miss Hudson?” Mycroft called.
“Yes?” She peeked her head around the galley door.
“Do you happen to have any cheese? Just a slice or two. You know one can’t go far on fruit alone.”
“Naturally, a cheddar from Somerset.” She smiled at him, unable to be annoyed. Mycroft might be tiresome, but he was always kind. “Is there anything else, Mr. Holmes?”
“What more could I possibly need?” he asked.
“You don’t need any of it,” Sherlock muttered. “What you need is a good row down the Thames.”
“Unless you have some sausage,” considered Mycroft.
“Miss Hudson, lay out the dinner as usual, and my esteemed brother can take what he will of our repast. Don’t go to any special trouble on Mycroft’s account.”
“By all means. I wouldn’t dream of being any trouble. I’m only in search of a small snack, Shirley, and I shall be good as new,” replied Mycroft so reasonably it was difficult to argue. “At any rate, I can’t stay for dinner. I’ll be dining with friends after the opera.”
Honestly Sherlock’s brother was so cordial, she would gladly pull a
cart from one end of London to the other for him, while she found it difficult at times to cross the room at Sherlock’s command.
“Pay attention, Mycroft,” Sherlock commanded, as if he were the elder brother. “I have some news for you.”
“Oh?”
“Overton Bristow was murdered.”
Mirabella peered around the corner to see Mycroft suddenly as white as a sheet.
“How do you know?” Mycroft managed to utter.
“Never mind how I know. It is better for you if you don’t know. Suffice it to say the body indicated foul play.”
“So you’ve been to the graveyard.” Mycroft nodded in contemplation. “I wonder how it wasn’t caught initially.”
“Very likely the coroner’s obsession with the idea that the deceased was of immoral character caused him to overlook a few things, at the very least diminishing the effort others exerted to find the killer. Some feel death to men of that orientation is well deserved. Suicide may have made perfect sense to the coroner.”
“That is one explanation,” Mycroft considered. “As is incompetence.”
“Is it possible Percy was Overton’s murderer?” Sherlock asked pointedly. Mirabella had no difficulty hearing the conversation as she worked in the kitchen a short distance from the conversation. It was a small flat.
“Oh, no. They got along splendidly. That’s why it was such a great shock when Overton hung himself.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Or so it was assumed.”
“So you see,” Sherlock said, “There is cause for concern for your safety.”
“I’m still perplexed as to what it has to do with Mycroft,” Dr. Watson questioned. “Other than the fact that both were members of his club.”
“Who knows what connections a demented killer makes in his own mind,” Sherlock said. It was such a general statement that Mirabella knew he was hiding something: Sherlock never spoke in generalities. His was the most detailed mind she knew, and his conversation was specific.
To hide something from Watson was even stranger. Sherlock might be reserved with her, but never with John Watson. Even though their friendship was of a short duration, in some ways they were closer than Mycroft and Sherlock.
The fire now creating some warmth, not many minutes later Mirabella returned to the sitting room with hot tea, grapes, sliced apples, cheddar, salami and tomato sandwiches, potato salad, sliced bread, spicy mustard, and lemon teacakes, which she laid out on the table in front of the settee. It was roughly enough food to feed the British army—and all Her enemies. Thankfully the news of Overton’s murder had not diminished Mycroft’s appetite.
“Very good, Miss Belle.” Sherlock motioned to the dining table next to the parlor furniture. “Please make a plate for yourself and sit at the kitchen table.”
What does Sherlock mean by this? The invitation was quite a compliment to a female servant. Sherlock ran hot and cold; it was no wonder she never had any idea what he was about. One moment insults, the next honors. Sherlock Holmes was the most unpredictable man alive. But he certainly had his moments of generosity.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock was bestowing a great privilege in allowing her to eat in the vicinity of the gentlemen. If the truth be known, there was probably not another home in London where the female help was allowed to have meals with her employer.
Of course, as well as being the scullery maid and laboratory assistant, she was Sherlock’s female operative on the rare occasion when he allowed her to be part of the team.
He’s going to allow me to go undercover. This has to be it!
She attempted to hide her excitement. When she was on assignment, Mirabella chided herself that she must be as crazy as a loon to have allowed Sherlock to talk her into it. When she wasn’t, she wished she were on the case.
I’m becoming as crazy as he is. Maybe I do have bats in the belfry. As does Sherlock Holmes. She was sometimes surprised at how much they had in common. A love of science, a desire to solve the puzzle, and now, insanity.
Mirabella moved to procure a plate for herself and to sit at the table. Her usual manner of obtaining information was to eaves drop—which was sufficiently effective—but this was certainly more comfortable.
“How delightful this is.” Mycroft’s mood had mellowed considerably since his arrival. “Wouldn’t another brandy be perfect with this marvelous repast, Shirley?”
“Mycroft, let us get to the point.” Sherlock sighed heavily. “Watson and I don’t have all day to sit about eating. Frankly, I’m astonished you can eat anything after these murders. Miss Belle is past her appointed time of dismissal and is most assuredly tired from her day as well. Never mind the news I gave you; I have no doubt there is work to do or you wouldn’t be here. What is the purpose of your visit?”
“It is very distressing.” Mycroft popped a grape in his mouth. “But one has to eat.”
“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” Sherlock protested. “You might have been killed. It might have been you.”
“Why do you think I am always in society, Shirley? This is a time to surround oneself with as many people as possible.”
“Take care it’s the right sort of people.”
“You’re one to talk, Shirley, always hanging about with criminals, convicts, and prostitutes.”
“They tend to know what is going on, unlike the Yard.”
There was a sudden knock on the door. Mirabella rose from her dinner to answer the door.
“Hello, Police Constable.”
“And he doth appear,” Sherlock murmured under his breath.
Athelney rushed passed Mirabella without acknowledging her, almost knocking her over.
“There’s been another murder,” he announced, standing in the middle of the room. Constable Jones looked like a man who was finally willing to accept some assistance. Mirabella handed him a brandy, which he downed in one gulp.
“What I mean to say is there has been another murder associated with Lord Percival—but completely different.”
“Another murder?” The color in Mycroft’s face drained instantly. “You don’t mean Mr. Denzil?”
“The cook,” Watson muttered.
“That’s it.” Athelney’s tone was both affronted and suspicious. “How did you know?”
“Do you mean to say that you didn’t have a man trailing Denzil, Constable?” Sherlock demanded. “The only person who can identify your poisoner?”
“I didn’t believe there was a poisoner. There wasn’t any poison, after all.”
“In theory Longstaff should be able to make a positive identification as well,” Mycroft considered. “But I don’t think he could identify his left foot from his right.”
“Speaking of which, isn’t it interesting Longstaff was not killed—and Denzil was,” Dr. Watson said.
“Most interesting, Watson.” Sherlock stared pointedly at Athelney. “But he may be next with Constable Jones in charge of our suspects.”
“Blasted amateurs. We’ve got no proof Mrs. Kitchens had anything to do with the murder. It was only one of your strange theories,” Athelney huffed.
“A theory which appears to have been confirmed with Denzil’s murder,” Mycroft said.
“I must say that I overestimated your abilities, Jones,” Sherlock said.
“I didn’t think that was possible,” Mycroft murmured.
“How did Denzil die?” Sherlock asked. “I presume the blood was not drained in this instance?”
“How did you know, ’Olmes?” Athelney looked at him in a startled fashion, his eyes wide.
“You said it yourself, that the murder wasn’t the same,” Sherlock said.
“And Denzil wasn’t the same type of client. I don’t believe our murderer has any use for the blood,” Mycroft muttered.
“Even so, this is very bad,” Watson said. “This means the cook knew something. And that knowledge died with him.”
“Precisely.” Sherlock began to pace the room. “There will be one murder after another until we catch
the killer. And now we’ve lost one of our two eye witnesses.”
Constable Jones cleared his throat. “There’s something else.”
Sherlock turned on his heel to face Jones. “Longstaff is gone?”
“The saints preserve us, yes.”
“You didn’t have him in custody?”
“We did. But now we don’t and Constable Cockburn has a lump on his head.”
“An escape, eh? So you’re out a cook, a scullery maid, and a butler,” Dr. Watson considered.
“And a vampire,” Mirabella said.
“It seems you’ve lost both eye witnesses and have no suspects,” Sherlock said.
“I thank ye for pointing that out, Mr. ’Olmes,” Athelney grumbled. He added somewhat sheepishly, “I do have a favor to ask of Dr. Watson.”
“Of course.” Dr. Watson was ever courteous. “However may I help?”
“It’s just that our man is out sick—and Cockburn is laid up. Might you come and examine the body? Knowing your interest in the case and all.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Killing Spree
“London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.” – Sherlock Holmes, “A Study in Scarlet” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Twilight. Mirabella walked towards Baker Street with her packages. It was becoming dark and she should have set out earlier. The gas street lights had not yet been lit, so illumination was at its worst point of the day: a fading sun without the benefit of gas lights. There was no Bobby in sight.
How could any street in London be so empty? It almost felt as if someone had been paid to disappear. What an absurd notion.
Granted there was an old man with a coal cart heading home. A fancy carriage heading north. A lady of the night who looked as if she were contemplating leaving for a location with more potential customers; that might have been an abandoned mine at this point. And a few children searching for a warm spot in the alley.
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