Irene Adler outsmarted the great Sherlock Holmes, as well as the King of Bavaria and all his paid mercenaries. Every value of devotion, loyalty, and ethics Irene held dear; she had the brains to insure her own survival and that of her husband-to-be, Mr. Norton, while fooling all as to her true nature. Sherlock held Irene Adler in the highest regard. But that was where it ended.
All emotions, and romantic love in particular, were abhorrent to a mind which valued logic and reasoning above all else. Becoming entangled with a woman was like throwing grit into a well-oiled machine. A great distraction and a waste of time besides.
Sherlock glanced at Belle, still shaken, feeling something tug on his heartstrings. Precisely what he did not wish to feel. Belle had all of Irene’s cleverness and drive, and all of Fantine’s spontaneity and unpredictability.
She had something more too: empathy.
But romance? No. Belle was much too precious to complicate matters with that.
It was best if things went on as they had been.
Which would be remarkably easy since Belle felt nothing for him. Her newest infatuation was his brother Mycroft.
Damn it to hell! How have I gotten to this place from such an ordered existence? I will overcome it, I must. What mattered most was keeping Belle safe and having her in his life.
His life. Her life. They could not long be the same. Sherlock knew he should be relieved. When Belle entered university--all she ever talked about was going into university—she would no longer be his problem.
He wanted Belle to be his problem.
He was ashamed to admit it to himself, but Sherlock was not one to run from the truth: he would do almost anything to keep Belle out of university, the thing she wanted most in the world. She would be lost to him then.
There is a case to solve. What the devil does any of this matter?
She glanced at the knife, swallowing hard. “Do you think there is a correlation, Mr. Holmes?”
“Between what?”
“The attack on me and the vampire murder, of course.”
“I do. The bats and the cross indicate a Christian correlation, at least in the mind of the one who commissioned the knife. The bats correspond to our vampire.”
She gasped. “It is sacrilege. There is no such thing as a Christian vampire. You can’t mean it.”
“Indeed I do mean it. At least our murderer does. As many have done before him, perverting the teachings of Christ as a vehicle for his private agenda and darker passions rather than as a vehicle for redemption.”
“Who do you think is behind it, Mr. Holmes?”
“If the attack was instigated by our Mr. Fairclough, this means he has some connection to the murders of Percy and Denzil.” His gaze was intense. “And possibly Bristow.”
She swallowed hard. “But why would the vampire murderer be after me?”
“Because, Miss Belle, you have divined the connection.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It Gets Worse
“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
- Sherlock Holmes,“The Beryl Coronet” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“Was the blood drained from Mr. Denzil’s body, Dr. Watson?” Mirabella asked the next morning.
“No.” Dr. Watson was often brief when eating his breakfast.
“Were there fang marks on the neck?”
“No.”
“So you concluded that it was not the vampire murderer responsible?” She poured him a hot cup of tea.
“Correct.”
“To the contrary, I don’t believe we can rule it out,” Sherlock said.
“But the murder doesn’t fit the pattern.” Mirabella tapped her finger on her cheek in perplexity.
“What pattern, Miss Belle? If you start from the premise that the first murderer was not, in fact, a vampire, and the purpose of draining the blood is yet unknown to us—possibly for showmanship or to enact fear—then any other murder might have been committed by the so-called Vampire Murderer. Without knowing the true motive, it’s difficult to discern the ‘pattern’ as you say. The other issue is that our most recent murder was performed in public with other people about.”
“True.” Dr. Watson smothered raspberry jam on his toast. “The murderer couldn’t very well suck the blood from his victim without identifying himself.”
“Oh my goodness. Poor Mr. Denzil. How was he killed?” Mirabella asked.
“He was found dead at the Nag’s Head. Apparently he had been drinking in the pub with a surly sort who appeared to have dropped arsenic into Denzil’s drink,” Dr. Watson explained.
“The poor man. No one deserves that.”
“I call our murderer a reprehensible coward,” Dr. Watson took his third piece of toast. “One who doesn’t give his opponent a fighting chance and takes no risks himself.”
“Do we have a description of the companion?” Sherlock asked.
“Tall, thin, dark. A middle-aged sailor with rotting teeth and his face well hidden by his hat and scarves.”
“This is a terrible development for the case—one that might have been prevented,” Sherlock frowned. “Most notably by Constable Jones. I was not informed we had to keep an eye on all our key witnesses in addition to doing the actual detective work.”
“And the autopsy report,” John added.
Sherlock pushed his plate away, having only eaten one egg and a half piece of toast. “But I am not untrainable. Never again will I trust the word of others outside my own excellent team. Better to do all the work myself.”
“There is the matter of stepping on others’ toes,” Mirabella considered. “You wouldn’t wish the Yard to ban you from the scene, Mr. Holmes. You’re not exactly persona grata.”
“I don’t exactly give a rat’s ass,” Sherlock said.
“You might not now. But you will if they ban you from the case,” Mirabella suggested.
“Only consider, Miss Belle. While Constable Jones was losing all our witnesses, you were being attacked.” Sherlock felt his jaw clenching.
“Miss Mirabella’s attack does point to Fairclough, doesn’t it?” Dr. Watson said.
“But he’s such a kindly man.” She shook her head. “Strangely sniveling and arrogant at the same time, but with so many good works. He does so much for so many.”
“People are more complex than you would like to believe, Miss Belle. They are not always black and white.” Sherlock’s eyes were intent upon her. “Even the most reprehensible of persons are dear to someone.”
“Particularly where there are wounds of the heart,” she agreed, holding Sherlock’s pale grey eyes for some time before he looked away. The entire interlude appeared to make him uncomfortable.
***
Or perhaps it is me who is uncomfortable. She couldn’t stop thinking about his holding her so close, his strength evident—and appealing. It felt strangely . . . right. Of course, everything was topsy-turvy now, she didn’t know how to think about anything. Having her life threatened tended to shake one up a bit.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mr. Fairclough was to be Overton Bristow’s father-in-law. Overton worked for him—and courted his daughter.”
“The same Overton who had an affair with Lord Percival,” Mirabella considered.
“The same.”
“Overton was probably delivering a medicine of some sort from the pharmacy when he met Percival,” Dr. Watson suggested. “They didn’t travel in the same social circles.”
“Florence—Mr. Fairclough’s daughter—was engaged to Overton,” Mirabella added.
Sherlock began placing tobacco in his pipe. “It is a shame you didn’t confirm who sent your attacker, Miss Hudson.”
“I invited him to tea, but he declined, being otherwise engaged.” she demurred. Attempting to kill me.
“That brings up another point, Miss Belle.” Sherlock grew even more deadly serious if that were possible. “You had y
our gun on your assailant. How were you unable to persuade him to tell you anything?”
“He wasn’t afraid of me, I don’t think.”
“You had a pistol aimed at his heart, and he wasn’t afraid of you? Explain that to me, Miss Hudson.” A darkness crossed his expression.
“He didn’t suppose I would actually kill him. He said as much.” She poured a cup of tea for herself, adding a large dollop of cream. “I think he was actually surprised that I fired the gun at all.”
“Really, Holmes, be fair,” Dr. Watson interrupted. “Give the girl some credit. She managed to pull her gun on the beast and save herself, as well as wound a hardened criminal. I hate to say it, but some months ago, she might have ended up dead or wounded in the same situation.”
She shivered. Being alive had to represent some improvement.
“This is precisely what worries me, Watson.” Sherlock’s grey eyes turned cloudy as he returned his gaze to her. We have to work on your powers of intimidation, Miss Hudson. You must appear more fierce, more forceful.”
She thought Sherlock had a point, but she wasn’t about to say so. “And how do you propose I do that, Mr. Holmes?”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s in the eyes. The voice. And the sudden movements.” His dark countenance turned softer, if no less serious. “It’s in your intent.”
“I’m so afraid of becoming a murderer.”
“Your attacker knew that. With that fear, you allowed a killer to go free.” His gaze refused to soften as he maintained his hard stare. “Strengthen your resolve, Miss Hudson. Your ability to frighten someone might save a person’s life.” He added somberly, “And that person may be you.”
“I have to agree, Miss Mirabella.” Dr. Watson wiped his mouth with his napkin after only four eggs, a large slice of ham, three pieces of bacon, and three pieces of toast. His breakfast left the room filled with a lovely sweet raspberry scent. “I would say, until the forcefulness is in your heart, Miss Mirabella, you must pretend that it is in your possession—at least in front of your attacker.”
“Do you mean acting?”
“Precisely. Raise your voice, harden your words, make your movement deliberate. Try to make your attacker believe that you intend to kill him,” Dr. Watson said.
“And be ready to kill him.” Sherlock added, taking a puff on his pipe just lit.
“Do you now have a watch on the Madame’s Apothecary, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked.
“I do,” Sherlock said.
“And yet you have never seen the vampire—or had any reports?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No.”
“Have you questioned Evie?” Mirabella asked.
“Naturally. She adamantly denies being our Mrs. Kitchens.” He took a puff on his pipe.
“What do you believe, Mr. Holmes?”
“She’s lying.”
And yet, in spite of all we know, we have made no progress in catching the killer. Mirabella knew that Sherlock nursed the same frustration. I must do something about that.
Mirabella might be fearful in the face of self-preservation, but she had no fear when it came to saving others.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the Devil’s Lair
“It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you.”
- Sherlock Holmes,“The Final Problem” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Mirabella took a deep breath, running her fingers along the gold engraved sign on the large walnut door: “Professor James Moriarty, Chair, Department of Mathematics”.
If no one else knows how to hunt a vampire, I know someone who does—and who lives where he lives, in the darkness. She hesitated but willed herself to knock on the door.
As yet, the Baker Street Irregulars had not found any clues to the vampire killer. She wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock knew who the murderer was, but he didn’t have proof and Constable Jones continued to sabotage the investigation. In fact, Sherlock faced obstacles every step of the way. He was also convinced the vampire would strike again.
I will not stand by while Sherlock needs assistance and a murderer is on the loose. That’s what she was paid to do after all. Sherlock might not know that he wanted her help, but she understood him: there was nothing in the world that made Sherlock Holmes happier than the resolution of the case.
She sighed heavily. Perhaps it was the only thing. And this case struck a personal chord with him, she would bet on it.
This was a sad state of affairs. Three people dead—Lord Percival, Overton Bristow, and Mr. Denzil—and they no closer to incarcerating the murderer or murderers.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and walked in. “Hello, Professor.” The smell of La Intimidad cigar smoke, old books, leather, chalk, wood, strong black tea, and cream permeated the air.
In spite of her fear, Mirabella never entered the University of London without feeling she was on hallowed ground. It was a place of learning and knowledge, creation and transformation, of dreams come true. A place where people left dramatically different than they entered.
Was that anything short of magic? Moriarty might be an evil criminal mastermind, but he was also a mathematical genius.
“I hope you came ready to work, Miss Hudson.”
“I always do, sir.”
“Does Holmes know you’re here, Miss Hudson?” Expressionless, he moved to the blackboard. The professor’s countenance might be serene, but she had learned to recognize the interest in his voice in spite of their short, though admittedly intense, acquaintance. It seemed she was destined to have strong personalities in her life.
“Of course not.” She shook her head, gasping at the very thought. “Mr. Holmes wouldn’t understand.”
“Because he doesn’t understand you, Miss Hudson,” Moriarty said, a devious smile forming on his lips framed by a neatly trimmed beard. His auburn hair was cut short and oiled flat. He had the appearance of one who had a small, uninteresting personality and was entirely trustworthy—both impressions being completely untrue.
“And you do, sir?” She felt like laughing, but she dared not.
While being held at knifepoint by Moriarty, Mirabella had saved herself by impressing the professor with her understanding of the Poincare conjecture, a mathematical proof as yet unsolved. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, she now visited his arch enemy when the need arose.
Mirabella was aware of the danger when she looked at Moriarty, but she knew the path she must take. Everything in her being told her it was necessary and that she was the one to do it.
I must keep my eye on him. Certainly Sherlock Holmes did not have access to Moriarty’s lab.
“Holmes doesn’t appreciate your desire for an academic degree—which I do. He undervalues women and only tolerates them.”
“I should think Sherlock Holmes’ disapproval stems from the fact that you are his arch rival and his sworn enemy, Professor.”
“I assure you Holmes’ desire to limit your advancement is stronger than his hatred of me.” He fixed his eyes on her. “Holmes detests me—I grant you that, Miss Hudson—but his emotional connection to you is stronger, and the emotions never lie. Therein lies the solution to any question of motive.”
“Emotions? Mr. Holmes? I’m not your green girl, sir.” Despite Moriarty’s dark gaze, she had the feeling very few people had the confidence to speak freely with him—and that he rather enjoyed it.
Still, one had to walk a fine line with Moriarty. He liked knowing others were afraid of him, and too much confidence ruffled his feathers.
Not a good thing when it comes to Moriarty.
“Ah, but you might be surprised, Miss Hudson, at the depth of emotion a man possesses.” The glint in his eyes made her uncomfortable.
As for Sherlock undervaluing women, she would have said so at one time, but now she couldn’t agree. Certainly all his mannerisms, pontificating, and reprimands gave one that impression. And yet, as in all things, the shallow exterior c
ould be misleading.
Sherlock could be short with her, and he certainly demanded obedience, but he had taught her so much: the fighting arts, forensics, deductive reasoning, and disguises. Anyone who opened the door to knowledge so freely was allowing for equality and clearly not threatened by a woman’s ability. True, Sherlock never expected anyone, man or woman, to be his equal—but he gave all the opportunity to try.
A true misogynist, a man who hated women, was, at his core, an insecure man threatened by the female sex. He didn’t want women to succeed, he wanted to maintain his power over them, and his worst nightmare was for a woman to be superior in intellect and ability. His pride demanded that he would hate her on sight.
Such a man somehow felt that making women less made him more. In truth, it was the opposite.
Sherlock Holmes might be a man’s man, he might not enjoy the company of women in general, he might have an aversion to emotion, but he had dedicated his life to helping those in need, many of them women whom society had abandoned. He had shown in his every expression and deed that he wished women to be stronger, more powerful, and to learn to think for themselves.
Sherlock disapproved of the Victorian ideal of womanhood: a helpless, non-thinking, pure, naive vessel of sighs and fainting fits. Mirabella had observed—as all women had—that it made men feel more manly to be in the presence of a woman who needed his care and protection.
Sherlock had no need for such fabrications: he never questioned his own manliness. And, if the truth be known, he could wrap women around his little finger if he so chose.
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 15
