“Yes, quite fashionable to slash the faces of women.”
“What was the color of his skin?”
“White. I mean, Caucasian. He was a bit tanned.”
“Do you have a color for the eyes?”
She shook her head. “His hat covered them.”
“Did you notice his shoes?”
“I’m sorry, no. I was more focused on the eight-inch blade in his hand.”
He raised his eyebrows again, momentarily looking away. He seemed to be having some difficulty maintaining his composure, unusual for Sherlock. “Ah, and what type of knife was it?”
“I almost forgot. I have it!” She jumped out of the chair and ran to her packages. Gingerly she removed the knife, shuddering as she did so. In spite of her disturbance, she quickly dusted the knife and took a fingerprint. “Aha,” she exclaimed. “I have one.”
Feeling some pride in her achievement, she momentarily forgot her fear.
“Clearly the fiend expected to be successful in murdering you,” Sherlock said gravely. “He took no precautions.” He cleared his throat. “Excellent work in retrieving the knife, Miss Belle. Bring it here please.”
She gingerly placed the knife in a handkerchief, handing it to Sherlock.
He studied the knife. "I am immensely gratified you were not injured, Miss Belle.”
“As am I.”
“Take a moment to consider this weapon. What do you see?"
"It. . . has a blade approximately eight inches in length," Mirabella said.
“I believe you’ll find it is exactly eight,” he corrected.
“Which is approximately eight.”
He frowned. “I do not deal in approximations, Miss Belle.”
Even if they are precisely correct. “Naturally you would not, Mr. Holmes. It would be a criminal offense. I stand corrected. The blade is eight inches.” The idea made her heart stop. She swallowed hard. Somehow her usual banter with Sherlock helped keep the terror at bay.
He studied her intently but for some reason did not correct her insubordination. After a long pause he added softly, “And what else?”
"The knife has an edge on each side as well as a highly ornamented hilt."
“I am not interested in generalities but in specifics,” he said tersely. “Your life may depend upon it, Miss Hudson.”
Looking more closely, she observed, “The handle is a smooth material, possibly dyed and polished ivory. The hilt appears to be filigreed with . . . are those birds?”
His voice was even lower than his usual baritone timbre. “Bats.”
“And on the pommel, a shield with a cross.” She paused, a bit taken aback. “Bats and a Christian cross. What a strange combination.”
“Not so strange.” Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the knife.
“Disturbingly so.” Her curiosity piqued. For the first time since her return, she was grateful for his perceptiveness.
When he spoke again his voice was dark and dangerous. “Religion is among the most common reasons for murder. Do not let your beliefs blind you to this fact. And your attacker’s voice? What can you tell me about it, Miss Belle?”
“Baritone.” She had learned this much in Sherlock’s employ: to identify and classify.
“The same pitch as mine?”
“A little lower, definitely raspier, with an underlying sharpness.”
“Good. If you only pay attention, there is much which can be discerned.” From his chair, he glanced out the window onto Baker Street, as he often did when deep in reflection. “The overwhelming question is why were you attacked? I fail to comprehend the motive. There is no reason for someone to wish you injury. I have been wracking my brain attempting to answer this question and nothing presents itself.”
She swallowed hard.
He reeled around to face her. “What have you done, Miss Hudson?”
“Why do you assume I have any part in this?” she asked sheepishly.
“You have obviously done something to get on the wrong side of someone. Unless I miss my guess, it has to do with this investigation. This macabre emblem on the knife is proof of that.”
“Oh?” The implications were alarming.
“The design is likely part of an effort to present a supernatural element to the crime.” His jaw was set in a hard line, his grey eyes dark and foreboding. “It would seem that you have done some private investigating on your own, Miss Hudson.”
She leaned deeper into her chair. “I was only trying to help, Mr. Holmes. I had seen you do it so many times . . .”
“I repeat, Miss Hudson, what have you done?” His expression was a strange mix of relief and reprimand.
“I questioned Mr. Fairclough, and I must have hit a nerve.”
“The pharmacist. When you went to the apothecary to get the laudanum.” He seated himself in his chair.
“Yes. There was a new woman at The Madame’s Apothecary: a Miss Evie. She had dark hair and dark eyes. I wondered if she could be Mrs. Kitchens.”
“Wondering would not get you murdered. Surely you didn’t . . . He slammed his fist into his other hand. “You voiced your thoughts? Of course you did, you always do. Miss Hudson, you absolutely must learn to control your tongue.”
“I referred to her as ‘Evie Kitchens’ in order that I might watch Mr. Fairclough’s reaction.”
“Am I to understand that you goaded a possible murderer without first apprising me, Miss Hudson?” She rarely saw Sherlock display emotion, but she recognized contained fury.
And yet, she would place a wager he was impressed with her baiting Fairclough—at the same time he was clearly incensed.
“Why are you so angry, Mr. Holmes?” Generally his mood improved when the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. No matter how horrible, the solution made Sherlock calmer. Even if he were to discover the end of the world was near, he would feel euphoria to have solved the riddle, despite the news of his ensuing demise.
“Why?” His eyes moved to the knife. “For one thing, you put yourself in danger, Miss Hudson.”
“You put me in danger all the time, Mr. Holmes.”
“Under my excellent supervision,” he retorted.
“Irrelevant.” Mirabella was surprised at how much she was sounding like him. Proof that she had been around Sherlock Holmes too long. “The work is always more essential than my safety.”
His voice grew uncharacteristically soft. “Perhaps it has become a priority to me both to keep you safe and to solve the case.”
“A recent development then.”
“It is only logical. If you are alive you can solve more cases,” he murmured.
“Your tender words are heart-warming, Mr. Holmes. You will make me giddy with sentimentality.”
He rose from his chair and moved towards her, which somehow terrified her. In one fell swoop, he pulled her towards him. She could feel the taut muscles in his arms and even feel his breath upon her forehead. Her heart began to beat more quickly, she didn’t know why.
“Is that what you desire from me, Miss Belle?” he asked softly. “Sentimentality?”
“No . . . no . . .” She gasped. “I don’t know . . .” His dark hair fell into his intense grey eyes, impossible to ignore under his scrutiny. She felt completely out of her element.
He leaned towards her. She was so utterly astonished—this couldn’t be what it seemed, after all. She opened her eyes wide in confusion.
For so long Sherlock had seemed larger than life to her, the most amazing, intelligent man of her acquaintance. She revered him even more than she did her own father, which was saying something. He was more like a magical entity than a human being to her.
It was inconceivable that Sherlock should view her in a romantic manner. Not only because of her reverence for him, but because his personality was almost mechanized. She didn’t think he had those type of feelings for anyone.
I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.
> And yet, being held in his strong arms, her heartbeat quickened and she felt she was in the eye of the tornado.
And she was. Sherlock had enough charisma for all of the Shakespearean stage.
What would it be like? To be loved by Sherlock?
Madness. She would never be able to hold him. She was not his equal.
And he would break her heart.
Was she attracted to him? Of course she was. Everyone was. Even when people were repelled by Sherlock, it was because he had so thoroughly engaged them.
Even as she could not bear the thought of life without him, she could not bear the thought of being loved by him.
“What is it that you wish from me, Belle?” She felt his breath on her lips and wondered, for the first time, what it would feel like if Sherlock did kiss her.
I’ve just been through a terrible shock. I’m imagining things.
“Why do you criticize me when I have had a terrible scare?” Why do I say such foolish things?
He searched her eyes, his stormy grey eyes looking as if he might envelope her. She wished they might.
“Forgive me, Belle.” Slowly he released her, stepping back.
“For reprimanding me? I merely wish you to care if I live or die. I don’t wish to be corrected right now.”
“It seems to me I’m the only one who does care about your life—you certainly aren’t acting as if you care, Miss Belle,” he blasted, returning to his usual form of communication, as if he were attempting to forget he had taken her in his arms.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
“That is what this entire conversation has been about. That and the fact that you are incorrigible, insubordinate, and wholly vexatious.”
“Is this what not reprimanding me looks like?”
“You acted without my consent and that must cease immediately.” He began to pace the room.
Mirabella would have been growing angry normally, but she still felt his breath on her lips and it was surprisingly pleasant.
Too pleasant. She did not wish to long for something that would break her heart in the end.
Something impossible. The last thing she wanted was to risk their friendship. His was the most meaningful relationship in her life.
There. I admit it. He is the world to me. His work. His life. His very being.
What an overwhelming day it was. The last thing she needed was an interchange with Sherlock. “So my almost losing my life is an affront to your authority? Is that your assertion, Mr. Holmes?”
It seemed easier to fall back into old patterns.
“You are entirely in the wrong here, Miss Belle,” he exclaimed, clenching his fists. “Damnit, you could have been killed. You are in my employ. It is my job to discern which situations are safe and which are not, which are warranted and which are not. If you had spoken to me first, I would have scoped out Fairclough myself—and been prepared for him.”
“As I thought, it’s not really about my safety, you’re angry because I compromised the case.”
“I’m angry for precisely the reason I told you I was angry.”
“Which is?”
“Because you jeopardized the case.”
“As I thought. If I had died, you would have no idea why.”
He glanced away momentarily, as if he were having difficulty containing himself. It surprised her.
“Sherlock?”
She had always called him “Mr. Holmes”. It was strange how, over the last few weeks, his name had slipped out of her mouth. Even stranger that he had not corrected her.
He returned to his seat, his eyes intent upon her. “You would have died, Miss Belle. The criminal would have been alerted, subsequently threatening both the success of our investigation and my livelihood while placing the lives of other victims in danger. You’re making as much a mess of this case as Athelney is—and that’s saying something.”
“Mr. Holmes, I realize now that I made a complete mess of things and for that I am sorry.” She bit her lip. “But I’ve barely escaped with my life, if you could kindly go a little easier on me.”
***
“If I believed that you ever learned from your mistakes, I would certainly do so, Miss Hudson. But, in fact, each mistake spurs you on to grander schemes and more pretentious disobedience.”
Sherlock detested losing his temper. It was common. And uncivilized.
And no one can bring me to anger more quickly than Belle. The idea of finding that sweet girl in a pale green dress of satin and white lace with splashes of blood on it, her features mutilated, was horrifying to him.
“I certainly meant to. But then the opportunity presented itself . . . I’ve seen you do this dozens of times . . . I thought I might smoke out our murderer.”
“At that you certainly succeeded.”
“Only we don’t know who I smoked out.”
“Precisely. Only observe where we now stand. All we have done is agitate the villain so that he is now prepared for us and plotting against us.”
She looked as if she might cry. He hoped his words might cause her to reflect. And yet—she looked so young right now. So naïve. Belle was exceedingly youthful, at the same time she was a capable young woman.
A beautiful woman. And I almost kissed her. Now, of all times, when she was looking to me for protection. And she is so young, only nineteen.
It is not unheard of for a man of some ten years older to take a bride of nineteen.
A bride? Heaven forbid. Sherlock had no idea what had come over him. He was astonished himself.
He could not take advantage of Belle when she was in a state of terror. His own fear, his love for her had taken over.
Love? It could not be. . it must not be. I do not wish to have emotions. I have a higher calling. I have work to do. I have a purpose. But, whatever it was he felt it for Belle, a longing, a desire that she should always be in his world.
“You should have consulted with me, Miss Hudson, before initiating a plan. We would have found a way to take Miss Evie in for questioning and identification.”
“If it had been before Athelney lost our only witness.”
“Amateurs, all amateurs,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.
“Miss Hudson, this is important. Did anyone else overhear your conversation with Fairclough?”
“I’m fairly certain that Evie overheard it. Since I wanted her to.”
Sherlock sighed heavily. “Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Surely there must have been someone else in the apothecary?”
“There were at least two other ladies stocking the shelves, but they didn’t appear to be attending.”
“And Fairclough’s daughter. Was she in the store?”
“Florence? She was behind the counter. I thought she had retreated to one of the back rooms. At least I couldn’t see her from where I stood.”
“I believe it is time for you to retire for the evening, Miss Belle. No doubt you are quite exhausted. And yet—I fear our villain may yet try again.”
“Oh, no. You can’t mean it?”
“I do.” Worry overtook him. “If it was merely a warning, he might leave you be. If it was an act of revenge—he will attack again. You must be prepared at all times, Miss Belle. Frankly I lean towards the latter.”
“And there is yet a third motive,” Mirabella murmured.
“Indeed. If our would-be assassin still perceives you as a threat, believing you to know something he doesn’t wish repeated.”
Sherlock frowned. Ever since Watson—and now Belle—had come into his life, things were vastly more complicated.
And his life was richer. His use of cocaine had decreased, that must be an indicator of some improvement in his outlook. If Belle continued to play the musketeer, that trend would be reversed.
She must not.
“On the other hand, the scoundrel must surely think you have already told everyone you intend to by now. As well as knowing that you
are not quite as easy a mark as he had thought.”
“How did you know I had been attacked, Mr. Holmes? I believe my appearance is tolerably normal.”
“Normal? I think not.” Exquisite? Perhaps. She had on a satin gown of a lovely pale green accented with white lace and white flounces down her back, almost like a bustle, accenting her lovely hips and long legs. Not quite to the floor, displaying her ankles, risqué by some standards.
And delightful.
“How did you know?” she repeated.
“Hmm? . . . Oh, yes . . . I smelled the smoking gun when you walked in the door, of course. So you must have fired it.”
“How does it follow that the knife thrower got away?”
“If you had killed your foe, you would have gone to the police, and they would have escorted you home. Hence, I concluded that you had been attacked, you fired your gun, and your pursuer is free.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” She pursed her lips in a sudden understanding.
“In addition, I know your aim to be excellent, Miss Belle, so it does leave me to wonder how you missed.”
“I wonder that myself.”
He closed his eyes momentarily. “It is possibly for the best. You would have had to justify shooting someone to the police, even though the brute was coming at you with a knife. That is the peculiar state of our justice system: you would have been the one on trial.”
He studied her, so delicate and vulnerable—so exceptional in every way. And so naïve.
Complicating my life in all the ways I do not wish to have it complicated. Besides, Fantine was his perfect match: brains, beauty—and without any feeling or attachment. Outside of being his arch enemy’s sister, it had been an ideal arrangement. Excitement and unpredictability without any connection.
Of all things, Sherlock hated attachments. They interfered with his work, compromising the integrity of his decisions and giving his enemies ammunition against him. Fantine had been too close to Moriarty—so he broke it off. It had been surprisingly easy to do.
Another thing he liked about her.
As for Irene Adler, Sherlock had always had the greatest admiration and respect for the actress—his ideal vision of womanhood—but he had never had the slightest romantic connection to her. Irene had led everyone to believe she was a loose woman blackmailing the King of Bavaria for money. She gave the impression of being a schemer and a contortionist. When, in fact, the King was the heel: he had used her and tossed her aside, desiring to keep the affair secret—or better yet, to sweep her under the rug for good. Irene held onto the only card available to her as insurance: the photograph.
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 14
