She bit her lip, almost afraid to ask the question. But she had to. “Do you know who is behind the vampire murders?”
“Which murder or murders do you refer to?” he said nonchalantly.
“Lord Percival, of course.”
“Hmmm.” He tapped his chin. “An interesting case.”
“Do you know who is behind it?” she repeated.
“So you want to find a vampire?”
“I do.”
“I might be able to help you. For a price.”
“For the ability to cut steel,” she murmured.
“Precisely.”
“Even if it were possible, it seems to me the heat emission alone from such an experiment would make it too dangerous—and subsequently unworkable. And, if the infrared light worked, it could burn a hole in either metal or humans—and initiate fires and explosions.” She attempted to appear resolute. “I don’t believe it to be feasible.”
“Ah, so you were thinking about my problem, Miss Hudson.” He studied her with a fearsome intensity.
“I thought about it and concluded that it isn’t possible.” She shrugged nonchalantly, but she felt as if she were walking off a cliff. There was no doubt in her mind that Moriarty’s intent for the infrared focuser was military in nature. The concentrated light beam, unlike other weapons, by definition moved at the speed of light. It would be more accurate and would not be affected by strong winds. And one might be able to be some distance from the target when firing.
“That is unfortunate.” He frowned. “If you were to come up with a different conclusion, I might be able to produce your vampire.”
Do I dare share my ideas with him? Could Moriarty use it to harm the world?
This was the problem with collaborating with a villain. One had to be too guarded.
Will I ever find the freedom of thought I am searching for?
Should I sell my soul for the right to learn?
It would be some time before any progress was made with this invention anyway. And the professor’s involvement in the underworld—dividing his attentions as it were—dissipated his energy.
This is a good thing.
***
Moriarty had no idea who this vampire murderer was. It hadn’t really interested him until now.
Clearly it behooved him to pretend he did, however.
James Moriarty watched Mirabella walk out the door. She knows how to solve my equation. I’m sure of it.
I must have that solution. An army which could cut steel could destroy any enemy.
This represented ultimate power.
And money. I personally don’t care who I sell it to, as long as they pay me.
Everyone thought the flying machines would be the new weapon—but what if they could be knocked out of the sky?
And how much easier would it be to manufacture steel products? This technology would be worth a fortune.
His eyes fixated on the door. This young lady was the smartest scientist he had come across in a long time—possibly ever. Obviously brains could be equated with riches. And power.
But she lacked the key to the kingdom. A key which I hold.
He smiled, most pleased with his position.
Who has the power now?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Vampire strikes again
“What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear?”
- Sherlock Holmes in “The Cardboard Box” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“Mr. Holmes, come quickly,” the policeman said. “There’s been a murder at the Diogenes Club. Another vampire murder.”
Sherlock felt his heart pounding out of his chest as terror gripped him. He ran to the door, hat in hand. “Is it Mycroft?”
“I’m not permitted to say. Constable Jones just told me to send for you.”
Sherlock dropped his hat and took the man by the shoulders, shaking him. “Is it Mycroft? Tell me, man!”
“Calm down, Holmes! The man doesn’t know,” Dr. Watson objected, pulling him of the officer, requiring no small amount of force.
“That’s right, sir. I don’t.” The policeman caught his breath.
Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, the image of Mycroft lying on the floor, drained of blood, terrorizing his very being. He rushed into the street and hailed a cab.
Watson and Mirabella were fast on his heels, which was a good thing as he would brook no delays and would not have waited. The three crammed into the horse-drawn coach and were soon riding at a breakneck pace at his insistence.
“Hurry, man!” Sherlock yelled to the driver. “Faster, damn you!”
“Holmes,” Watson said, “if we go any faster, we won’t make the next turn. Instead we’ll be spilled into the street.”
Sherlock knew that he was mad beyond reason. He had never known what it was to be this terrified. Fear was something foreign to him: he did not fear pain, nor his own death. He abhorred the absence of logic.
Sherlock had many acquaintances, but Mycroft had been his trusted companion and only friend for most of his life—until he met Watson. Mycroft was the eldest and the apple of his mother’s eye; she had not understood her younger son’s rational, unexcitable approach to life. Their excellent father, a country squire and local justice of the peace, had always treated the two boys as adults, never looking upon them as children.
It was the childhood Sherlock would have chosen—living in an adult world observing the law unfold in local court sessions as well as access to private tutors—but it was not a childhood which lent itself to parental closeness. As for their other siblings, Honora, the oldest girl, was almost exclusively concerned with her appearance and her marriage prospects, and not the brightest bulb on the tree. The younger twins, Annabel and Rutherford, were fully ten years younger than Sherlock, and not of interest.
Mycroft, seven years older than Sherlock and with an intellect to match, had been both his parent and brother in childhood—his only real friend—as well as his schoolmate.
Sherlock did not know until this moment just how much Mycroft meant to him as well as the great emptiness he would feel without him. Mycroft was unlike him in countless ways, and yet they shared a connection no one else could enter into.
They somehow arrived at the Diogenes Club without mishap and Sherlock rushed in.
On the floor was a large man, face down, with dark hair. Sherlock gasped. “No!”
Sherlock fell to his knees on the ground, his eyes watering and blocking his vision. Slowly he reached out to touch the sleeve of the superfine coat but couldn’t bring himself to do so, terrified to see the face he loved in a grey pallor, the life drained out of it.
“No, Holmes, no!” Watson exclaimed. “Move away.”
“But I must . . . I must see . . .”
Sherlock reached out again but Watson reached for his hand, adding softly, “Leave it to me.”
“Ah, calm down, brother dear, I’m safe,” Mycroft came around the corner, shaken and distressed but alive.
Sherlock jumped to his feet, embracing his brother, unable to hide his feelings of relief.
“Blast it, Mycroft,” Sherlock seethed. His fear turned to anger in an instant. “Do you not see the danger you are in?”
Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately I do.”
“What has happened?” Sherlock demanded.
“It’s Radcliffe. We found him in the same state as we found Percy. With the blood drained, the marks of the wolf fangs, and the same small prick in the neck.”
Sherlock began to feel like himself again as his mind took over, assessing the situation. “I presume the body was found here, which appears to be one of the private rooms.”
Mycroft nodded.
“Private rooms?” Athelney interjected, entering the room. “What would those be used for?”
“For dining and private conversation of course,” Mycroft turned slowly towards Jones, an expression of disdain replacing his earlier torment. “There is no talki
ng in the reading rooms or in the main library, as I’m sure you are quite aware, Constable.”
“Watson, please examine the body at once,” Sherlock directed.
Athelney muttered, “I don’t know why you’re still involved, ’Olmes. I can’t see that you’ve made any progress in finding the vampire murderer—or Mrs. Kitchens.”
“If you give me leave to do so, I will at once. I had understood that was your job, Constable Jones.” Believe me, if this were my case as opposed to yours I would have handled it very differently. In future I will not be such an agreeable fellow, career or not. He had learned his lesson, to be sure. “And by the by, Constable, there is no vampire.”
“Tell that to Radcliffe,” Athelney muttered.
Staring at the body, Sherlock shook his head. “I do blame myself. I was attempting to follow protocol. I now perceive the error in my thinking.”
“At any rate, Shirley is here at my request,” Mycroft said.
Athelney turned his attention onto Mycroft. “It seems to me, sir, that you are a suspect.”
“Me? A suspect in murder at the Diogenes?” Mycroft almost lost his balance, even as he began laughing. One of his assistants hurried forward and assisted the foreign secretary to the settee. “You must be joking, man.”
***
Mirabella observed the conversation with interest. Sherlock and Mycroft knew more than they were revealing.
She held her tongue. She had learned to remain silent if she didn’t wish to be excluded from accompanying Sherlock—an honor of recent development. Women were never allowed at crime scenes.
Glancing sideways at the constable, his surly expression revealed he was of the same opinion that something was being withheld.
“It’s your club,” he said. “One of the bodies was found here. Both were members of the Diogenes.”
Smiling to herself, she noted that Sherlock didn’t correct Jones to say ‘three’ bodies, if one counted Overton Bristow.
Athelney squinted, pursing his lips at the same time. “I still says there’s something else going on here what you ain’t sayin’.”
Perhaps the constable was more astute than people gave him credit for. Still, there was no doubt that Athelney had a bee in his bonnet where Mycroft was concerned.
Glancing at the fury written across Sherlock’s face, she wondered that the constable might get stung.
Despite his objections, the constable nodded to allow Watson access to the body. As the Foreign Office’s Permanent Secretary, there could be no doubt Mycroft had both the rank and the clout to enforce his will.
For now.
Sherlock dropped to the ground alongside Dr. Watson, as Mirabella had seen him do before. “Fangs have bitten into this neck. There’s the small mark in the center, as there was on Percy’s.”
Dr. Watson concurred. “Almost like a prick.”
“Could it be from the fangs?” Athelney asked.
“No, much too small,” Dr. Watson said. “It may have been where a needle was inserted.”
“Ah, to remove the blood.” Athelney nodded.
“This red circle is the result of some type of a suction machine,” Sherlock said.
“It could be lips.” Athelney’s green eyes were shooting bullets. “I remember what you said at Percival’s murder. You said, and I quote, ‘I guarantee it relates to the murder of men of a certain persuasion.’ And here we are again at the Diogenes Club.”
Mycroft cleared his throat, never one to evade the issue. “What are you saying, precisely, Police Constable Jones?”
“I’m sayin’ there is illegal activity goin’ on here.” He cleared his throat. “Between sodomites.”
“Now see here, Constable.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “We are a club of intellectuals. Benjamin Disraeli, the former prime minister, was a member of my club up until his death. I have a finer collection of literature than the London library. All of my members are intellectuals and academics.”
“That may be so, but I know what is going on.”
“That is a most welcome development,” Sherlock said. “I wish you would but apply it to the case and find our murderer.”
“Here’s the facts. Percival was a sodomite. So was Overton Bristow.” Athelney glanced at the body. “Radcliffe looks a bit . . . er . . . feminine to me.”
“Tsk! tsk!” Mycroft shook his head. “You are grasping at straws, Constable. Radcliffe was a man of fashion to be sure.”
“Are you sayin’ that Percival and Bristow were not sodomites?”
“Everyone knows they were. I’m sure that has nothing to do with me, they weren’t at my request. Why are you interrogating me?”
“The constable’s fury is merely a diversion for his ineptitude on this case,” Sherlock muttered, not quite under his breath.
“By Jove!” Mycroft exclaimed, his expression suddenly alight. “I follow you now, Police Constable. Let me get this straight. You believe the murderer is targeting men of a certain persuasion?”
“Well, yes, I—”
“And your job is to protect them and to bring the murderer to justice?”
Athelney frowned. “That’s not what I was sayin’ precisely.”
“What were you saying then, Constable?” Sherlock asked.
Mycroft shook his head in disapproval. “You did take an oath, Constable Jones. There was nothing in that oath to exclude any portion of the population.”
“Well, no, but if there is criminal activity . . .”
“And now, Constable, I am quite fatigued. If you have no other questions, I believe I shall retire for the evening.”
“You shall not, Mr. Holmes. Not until you’ve been dismissed. Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“For the past three hours I was in another of the private rooms with five other members having a brandy and discussing the Second Irish Land Act to abate rent arrears.”
“For three hours?”
“It’s a complex issue. There was a brief interlude in which we discussed the sale of Jumbo the elephant from the London Zoo to P.T. Barnum.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you like me to detail every conversation we had?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Mycroft frowned. “Your obsession with the sex lives of the victims—and the Diogenes Club—appears to speak more to your personal biases than to the resolution of the case. How has it helped you to solve the crime? What have you discovered? What conclusions have you drawn from it? It appears to be nothing more than a way to divert yourself from the actual murderer or murderers. How many witnesses have you lost? Are you actually on the case? I wouldn’t know it.”
“Now see here, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. If the Diogenes is full of sodomites, it would mean that the Diogenes is a club full of criminals. The murderer must be housed in these four walls.
Sherlock began to pace the room. “This is a crime of passion, at least in part. In this you are correct, Constable. The murderer has a perverse hatred of sodomites—much like yourself. His hatred may have been initiated with an individual who harmed him, but now he has imagined that the entire group—people he does not know—have harmed him.” He stopped in his tracks to study the constable with a certain intensity. “To be sure, you fit the profile of our murderer better than my brother does.”
Mycroft laughed even as Athelney Jones puffed up, turning the full force of his gaze on Sherlock. “I did not murder anyone. I am attempting to rid this city of crime—with no help from you two, I might add.”
“Since you bring up Bristow and Lord Percival, that is a logical place to start,” Sherlock said.
“You wish to revisit Mr. Overton Bristow who killed himself over Lord Percival?”
“Now you are using your brain, Constable. I do think there is a connection.”
Athelney shook his head, his frustration evident. “Bristow was Percival’s lover. Denzil was killed. And now Radcliffe is dead. This vampire is everywhere,” Athelney said.
“And he must be caught,” Mycr
oft said somberly.
“The vampire came to the Diogenes for a romantic liaison—” Athelney considered.
“—Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes, Miss Belle?”
“Why do you assume the murderer was wearing a vampire costume?” she asked. “Did anyone see him?”
“N-no,” Athelney sputtered. “Because of the way Radcliffe was killed, draining of the blood and all. How many murderers do that?”
“I can assure you, my dear constable,” Mycroft said, “that no one in this club would have met privately—or publicly, for that matter—with a man dressed in a vampire costume after what happened to Percy. It’s inconceivable.”
“Then why did Radcliffe meet with his murderer?” Sherlock tapped his forefinger on his chin as he paced.
“And why do you assume that it was a romantic liaison, Constable?” Mirabella posed.
“Now see here, I won’t be questioned by a female, and certainly not by your kitchen maid!”
“Excuse me?” Sherlock turned on his heel and moved closed to Athelney, his expression fierce. “Do not ever insult Miss Hudson again in my presence, again, Jones.”
Athelney backed up. “I meant no offense.”
Sherlock looked as if he might grab Athelney by the collar and throw him out the window, his career be damned. He asked through barred teeth, “Now as I think about it, why did you assume this meeting was a romantic liaison?”
“It stands to reason . . . The Diogenes . . .”
“What does the register say, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.
“No name, just ‘investment meeting’. Radcliffe was a bit of an investor,” Mycroft continued, “and the meeting was to discuss a possible investment in medical research. He let in his guest through the private door.”
“Look at this Holmes,” Dr. Watson pointed to a wound on Radcliffe’s head. “This is how he died. A blow to the head.”
“But the same wolf bites and the same pin prick,” Athelney objected.
“Yes, but there was no poison used in this instance, I’ll wager,” Sherlock said. “You’ll have to confirm that in an autopsy, of course, Constable.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 17
